Never Desire a Duke (One Scandalous Season)

by Dalton, Lily

  “Correct,” Claxton said, chuckling rather subversively under his breath.

  Claxton had also told her that in addition to Mr. Burridge being the rector, his mother had also, on occasion, retained the older man to be their tutor in various subjects. He and Haden had apparently been very naughty boys.

  She recited the instructions he’d given earlier. “The key word to employ in distracting Mr. Burridge is history.”

  “Very good.”

  Together they entered the narthex, a narrow room formed of shadow and stone, where Claxton removed his hat. Upon their entrance, a heavily bundled, quill-thin man paused in his work stacking hymnals to shamble forth on knobby legs to call to another man who hung Christmas greens near the altar.

  “Is that mistletoe I see mingled in with the greens? No, no, no, we can’t have druid’s weed in the church. Take it all outside, and remove every bit of it.”

  Seeing them, he came to meet them midway along the nave. With each step, his breath puffed out in a cloud, visible in the frigid cold of the cavernous space.

  “Your Grace.” The elderly rector gave a curt bow and peered down his prominent nose at Claxton, quite an interesting feat considering he stood a full two feet shorter than the duke. “What an unexpected surprise. I had heard you were in residence. At last you’ve returned after all these years.”

  Claxton, looking every part the elegant nobleman, answered with all cordiality. “Temporarily at least, snowbound here by this uncommon winter frost.”

  “Incommodious weather indeed.” Mr. Burridge sniffed. “Preventing all but three of my parishioners from attending services yesterday morn, the remainder confined to their homes.”

  “Mr. Burridge, may I introduce you to the Duchess of Claxton.” Claxton brought her forward and introductions were made.

  “What a lovely church,” said Sophia, peering up into the barrel-vaulted ceiling. “So much history.”

  “Ah.” Gray eyebrows ascended Mr. Burridge’s wrinkled forehead. “You are a student of the arcane, then? Unlike his Grace, who as I recall, could never be persuaded to attend to his lessons.” His gaze narrowed on Claxton, as if fixing upon an old, familiar foe.

  “No!” Sophia exclaimed in faux surprise. “Claxton, tell me that’s not true.”

  Claxton manufactured a sheepish look.

  Sophia returned her attention to the rector. “As for myself, I am fascinated by our glorious past.”

  Mr. Burridge’s eyes brightened and his cheeks flushed with pleasure. “Then please, my lady, if you will allow me the honor of showing you the chapel’s most significant points of interest.”

  Behind the rector’s head, Claxton nodded gleefully and gestured for her to continue.

  Sophia bestowed an encouraging smile upon Mr. Burridge. “Nothing would delight me more.”

  He gestured with a gloved hand. “Then let us begin in the nave with the font, which is cut from Turkish marble. Note the cherubim embellishment.”

  It was too much to hope they would begin the tour with Sir Thomas, who according to Claxton’s prior description lay upon a stone table in the opposite direction, nearer to the narthex.

  Instead they crept along for what seemed an eternity, pausing to examine every monument, coat of arms, statuary, and epitaph until Sophia thought she would faint from the effort of remaining so endlessly engaged.

  Claxton’s attempts to wander away from them proved futile. On each occasion that he fell behind, Mr. Burridge insisted, quite firmly, that he return to the tour so as not to miss details he’d certainly not retained from their lessons during his childhood. After several failed efforts, Claxton followed dutifully behind, scowling sullenly, his hands clasped behind his back.

  “You are certain I’m not boring you?” Mr. Burridge inquired for the thousandth time. A most attentive individual, the rector required constant nods, smiles, and assurances to ensure their progression.

  “Not at all,” Sophia assured him, her throat parched from repeating similar niceties over and over again. “Why, each treasure is more interesting than the next.”

  He sighed, pleased. “My thoughts precisely. It is so rare that I’m able to share these artifacts with someone who appreciates them as much as I do.”

  Claxton, at last, came to stand beside her, so close she shivered from the heat he gave off. He touched her back and peered into her eyes.

  “I do believe, my dear,” he said with deliberate intonation, “you will find the next statuary the most fascinating of all. Mr. Burridge?”

