by Dalton, Lily
But at last, he arose with his bundled coat clasped in his hands, churning with contained movement.
“Give me that candlestick if you will,” he ordered with a jerk of his head. “The large one.”
“The candlestick? Why? Oh no.” She scowled. “I will not. Don’t hurt the creature.” She rushed forward.
“Don’t hurt the creature?” His eyes widened.
“He did not intend to do wrong.” She clasped her hands together as if in prayer, just in front of her nose and mouth. “You must spare him. Please?”
“A moment ago you were terrified.” And jumping all over him. He considered “accidentally” releasing the animal again.
She rolled her eyes. “A moment ago he was snarling and baring his teeth.”
He lifted his unruly burden, one that emitted snaps and growls, careful to hold the creature far from his body. “He is not now?”
“Just put him out the window.” Sophia waved her hand toward the draperies, trying not to think of how thankful she was Claxton had been here to help her.
He let out a sound of impatience, but conceded to her request, elbowing back the weighty crimson brocade. There, he paused.
“The window is already open. Did you unfasten it earlier?”
“Why would I do that? It’s freezing outside.” Sophia followed him, near enough to feel a gust of frigidity, one that sent the hair on her arms straight. Open by nearly three inches and rimmed by a white border of thick frost, the window provided a glimpse straight into the black pitch of night.
“Are you certain the window wasn’t open last night?”
“Not that I’m aware, but I didn’t look.” It had been terribly cold in the room, but to a normal degree for a country house in winter. Certainly she would have perceived the movement of the curtain or the sound of wind unhindered by stone or glass. “I would have noticed.”
Claxton bent through the opening and hurled his coat into the darkness, yanking back the unoccupied garment by its sleeve. With the heel of his hand, he pounded the frost free from the window and pulled the narrow frame closed. In the process, his linen shirt tightened, revealing the wide breadth of his shoulders and a powerful flex of muscle. Sophia swallowed hard, wishing she hadn’t noticed, wishing the sight hadn’t awakened something hungry and needful that had laid subdued, deep inside her, for so very long. She’d touched every part of that body. Memorized every indentation and plane.
“Perhaps it was closed but not fastened,” he mused, oblivious to the lustful turn of her thoughts.
He turned toward her, cheeks ruddy, his blue eyes as cool and arresting as frost. Absent his cravat, the neck opening of his shirt revealed the firm golden skin at his throat and, tantalizingly, a glimpse of his upper chest striated with muscle.
Sophia’s mouth went dry. Claxton really was the handsomest man. She could think of no one who compared.
She stood there transfixed as he blathered on.
“A change in the direction of the wind or pressure from the frost may have pried it open, allowing the creature to—”
He met her eyes and froze. Like weighted stones, his gaze dropped.
“Good God, Sophia,” he said softly. “You always did have the loveliest breasts.”
A glance downward revealed that in the activity of the previous moments, her breasts had spilled from her corset and now crowded the upper portion of her chemise. Her nipples, aroused by the chill in the room, jutted hard and plainly visible against the thin batiste.
She gasped and covered them with her hands.
Claxton’s gaze intensified. “I can do that for you if you like.”
She should have shouted no. She should have ordered him out and blistered him with a scathing set down.
Yet a paralyzing sort of bewilderment kept her silent.
He closed his eyes, his expression tortured, and exhaled through clenched teeth. When they opened again, they were lit by a predatory gleam she recognized from the first months of the marriage as a certain prelude to lovemaking. Every inch of her skin came alive, and the room around them dissolved to nothing, leaving only a woman and a man.
Despite every rational thought insisting no, her body begged yes. She wanted him to kiss her. Heavens, she wanted him to do much more than that. If the thick ridge at the front of his breeches was any indication, he wanted more than kissing too.
Quite suddenly he advanced, every bit of the warrior, a towering fantasy of long, muscled limbs and bristling intensity. A dark fall of hair tumbled across his forehead. Blue eyes, edged by dark lashes, thrilled her with their appreciative glow.
“Don’t tell me to go.” He reached to touch her bare arm, drawing his fingertips over her skin. That faint tracery of warmth in the chill of the room sent a shiver reverberating through her body.
Her feet remained rooted to the spot. Her tongue darted out to dampen her bottom lip.
“You don’t know how badly I need to touch you.” His voice mesmerized her, spoke promises she wanted to believe. He cupped her cheek.
“Let me make love to you again.”
Overtaken by a sudden fever, she turned her face into his palm, savoring the controlled strength of his long fingers against her skin, their calloused warmth. So familiar, but strange. So welcome, but forbidden. Every particle of her went molten and surged toward him like an ocean wave in worship of the moon.
“I’ve never begged any woman,” he said fiercely. “It’s only right that you should be the first.”
And the last. He was supposed to be hers. No one else’s.
Her breasts swelled, suddenly heavy and full, begging for his touch. The place between her legs grew damp and throbbed, aching to be satisfied.
“I’m begging you,” he murmured. “Ask me to stay.”
His hand moved behind her head, closing on the nape of her neck, a gesture of possession. Staring down, he pierced her through with his gaze.
