by Dalton, Lily
“Are you hurt?” he demanded ferociously, his brows gathered and nostrils flared. His hand came to her cheek, forcing her gaze to his.
“No.”
“Are you certain?” His hands roamed her shoulders, arms, breasts, hips, and legs. She gasped at the intimate touch. “Sometimes when you’ve been shot, you don’t know it. Sometimes you don’t feel the pain until later.”
Again, his hand paused on her cheek, and she clasped it there. “I’m not hurt, Claxton.”
He nodded, dragging the pad of his thumb across her cheek, a tender gesture that conflicted with the anger in his eyes. “Stay here, behind the wall.”
But as soon as he was gone, Sophia crawled low against the cornerstone, desperate for his safety. No matter how miserable he made her, she would never wish him dead.
At the center of the lane, Lady Meltenbourne still lay sobbing, facedown in the snow. She wore no coat or cloak, only the gown she’d worn since Lord Wolverton’s birthday party the night before. Haden had backed into a position to shield her, pistols cocked and ready. He prodded her with the heel of his Hessian.
“Blast you, chit,” he shouted. “Gather yourself up and get behind that wall.”
Claxton, like the hero Sophia had only moments before proclaimed him not to be, headed straight for the countess, never breaking pace until he grabbed hold of her arms. The sight was undeniably thrilling, other than the unfortunate reality that her husband was rescuing a woman who made no secret of wanting him as her lover.
“Here the bastard comes again,” Haden warned, lifting his weapons. From the shadowed interior of an upper window appeared a diminutive man wearing an old-fashioned tricorn hat and saggy trews. He wielded a pistol in one hand and an earthenware jug in the other.
“Think ye’ll cuckold me, do ye?” he squalled drunkenly.
Haden pulled his trigger. Crack. The weapon recoiled. The earl’s tricorn spiraled off, exposing his bald pate. Another shot—Meltenbourne’s—sounded an instant later.
A fan of white pitched upward, inches from Claxton’s boot.
“Claxton,” Sophia shouted or perhaps screamed. If he died now, leaving her with the memory of that kiss, she did not know what she would do.
Lady Meltenbourne remained as limp as a child’s doll. The duke hoisted her over his shoulder and carried her to the same location where Sophia crouched. Haden followed, his pistol trained on the window.
Just then a loud crash sounded from inside the inn. A mob of men, arms flailing, overwhelmed the earl. Curses echoed across the lane, loudly at first, then dimmer as they dragged their prisoner inside.
Lady Meltenbourne sobbed, throwing her arms around Claxton’s legs. “You saved my life.”
Haden muttered a curse and rolled his eyes.
Claxton pried the countess off him and lifted her to stand. With a firm nudge, he guided her toward Sophia as if she were a sticky-faced child with hands covered in jam to be handed off to her mother. Annabelle’s teeth chattered, and she shivered. While Sophia could not bring herself to put an arm around the woman, perhaps by not stepping away, Annabelle benefited to some degree from her warmth and would not catch her death of cold.
Claxton blasted a frigid glare at his brother. “Why, may I ask, is Lord Meltenbourne trying to kill me?”
Haden shifted his stance and polished the barrel of his pistol against his cuff. “Er…well, because he believes you had a tryst with his wife last night.”
Sophia’s heart stopped beating, her first instinct, however fleeting, to believe what Haden said.
“How interesting.” Claxton’s nostrils flared. “I don’t recall having any tryst with his wife.”
“Mere details.” Haden’s chuckle carried an edge of anxiety. He holstered the firearm at his waist. “Thankfully, everything turned out well. We are all still alive.”
The tension in Sophia’s shoulders eased. Haden’s response corroborated Claxton’s story of the night before. Not that it mattered. They were to be separated soon. Weren’t they? Why had Claxton kissed her like that and thrown everything into confusion?
The duke fisted his hand in his brother’s cravat and slammed him against the stone wall.
“Ow!” Haden bellowed, eyes clamped shut in visible pain.
“Please,” wailed Lady Meltenbourne. “Don’t fight over me. You are brothers. Family.”
Sophia experienced the bizarre urge to laugh.
Claxton shouted into Haden’s face, “You would make light of such an untruth in front of my wife? Meltenbourne could have killed the duchess.”
