by Dalton, Lily
He stared at her back. She stood proudly, her head erect and her shoulders back, distant and unattainable. From out of nowhere, a torch flamed into blazing life inside his chest, one born of desire so intense and hot he knew he must do whatever possible to claim her again. To ease his soul-deep need. If only for one last time.
“Very well,” he muttered. “I will agree to your demand.”
She did not grant him so much as a glance over her shoulder, but remained motionless. “I rather thought you would.”
From outside, the sound of the wind arose, battering the house. The walls and floors creaked. The windows rattled.
“Since you seem to be holding all the cards,” he said, “where do you propose we go from here?”
Chapter Five
We’ll return to London first thing in the morning. I’d prefer that you take residence at your club.”
Elbow on the mantel, Vane pinched his fingertips against the bridge of his nose, an attempt to soothe the pounding inside his head. She was throwing him out of his own house?
“How do you suppose, then,” he demanded harshly, “that I get you with child?”
For a long time she stood in silence, back to him. Would she turn around and tell him they could still step back from this cliff? That separating wasn’t what she wanted? Did he even want her to change her mind, with the trust between them so irrevocably destroyed?
She turned, the suddenness of the motion parting her scarlet redingote below her waist to reveal a lace froth of petticoats and the pointed tips of embroidered green mules. “We will come to a mutual agreement as to when you will visit.”
Though buttoned up tight, all the way to her high velvet collar, she’d never been more alluring than now. Never more beautiful and composed. He almost hated her for it.
“But first,” she said, “I want the documents drawn and all agreements in writing.”
Claxton blinked, dismayed. “What other agreements are there?”
“That I will retain Sylventon Place and the income from that estate, as I brought that property into our marriage—”
Claxton grunted in assent.
“And that the child, once born, will live with me to be raised by me and my family.”
Her words came like a cudgel to the back of his head.
“No.” He shook his head, a snarl forming on his lips. “I don’t agree to that, not completely.”
“You will,” she answered calmly, hovering at the edge of the candlelight.
He felt dragged in the dirt. Drawn and quartered.
“You’ve got this all worked out in your mind already, don’t you?” he growled.
She responded in a quiet voice. “I had a lot of time alone to think about it.”
He shook his head. “Again, I won’t agree.”
“We will work out all the details then.” She circled round the end of the settee.
“Whatever,” he snapped.
From the cushion, she collected her valise, her cap, and the oil lamp and stood like a woman preparing for an arduous journey. “Unless there’s something else, I am very tired and shall retire.”
Only she didn’t leave. She hovered there, staring at him.
“What do you expect?” he barked. “That I should bid you a good night?”
It was not a good night. It was a terrible night.
She looked him up and down. Her lip twitched as if she found him lacking. “I don’t expect anything from you, Claxton. I haven’t for a very long time.”
With a glare, she disappeared down the corridor and up the stairs. The glow of the lamp dimmed with her every step, until he was abandoned to deeper darkness, with only a dying fire by which to see. Her footsteps grew faint, and at last there came the sound of a door closing.
The sound gutted him. Only in the ensuing silence did he acknowledge what he’d done. He had agreed to a legal separation from the only woman he had ever loved.
There were men on the battlefield who when faced with overwhelming force chose to blast their brains out rather than be torn apart by their enemy. In one fell moment, he’d done much the same, murdering his dreams rather than exposing himself to failure. He’d never been a coward in life or in war, but when faced with the disdain in his wife’s bewitching green eyes, he had run like a callow boy.
He muttered an oath and said to the portrait over the mantel, “Are you quite happy?”
The painted countenance responded with a sneer of disdain, as his father had so often done in life. Of course, anyone else looking at the portrait would have noted only a dignified mien, the same expression emulated in countless portraits of important men. But Vane saw it. The artist had captured the dark glimmer, there in the farthest reaches of those steely blue eyes. Likely, his father had been an insufferable ass during each sitting. Oh yes, it was there. The elder lordship’s general attitude of contempt for all things that breathed.
Throwing open one cabinet and then another, he searched for a bottle of something, anything strong and numbing. As a rule, he did not drink excessively. He mistrusted the recklessness that spirits inspired, the looseness of tongue, preferring instead to remain always in complete control.
Not tonight. Tonight he wanted to get ape drunk. His search yielded no such paradise, and the wine cellar was most certainly locked and the key in Mrs. Kettle’s possession down in the village. Though less desirable in the given moment, he did, however, find another lamp and a store of oil.
With the lamp lighting his way, he followed the path Sophia had taken, noting the waning light seeping out from under the door of the ducal bedchamber, his rightful domain. God, he swore he could smell her fragrance and even hear the sensual brush of velvet against her skin. He felt like a feral animal, left out in the cold, when he ought to be there in the bed beside her. How would he get a moment’s rest this close to her? With this shameful need even now burning in his blood? Instead he sullenly sought out the room he’d occupied as a boy.
