by Dalton, Lily
Knowing she had better confirm her arrangements before he returned, she set aside her cup and stood. Across the room sat a man who wore an apron that matched Mrs. Stone’s. It was to him she made her request.
The innkeeper looked at her with no small amount of surprise. Doubtless he could not imagine any circumstances under which the Duchess of Claxton would prefer a smoky, overcrowded village inn to the grand-by-comparison manse on the hill.
“I regret, your Grace, that we’ve only three rooms and all of them occupied. Unless Lady Meltenbourne will agree to share accommodations—”
“That won’t do, I’m afraid,” Sophia answered. She turned away, at a loss as to what to do.
Annabelle stood in front of Sophia. “If you’re so set on staying here, you can have my room.” One of her narrow eyebrows lifted. “I’ll go to the house with Claxton.”
Sophia’s mouth popped open, and the skin of her scalp prickled with fury. She glanced around to be certain that no one had heard the countess’s brazen suggestion. While she didn’t think they had, everyone in the room appeared to be watching them and waiting for a fight.
“You go too far, Annabelle,” she hissed.
The young woman blinked prettily. “I’ve never met a duchess with a healthy sense of humor. Do you forfeit it when you marry, or are you born and bred that way?”
Mr. Stone suddenly appeared and gave a little bow. “I beg your pardon, your Grace, for interrupting, but Lord Meltenbourne has offered to sleep in the common room tonight so that your Grace may have his quarters. Madam, would that be agreeable to you?”
Sophia glanced across the room toward the earl. He tilted his head and smiled. “It would be my pleasure, Duchess.”
The two footmen who acted as his guards chuckled in amusement.
A sudden presence blocked the light from the hearth, casting them in shadows.
“Those arrangements are most certainly not agreeable,” said Claxton, his voice low and dangerous. “Not to me. The duchess will accompany me to Camellia House.”
“Yes, your Grace,” rasped Mr. Stone, giving a little bow and backing away from them as quickly as his legs could take him.
The heat in Claxton’s stare left Sophia breathless but also angry that he should intercede in the conversation so brutishly.
“I am not your chattel to be claimed and ordered about,” she hissed.
He bent low so that his breath touched her cheek. “Until the papers are drawn up and signed, I am still your husband in every sense of the word. You will not humiliate me by taking a room in this inn.”
“If it’s humiliation you were hoping to avoid,” she choked out, “I’m afraid it’s far too late for that.”
Moments later, nearer to the door, the innkeeper’s wife pressed a basket containing bread, cheese, and two roasted guinea fowls into Sophia’s hands. Once Claxton returned from speaking with Mr. Stone about the continued room and board of his male servants, they would be on their way. Sophia felt like crying, what with the inn being so warm and she’d only just begun to feel her legs and feet again.
Only then did she see that Charlotte no longer sat beneath the mistletoe. Instead the girl occupied the chair Sophia had vacated just moments before. Lady Meltenbourne stood behind her, a little comb in her hand.
“So you see, dear Miss Charlotte, I will dress your hair in pins and curls, and once you understand how it is done, you can dress mine. Every young lady deserves to have pretty hair for the holiday, and we two are no exception.”
Charlotte’s face reflected a degree of emotion somewhere between terror and delight. “Thank you, my lady. I’m certainly willing to try my best.”
Annabelle combed out a section of her hair. “When I was young, my father refused to hire a lady’s maid for me and my three sisters, proclaiming it to be a frivolous expense, so we all learned how to dress each other’s hair. Now I’m such a spoiled woman I have not only one lady’s maid, but two, one to attend to my hair and daily toilette, and the other, my clothes and my dogs. My dogs! I can’t think about Diamond and Pearl now, or I will start to cry.” She dabbed at her eyes. After a moment in which she appeared to calm herself, she said, “Hair is very easy—really it is—once you learn how to section everything properly. I only hope I have enough pins.”
Claxton joined Sophia and Mrs. Stone.
