Never Entice an Earl

by Lily Dalton

  “I’m certain she would rather be with her mother.”

  “No.” Clarissa shook her head vehemently, pressing her face to his neck. “Not yet. I have disappointed you, Mother, and everyone else!”

  “Of course you haven’t.” Lady Margaretta bit her bottom lip and patted Clarissa’s shoulder. She sighed and glanced toward the door. “I really must go and see about Wolverton. He must be very concerned.”

  He nodded. “And so I will…stay with Clarissa. If you promise to return. Quickly.”

  It seemed the appropriate thing to do.

  “I’m afraid you don’t have any other choice,” she winked, despite still looking worried.

  And in the next moment, they were alone.

  “Oh, Mr. Kincraig, I’m so humiliated.”

  “It was that horrible pink carpet, wasn’t it? You slipped on it, didn’t you?”

  “Oh, you horrible man.” She shook her head, and drew away enough to glare at him through tearstained eyes. “You don’t understand!”

  “I think I do.”

  “You can’t,” she declared. “It’s not just that I’ve fallen down a staircase in front of the whole of society, it’s…it’s…” A surge of new tears flooded her eyes.

  He swallowed hard, feeling ill prepared to cope with such an intense display of female emotion. Forthrightness seemed the only way forward. “I know about Devonby getting married, and I know how you felt about him.”

  “How could you know? We never told anyone.”

  “The attraction between two people is not difficult to perceive, if one pays attention.” He would leave it at that.

  Her stared back at him. “You were paying attention?”

  “Not on purpose.”

  Her eyes narrowed just a bit. There. When she looked at him like that, he felt like she saw straight through him.

  “Devonby. The bastard!” he blurted, in an effort to throw her off. “He is a scoundrel of the lowest form,” he declared, hoping to make her feel better. “Would you like me to call him out for a duel? You know how fond I am of spectacles, and I’d be happy to make one for you, on my way out of town.”

  “No!” she cried. “You can’t tell anyone. Anyone.”

  “He should be made to reckon—”

  “Swear it, Mr. Kincraig,” she insisted, twisting her hands in the front of his coat, her eyes suddenly wild. “You will tell no one.”

  Her vehemence startled him. “Your secret is safe with me.”

  “Good,” she whispered, her shoulders suddenly slumping. “Because I must share another. If I don’t, I fear I will explode.”

  Another secret? He did not like the sound of that. He half raised off the settee. “Perhaps I should get your mother? Or one of your sisters—”

  She yanked him back down into place beside her.

  “It must be you,” she insisted, half choking on her words. “Someone who doesn’t care a whit about me. Someone who can give me advice without the complication of a heart.”

  How she misjudged him. He almost felt stung. Oddly, he wasn’t.

  He could only suppose she’d written some letters to Devonby and now wanted them back or some other such nonsense. “What is it, Clarissa? What is this secret you have to tell me? Whatever it is, we can talk it out, and we can—”

  He didn’t get a chance to finish his sentence before she threw herself into his arms. “I’m pregnant, Mr. Kincraig. Pregnant. What do you suppose we shall do about that?”

  He choked out a curse. Not because of what she’d told him, which indeed would be shocking enough—but because at that very moment he saw her mother standing in the door, white-faced with shock, having just pushed Wolverton inside.

  “Clarissa? Mr…Kincraig?”

  Clarissa twisted, still half sprawled on his lap, her arms a circle around his neck. “Oh, no.” In the next moment, she scrambled closer to him, as if she could somehow disappear into him. Which only made the situation look worse.

  Wolverton wrested control of the chair, turning the wheels so that he positioned himself just two feet away. Glaring at Dominick, he thundered, “I trusted you with my life. All of our lives. But clearly, I ought not to have trusted you with her.”

  Lady Sophia has long been estranged from her husband, Vane Barwick, Duke of Claxton.

  Yet a shocking encounter with him—and a single touch—is all it takes to reawaken her passion for him…

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  for a preview of

  Never Desire a Duke,

  the first in Lily Dalton’s

  One Scandalous Season series.

