by Dalton, Lily
Haden collapsed onto the settee and ran his fingers through his dark hair. “Well, if it makes you feel better, we hadn’t got past kissing and a bit of…er…Well, there’s really no need to go into those sorts of details, is there? I didn’t even know the woman before tonight, when I found her crying over some other bastard who’d broken her heart.”
“It was you, Claxton,” she accused from the shadows. “You broke my heart.”
Haden’s head swung toward him. “What? Hell, I hadn’t realized. Claxton? I thought—”
Vane glared at his brother. “No. Just no. Never.”
“Good. Well…whatever the case…” Haden relaxed again. “I was just trying to make her feel better.”
“By taking off your breeches? You poltroon, this was our mother’s house.” Vane avoided looking at the portrait of his father that loomed above the mantel, one that had never been there when he was a boy. He could only assume it had been hung after his mother’s death. Yes, likely by his father, claiming the one bit of territory that had belonged to her. “How could you disrespect her memory like this?”
Haden winced. “It seemed a deuced splendid idea at the moment. Confound me, I shouldn’t have opened that third bottle.”
On the floor, her ladyship remained flat on her back, her face covered by her hands, encircled by the puddle of her rumpled gown. “This isn’t fun anymore. What time is it?”
“Time to get you home.” Haden tugged on his Hessians. On the first try, however, he put the left boot on the right foot. Once the mistake was repaired, with much grunting and muttering, he took up his coat and cravat and staggered past Vane. “Come along, my lady.”
“Look out for the—” warned Claxton, but too late.
His brother’s boot lowered onto the empty bottle that had rolled off moments before. With a shout he upended, feet flying over his head, and crashed to the floor.
“Haden?” Claxton crouched over him and discovered him to be senseless. “Damn. Damn. Damn.” How like his brother to leave him to clean up his mess.
“He’s dead, isn’t he?” asked the countess, sitting up.
“He is not dead.”
“That’s too bad because if I don’t get home soon, Meltenbourne will find us and shoot him. I would think that will be a much more unpleasant death. Oh, dear. It’s very late, isn’t it?” Lady Meltenbourne began to sniffle softly. Then cry. “I shouldn’t have come. Whatever was I thinking?” She flopped back onto the floor and, with a moan, pulled her silk overskirt over her face. Her bare legs jutted out from the tangle of her petticoats.
God help him, he pitied her, but he did not have the patience for all this tonight. Where in the hell was his wife? He must return to London posthaste to find her.
“I’ll return in a moment,” he announced in a loud voice, hoping she heard him through her skirt. “Please make yourself decent while I am gone.”
Grasping Haden by the arms, he dragged him into the vestibule and summoned a footman. Together they conveyed his unconscious brother to his waiting carriage.
Once the door was shut, he turned back to the house with the intention to retrieve Lady Meltenbourne.
“Ought we to go, my lord?” shouted the driver into the wind. Claxton spun round on his heel. Lord, it was dark. There was only the dim light from the carriage side lamps.
“No,” he shouted back, making a gesture to stay with his hand.
“No?” the driver repeated.
“No.”
The man nodded in understanding. Turning in his seat, he took up the reins. With a snap and a “Hee-yaw,” the carriage rolled into motion.
“Wait,” bellowed Claxton, lunging after the conveyance. “I said no, not go.”
Yet the wind caught his voice, carrying the sound toward the house. The vehicle continued on its way, growing dimmer as it traveled into the night. Claxton skidded to a stop and shouted curses into the dark. Slowly he turned, ignoring his own servants who watched with riveted interest, and marched to the door. He fumed on the threshold, mind abuzz at the injustice of what had just occurred.
He was alone with Lady Meltenbourne.
But not for long. He’d hasten the weepy tart into his carriage, discreetly return her to her residence, and hope to find Sophia warm and safe at home—even if behind a locked door and refusing to speak to him.
Bloody hell, this had turned out to be the most miserable of nights. He was done. Exhausted. Finished. At least until morning.