“A moment please,” said Sophia, handing off the basket to Claxton. She bent over her valise. A moment later she approached the countess and Charlotte.
“Lady Meltenbourne, I overheard you say you might not have enough.” She extended the little case toward Annabelle, who paused in her combing and sectioning to stare at her, wide-eyed and mouth agape. “I have plenty to spare.”
Charlotte gave a happy little gasp and her face lit up like a Christmas candle.
“Thank you, your Grace,” she gushed. “You and the countess have been more than kind.”
Annabelle reached for the case, her gaze fixed on Sophia. Her eyes welled with tears.
“Yes,” she smiled tremulously. “More than kind.”
Sophia rejoined Claxton, and he led her toward the door, his hand at the small of her back, for all outward appearances an attentive husband. Yet one glance confirmed the taut line of his jaw, evidence his anger remained over her request for a room at the inn.
Haden followed, twisting a scarf round his neck.
“Where are you going?” Claxton retrieved her valise.
“With you,” Haden said, “to Camellia House. There’s more room there, and no one who wants to shoot me unless you’re angrier than I thought. I promise not to be a bother.”
“You already are a bother. You’ll stay here and deal with the consequences of your own mess.”
Haden sputtered, but Claxton pulled the door firmly closed on any argument before it began.
Outdoors, he released her, his hand coming away from her arm as if he’d only just realized she were a piece of rotten fruit.
“I don’t believe my eyes,” he bit out. “Now you are on happy terms with Lady Meltenbourne? Truly, Sophia? Are the two of you in collusion to humiliate me? And taking a room at the inn?”
“Taking a room seemed the reasonable thing to do, given our present circumstances.”
“Our ‘present circumstances’ indeed. We wouldn’t want those to improve, would we?” He returned his hat to his head and with an air of disdain descended the snow-encrusted steps. “Whatever it is that you fear will happen again when we are alone, don’t worry, it won’t.”
“What do you mean?”
“You know what I mean,” he muttered fiercely, boots sinking into the snow with each step away from her.
And she did know. He would not kiss her again.
“Suits me perfectly,” she called after him. “All for the best. I didn’t enjoy it anyway.” But her turncoat heart shouted out apologies for having betrayed him.
He barked out a laugh but did not slow in pace.
Snow fell at a slant across the lane, carried on a sturdy wind. With a deep sigh, she set off to follow in the plowed-out rut Claxton’s boots had created, dreading the night to come, for certainly the coming hours would be spent in frozen silence, sequestered in her room.
Only when Claxton reached the end of the lane did he pause to wait for her, impatience twitching his jaw.
Just then, a man driving an old-fashioned sledge drawn by an enormous black draft horse came into view from the direction of Camellia House. Bells jangled musically with each step the animal took. With a “Ho!” to Claxton, the man tugged the reins and circled round. After exchanging words, Claxton came for Sophia.
“This is Mr. Kettle. He informs me that after learning of our arrival in Lacenfleet, he and Mrs. Kettle went to the house. He came looking for us and has kindly offered to convey you up the hill.”
Drawing nearer, Sophia saw that the sledge had only room for one.
“What about you?” She looked at Claxton.
“Go, please,” he answered, s
tone-faced. “I’d rather prefer the time alone.”
Stung, she instantly regretted her concern.
A moment later, with Sophia tucked warmly under a blanket, Mr. Kettle tapped his cane and the sledge lurched forward to glide through the snow. Vapor streamed from the horse’s nostrils. Under any other circumstances, she would have found the experience charming, but she had never felt more dejected and alone.
At the bend in the road, Sophia leaned out to search behind for Claxton but saw only a dark shadow amid a veil of falling snow. She hated this confusion! If she truly didn’t want to be near him, then why did leaving him behind make her feel so miserable?
