by Dalton, Lily
Mittens drawn from her pockets, she yanked the reins free and climbed onto the blades. She was much better at driving carriages and handling horses than baking cakes. She’d never driven a sledge, but how difficult could it be?
The first bend in the road answered her question. When the sledge swung wide into a deeper snowbank, the vehicle and animal leading it lurched to a stop.
*
“I couldn’t find your mittens, but I—”
Claxton’s voice trailed away at finding only the deep groove of the sledge’s blades in the snow to greet him. Not just that, but his cakes lay scattered in the snow beside his upended basket. Bells jangled in the distance.
A glance down the hill revealed the horse and sledge with Sophia expertly poised on the blades, reins in hand, her dark hair streaming out behind her.
Laughter welled up from inside his chest. “You little minx!”
Of course he hadn’t found her mittens. She’d tricked him. All along, his spirited young wife had been playing the game just as hard as he. Of course she had.
But the game wasn’t over yet. Grinning, he grabbed the basket and tossed his frozen cakes inside.
*
A flicker of movement at the corner of her eye caught her attention. Claxton raced in the opposite direction of the road, churning across the paddock, snow flying up in his wake. Amazingly, it appeared he carried the discarded basket of cakes. Curse his long legs and boots.
He proceeded past the place where they had crossed the frozen riverbed the day before. From a distance, voices shouted and laughed. On the hilltop that overlooked the village, children played. Several boys threw snowballs while another group raised a small army of snowmen. Still others streaked on sleds or barrel lids down the snow-covered hill.
“No,” she wailed, realizing his intent. Snapping the reins, she urged the horse to resume its forward motion. With a shrill whinny, the animal plowed forward, high stepping through the snow, yanking the sledge free.
But it was too late. Claxton commandeered a sled and barreled down the hill, his coattails rippling on the wind. Sophia urged the horse onward, down the public road and through the village, where at last she slid to a stop in front of the Kettles’ cottage.
The basket had tipped during travel, and several cakes had rolled across the floor of the sledge. Retrieving them, she blew them off and hastily returned them to the basket.
Claxton was nowhere to be seen, but a downward glance revealed fresh boot prints on the steps. Her spirits sank. Mr. Kettle opened the door and conducted her into the parlor.
“I’ll see what’s keeping Mrs. Kettle,” he said, disappearing into another room.
Claxton turned from the fire, where he stood warming his hands. A mirthful smile broke across his face. “Oh, Sophia.” He chuckled, his eyes lit with humor and admiration. “How delightful. I’d never have expected it of you.”
She stormed across the carpet. “You deserve being left for sabotaging my cakes.”
“I told you there were no rules.” He met her halfway, his wicked smile all the confession she required.
“You tried to get me foxed.”
He moved closer still. “I told you I played hard. That I would do anything to win.”
“You kissed me.”
He growled low in his throat. “I did more than that.”
She held on tight to the cakes for fear he would snatch them from her hands.
“I might eventually be convinced to apologize for it all.” He bent and seized her and kissed her hard on the mouth. “Except for the kissing and touching you. Never that.”
Footsteps sounded on the threshold. He released her and with a wink stepped back.
“I am told we have cakes,” said Mrs. Kettle.
“Yes, here,” said Sophia dazedly. Claxton threw her a smile of pure sin.
“May I see them, then?”
Sophia handed them to the older woman. Claxton did the same, retrieving his basket from near the fire.
“Dear, take her ladyship’s redingote. It’s become overly warm in this small room.”
Mr. Kettle assisted her in removing the garment. Unlike Mrs. Kettle, Sophia didn’t feel overly warm. Indeed, without her coat, she suffered a distinct chill. She crossed her arms over her chest and sidled a few inches closer to the fire.
The elderly woman examined the cakes. “Oh, my. The hearts are falling to pieces, and the medallions appear to be crusted with snow.”
Claxton glanced to Sophia, then back to Mrs. Kettle. “Perhaps taste will distinguish one from the other.”