Inside, he found the countess in the same position in which he’d left her, only now she snored.
Crouching over her, he shook her shoulder. “Lady Meltenbourne, please wake up.”
Once he got her sitting upright, he set about collecting her things. Slippers and a cloak and a pair of clocked stockings. With a befuddled mien, she stood at last and smoothed her skirts. Disheveled curls framed her face.
She spoke, her speech slurred. “I was so very vexed with you earlier tonight for refusing to speak to me.”
“My apologies. I assure you the slight was not intentional. I must not have seen you.” He chose his words carefully, so as to install an appropriate distance between them. “Having only returned to London this morning, I admit to being distracted and wishing to spend the evening with my wife, her Grace. I believed her to have come here as well, or else I’d not have made the trip out.”
“Oh—” Her pretty face scrunched into a scowl, and she swiped a silencing hand at him. “Shush!”
“I’m more than happy to shush,” he muttered to himself, then urged her more loudly, “Now, come on. Fasten your dress.”
Each moment ticked by in his mind, loud as cannon fire. What must the servants outside be thinking?
She shoved the hair from her face. “Your brother told me how pretty I was. I suppose I just…wanted him to be you. The two of you do look alike.” She giggled, unaware or uncaring that her sleeve slipped off her shoulder, nearly baring a breast. “At least when one is drinking brandy and the light is sufficiently dim.”
He gave her his back and exhaled through his teeth.
“Hurry along,” he urged gruffly. “The weather is foul, and we should be off before it worsens.” A glance over his shoulder provided confirmation that she worked to fasten the front of her bodice.
“I beg you, Claxton, don’t tell Meltenbourne.” She smoothed her hair. “You are already quite a sore spot with him—”
He gritted his teeth. “I shouldn’t be.”
“—and he can become overwrought over the slightest thing.”
The slightest thing? Vane recalled his reaction just moments ago, when he’d believed it was Sophia he’d discovered with a lover. The emotions that had exploded inside him; yes, overwrought might describe how he had felt.
“I don’t see what good telling Meltenbourne would do any of us. Most especially me.” He’d already been called Lothario once tonight and had no wish to incur more of the same allegations, not with matters so precarious between himself and Sophia.
“I know it may seem ridiculous for me to say it, but I really—” She hiccuped. “I really do care for my husband. Even though he is old and…not you.”
He could not help but wonder whether it might be possible that Sophia felt a similar duality of feeling for him. Love and aversion. He knew full well, more than anyone, that such a thing was possible. If Sophia cared for him in at least a miniscule amount, then all was not lost. All he wanted was to find her. To settle this thing between them so they could move forward.
“Not me?” he muttered, closing his eyes in consternation. “You know nothing at all of me but the most superficial of details. I can’t imagine what Meltenbourne has done to deserve this sort of betrayal, other than—what Annabelle, be old? You pledged your troth to him. How would you wish to be cherished when you are of a similar age?”
He peered at her over his shoulder to gauge her response. She sat very still for a moment, her expression unchanging, but with each breath she took, her breasts hea
ved a degree higher.
“It wasn’t as if I had a choice but to marry him after you chose someone else!”
He quickly turned from the countess and again cursed Haden that he had been placed in this position. The sounds of sniffling and a strangled sob came from behind him. Pray no, he couldn’t bear it if the countess began to cry in earnest.
“Let’s not talk about it any longer,” he suggested in a hopeful voice. “We must return you to town posthaste and with all discretion. Then we can all just forget tonight ever happened.”
“Yes,” she agreed. “Perhaps…perhaps Meltenbourne went to bed hours ago and does not even realize I’m gone.”
“I’m certain he did.” He was quickly losing his patience. “Hurry now. The carriage is waiting.”
“Your Grace?” she inquired.
He turned to her. “Yes?”
She flung herself into his arms. He stumbled back, and she with him, almost falling, but he caught her under the arms. In the next moment, she gave a little jump and with puckered lips took aim for his mouth. He averted his face.
