Never Desire a Duke (One Scandalous Season)

by Dalton, Lily

  Grasping the same hands, he kissed them. “Sophia, please come home. I haven’t slept. I can’t without you.”

  “Home?”

  “Yes, our home here in London. In Lacenfleet. Wherever I am, be there with me. Always. I love you, Sophia. I love you.” His hands came up, framing her face, and he kissed her. “You.”

  “You asked me that night if I would choose you again, if I had the chance. I never had the chance to answer.” She hiccuped, laughing. “Yes. Oh yes, Claxton. A thousand times, I would choose you again.” She threw herself into his arms. “Always. I love you too.”

  He pressed his lips to her nose. Her cheek. “Merry Christmas, darling.”

  “Reasons Sophia loves Vane,” Sophia exclaimed into the night. “He is mine. All mine.”

  Epilogue

  One Year Later

  Merry Christmas morning, darling.”

  Sophia awakened to a kiss on her nose and a paradise of warm male skin and layers and layers of blankets.

  “Mmmm.” She smiled. “Merry Christmas.”

  She stretched across the bed, then suddenly remembered. “We’re not late, are we?”

  “No, it’s still early yet. We’ve plenty of time.”

  Her entire family, including Wolverton, had traveled to Lacenfleet to observe the dedication of the new church bell, to be rung for the first time on Christmas Day in memoriam of Claxton’s mother. Afterward, she and Claxton and the family would host lunch and games at Camellia House for the children of the orphan home, with Mr. Burridge and Mr. Garswood and numerous others from the village as invited guests.

  Relaxing again, she sighed happily. “Could you bring Vinson to me, please? He must be hungry.”

  The bed creaked as Vane left her to bend over the cradle. Dim morning light filtered through the draperies to define the deeply cut muscles at either side of his abdomen, above the waist of his low-slung linen drawers. Though she’d given him a nightshirt as an early Christmas gift, he’d worn the garment for only a blink the evening before. Remembering the pleasure he’d brought her after discarding the linen shirt on the bedside table, she reconsidered and wished she hadn’t asked him to bring the baby, who from his lack of noisemaking seemed to be perfectly content.

  “If he’s sleeping, don’t bother him and come back to bed,” she hastily amended.

  She heard the movement of the baby’s bedclothes and her husband’s low chuckle. “I was just thinking how quiet he’s been and that we’d been allowed to sleep uncommonly late.” He lifted a tightly swaddled bundle and turned the opening so that she could see within. Lord Misrule’s painted wooden face peered back at her. “Now I know why.”

  “Daphne!” they both exclaimed.

  All week her sister had taken immense pleasure in planning Lord Misrule’s next act of mischief.

  A half hour later, with the flush of passion still on his cheeks, Vane brought Sophia her dressing gown. “Let’s go rescue our baby from your sisters.”

  Though Camellia House, returned to its intended glory, had required a full staff hired from the village to tend to the house and the grounds, they met no one in the corridor outside their chamber, only polished wood walls and new carpet. The Duke and Duchess of Claxton had given their new retainers two days off to celebrate Christmas with their families in the village, in what they intended to be an annual tradition. The Branigans remained in residence, but they, like the Kettles, had become something closer to family.

  Holding hands, Sophia and Vane descended the staircase, pausing for a brief moment midway to simply observe their well-loved guests and listen to their lively chatter. Sophia gave a sigh of happy contentment at seeing Wolverton in a chair beside the fire, holding three-month-old Vinson.

  Fresh-cut laurel adorned the mantel behind him, verdant and glossy. The day before, they’d all ventured into the forest in a big raucous group to gather greens and cut a Christmas yew.

  The house itself glowed with new life. Mr. Branigan and the other skilled carpenters from the village had made the necessary repairs in the spring, and no trace of last December’s fire remained. But more important, new life had come to Camellia House when Sophia had given birth to Vinson in the ducal bed in early October, with Mrs. Kettle and Mrs. Branigan acting as midwives.