Everything was familiar here, each panel and stone etched into his memory. There were his books. His drawings. Even his collection of miniature soldiers painted by his own boyish hand, waiting just where he’d left them on a table beside the window. But there were no linens or pillows. There wasn’t even a mattress on the bed, just bare ropes. A glance into the other rooms—not hers—provided a similar result, and all hope of a comfortable night fell away. He returned to the great room.
He’d passed many a night in less gracious circumstances, on cold earth, unyielding stone, or creaking, damp boards, believing anything was better than a bed provided by his father’s tainted largesse.
Though narrow and shorter than he by a good foot, the settee would more than suit for the next few hours.
*
Sophia stepped back from the fire she’d only just managed, after numerous failed attempts, to coax to life. Accustomed since birth to the skilled assistance of servants, she couldn’t recall the last time she’d built her own. That she’d successfully accomplished the task gave her some satisfaction. If she could build a fire, she could certainly survive her future alone.
A strong wind battered the house, rattling the shutters. The cavernous room, despite its smart insulation of wood paneling, heavy draperies, and wall hangings, remained as frigid as her husband’s winter-blue eyes. The fire, at least, made the chill bearable. Even so, she crossed her arms at her waist, a pitiful self-embrace, fearing she would never be warm again.
Claxton had agreed to her demand. She ought to feel triumphant or at least satisfied, but she didn’t.
Behind her stood a wonderful old estate bed, made up with fine linens and thick velvet curtains, the latter of which she would not draw completely closed out of fear she would be unaware if the old house caught on fire and burned down around her. She craved the oblivion of sleep, but despite her weariness, with each passing moment, the tangle of thoughts in her head only grew more out of hand.
In some small way, she was grateful to be at Camellia House and al
one in this unfamiliar room. There had never been a time in her twenty-two years when her life’s biggest decisions were not decided by family committee. By her parents, or her grandfather, or the lively chattering pair that were her sisters, or some combination thereof. All her life, she’d welcomed as much as suffered the constant barrage of remarks and opinions that determined her path.
She’d rather overexaggerated to Claxton her grandfather’s involvement in the matter of their separation. She and the earl had never discussed the possibility of a separation or the involvement of attorneys. When she returned to London, the news might come as a shock to Wolverton and, indeed, the rest of her family.
She couldn’t even bring herself to imagine their reactions. They loved her, yes. There was not a doubt in her mind that they would support her through anything, but still, a formal separation from Claxton, even a private one, would mean some degree of social disgrace for her and the associated repercussions. If Claxton received an invitation to a party or ball or dinner, then she would not and neither would any member of her family.
Though she believed her family possessed the stature to weather such a storm, she had no wish to ruin her sisters’ upcoming season. For young women whose very futures depended on a successful match, any scandal could be calamitous. No matter how lovely and charming Daphne and Clarissa were or how besotted their suitors, if any parent or adviser caught a whiff of disgrace, no offer would be forthcoming.
Thankfully Claxton had agreed to endeavor toward having another child, which if all went accordingly, would delay their public scandal for up to a year, or…perhaps longer. A flush rose to her cheeks, imagining how many times they might have to attempt conception. Even now she could not comprehend separating herself from the emotion that their lovemaking had always inspired.
Attired in a flannel sleeping gown, Sophia filled the bed warmer with coals and after situating the brass pan, climbed onto the enormous feather mattress. The floor above her creaked, sounding almost like ghostly footsteps. In that regard, the knowledge of Claxton’s presence gave her comfort.
Her heart whispered his name. Her hand curled into the linens, and a sigh broke from her lips.
No. He had forced her to this.
And yet…she’d never felt more lonely.
And on that sad little thought, the tears commenced.
The silent presence of the old house embraced her, making no judgments or efforts to dissect her thoughts, her fears, or her motivations. Nor did it chastise her when she wished, against all good sense, that Claxton—the most colossal ass on God’s green earth—was lying here beside her.
*
Hours later, Vane sat up and rubbed his hands over his face. His breath puffed out before him, visible in the morning chill. A quick glance at the distant window showed the glass to be completely glazed with frost.
He had not slept well.
Some time before dawn, the fire burned out. Not only that, but one of the settee’s damned legs, located just above his head, had abruptly failed. The sudden movement had jammed the top of his head against the armrest. Too exhausted to make any effort to repair either situation, he had passed the remainder of the early-morning hours uncomfortably cold, hovering between sleep and awareness, continually conscious of the world’s lopsided slant.
Furthermore, the hellish scene that had taken place between him and Sophia the night before had played continually, even in his dreams—or rather nightmares. Nightmares, because to his horror he’d not been himself at all, but rather his father. If only he could have gotten fuddled and slept like the dead. He would have much preferred wakening to a shattering headache than this soul-deep crater in his chest.
Having slept fully dressed in all but his cravat, his foray into the world required only a push up from the settee and a brief shamble through the vestibule out the front door. There, his lungs frosted over in one breath.
A glance to his watch showed that, surprisingly, the day had gone well past noon.