“Ah. Please don’t.” He laughed through clenched teeth. Laughed because he was so damn tired, and this night, which he had hoped would end so differently, had taken such a turn for the ludicrous.
“I’m not trying to seduce you. I promise,” she gushed, her brandy-sweet breath filling his nostrils. Her arms came round his shoulders and her large breasts squashed against his chest. “It’s just that you’ve been so wonderful tonight, just as wonderful as I always supposed you to be.”
“No.”
She leapt again, springing up from her toes, trying for a kiss. “Let me say thank you, darling.”
“Thanks are unnecessary. Please—”
He considered allowing her to fall to the floor, but that would be ungentlemanly. Instead, he exhaled and gathered his patience. Without a doubt, he was in for a long and cold ride home, for by apparent necessity he would be forced to ride atop with his driver. He prayed her ladyship, deprived of all companionship, would simply fall asleep inside.
“My lady, if you could please finish dressing,” he urged, grasping her by the arms and trying his best to return her to the support of her own two feet. “Oh, look, how fortuitous. I’ve your stockings right here in my hand—”
A gasp sounded behind him.
He twisted round, the countess clinging to him like ivy on a wooden fence.
Sophia stood on the threshold, bundled in a hat, scarf, and redingote with a valise in hand.
Chapter Four
Stay where you are,” Claxton roared.
Sophia halted, the power of his voice momentarily stunning her. Throughout all of their difficulties, Claxton had never shouted at her before, and the force of his command moved through her like thunder. Slowly she pivoted toward her husband, who still had that woman dangling from his neck like a human necklace.
Lady Meltenbourne exclaimed, “How mortifying! Your wife.”
Except the countess didn’t appear one bit mortified. Rather, she looked like a naughty cat eating the evening haddock while the cook’s back was turned. Sophia took in her wildly tousled hair, bare legs and feet, and the cushions everywhere. A toppled bottle of brandy. Two stockings dangled from her husband’s hands. Her mind exploded all over again.
How much more sordid could the picture be?
She’d come to Camellia House for privacy. To untangle her thoughts before seeing Claxton again and making her demand for a separation. What she’d gotten instead of privacy was indisputable proof of her husband’s infidelity. It hurt more than she’d expected.
Seeing them with her own eyes in each other’s arms, she wanted to shriek. She wanted to break something, preferably over Claxton’s head. She wanted to tear out Annabelle’s hair. She wanted to retch. She wanted to wake up from this nightmare to a different reality, one in which Claxton was a different man and her heart had not been irrevocably shattered.
“In this moment it occurs to me, Claxton,” she said coldly, her voice rising on each word, “that I don’t have to listen to you anymore.”
With an oath, Claxton pried Lady Meltenbourne from his person and thrust her shoes and stockings into her hands. One moment more and he’d retrieved her cloak and fastened it at her neck. Every move, every touch, no matter how imbued with impatience, crushed Sophia’s spirit a fraction more.
He strode past, leading the countess by the arm.
Lady Meltenbourne squealed. “You’re hurting me, darling.”
Claxton released her. “Then, please, if you will, proceed at a more alacritous pace.” He wrenched the door open. “And do not call me darling.”
He turned, and with a piercing glare at Sophia, gritted out, “Do not move from that spot. You and I must talk.”
“I don’t want to talk.” Her fingers tightened around the handle of her valise. She suffered the most overwhelming urge to throw the leather case at both of their heads. “There is nothing to be said that can resolve this.”
She glared at Lady Meltenbourne, who leaned against Claxton’s arm, her hands clutched at his wrist, her cheeks flushed and eyes bright.
Claxton’s nostrils flared and he closed his eyes, visibly seething. Of course, he was very angry. Angry at his liaison being interrupted by his peevish wife. Angry at being caught. “I will return in a moment’s time.”
Sophia stood in place as he escorted his lover into the night. Seven months ago, he’d abandoned her. In this moment, she felt that depth of loss all over again.