Mrs. Kettle did not appear convinced. “Perhaps.”
She tasted Sophia’s offering first. “The texture is a bit disappointing. Very hard and dense.” With a shrug, she popped a pinch of Claxton’s into her mouth. She blinked, coughed, and swallowed. “Salt. Far too much salt. Mr. Kettle, where did I set my cup of tea?”
“Salt?” exclaimed Claxton. “No, that can’t be, I followed the measurements precisely—”
His gaze shot to Sophia. “You.”
“Shenanigans!” declared Mrs. Kettle. “No surprise there. I do believe we must declare this particular effort a tie.”
“No matter.” Sophia glanced at Claxton and back to Mrs. Kettle. Her arms dropped to her sides. “I believe we have decided to work together to complete the subsequent quests.”
Mrs. Kettle looked up with a smile. Her gaze, however, veered in another direction. Downward to the front of Sophia’s dress.
“Yes, your Grace, I can see that you have,” she replied tartly. She burst out with a delighted laugh.
Looking down, Sophia saw the reason for Mrs. Kettle’s mirth. Each of her breasts bore a white, powdery imprint in the distinct shape of Claxton’s hand.
*
Vane could not help but delight in Sophia’s mortification, which he found no less than adorable. She had hardly been able to enunciate the words good night to the Kettles, let alone walk a straight line from the cottage to the sledge without his arm for assistance. Even so, they had completed the second quest to Mrs. Kettle’s satisfaction and were in possession of the third, which they had decided to open upon their return to Camellia House.
Though the sky already dimmed into a lavender twilight, once arriving at the top of the hill, on impulse Claxton drove out to where several village boys still sledded and urged Sophia to disembark the sledge.
“Wait here,” he said.
“Where are you going?” she asked, frowning.
He left her there without further answer. Returning the sledge to the bottom of the hill, he secured the horse and climbed the incline. From the edge she peered over, watching him make the ascent. Perhaps he was wrong, but he believed he saw a begrudging admiration in her eyes, an appreciation of his physical strength and his capability. Like a fool green boy, he very much liked the feeling of impressing her.
Still, to say she was happy would be a vast misstatement. Something was wrong, and he could not help but feel that that something had nothing to do with the handprints he’d left on her breasts and everything to do with their marriage. He didn’t know what to do. He knew only he’d had the most wonderful time with her today. Still, he knew the existence of that damn list hovered over them like a dark cloud. He’d do anything to make her forget.
“I’m weary and cold, Claxton. I don’t want to wait here while you sled with the boys.”
“I’m not going to sled with the boys.” He laughed. “I’m going to sled with you.”
“Me?” The stolid expression dropped from Sophia’s face. Her green eyes sparked with interest.
“I thought you might like to try.”
Sophia did want to try. He could tell by the way she peered down the slope and the small smile teasing the corner of her pretty mouth.
“What if I fall off? What if I go tumbling and my skirts fly up in front of those young boys and I humiliate myself worse than I already have today?” She closed her eyes. “Oh, Claxton. What must the Kettles t
hink of me?”
He chuckled, pleased that she cared. Taking a chance, he slipped his gloved hand into hers and lifted her knuckles to his lips. “They think you’re delightful.”
“I’ve never been more embarrassed in my life.”
Her eyes fixed on his lips. He kissed her and then she met his gaze. She let out a shaky breath and bit her lower lip. Her cheeks pinked, and he knew she was remembering, as was he, their passionate—yet unfinished—interlude in the kitchen.
“You shouldn’t be. We are married. They want us to be happy.” He pulled her into the circle of his arms and lowered his head—
Sophia paled, and she averted her face. “Not in front of the children.”
He glanced over his shoulder to find they had an audience of at least seven, all gaping at them with wide eyes and open mouths. Reluctantly, he released her and drew back but retained possession of one of her hands.
“What can I say?” he murmured intimately. “You make me forget myself.”
“Claxton—” Still, she refused to meet his gaze.