  “Merry Christmas, Grandfather,” she said, dipping to press a kiss to his cheek.

  “Merry Christmas, dear,” he said. Vinson, at seeing her, began to wriggle. Wolverton’s old eyes opened wide, and he lifted the baby against his shoulder for a soothing pat on the back. “I’ve already got my best present. Here he is. That’s a good boy.”

  But the round-faced child started to fuss.

  Daphne reached up from where she sat reading a book at his feet. “I’ll take him again, Grandfather. I think he wants his auntie Daphne to sing him a Christmas carol.”

  Clarissa turned from where she played with William, the Branigans’ one-year-old little boy. “Sister, dearest, your singing will only traumatize the child. Clearly he’s asking for his auntie Clarissa.”

  Claxton kissed Sophia’s temple and murmured, “Best you rescue the poor boy now.”

  And indeed, Sophia reached—

  But Margaretta swooped in and took the baby in her arms. “He only wants his grandmamma.” She kissed the baby’s nose. “My sweet little Vinson. How your grandpapa and uncle would have adored you.”

  “Breakfast is served,” called Mrs. Kettle from the direction of the kitchen. “Mrs. Branigan has made her special Christmas morning meat pie.”

  “But we’re still missing several gentlemen!” called Clarissa, her eyebrows furrowed.

  “More of Mrs. Branigan’s pie for us!” Daphne declared with a mischievous grin.

  A tall figure turned from the nearby wall, where a large portrait of the Duchess Elizabeth hung, and joined them as they all made their way to the dining room.

  “I’m still amazed, every time I look at it,” marveled Lord Haden, his hair still tousled from a night’s sleep. “The likeness is astounding. Sophia, I can’t thank you enough for thinking to have the portrait done.”

  The painting had been Sophia’s birthday gift to Claxton the previous July, created by an artist who utilized Mr. Garswood’s miniature as inspiration. As for the damaged portrait of the old duke that Sophia had hidden away in the attic months before, the canvas had been painstakingly repaired and now hung in the cavernous gallery of their London home between a portrait of Vane’s great-grandfather and himself.

  In the dining room, Daphne crossed to the window, where she peered out through the new peacock-blue draperies Mrs. Branigan had finished and hung with pride just the week before. “At last! Clarissa, our handsome husbands have returned from their walk about the property with Mr. Kettle and Mr. Branigan.”

  Clarissa joined her, William perched on her hip. “They are handsome, aren’t they? And look, they’ve brought more mistletoe.”

  The two of them broke into a round of delighted giggles.

  “Girls!” chided Lady Harwick, momentarily looking up from Vinson’s laughing face. “Not at breakfast.”

  Claxton pulled Sophia’s chair from the table, and she stood beside him, reveling in the familiar banter. To have her family here, at this happy place with her and Vane, meant more to her than anything. He moved to stand behind her, his arms encircling her waist and pulling her close.

  “I believe my mother would be very happy if she were here to see,” he said, nuzzling her cheek.

  “Of that, I have no doubt.”

  “This is the best Christmas ever,” he murmured.

  Sophia smiled. “You said the same thing last year.”

  “Every Christmas will be my best Christmas as long as I have you.” He pressed a tender kiss to her temple. “I love you. Merry Christmas, goose.”

  Miss Daphne Bevington will do anything to help a friend…even masquerade as a dancer at a house of ill repute for a night. But when a police raid threatens to expose her identity, she finds help in the
arms of Cormack, Lord Raikes, a sinfully sexy man with a secret all his own…

  Don’t miss the next enthralling book in this sizzling series!

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  Never Entice an Earl.

  Chapter One

  Daphne Bevington smiled at her sister’s obvious excitement for the Heseldons’ ball. Clarissa looked like a princess in blush-pink silk, a color Daphne would never, as long as she lived, choose to wear. She’d developed an aversion for the color in her youth, when Lady Harwick had oftentimes insisted on dressing her and her sisters in matching pink dresses. Daphne shivered at the memory but reminded herself not to lose focus. She had to get her sister and her mother out of the house as quickly as possible.