“Sophia, say you want me to stay.”
She glanced toward the bed, imagining herself there, spread beneath him. Already she felt his weight on top of her.
The power of his thrusts.
The salty tang of his skin—
But at the center of the mattress lay the list, stained with the names of his lovers. Familiar faces flashed in her mind, painted in vivid color. He’d shared this with all of them, this intensity of feeling. In the end, it must have meant nothing because he’d left them, just as she knew in her heart he’d leave her again too. Her name might as well be on that list, just one of many.
She wasn’t strong enough, not yet. Her heart still felt too much.
The fire in her veins dimmed and flickered out. In an instant, the room grew immeasurably colder, and his touch on her skin, rough and foreign. She flinched.
“Please,” she whispered. “I want you to go.”
His hand flexed against her skull, gathering a fistful of her hair in his hand. He bent just enough so that his breath teased her temple. “You insisted on that damn list. Not me.”
He released her. Malice radiated from him so intense she recoiled as he brushed past her into the corridor.
She gripped the doorframe, listening to the sound of his boots as they descended the steps. From there, she listened to him mutter. Storm about the great room. Curse. Her chest tightened. Something crashed.
“You could have at least left me the damn key to the damn wine closet,” he thundered.
Her heart implored her to go to him. Instead she walked to the bed and took up the list and recited each of the names aloud. Her defenses renewed, she crossed the room again, closed the door, and backed away.
*
The next morning, after determining from the window that there would be no miraculous break in the weather, Sophia, armed with the ring of keys that Mrs. Kettle had given to her, located the upstairs storage room and linen closet.
There she found the necessary items to outfit a bed for Claxton, a sturdy bottom mattress of wool flocking, a softer upper feat
her mattress, and of course linens. Though old, everything was meticulously stored and in good condition. It was best, she determined, to do her good deed now, for if the events of the previous two days were any indication of how the third would unfold, she and Claxton would be on the verge of murdering each other by nightfall, and neither of them would make it to Christmas.
Five days remained. She wouldn’t panic just yet. She would remain optimistic that the weather would be clear and she’d soon return to the comfort and strength of her family. Until then, she would devote her energies to defining a new and different relationship with Claxton. Whether that meant their proceeding with a formal separation, she did not yet know. By her way of thinking, that all depended on her and her ability to break free of the emotion and expectations she’d previously held of marriage and of Claxton.
After completing the task, she went downstairs, which remained very much under the cover of darkness. Frost covered the windows, dimming what was already a meager winter light from outside. Neither she nor Claxton had been in the habit of wasting precious candles or oil when it was only the two of them, and she did not undertake to prepare a lamp now. All in all, the dreary lighting very much represented her mood.
After the way things had ended between them the night before, she felt no small amount of trepidation at seeing him again. How close she had come to capitulating. How angry he’d been when she hadn’t. Thank God she had come to her senses. Falling into bed with him in a fit of misguided passion would only complicate an already complicated matter. Absent the sort of love her parents had enjoyed, successful marriages weren’t based on temporary passions but on enduring mutual respect and common goals, and she and Claxton had not yet achieved that venerable state. If she hoped to retain any power at all in their present negotiations, their child must not be conceived until after she came to a decision about their separation—a decision she’d come to believe would be best delayed until they returned to London.
Oh, but London. She’d slept fitfully, the names on Claxton’s list pealing out like church bells inside her head until the early-morning hours. The truth stung. She felt wounded and betrayed, not just by Claxton, but by all the women on the list that she knew. How could she ever return to life in town and look any of them in the eye without giving in to the urge to lash out at them, and at Claxton as well, every time they crossed paths?
Even so, this morning she’d renewed her vow to move past the hurt. All emotion aside, she had forced her husband’s hand, and to his credit, he had complied with her demand for a list of his lovers’ names in an effort to appease her. She no longer doubted he wished to remain married, most likely for the same reason as she. They both wanted a child.
If the two of them were to proceed, Sophia would have to come to terms with the realities of her husband’s emotional limitations. That meant, on a more practical level, that she must arrive at a place where she could sit at a banquet table with any one or all of those women without crashing into despair, without shedding a tear, even in private.
As she told Claxton the night before, their estrangement wasn’t even about the women, but her doubt over his ability to stay. To love her. Because if he’d truly loved her before, he would never have left her. He would never have sought out his old way of life and the companionship—however limited—of those other women. She feared it was only a matter of time until he grew bored or some new difficulty arose between them, and he’d leave her again, in one way or another, whether for another woman, another diplomatic assignment, or some other life. She’d been unrealistic to expect more from a man of privilege, especially one with his libertine past. Despite her parents’ happy history, love matches were rare in their circles. Men were raised with the understanding they could do whatever they wished, just as long as they acted with discretion. And yet knowing this, it still pained her to settle.
So perhaps childishly, as a reminder of his truer nature, she’d tucked the folded list inside her corset as a ward over her heart. If she did ultimately withdraw her demand for a separation, she would be wise to never forget that theirs must in the future be a marriage based on honesty and truths, not romance. Theirs, like so many other ton marriages, must be a partnership, rather than a love affair. Perhaps one day they could even be friends.