  Available now.

  Chapter One

  The scent of gingerbread in the air!” exclaimed Sir Keyes, his aged blue eyes sparkling with mischief. Winter wind swept through open doors behind him, carrying the sound of carriages from the street. “And there’s mistletoe to be had from the peddler’s stall on the corner.”

  Though his pantaloons drooped off his slight frame to an almost comical degree, the military orders and decorations emblazoned across his chest attested to a life of valor years before. Leaning heavily on his cane, the old man produced a knotty green cluster from behind his back, strung from a red ribbon, and held it aloft between himself and Sophia.

  “Such happy delights can mean only one thing.” He grinned roguishly—or as roguishly as a man of his advanced years could manage. “It is once again the most magical time of year.”

  He tapped his gloved finger against his rosy cheek with expectant delight.

  “Indeed!” The diminutive Dowager Countess of Dundalk stepped between them, smiling up from beneath a fur-trimmed turban. She swatted the mistletoe, sending the sphere swinging to and fro. “The time of year when old men resort to silly provincial traditions to coax kisses from ladies young enough to be their granddaughters.”

  At the side of her turban a diamond aigrette held several large purple feathers. The plumes bobbed wildly as she spoke. “Well, it is almost Christmastide.” Sophia winked at Sir Keyes, and with a gentle hand to his shoulder, she warmly bussed his cheek. “I’m so glad you’ve come.”

  A widower of two years, he had recently begun accompanying Lady Dundalk about town, something that made Sophia exceedingly happy, since both had long been dear to her heart.

  Sir Keyes plucked a white berry from the cluster, glowing with satisfaction at having claimed his holiday kiss.

  “I see that only a handful remain,” Sophia observed. “Best use them wisely.”

  His eyebrows rose up on his forehead, as white and unruly as uncombed wool. “I shall have to find your sisters, then, and posthaste.”

  “Libertine!” muttered the dowager countess, with a fond roll of her eyes.

  Behind them, two footmen with holly sprigs adorning their coat buttonholes secured the doors. Another presented a silver tray to Sir Keyes, upon which he deposited the price of Sophia’s kiss and proceeded toward the ballroom, the mistletoe cluster swinging from the lions’ head handle of his cane. Together, Sophia and the dowager countess followed arm in arm, through columns entwined in greenery, toward the sounds of music and voices raised in jollity.

  With Parliament having recessed mid-December for Christmas, the districts of St. James’s, Mayfair, and Piccadilly were largely deserted by that fashionable portion of London’s population oft defined as the ton. Like most of their peers, Sophia’s family’s Christmases were usually spent in the country, but her grandfather’s recent frailties had precluded any travel. So his immediate family, consisting of a devoted daughter-in-law and three granddaughters, had resolved to spend the season in London.

  But today was Lord Wolverton’s eighty-seventh birthday, and by Sophia’s tally, no fewer than two hundred of the elusive ton had crept out from the proverbial winter woodwork to wish her grandfather well. By all accounts, the party was a success.

  In the ballroom, candlelight reflected off the crystal teardrops of chandeliers high above their heads, as well as the numerous ca
ndelabras and lusters positioned about the room, creating beauty in everything its golden glow touched. The fragrance of fresh-cut laurel and fir, brought in from the country just that afternoon, mingled pleasantly with the perfume of the hothouse gardenias, tuberose, and stephanotis arranged in Chinese vases about the room.

  Though there would be no dancing tonight, a piano quintet provided an elegant musical accompaniment to the hum of laughter and conversation.

  “Lovely!” declared Lady Dundalk. “Your mother told me you planned everything, to the last detail.”

  “I’m pleased by how splendidly everything has turned out.” The dowager countess slipped an arm around Sophia’s shoulders and squeezed with affection. “The only thing missing, of course, is the Duke of Claxton.”

  The warm smile on Sophia’s lips froze like ice, and it felt as if the walls of the room suddenly converged at the mere mention of her husband. It didn’t seem to matter how long he had been away; her emotions were still so raw.