  Mr. Burridge tilted his head as if he was unsure whether to trust Claxton’s sudden display of enthusiasm.

  “Why, yes, I do agree,” he said, nodding slowly.

  At last, they approached the sculpture Sophia believed to be Sir Thomas, who according to Claxton’s mother would have a bee up his nose. Whatever that meant, she could not wait to find out.

  “This magnificent table monument fashioned of freestone dates from the sixteenth century. Upon it, as you can see, lie two figures, one an armed knight. Do examine the detail of his sword, as it is quite breathtaking.” He extended a hand toward the center of the carved figure. “And there beside him is his lady. Is she not beautiful?”

  “Just look at their faces. So lifelike.” Indeed, the lord and his lady stared upward toward heaven, their faces forever preserved in placid contentment. Sophia could not help but notice the knight boasted a magnificent pair of cavernous nostrils. Above their heads were words etched in stone. Sophia read aloud. “Sir Thomas Longmead and his wife.”

  One glance toward Claxton revealed the same relief she felt. At last.

  Sophia marveled over Sir Thomas and his bride long enough to avert any suspicion, then chose another point of interest to draw Mr. Burridge away. “Oh, look at that kneeling angel and the detail of its wings. What can you tell me about that sculpture?”

  Sophia proceeded down the aisle, Mr. Burridge following close behind. Claxton, of course, lingered behind.

  However, something made Mr. Burridge glance back. A lingering suspicion perhaps.

  There, to Sophia’s abject mortification, Claxton sprawled atop Sir Thomas’s supine form, his fingers thrust inside his marble nose.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Is there some problem, my lord?” barked Mr. Burridge. His narrow physique bristled with outrage.

  Claxton jumped, his Hessians instantly returned to the floor with a resounding thump, his expression one of a schoolboy caught in a prank, eyes wide and lips slack.

  Sophia, for her part, considered a dash for the door.

  But a look of calm came over Claxton’s features. “I—ah—was attempting to clean his nose. There’s a bothersome bit of dust floating about his nostrils.” From his coat pocket he produced a handkerchief. He reached again, recreating the same awkward pose, and rubbed Sir Thomas’s nose free of the imaginary dust. “It is our duty, after all, to keep Sir Thomas dignified. There. All tidy.”

  Sophia clapped a hand over her mouth, desperate to contain the bubble of laughter that crowded the back of her throat.

  Just then, a young woman and a small boy entered the narthex, each carrying a wooden box.

  Mr. Burridge glared at Claxton reprovingly. “If you will excuse me.”

  Joining the visitor, Mr. Burridge positioned himself with obvious purpose so that he could still keep his eye on Claxton. Under this scrutiny, Claxton joined Sophia, looking every part the guilty scoundrel.

  Despite their peril, Sophia experienced the sudden, overwhelming urge to grab Claxton by the lapels and kiss him, which would be quite improper given their ecclesiastical surroundings. It was easy here, in the golden light created by the church windows, to believe that they would always exist in this blissful state of happiness.

  She whispered, “So? Was there a bee in Sir Thomas’s nose?”

  A conspiratorial smile slanted his lips. “Indeed, something is there in the nostril on the farthest side, the one closest to his lady.” He leaned closer to murmur
in her ear, “But my fingers are too large to pinch the object out.”

  “Oh no. That means—”

  “Yes!” Claxton’s eyes glowed with delight. Clearly he welcomed this new complication, the higher stakes. “Sophia, you must get the bee.”

  “But how?” she asked desperately. “When Mr. Burridge refuses to leave my side? And yours because apparently you have a peculiar fetish for dusting and cannot be trusted unsupervised with the antiquities.”

  Claxton grinned. “For a moment I thought he would box my ears, just as he did when I was a boy.”

  “I don’t believe he can reach your ears now.”

  Mr. Burridge approached, boxes stacked across his arms.

  “Hurry,” warned Claxton. “We must think of some new diversion.”

  “Pardon the interruption, my lord. My lady,” said Mr. Burridge, his expression brittle with mistrust. “It is that time of year when villagers often bring Christmas tithes and other gifts to celebrate the season.”