Chapter Eight
Vane had not long with his thoughts because Mr. Kettle returned in the sledge immediately after safely delivering her ladyship. Not that he had accepted the ride. To do so would require a person of his stature to sit awkwardly with his knees knocking his ears for the sole purpose of sparing himself a quarter-hour walk. So instead of fuming over his wife’s humiliating request for a room at the inn—and after she’d bloody well kissed his Hessians off, no less—Mr. Kettle provided welcome distraction, traveling along beside Claxton to discuss matters related to the property.
After that brief passage of time, Vane entered the vestibule.
Over the previous twenty years, there had been moments when he had faced the worst mankind had to offer, in life and on the battlefront, with barely an increase in pulse. Yet now, as he stamped the snow from his boots on the threshold of the old house, he struggled to calm the low thrum of trepidation in his blood, one that urged him to immediately turn and run.
Just as he knew she would, a small woman rushed toward him out of the shadows and out from his past, her hands clasped to her plump cheeks.
Eyes full of tears, she exclaimed, “Your Grace. It is you.” Her bright gaze took him in admiringly, head to toe. “A man full grown.”
A thousand memories crushed in on him with such force he immediately drew up his defenses lest he be overwhelmed.
It was, of course, Mrs. Kettle, a woman who, like so many pieces of his shattered childhood, he had left behind. Only he hadn’t ever forgotten her.
Since he had last seen her, her hair had grayed and she had almost certainly shrunk by a foot. For a terrifying moment, he feared she might actually embrace him, and if she did, he would most certainly fall to pieces and cry like a child.
“Oh!” she exclaimed, her face going instantly serious. “Sir, I do forget myself.”
With the utmost gravity, she curtsied, then winced and wobbled, her discomfort at executing the gesture all too apparent.
His mother’s household had never been one for strict formalities. Vane suspected the woman who had acted as the Duchess of Claxton’s housekeeper, and indeed, her maid of all work, had not only been a loyal servant, but also in the end her closest friend. Though he required the utmost in decorum from his retainers in town, he considered Mrs. Kettle and her husband exempt from such strictures.
He gently assisted her up. “How pleased I am to see you as well.”
Mr. Kettle appeared behind his wife, having insisted on driving the sledge round back and entering the house as he always did through the servants’ door. The stooped old fellow, who had once towered like a giant, acted the part of footman, taking Vane’s coat, hat, and gloves. Sophia, now absent her hat and redingote, joined them as well.
“His Grace was sixteen years old last time I saw him,” Mrs. Kettle said to Sophia. In that moment two avenues of his life collided, his past and his present, leaving him breathless. The housekeeper sniffled and snorted into a handkerchief.
Sixteen years old. Vane could barely remember that boy. He felt a thousand years older now.
Quickly recovering, Mrs. Kettle smiled. “Mr. Kettle and I have waited all this time for his lordship to return. We long ago took residence in the village, but these last few years have kept the house in readiness, as much as two old souls could, with a bed made up in clean linens, in hopes you would return. We were thrilled to receive her Grace’s missive indicating she would visit, but did not expect her—nor you—until after Christmas. I pray these simplest of accommodations have met with your approval.”
“They are more than enough,” he assured.
She sighed in relief. “Our apologies for not having come sooner. I’ve two confined mothers on opposite ends of the village. Within a space of mere days Lacenfleet will have not only one, but two new citizens, perhaps in time for Christmas.”
Mrs. Kettle had acted as the village midwife in the past and apparently still did. That service had always held a certain poignancy, as she and Mr. Kettle had never been blessed with children of their own.
She clasped her hands together, leaning forward. “Which is why Mr. Kettle and I only just learned of your arrival. We had passed the night at the Martindale home, you see, believing the babe would arrive last night, but it was not to be.”
Mr. Kettle chuckled. “They come in their own time.”
“Indeed they do,” Vane agreed, though he knew little of the subject.
He caught Sophia smiling at him. He knew what she believed, that this was a happy reunion between the lord of the manor and dutiful servants, a time for joy and remembrances. Though very much true, his homecoming involved more complicated emotions than that. There were reasons why he hadn’t returned before now.
“This way, my lord.” Mrs. Kettle extended an arm. “My lady.”