Her only hope was that at some point in these unbroken, snowbound hours spent with Claxton, he would somehow lose his shine. At her own peril, she remained much too fascinated by the duke. Sophia prayed that at some moment he would sneeze untidily and wipe the resulting snotty mess on his sleeve. Or burst out with a sudden battery of flatulence. If he would only voice some heartless opinion about widows and orphans or confess to despising puppies, chicks, and kittens. Of course, he had never exhibited any of those oafish habits before, but now that her eyes were wide open and looking for flaws, she felt quite certain they would become apparent.
She would just be patient and give him time to reveal his true loathsome self. Only then, when she saw Claxton for who he was—just a man, like any other—could she chance proceeding to the next level of intimacy without endangering her heart.
On the threshold of the great room, she perceived two things in the dim morning light. Firstly, one of Claxton’s boots hung upside down from the center of the kissing bough. Secondly, the third Duke of Claxton’s portrait had gone missing from above the mantel. The portrait now occupied the corner, upside down and curiously misshapen. Sophia ventured inside for a closer inspection, which revealed a gash at the center of the elder’s painted face, the approximate size of Claxton’s foot. Now she realized what the crashing sound had been last night.
A rustle of movement sounded behind her. Turning, she found his Grace sprawled on the settee, clothed in his shirt and breeches, covered only by his coat. Curiously, his feet were raised to a slight level over his head, as one of the wooden legs of the settee had fallen out. He appeared terribly uncomfortable and just a little amusing because his stockinged feet jutted more than a foot over the end.
Now she felt truly guilty for having enjoyed the comfort of the ducal bedroom for the duration of their stay. Overwhelmed by the desire to just look at him, unguarded and unaware, she moved closer, quietly, so he would not awaken.
If providence could see to start her day on a good note, she would find him in an unforgivable, slovenly state. His face would be swollen and puffy with sleep, and there would be drool. Lots and lots of drool. The more excessive, the better. But curse her foul luck, there wasn’t a drop. He hadn’t been a drooler before either, but one could always hope.
Despite herself, she sighed. In repose, he appeared a younger, more boyish version of himself. Yet he’d not shaven in two days and the evidence of his maturity shadowed his jaw.
Fearing that any moment he would awaken and catch her admiring him, she quit him for the kitchen, where she warmed some of Mrs. Kettle’s rolls. After preparing a pot of tea, she made up a tray, the final touches being small dishes of the marmalade and honey she’d discovered in the pantry. Conveying all this to the great room, she set the tray on a table beside Claxton.
He exhaled and shifted, but did not open his eyes. No matter, he could sleep as long as he liked. She would return to her room with a cup of tea and read for the remainder of the morning once she removed the portrait, which seemed the conscientious thing to do as Claxton’s frustration with her had been to blame, at least in part, for its destruction.
She grasped its frame and lifted.
“Burn it.”
She turned and found him watching her, sleepy eyed and flushed. Inside she melted. How seductive he looked, with his hair tousled and his eyes heavy lidded. She blinked and glanced away, mentally shaking off her attraction.
“I was going to put it in the attic,” she said. “Perhaps the canvas can be repaired.”
“Repaired?” he muttered, righting himself on the cushions. He scowled. “Whatever for?”
“You’ll regret this one day, the destruction of your familial history. Ha
ve you any other portraits of him?”
“I do believe that was the last.” He smiled wickedly, an indication he may have disposed of prior paintings in the same manner.
“But, Claxton, whatever your feelings about your father, your mother clearly believed he deserved some measure of respect or else she would not have hung his portrait in her home.”
His eyebrows shot up. “You believe she hung that portrait? She didn’t. There’s a reason I didn’t know what he looked like until I was ten. Likely he hung it after her death, when he had the house shuttered. The bastard would have done that.” He spoke quietly, but bitterness roughened his voice. He rubbed his hands over his face. “I’m sure he came here after and cleaned out everything that had made Camellia House hers, like so much refuse, and hung a picture of his own damn self on her wall. Try to find her likeness anywhere, Sophia. You won’t find it. He had every portrait and miniature of her destroyed, and I’ve done everything I could to repay him in kind.” Sitting up, he reached for his Hessian. “He might as well have pissed on her grave.”
Sophia flushed at his crudity. “You seem as if you are only supposing what he did. Weren’t you present when all this occurred?”
He stood and with the assistance of the fireplace poker extricated the second boot from the bough. “No, I was gone by then.”
“What do you mean gone?”
“When I learned he’d dismissed the Kettles, I left.” He balanced on one long leg, tugging on the boot. “I enlisted in the army.”
“How old were you then?”
“Hmm? Oh, I was sixteen.”
She set the portrait down. “Claxton, when was the last time you spoke to your father before his death?”
“You mean directly? Not through representatives?”
“Yes, talked to him face-to-face.”
He circled the settee to stare out the window. “Sixteen.”
Sophia’s mouth fell open in shock. “I’d always assumed you entered the service in the same manner as other titled gentlemen, with a purchased commission. No one recognized your name?”