Fog and snow blanketed the countryside to an extent he’d not anticipated. Only the tops of the nearby hedges remained visible, indicating an overnight fall of several feet. Having no wish to venture thigh deep into the stuff, he balanced himself at the edge of the ice-covered porch and unfastened his breeches. There, he relieved himself against a brass plaque affixed to the wall of the house, one bearing the Claxton crest. A smile curled his lips. As a boy, the same rebellious act had given him no small measure of delight.
Returned inside, he took a moment to repair the settee. He then sought out the kitchen, where he hoped to find a store of wood to renew the fire. Rounding the corner to the corridor, he came face-to-face with Sophia. The sight of her hit him like a cannonball to the chest.
She froze, her lips parting but saying nothing, as if he’d startled her as well. Her face was small and pale above the collar of her indigo gown, and weariness shadowed her eyes. Her hair fell in dark waves around her shoulders—all in all, a sight so lovely his gut twisted with want.
Sophia, here, in these simple surroundings that whispered his memories past, became someone else. Someone more. God, he missed her.
“Good morning,” he half murmured, half growled, determined to win the first contest of the day, the one for most-civilized-spouse-seeking-a-formal-separation. After all, if they were going to proceed at some mutually negotiated point in the future to conceive a child, it might prove helpful if they remained, at the least, on cordial speaking terms.
She did not return his greeting. “The pump is frozen, but I melted some snow. There is a basin, if you’d like to wash.”
She indicated the door to the scullery and continued on through the open door of the kitchen, a shadowy winter goddess. A stranger forevermore.
Vane washed, and when he was finished, he examined himself in the small looking glass above the basin. A stark-faced man with disheveled hair and stormy eyes stared back. God, he looked frightening and so much like his father. He splashed another round of water on his face and ran the dampened fingers of both hands through his hair.
Claxton rejoined Sophia, strangely unable to stay away. Soon she would be gone from his life forever, hidden behind a wall of go-betweens and legally binding rules of engagement. To his shame, he craved with a sudden and surprising intensity whatever togetherness, whatever memories, these final hours would bring. Two narrow windows illuminated the kitchen with waning winter light. A delicious heat emanated from the stove, which he paused over to warm his water-chilled hands.
When he moved aside, she bent over the grate, peeking into a metal teapot. “There’s tea. That’s all, I’m afraid.”
Vane granted himself the guilty pleasure of drinking her in, of committing to memory the way she looked now. The fire’s glow painted red streaks in her mahogany hair. The simple lines of her unadorned gown, no doubt intended to be demure, only intrigued him, revealing the narrow column of her torso, and in alluring contrast, the high fullness of her breasts.
He remembered the body under that dress and the pleasure it had once given him in the shadowed privacy of their marriage bed. The memory of her naked, illuminated by morning’s first light, was enough to awaken within him now a low, simmering madness. The understanding that he could never freely touch her again only intensified his need.
But words had been said. The decision made. He would prove himself a better man by seeing their separation through and giving her some hope for happiness, in a world that did not include him. He owed her that much.
Bloody hell, he was such a martyr. He made himself sick.
She left the stove, making no effort to assist him. Finding a cup, he poured tea, needing something to occupy himself besides mooning after her like a love-struck idiot.
“There is no need to scowl at me,” she muttered in a low voice.
The accusation startled him. “I wasn’t scowling at you.”
Though he ought to be, given their circumstances. Shouldn’t he hate her? God help him, he couldn’t. They w
ere both wounded, the two of them.
She glanced pointedly at the cup in his hand. “I can’t imagine you would be so displeased over a cup of tea, so it must be me that displeases you.”
“It’s not you or the tea.” He rubbed a hand over his face. “I did not sleep well.”
“Neither did I, but I’m not scowling at you.”
He managed a smile. A small one. “Actually, you are.”
Her lips parted, as if to offer some smart retort, but closed just as quickly. She sighed. Her expression softened, as did the rigidity of her posture. A bright flush rose into her cheeks.
“Oh, Claxton, let’s not bicker.” She exhaled morosely.
“Very well.” He seated himself on a high stool. “Let’s not.”
“Unpleasantness between us will accomplish nothing but a loss of dignity for us both, privately and in public.”
He’d always found the velvety tone of her voice soothing. He answered inanely now for the simple purpose of ensuring her response. “I am in complete agreement.”
“It’s not as if we are the first husband and wife to ever discover we are not well suited. This is a time for level heads and controlled emotions.”
The memory came out of nowhere, shocking him. Her lips pressed against his skin, willingly, in a moment of passion. A shadowy glimpse of her naked body beneath his, her soft thighs outspread.
He shifted on the stool, suddenly tight in the breeches.
He growled, “I shall endeavor to remain so.”
“I shall as well.” She let out a sudden breath—of relief or frustration, he did not know—and searched the room, her attention at last settling on the stove. “I built only a small fire. Being that we are departing shortly, it wasn’t practical to make anything larger.”
He crossed to the window and peered out, savoring the warmth of the earthenware mug in his hands.