The door remained open a crack. Cold air and snowflakes wafted through.
“Oh no, you won’t.”
Sophia rushed forward and slammed the door closed behind him.
*
“Yes, your Grace. We shall escort your lady home.” His driver nodded in understanding.
Prior to his betrothal, his retainers had exercised the utmost discretion with regard to his private activities. They had waited in rain, fog, sleet, and snow while he enjoyed the sumptuous comforts of various ladies’ company. Seeing his men now, their caps and coats covered in frost, he experienced a deep wave of regret that they should be subjected to such discomfort on the whim of their employer.
“The woman inside the carriage is not my lady,” Vane felt compelled to say. “My lady—the duchess—is inside.”
He wanted to shout that furthermore nothing untoward had occurred here tonight, at least not involving him, but it would not do to defend himself to a servant.
The man’s eyes widened. “Just like old times, sir?”
Vane resisted the urge to curse. “You misunderstand, I’m afraid.” He provided the proper address.
“Yes, Duke. With all due haste.” The man returned the scarf to the lower half of his face and took up the reins.
As the carriage rumbled away, Vane pivoted on his heel and returned to the house, only to find the door locked. A blast of wind cut through his coat, chilling his spine.
He gripped the handle. “Sophia.”
“Go away,” she cried, her voice muffled by three inches of wood.
Carved into the spandrels at the upper corners of the door, two cherubs crouched above him, peering down with the most vexatious expressions of mirth. He glared back, which, admittedly, accomplished nothing.
“Please open the door.”
In return she bellowed, “Take. The carriage. And leave.”
“Not until we talk.”
He could only interpret the responsive tangle of unintelligible nonsense as a rejection of his request. Turning, he stared out into the night, clenched fists resting on his hips.
From this elevated vantage point, he could not see even the slightest evidence of Lacenfleet in the vale below. A thickening, frost-laden fog made the darkness impenetrable. Old memories tugged at the corner of his mind, but he commanded himself to the present, returning his gloves to his quickly numbing hands.
For a moment, his spirit wavered. Perhaps, after all, he owned too twisted, too t
angled a soul to justify claim to Sophia’s respect and love. Perhaps, as Wolverton had said, his efforts came too late.
As if in answer, a vision came into his mind of Sophia on their wedding day, peering up at him during the service from beneath her headdress of feathers and lace, wearing the most astounding expression of unadulterated joy. Then another from their honeymoon in Scotland. Her eyes vivid green, her hair wet, and her chemise plastered transparent against her nymphlike body, as they’d frolicked near naked in the loch. But best of all, the look of shock on her face the moment they’d realized the visiting parson had just discovered them.
Arriving at his decision, Claxton strode toward the remaining carriage.
*
Sophia rubbed at the frosted pane and squinted, watching the carriage disappear into the fog and snow. Astonishingly, Claxton had actually done exactly as she demanded, which only made her feel more wretched.
Now she was alone, with only her misery and the very recent memory of finding her husband in Lady Meltenbourne’s arms. Turning from the window, she faced the silent vestibule. There was nothing to do but have a good, miserable cry.
All at once, the emotion she’d held inside all evening crowded her throat, enormous and unstoppable. Hiccuping through tears, she pressed her hand to her mouth and returned to the scene of her recent trauma. Only to freeze on the threshold.
Claxton sat in a chair beside the fire, staring at her over gloved, steepled fingertips, his hat perched on his knee. Ice crystals sparkled on the shoulders of his coat and in his raven’s-wing-dark hair.
“Hello, darling,” he said, with a dangerous gleam in his eyes.
His chest rose and fell as if he’d exerted himself in executing whatever trick it had taken to get inside the locked house and into his present position. If he had sent the carriage off, that left her alone with him for the night. A bubble of hysteria rose up inside her.
“Oh, you.” From a nearby table, she snatched a figurine and raised it above her head—
“Don’t.” He stood, a vision of dark wool, flashing blue eyes, and utter calm. “That belonged to my great-grandmother.”