  “I wish you were coming.” Clarissa pouted. “But I understand how fond you are of Miss Fickett. I do hope she improves very soon. You’re such a dear to offer to stay and nurse her and the others. I wish I’d thought of it first. They are all going to like you better now!” She laughed, and merriment lit her eyes.

  “I only want to keep an eye on Miss Fickett and the others, Clarissa. Will you keep an eye on Mama? She didn’t want to leave me here alone.” At Clarissa’s nod, Daphne continued, leading her closer to the front door. “The physician believes the illnesses are the result of tainted sausages on the servants’ midafternoon tea sideboard and that’s why those who had chosen to eat mutton suffered no symptoms. You should have seen Cook when he came back from confronting the butcher.” Daphne laughed despite herself. “Steam was shooting out of his ears. But at least this time it didn’t require an intervention from the authorities.”

  Clarissa waved a gloved hand. “I’ll tell you all the on-dits tonight when we return—what everyone wore and who asked me to dance.”

  “I can’t wait to hear, but tomorrow at breakfast, perhaps,” Daphne responded. “Most likely I’ll be asleep when you return.” Balls always ran late, and it would be two or three o’clock before they arrived home.

  “Come along, Clarissa,” called her mother. Behind her, the footman opened the door.

  In a shimmer of pearls and diamonds, her sister and mother were gone. Daphne breathed a sigh of relief. Finally—time to help Kate! Thank heavens Wolverton had decided to make an early evening of it and take dinner in his room. She’d glimpsed O’Connell, his valet, descending the servants’ staircase some thirty minutes before, having already been dismissed for the night.

  “Now, what next?” she whispered to herself, as she rushed down the stairs, returning again to the servants’ corridor.

  Daphne’s mind raced and her heart pounded so hard and rapidly she could scarcely breathe. How unjust that a girl like Kate, who worked so hard day to day as a lady’s maid, should have to bear the dreadful burden of her dead father’s unpaid debt.

  She had told her friend—her dearest friend!—not to worry, that she’d take care of everything, and poor Kate had been too exhausted by illness to do anything but collapse into an exhausted sleep.

  She had to come up with a plan. There wasn’t much time. She could no more allow Kate’s elderly grandmother and siblings to be turned out into the streets or sent to the workhouse than she could allow the same misfortune to befall her own family.

  But she’d already considered every option. For Daphne, simply paying off the debt wasn’t possible because despite her privileged life, she had no access to money of her own, not of the magnitude required. She couldn’t sell her dresses or her jewels. Anything of value that went missing would be noted immediately either by her mother or the keen-eyed housekeeper, Mrs. Brightmore, and the loss construed as theft. The servants would be questioned, and she would be forced to step forward and declare herself the guilty party in stealing from…well, from her own self. A strange predicament but true.

  She alighted on the lower landing and gripped the banister. If only she could go to her grandfather or her mother and simply ask for the money, but she knew from experience their rule about lending money to servants. Her grandfather, no matter how generous he might be, would soundly reject the lending of money to a servant. The problem had presented itself before, and she had heard his reasoning. What he did for one, he must do for all. There would be no loans granted, only fair wages earned, and never in advance.

  Likely by opening her mouth she would only find herself on the receiving end of a lecture about proper behavior and boundaries—and Kate in search of a new position.

  She could only imagine her grandfather’s explosive reaction to learning that she’d involved herself in the financial affairs of a servant. Her mother’s dismay. She couldn’t even go to her older sister, Sophia, who very well might take pity on Kate’s plight, because the Duke and Duchess of Claxton had not yet returned from Vienna, where his Grace was deeply involved in diplomatic affairs related to the war.

  Daphne hadn’t felt this helpless since the day of her father’s death.