And he knew with a sudden intensity, he did not want to hear what she had to say.
“Sophia, I’m going to go get on that sled and go over the edge.” His thumb rubbed the underside of her wrist. “Even though I’m not certain what’s on the other side. Perhaps the ride will be bumpy and rough at times, but for the most part it will be exhilarating. I promise.”
“You know what’s on the other side,” she said in a low voice. “You sledded down the hill not even an hour ago.”
He blinked. “I was speaking metaphorically.”
Beneath the brim of her hat, her lashes lowered, hiding her reaction.
“I know that,” she answered softly.
Turning sideways, he coaxed her toward the sleds. “Come on. We’ll go down together. There will be no tumbling and no skirts flying. I won’t allow it.”
At last, Sophia nodded in assent.
Claxton signaled to the same boy as before. Eager to earn another coin, the child pulled his sled to the ledge. Closer now, she saw something she hadn’t from a distance. The boy’s trousers and coat had holes in them, and he wore tattered boots.
“Thank you, young man,” said Claxton, pressing a coin into his hand—one Sophia recognized on the boy’s open palm to be a half crown.
Her throat constricted with a sudden onrush of emotion. Just that morning, Claxton had seemed so oblivious to the idea of charity, of giving to those less fortunate. But he had just given the boy enough to warmly clothe an entire family.
Claxton removed his hat and handed it off to the boy. He then sat on the small wooden platform, planting his boots at the forward end. Looking toward her, he beckoned with his hand. “Sit here, between my legs.”
In that moment, Sophia’s heart opened another small bit. Perched on the edge of this hillside, Claxton extended an invitation to her, one that had nothing to do with seduction or producing heirs or winning a game, and everything to do with creating a memory. Claxton might not realize it, but she did.
How could she explain to him that she wasn’t perturbed about the cakes or even those appalling handprints? Rather, her mood stemmed from the certain fear that she was falling in love with him, head over heels, all over again. And that the only reasonable response was for her to pull away, to protect herself from the pain that loving him would most assuredly bring.
When she loved, she loved completely, yet given all she’d learned of Claxton over the past three days, she now understood why his heart might never be capable of returning that love to the same degree. It wasn’t his fault. His father had done everything to destroy the gentler side of him.
But while to her, love and lovemaking were entwined into one experience, the same wasn’t true for her husband. He hadn’t loved any of those other women any more than he loved her. She feared more than anything the most he would ever be able to offer her would be fondness—however sincere—and the carnal offerings of his body. The same thing he’d offered those other women before their marriage. It wasn’t enough, but if she wanted a baby within the legal bonds of marriage, she had to find a way to come to terms.
She took his hand, climbed onto the sled, and sat.
A flush rose into her cheeks at the easy familiarity of settling so intimately against him, of the sensation of his muscular legs bracketing her safely in place and his warm chest against her back. She tucked her skirts underneath her legs.
“Wrap your arms around my legs and hold on tight.” Sophia did as Claxton instructed, his roughened voice in her ear. His arm came across her abdomen, a solid band of wool-covered muscle.
“Are you ready?” he asked quietly. “You know that once we go over the edge, there’s no turning back.”
“That’s what I’m afraid of.”
“Don’t be.”
At his encouragement, the boy gave them a running push. The blades swooshed over the snow, and at the precipice the sled tilted downward—
Cold air streamed against her face, blowing Sophia’s hair free of her hat. Faster. The sled rocked and rattled as the landscape flew past. Faster! A wild, billowing pleasure spiraled up inside her, the purest sensation of joy, returning her, for the briefest moment, to the happiest days of her youth when her heart carried no fear or premonition of hurt or tragedy. She laughed, then screamed, as Claxton held her tight, his face pressed close beside hers. His laughter rumbled against her back.
Sophia regretted when all too quickly they arrived at the bottom. The sled bumped and skidded to an eventual stop. The euphoria in her chest calmed, and when the boy bounded down behind them to return the duke’s hat and to reclaim his sled, she almost begged them both for another turn at the hill. Instead she remained quiet. Dragging his sled, the boy returned to the top, where his friends cheered.