Haden’s hands came up beside his head in surrender. “Last night, when I awakened in yonder inn with Lord Meltenbourne’s pistol pointed in my face, demanding to know where you were, I felt no compulsion to immediately set the matter aright.”
“It’s just like you to take the easy way out, leaving the mess for someone else to clean up.” Claxton released him with a snarl. “You will apologize to her Grace.”
With a firm tug, Haden straightened the front of his rumpled waistcoat. Meeting Sophia’s gaze, he said, “My sincerest apologies, Duchess. I intended you no disrespect. I’m sincere when I say that.”
Sophia nodded, feeling it only right to acknowledge his apology, which appeared earnestly spoken.
“I’ve never had a pistol pointed to my face,” she replied. “I imagine the experience might momentarily alter one’s priorities as far as truth.”
Even so, Haden’s failure to set the matter straight only complicated the calamity of her marriage. Certainly the whole village, no matter how buried in snow, buzzed with the scandal.
To Claxton, Haden said, “Why are you here after all? You should have remained at Camellia House. The situation would have calmed once the brandy ran out.”
They crossed the small courtyard toward the inn, Sophia at Claxton’s side. Lady Meltenbourne trailed along behind, her arms embracing her own shoulders. As they crossed the threshold, the villagers crowding the windows fell back against the far wall, a silent ripple of head bobs and curtsies. What was more mortifying? That they had just witnessed a gun battle involving her husband and his brother and an earl who shouted allegations of cuckoldry, or that moments before they may have witnessed her and Claxton’s unseemly kiss?
Sophia blinked, her eyesight adjusting to the dark interior, as the common room returned to its customary movement and clamor. Despite the awkwardness of their entrance, the mingled scents of burning wood, ale, and gingerbread delighted her senses, as did the room’s warmth. Christmas greenery hung above the fire and over the windows. Mistletoe encircled a chandelier at the center of the room. Curiously, beneath the wooden light fixture sat the plainest girl Sophia had ever seen, wearing a mulish expression and a shapeless sack of a cloak. Though villagers crowded the floor, the circle of space around the girl spoke painful volumes, so much so that Sophia momentarily forgot her own troubles.
From the floor above came bellows and thumps, evidence of a continuing struggle to subdue Lord Meltenbourne. Claxton lowered her valise to the carpet and without further preamble disarmed Haden of his pistol.
“I’ll be gone only a moment.” Firearm in hand, he climbed the steps. Haden muttered something about duty and followed.
“Gor! ’E looks just like the old duke, ’e does,” a wizened old man marveled.
“Eerie so,” said another.
“Let’s ’ope the similarities only go so far as ’is looks.”
“Indeed.”
A woman wearing a brisk but amiable expression emerged from the shadows and bobbed. “Your Grace?”
“Yes.”
The woman smiled warmly. “I am Mrs. Stone. My husband and I, Mr. Stone, keep this humble inn. May I say what an honor it is to have the duke and your Grace visit our establishment. The whole village has waited with hopeful anticipation these past three years for the new Duke of Claxton to visit.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Stone. And may I say what a fine inn you have here and smelling so delightf
ully of gingerbread.”
The innkeeper flushed deeply, two bright apples on her cheeks. “Anything to keep old Jack Frost at the door so we might enjoy this Christmas.”
“I’ve rarely seen such a heavy snowfall. I must admit to coming into the village to discover if travel into London might be possible today.”
“Oh no, madam.” She let out a wry chuckle. “There’s far too much snowfall on the roads for the post chaise to make it through and great sheets of ice floating on the river. Certainly not enough for a frost fair, but enough to keep the barges in for safety. No one is willing to go out after the tragedy three years ago.”
“What tragedy was this?”
Mrs. Stone’s face grew solemn. “One of the local barge masters thought to bring one last load of coal over, but ice converged. Crushed the barge it did, and the vessel sank. Both him and his middle boy perished. A terrible loss for the family, and indeed, the entire village.”
“Yes, I could see that it would be,” Sophia murmured. “How awful.”
No matter how strong her desire to escape Claxton, she would never ask anyone to endanger their life for her convenience or comfort. And so it seemed she would be lodging in Lacenfleet for at least one more night.