  Lady Dundalk peered up at her, concern in her eyes. “I know you wish the duke could be here tonight, and certainly for Christmas. No word on when our esteemed diplomat will return to England?”

  Sophia shook her head, hoping the woman would perceive none of the heartache she feared was written all over her face. “Perhaps in the spring.”

  A vague response at best, but the truth was she did not know when Claxton would return. His infrequent, impersonal correspondence made no such predictions, and she had not lowered herself to ask.

  They came to stand near the fire, where a delicious heat warmed the air.

  “Eighty-seven years old?” bellowed Sir Keyes. “Upon my word, Wolverton, you can’t be a day over seventy, else that would make me—” Lifting a hand, he counted through its knobby fingers, grinning. “Older than dirt!”

  “We are older than dirt, and thankful to be so.” Her grandfather beamed up from where he sat in his bath chair, his cheeks pink from excitement. His party had been a surprise for the most part, with him believing until just an hour ago the event would be only a small family affair. He appeared truly astounded and deeply touched. “Thank you all for coming.”

  Small, gaily beribboned parcels of Virginian tobacco, chocolate, and his favorite souchong tea lay upon his lap. Sophia gathered them and placed them beneath the lowest boughs of the potted tabletop yew behind them, one that would remain unadorned until Christmas Eve, when the family would gather to decorate the tree in the custom of her late grandmother’s German forebears.

  Her family. Their worried glances and gentle questions let her know they were aware that her marriage had become strained. But she loved them so much! Which was why she’d shielded them from the full magnitude of the truth—the truth being that when Claxton had accepted his foreign appointment in May, he had all but abandoned her and their marriage. The man she’d once loved to distraction had become nothing more than a cold and distant stranger.

  But for Sophia, Christmas had always been a time of self-contemplation, and the New Year, a time for renewal. Like so many others, she made a habit of making resolutions. By nature, she craved happiness, and if she could not have happiness with Claxton, she would have it some other way.

  She had given herself until the New Year to suitably resolve her marital difficulties. The day after Christmas she would go to Camellia House, located just across the Thames in the small village of Lacenfleet, and sequester herself away from curious eyes and the opinions of her family, so that she alone could pen the necessary letter.

  She was going to ask Claxton for a legal separation. Then he could go on living his life just as he pleased, with all the freedoms and indulgences he clearly desired. But she wanted something in return—a baby—and even if that meant joining him for a time in Vienna, she intended to have her way.

  Just the thought of seeing Claxton again sent her spiraling into an exquisitely painful sort of misery. She had no wish to see him—and yet he never left her thoughts.

  No doubt her presence would throw the private life His Grace had been living into chaos, and she would find herself an unwanted outsider. No doubt he had a mistress—or two—as so many husbands abroad did. Even now, the merest fleeting thought of him in the arms of another woman made her stomach clench. He had betrayed her so appallingly that she could hardly imagine allowing him to touch her again. But a temporary return to intimacies with her estranged husband was the only way she could have the child she so desperately wanted.

  Sophia bent to adjust the green tartan blanket over Wolverton’s legs, ensuring that His Lordship would be protected not only from any chill but also the bump and jostle of the throng gathered about him.

  “May I bring you something, Grandfather? Perhaps some punch?”

  His blue eyes brightened.

  “Yes, dear.” He winked and gestured for her to come closer. When she complied, he lowered his voice. “With a dash of my favorite maraschino added, if you please, in honor of the occasion. Only don’t tell your mother. You know just as well as I that she and my physician are in collusion to deprive me of all the joys of life.”

  Sophia knew he didn’t believe any such thing, but still, it was great fun to continue the conspiratorial banter between them. Each moment with him, she knew, was precious. His joy this evening would be a memory she would always treasure.

  “I’d be honored to keep your secret, my lord,” Sophia said, pressing a kiss to his cheek.

  “What secret?” Lady Harwick, Sophia’s dark-haired mother, approached from behind.