Sophia straightened her redingote and laughed. “I feared that rickety thing would fall to pieces beneath us. It shook and rattled so!”
“You enjoyed it then.” Eyes bright, with his hair blown straight back from his face, he looked very much in his element, like a Russian prince, alive and glorious, against the backdrop of winter.
“Yes. Oh yes,” she exclaimed. “Thank you for taking me down.”
With his hand at the small of her back, he led her toward the sledge, their boots crunching over the snow. Fat, fluffy snowflakes fell all around them, and the cold worked its way through the soles of her boots and through her clothing. She shivered.
“You’re cold.” He wrapped an arm around her shoulders, and with a twist of his other, he removed the scarf from his own neck and draped it round hers. “I apologize. I shouldn’t have pressed you to—”
“No,” she interrupted. “The best sort of cold. What fun! And I saw what you did up there.”
She glanced at his profile.
“What is that?” he asked, his cheeks ruddy and handsome against the stark white background of the hillside. The wind ruffled his hair. She avoided looking at his lips in a failed effort to forget their passionate embraces in the kitchen.
“That boy,” she said. “Quite different from the others, with threadbare clothes and his boots in pieces. You made sure to use his sled, the most dubious of the lot, and gave him a half crown.”
“A half crown?” He glanced down at her from beneath dark lashes. “Surely not. Only a shilling.”
She pinched his sleeve. “A half crown, Claxton.”
“Purely by mistake.” He returned his hat to his head. “He was merely the closest and most eager.”
“I don’t believe you.”
His eyes burned into hers with a sudden flare of intensity. “Is it so difficult to believe there is something good inside me?”
“No, Claxton,” she answered softly. “Not at all.”
A slight pause followed.
“It is almost Christmas,” he said, jerking his chin aside and peering out over the village. “Perhaps he will purchase new shoes or a coat. But more likely, I expect, he will feed his f
amily.”
He extended his arm, and she grasped it, climbing into the sledge.
After a short ride, they arrived to a darkened Camellia House. A half hour later, a blazing fire and the careful placement of screens vanquished the chill from the great room. There, in the same place where they had partaken of Mrs. Kettle’s wonderful meal, they ate the guinea fowls given to them by the innkeeper the previous day with bread, cheese, and some Christmas beer they’d purchased in the village.
“You play chess, don’t you?” he asked when they were done, setting up a board with the proper pieces. Having removed his coat but not his cravat, he looked very much like a gentleman at ease.
“It has been a long time. I’m certain I’ve forgotten how.” Sophia had intended after the meal to immediately retire to her room.
“Oh, I can’t believe that,” he answered wryly, tilting his head downward and giving her a suspicious eye. “One doesn’t forget how to play chess.”
A familiar heaviness filled her chest, one formed of hurtful memories.
“Perhaps that is true,” she agreed. “It’s just that I was the only one in my family who would play with my father. Neither Daphne nor Clarissa could sit still and pay attention for that long. I haven’t undertaken the game since his death.”
She and her father had shared a love of chess and books and had spent endless hours together, just the two of them. Those were special times that she’d always remember. She could not help but wonder for the thousandth time what he would think of her present difficulties with Claxton. She often yearned for his gentle advice.
“It was a terrible thing, your father’s death,” he said quietly. “Such a terrible stroke of chance.”
“Who would ever have thought? Struck down by a rearing horse. He was always so good with them.”
Claxton remained silent, watching her intently. “You told me, after we first met, but we’ve never talked about how it happened. I always felt that even after two years, the tragedy was still too fresh in your mind. For all of you, including Wolverton, of course. You were there, weren’t you?”
With careful precision she arranged the white pieces on her side of the board, so as to disguise the tremble in her hand. Claxton was right. A stroke of chance. More than three years had passed, but it still felt as if the tragedy had struck just yesterday.