Mrs. Stone added, “It won’t be the first time we’ve been snowbound here in Lacenfleet, and it won’t be the last. We are as prepared as we can possibly be, if only to sit by the fire and wait for the thaw.”
Her situation confirmed, Sophia allowed herself to be led to an upholstered armchair, which a luxurious blue cloak was draped over, a garment she recognized from the night before. With a mirthful little snort, Mrs. Stone tossed the cloak onto a less commodious, ramshackle chair several feet farther away from the hearth.
“The mistletoe is very festive,” remarked Sophia. “And the garland hung over the fire.”
The inn mistress straightened the cushion. “Some of the older folk claim it is bad luck to hang greenery before Christmas Eve, but I pay them no mind. Lacenfleet’s luck can’t get much worse, I say.” She chuckled wryly, and at the corner of her eyes, her temples crinkled.
Sophia had the distinct impression Mrs. Stone wished her to inquire more about Lacenfleet’s luck, and so she complied.
Mrs. Stone clasped her hands in front of her apron. “Bad crops. No work. It happens to everyone. Things will improve, I vow, but it makes a dreary Christmas for some. I’ll tell you one thing, though.” She lowered her voice. “If his lordship decided to open Camellia House and staff her right, there’d be no shortage of qualified household help.”
“I’ll be certain to tell his Grace.” She could always write him a letter once she returned to London, but she didn’t know if her word would hold any sway.
Sophia’s gaze fell again on the center of the room, where the girl still sat, arms crossed, under the chandelier. “How long has that young woman been sitting there under the mistletoe? I can only assume she is waiting for a kiss from some handsome young fellow?”
“That’s Charlotte, the poor dear.” Mrs. Stone sighed and shook her head. “Too old now to remain in the orphan house where she grew up, she just hasn’t found her place. She’s been doing a bit of scullery for Mr. Stone and me in exchange for a place to sleep in the kitchen, but I’m not certain how long we’ll be able to keep her.”
Fine brown hair hung limply against Charlotte’s cheek, and the petticoat she wore was hopelessly frayed. Yet the girl sat in the chair proudly, shoulders back, her face a portrait of pride and determination. Everything about the girl touched Sophia’s heart.
“She wants a kiss that badly?”
“Not only a kiss, I’m afraid.” Mrs. Stone winked. “She wants a husband. That leggy farmer in the tall boots over there, to be exact, a widower with two young children in desperate need of a mother. Only he hasn’t looked at her once in the two hours he’s been here. Unfortunately, neither has anyone else.”
“How disheartening for Charlotte.”
Once Sophia was settled, Mrs. Stone pressed a warm mug into her hands and brought a plate of gingerbread for the side table. Sophia inhaled the tea’s fragrant steam and sampled the bread, determining the blend of spices to be superior to her own London cook’s recipe. Above her head, Claxton’s voice thundered, incomprehensible.
Lady Meltenbourne approached, her gaze settling waspishly on Sophia. With a huff, she sank into the inferior chair and with a dramatic wave of her arm draped herself in the cloak. Taking up a small beaded reticule, from which she extracted a mirror, she stared at her reflection, pinched her cheeks, and pursed her lips. Only Sophia realized Annabelle wasn’t looking into the mirror, but at her. Upon being caught, the countess looked away.
Sophia leaned forward in her chair. “You’re a married woman. A countess.” She kept her voice low so that only Annabelle could hear. “Don’t you care what people think about you and Lord Meltenbourne? What they say?”
“Of course I do. Do you think I wanted all of this attention?” Annabelle snapped, waving a hand to generally indicate the inn and its occupants. “The earl, when he drinks, becomes the most irrational and churlish creature. He is furious with me, but I am just as furious with him—but…but…oh, I don’t really want to talk about it to you.”
The countess twisted away, signaling an immediate end to their conversation. That suited Sophia just as well because she had nothing more to say to the woman, at least nothing an inn full of villagers should overhear. Instead she contented herself with sipping her tea, fuming silently, and listening to the villagers’ lively talk.
“Don’t matter if ’e’s an earl. Can’t have ’im goin’ about shootin’ at people,” said one young woman, counting out several stacks of playing cards.