  A picture of well-bred elegance, Margaretta conveyed warmth and good humor in every glance and gesture. Tonight she wore violet silk, one of the few colors she had allowed into her wardrobe since the tragic loss of her son, Vinson, at sea four years ago—followed all too soon by the death of Sophia’s father, the direct heir to the Wolverton title.

  “If we told you, then it wouldn’t be a secret,” Sophia answered jovially, sidestepping her. “His lordship has requested a glass of punch, and since I’m his undisputed favorite, at least for this evening, I will fetch it for him.”

  Wolverton winked at Sophia. “I shall have the secret pried out of him before you return.” With that, Margaretta bent to straighten the same portion of Lord Wolverton’s blanket her daughter had straightened only moments before.

  Still a beautiful, vibrant woman, Margaretta drew the gazes of a number of the more mature gentlemen in the room. Not for the first time, Sophia wondered if her mother might entertain the idea of marrying again.

  Sophia crossed the floor to the punch bowl, pausing several times to speak to friends and acquaintances along the way. Though most of the guests were older friends of Lord Wolverton, the presence of Sophia’s pretty younger sisters, Daphne and Clarissa, had assured the attendance of numerous ladies and gentlemen from the younger set. Her fair-haired siblings, born just a year apart and assumed by many to be twins, would make their debut in the upcoming season. That is, if favored suitors did not snatch them off the market before Easter.

  At the punch bowl, Sophia dipped the ladle and filled a crystal cup. With the ladle’s return to the bowl, another hand retrieved it—a gloved hand upon which glimmered an enormous sapphire ring.

  “Your Grace?” a woman’s voice inquired.

  Sophia looked up into a beautiful, heart-shaped face, framed by stylish blonde curls, one she instantly recognized but did not recall greeting in the reception line. The gown worn by the young woman, fashioned of luxurious peacock-blue silk and trimmed with gold and scarlet cording, displayed her generous décolletage to a degree one would not normally choose for the occasion of an off-season birthday party for an eighty-seven-year-old lord.

  “Good evening, Lady…”

  “Meltenbourne,” the young woman supplied, with a delicate laugh. “You might recall me as Annabelle Ellesmere? We debuted the same season.”

  Yes, of course. Annabelle, Lady Meltenbourne, née Ellesmere. Voluptuous, lush, and ambitious, she had once carried quite
the flaming torch for Claxton, and upon learning of the duke’s betrothal to Sophia, she had not been shy about expressing her displeasure to the entire ton over not being chosen as his duchess. Not long after, Annabelle had married a very rich but very old earl.

  “Such a lovely party.” The countess sidled around the table to stand beside her, so close Sophia could smell her exotic perfume, a distinctive fragrance of ripe fruit and oriental spice. “Your grandfather must be a wonderful man to be so resoundingly adored.”

  “Thank you, Lady Meltenbourne. Indeed, he is.”

  Good breeding prevented Sophia from asking Annabelle why she was present at the party at all. She had addressed each invitation herself, and without a doubt, Lord and Lady Meltenbourne had not been on the guest list.

  “I don’t believe I’ve been introduced to Lord Meltenbourne.” Sophia perused the room, but saw no more unfamiliar faces.

  “Perhaps another time,” the countess answered vaguely, offering nothing more but a shrug. Plucking a red sugar drop from a candy dish, she gazed adoringly upon the confection and giggled. “I shouldn’t give in to such temptations, but I admit to being a shamefully impulsive woman.” She pushed the sweet into her mouth and reacted with an almost sensual ecstasy, closing her eyes and smiling. “Mmmmm.”

  Meanwhile, a gentleman had approached to refill his punch glass and gaped at the countess as she savored the sugar drop, and in doing so, he missed his cup altogether. Punch splashed over his hand and onto the table. Lady Meltenbourne selected another sweet from the dish, oblivious to his response. Or perhaps not. Within moments, servants appeared to tidy the mess and the red-faced fellow rushed away.

  Sophia let out a slow, calming breath and smothered her first instinct, which was to order the countess to spit out the sugar drop and immediately quit the party. After all, time had passed. They had all matured. Christmas was a time for forgiveness. For bygones to be bygones.