  Tithes and gifts. It was, indeed, that time of year. Sophia knew from her review of the account books that Claxton paid tithes once a year through his accountants. Somehow, the villagers appearing in person bearing gifts of butter and jam and chickens—necessities very dear to them—seemed infinitely more personal. All at once, it came into Sophia’s mind that she’d not heard a church bell ring since arriving in Lacenfleet.

  On instinct, she inquired, “Mr. Burridge, tell me about the church bell. On what occasions do you ring it?”

  “Ah.” Mr. Burridge issued a little sigh. “Our bell cracked two winters ago, splitting quite nearly in half. No donor has stepped forward with the funds to replace it.”

  The perfect opportunity had just presented itself. How could she nudge Claxton in the proper direction without being completely obvious?

  “Your Grace,” she said with careful emphasis. “You and I were just pondering yesterday—”

  “What could be done to honor my mother, yes,” he said suddenly with a long glance at her. He’d stolen the words right out of her mouth, and she couldn’t be more amazed.

  He tilted his face upward, and his gaze moved over the arched beams above them. “She so loved this church. A new bell would be a perfect tribute.”

  She knew in that moment his offering had nothing to do with the game and everything to do with the memory of his mother and his growing affection for Lacenfleet and its people.

  “Yes,” she exclaimed softly, blinking away tears. “I agree.”

  The rector’s eyes lit up like lanterns. “Your mother, a saint of a woman.”

  Sophia said, “Mr. Burridge, perhaps you could show his lordship to the bell tower so that he might understand the contribution that would be required?”

  All of the rector’s prior suspicion fell away. Indeed, he appeared on the verge of tears. “Why, a new bell would breathe new life into this old parish church.”

  “Wonderful,” said Sophia. “I will wait for the both of you here. I would like to spend some time viewing the windows.”

  She moved toward the nearest stained glass window, one which bore a brass placard at its base engraved with the familial name GARSWOOD. Beneath that, on the floor, she discovered a porcelain bowl full of roses.

  Ones with yellow petals and pink edges.

  *

  A half hour later, she and Claxton made their way through the snow to the sledge, Sophia still smiling from everything that had occurred. Their breath gusted out before them with each breath.

  “Do you have it?” he asked.

  “I do.” She opened her hand. A tiny scroll, bound with a faded strip of fabric, lay on her gloved palm.

  “You ought to be a spy in the service of England, goose.” Claxton’s arm came around her shoulder, the admiration in his gaze and in his words more warming than any fire. “You truly were quite exceptional in there. Mr. Burridge, I must say, is smitten. Let us go to the inn for a quick meal. We can read our next instruction there.”

  Soon they were settled into a table near the hearth. Just as before, the room was crowded with villagers, today unabashedly impressed by the presence of the duke, who had just that morning dueled the inn’s most infamous resident on his snow-covered front lawn.

  Several of the ladies smiled at Sophia. There were even a few satisfied nods and winks. She could only assume they believed her the victor for her husband’s affections over the determined trollop, Lady Meltenbourne. At that, she felt some degree of satisfaction. She’d enjoyed herself exceedingly this afternoon and purposefully forbade herself from pondering deeper thoughts about their future, or the implications of the night before, although memories of their lovemaking never drifted far from her thoughts. She just had to keep things in perspective, be forgiving of her husband’s limitations, and continue to guard her heart.

  As they waited for the innkeeper to bring their fare, Claxton drank ale and Sophia sipped from a steaming mug of tea.

  “So let us see this bee that has been buzzing around Sir Thomas’s nose for all these years.” Claxton scooted his chair toward hers. They sat side by side, two conspirators discreetly examining their plunder. He rested his arm across the back of her chair, bracketing her between his body and the wall. Her skin warmed with awareness. She could see nothing beyond the high wall of his shoulder, cravat, and waistcoat, and an endless sprawl of finely turned male legs.

  Sophia slid the fabric binding free and unrolled the little scroll on the table between them. He helped her spread the small rectangle, pinning two corners with long, elegant fingers while she secured the other two. His familiar scent tantalized her, made more complex by the lingering acridity of gunpowder.