“Right so,” agreed her partner in the game. “We can’t ’ave murder in the streets. Not this close to Christmas.”
Sophia sighed morosely, at last acknowledging that which she ought to have acknowledged from the start. Her rash decision to escape Claxton by coming to Lacenfleet had indeed been folly. With her grandfather’s health being so precarious, she simply could not miss Christmas. What if this was his last? What if even now he had taken a turn for the worse? She couldn’t bear the thought. She had six days to get home. Certainly this winter storm would not imprison her here until then.
“The poor duchess,” whispered one of the women, but loudly and plain enough for Sophia to hear. “So young and pretty, forced to abide ’is lordship’s strumpet sitting right there.”
Someone shushed her sharply.
Sophia’s hand tightened on the cup. The poor duchess. That would be her. Annabelle, seemingly oblivious, murmured something to the woman beside her. The woman glared at her and with a huff moved to the opposite end of the table.
Unaffected, Annabelle queried the room in general. “Does anyone know how to properly dress a lady’s hair?”
It took all the strength Sophia owned to remain seated. She had the sudden, overwhelming urge to “dress” Annabelle’s hair with a good, savage tug.
Boots sounded on the stairs. Again, the villagers fell into rapt silence. Haden appeared first, then Claxton, two lithe giants emerging from shadows.
The duke’s gaze searched the room, but stopped upon finding her. Her pulse leapt and her mouth went dry.
How would she ever forget their kiss? She feared that, like a mortal sickness, that moment of passion had gone into her blood. How else could she explain the jumpy excitement that overtook her body the moment he’d reappeared—not to mention the feverish flush that rose to her cheeks and…other parts of her body, she felt quite certain. Without a word, Claxton returned the pistol handle-first to his brother.
A cluster of men emerged from the shadowed stairway behind the duke. Sophia recognized them as their carriage drivers and footmen. They escorted a churlish Lord Meltenbourne, whom they deposited in a corner chair, and two of them remained to stand guard. Each retainer bore the rumpled clothing and weary expression of a difficult night passed. Apparently no
one who had undertaken the trip to Camellia House the evening before had ever made it out of the village.
Meanwhile the countess had found a sympathetic friend, an old village woman who held a large hearing trumpet to her ear.
“Last night I had to sleep here in my ball gown.” Annabelle lifted a length of her silk overskirt now hopelessly crushed and streaked by melted snow. “Without even a maid to assist me.”
“Pardon?” shouted the woman, leaning in closer, thrusting the open end of the metal tube nearer to Annabelle’s mouth.
From his chair in the corner, her husband squawked, “Then you ought to learn to stay home, where you belong.”
Annabelle sagged and lifted her hand to her forehead. She issued a low, suffering moan.
Claxton spoke to the most senior of his drivers. “I take it, then, by your presence here that the river is frozen and the ferry out of service?”
Sophia sank an inch in her chair, having no desire to hear her unfortunate circumstances once again confirmed.
“Indeed, sir.” The elder man nodded, his face weary beneath his cap. “Lord Meltenbourne’s conveyance came over last, with none the rest of us granted return passage for fear the ferry barge would be confined midway by ice. We all slept with the horses in the stables last night, save Lord Haden and Lord and Lady Meltenbourne, of course, who took rooms above stairs on account of their elevated personages. The innkeepers have been most kind.”
“Well, then.” Claxton nodded, throwing a darkly satisfied look at Sophia. “There is nothing more to be done than to wait out the frost. For now, I would like to see the stables, if you please, and view the horses’ accommodations for myself.” To Sophia, he said, “You’ll be well here until I return?”
She nodded over her raised mug. “Oh yes. I have gingerbread.”
In fact, she’d be very well here in Mr. and Mrs. Stone’s inn until tomorrow or the next day if necessary.
If the kiss they’d shared outside in the snow was any indication of what could occur when they were alone together, without question, she must not allow such a thing to happen again. Kisses like that enslaved, and there would be nothing worse than being enslaved to a man like Claxton, who could never be enslaved back. Hadn’t she learned well enough the first time? She’d fallen so desperately in love with him, but in the end, her love had not been enough to hold him. She wouldn’t be so foolish as to make the same mistake again.