Mrs. Kettle led them into the great room, where a small table had been laid out beside the hearth, and upon it, several covered dishes. Here, a fire warmed the air, as well as the fragrance of something tantalizingly delicious.
“What is all this?” Vane asked.
Sophia came to stand beside him. “Mrs. Kettle has brought us supper.”
As a soldier, he had long ago grown accustomed to going days without food. It was only now, upon inhaling such marvelous scents, that he realized how ravenous he was. When had he eaten last? The day before yesterday, upon disembarking in Dover, he’d been too filled with anticipation about reuniting with Sophia to seek out a meal, and he’d remained so. Then last night in London the whole world had gone to hell, leaving food the last thing from his mind.
“And look,” added Sophia. “She’s even decorated in honor of the season.”
Indeed, she had. A garland of greenery now adorned the mantel top. Sprigs of the same stuff sprouted from atop the portraits and art hung about the room. A scraping sound came from behind them. Vane turned to see Mr. Kettle climbing onto a chair beneath the chandelier. A sphere swung from the chain in his hand, formed of holly, red apples, ivy, and damnably, mistletoe.
“It just wouldn’t feel like Christmas without the kissing bough, now, would it?” Mrs. Kettle clapped her hands in delight.
“The kissing bough.”
Vane’s eyes widened, and he blurted, “You mustn’t trouble yourself.
“Nonsense,” said Mr. Kettle. “It’s good to have young people in the house again. Oh—” He wobbled atop the chair and waved his arms for balance.
“Help him,” urged Sophia.
“Careful there.” Vane lunged forward, steadying the chair, and took hold of his elbow. “But again, you really shouldn’t have bothered yourselves.”
“Claxton,” Sophia chastised softly, lifting a finger to her lips.
Once the chain was fastened, he assisted the old fellow down.
“Success!” Mr. Kettle grinned. After an extended period of silence where they all looked at one another, Mr. Kettle said, “Don’t tell me I went through all that trouble for naught.”
Mrs. Kettle glowed with expectation.
Then suddenly, Sophia moved toward him, her dark hair shining like silk in the candlelight. The color of her cheeks had deepened to dark pink and her eyes sparkled brilliant and bright.
“Claxton can be so prudish,” she declared in a teasing voice.
He stared at her hard, raising one eyebrow at her taunt,
unable to contain the fiery combustion inside his chest. Prudish? If she only knew the decidedly unprudish thoughts presently forming in his mind. She shouldn’t play with him. Not now, after kissing him so passionately outside the inn, only to show him and the rest of the world the kiss had meant nothing. Not after he’d come a breath from losing her to a drunken man’s bullet. A low growl rumbled from his throat. “It’s just a kiss,” she whispered tersely.
Vexatious termagant.
She did this for the Kettles, in an effort to please the endearing couple who had already won her heart. Not for him who had lost it.
His gaze dropped to her mouth, so soft and plush, to the feminine curve of her collarbone, just visible above the high neckline of her winter dress. She couldn’t know that their kiss in the snow outside the inn had awakened a raving beast inside him, one that at this moment bayed with need. If she did, she wouldn’t ask this of him. She wouldn’t stand so provokingly close, within the circle of his shadow.
Blood pounded in his ears. The muscles along his spine tightened. He grazed her cheek with his fingertips, the barest caress. Lifting her chin, he bent, touching his lips to hers in a kiss so different from the one before. Controlled and respectable and torturously sweet—
And over almost before it began.
Sophia stepped back, laughing and smiling as if they’d done nothing but cordially shake hands. While wearing gloves.
“Thank you, Mr. and Mrs. Kettle,” she exclaimed. “You thought of everything.”
“Wonderful!” The housekeeper sighed. “So romantic.”
“A most merry Christmas,” declared Mr. Kettle.
Vane watched Sophia drift away and exhaled through his nose. His body raged in complaint at being so cruelly denied. If not for the Kettles’ presence, he would reach out and pull her back into his arms.