  Ah, but the quest. At the uppermost corner hovered a charming little bee boasting a wide, toothy smile.

  “Oh, your mother.” She did venture a glance at Claxton then, only to have her breath stolen by startling blue eyes, which studied her rather than the quest. “Quite the artist.”

  He agreed faintly, “Hmm, yes, she was.”

  Underneath the table, his hand found her knee.

  Breathless from that mere touch, Sophia read the quest aloud. “The hungry huntsman clamors for more stew. And look.” She turned the paper so he could see the drawings. “She’s drawn a rather fearsome fellow.”

  “The huntsman,” said Claxton.

  “You know something about him, just as you did Sir Thomas.”

  He nodded. “There’s an old cottage in the forest; in times long past it would have been occupied by the estate huntsman. My brother and I used to play there, and sometimes my mother would accompany us.”

  “And make stew?” Sophia leaned toward him, eager to hear more.

  With a suddenness that stole her breath, his gaze went to smoldering, and he stared at her lips. His hand, still on her knee, squeezed. “Yes, actually, in an old pot, the ingredients being whatever we gathered. Stones, leaves, and sticks gathered from the forest. It was all very juvenile.”

  “And charming.” She eased back in her chair, but he followed, just those few inches, teasing the nape of her neck with an upward brush of his fingertips. “Could we go to the huntsman’s cottage after we leave here?”

  “I’d rather go somewhere else first,” he murmured suggestively.

  “After we find the next clue.”

  “The cottage was in terrible condition then. I’m not sure the roof has not fallen through. Our game may very well come to a disappointing end there. Time may have destroyed what was likely our final quest.”

  “I hope not,” Sophia said. “Not when we have come so far.”

  A girl brought out their stew, placing two bowls before them, a fragrant, steaming mutton stew. Reluctantly, he removed his hand from where it had crept up Sophia’s shapely thigh. Only after Sophia greeted the girl as Charlotte and made a fuss over her pretty hair did he remember seeing her before.

  “Your Grace, the hairpins you gave me must have been magical ones.” The girl touched the neat coil of hair above her
nape.

  “Oh yes?” said Sophia. “Tell me, why would you say that?”

  “I’ve got myself a suitor.” Her lips broke into a shy smile.

  Sophia’s face brightened with surprise. “The farmer in the tall boots?”

  “No, madam, the chandler with the fine cottage.” The girl’s face filled with color.

  They chatted for a short time longer until Mrs. Stone cheerfully shooed the girl away. After the girl had gone, Sophia dazzled him with a happy smile.

  “That’s wonderful to hear,” she whispered, her cheeks fetchingly pink, a likely consequence of their proximity to the fire. “I do hope Charlotte finds a happily ever after.”

  Vane reached to touch her cheek, his tone solemn. “Happily ever after. A few days ago, I wouldn’t have believed in such a thing. The words sound as if they only belong in a fairy tale, don’t they? Not in the lives of everyday people. But I think I’ve changed my mind.”

  Sophia peered steadily back at him. “That’s a wonderful thing to hear you say.”

  Vane could not help but think how perfectly Lacenfleet suited Sophia. Having seen her in London, so perfectly at ease with the most elevated members of society, he’d never expected her to take so easily to these simple folk and their quiet way of life.

  When they were ready to again be on their way, Vane left coins on the table in payment of their meal, and he followed Sophia toward the door. Only at the center of the room, he impulsively caught her by the sleeve and slowly pulled her back around. Her eyes flew wide at the suddenness of his mouth on hers, but she softened in his arms and with a sigh kissed him back. Then, as if she remembered where they were, she broke away. Yet he refused to release her entirely, and he caught her hand in his.

  “It’s all proper,” he said, pointing at the mistletoe above them.

  From around the room came cheers of approval and laughter from the patrons.

  “You see,” he added. “I think all these good people agree.”

  Soon they traveled alongside the frozen river. Sophia leaned out with interest, watching as villagers, mostly young people, glided across the surface. Claxton drew the sledge to a stop. Within moments, he’d lightened his pockets of several shillings and secured temporary possession of two pairs of skates.