  Hurriedly, she spoke to the nurse who had been brought in to tend to those servants who had been stricken ill, and afterward, she visited each of the female staff, where she fluffed pillows and coaxed spoonfuls of weak beef tea through unwilling lips. All the while, her brain churned out one useless idea after another. At last she returned to Kate’s door, having arrived at no useful resolution. Inside, thankfully, Kate still slept, her face pallid against the linen pillowcase.

  Hands shaking, she took up Kate’s reticule from the table and searched inside until she found what she wanted—a scrap of paper upon which all the necessary particulars had been, in her friend’s familiar handwriting, neatly inscribed. There was no other way.

  *

  “Cheatin’ nob!”

  Cormack intercepted the fist, which had only a second before been drunkenly presented to his face. Grabbing the red-nosed fellow by his shoulders, he spun him round and shoved him in the direction of his intended opponent.

  Lord, he despised bawdy houses. Having only just passed through the well-barricaded door, he elbowed aside the threadbare velvet drape and ventured inside. If only vengeance had not commanded him here tonight.

  Tobacco smoke clouded the air, dimming his view of the men who crowded around the faro tables, gentlemen in evening dress intermingled with tradesmen in dark suits and rough-hewn men off the wharves. Gilt-framed mirrors cluttered the walls, and lopsided chandeliers hung from the ceilings, trappings of faux luxury. A ramshackle quartet assembled in the distant corner. The establishment had the feel of transience, as if every fixture, table, and drape could be snatched up at any moment, thrown in the back of a wagon, and installed elsewhere for the same effect. Understandable, as Cormack’s source had warned him the club changed locations often, so as to avoid discovery by the constables. Predators with painted lips and rouged cheeks circled him, already taking note of the newcomer in their midst.

  “Looking for a bit of company t’night, good sir?” inquired a redhead, boldly assessing him with kohl-lined eyes.

  “Two is good company. Three is a party.” The brunette sidled closer, offering Cormack an unrestricted view of her breasts, only barely constrained by a bodice of sheer muslin. “You look like the sort of man who likes more than just one.”

  Hmmm…perhaps. But his tastes were far more refined than what he would find here.

  As far as London brothels went, the Blue Swan was the seediest he’d visited thus far, though he’d paid a handsome bribe to the bully at the door for the pleasure of entering without the required referral. But he wasn’t here to drink, gamble, or to whore. He was here to find the man he had sworn to destroy. If only he knew who the hell he was looking for.

  His hand passed over his coat pocket, confirming the existence of the hard lump within—the gold amulet he’d taken from Laura’s hand in the moments after her death, one bearing a severed Medusa’s head and the Latin word Invisibilis.

  Three years had passed. At last, he felt…close.

  His hatred renewed, Cormack made his selection carefully and caught
her wrist as she moved past, a woman in a jade-green gown. Older than the others with a faded complexion and dull hair, perhaps she would be more eager than her competitors to earn a bit of coin in exchange for a whispered, forbidden secret.

  “’Ay!” The harridan’s eyes widened in outrage, but upon assessing him, they softened into heavy-lidded seduction. “Well, ’ow do you do, ’andsome?” she breathed. “’Aven’t seen you ’ere before. I’m Nellie. What are y’ lookin’ for tonight?”

  “I’m looking for you, Nellie.” He took care to remain in the deepest of shadows. Though few would recognize him in London, he expected that might change, depending on how long this business of retribution kept him here.

  In the crush of the crowd, she pressed against him, curling her hands into his lapels. “I’ve a room upstairs, nice and cozy. What do you say? I’ll get us a bottle, just for ourselves.”

  “Actually, I’ve become separated from friends and would like to rejoin them. I was hoping that perhaps you know them?”

  “Friends?” Her eyes narrowed. “What sort of friends?”

  He pressed a crown into her palm.

  After a quick glance to assess the coin’s worth, a smile eased onto her lips. “Per’aps I do know them. I’ve known everyone ’ere at one time or another, it seems.”

  He murmured near her ear, “They follow this club from place to place. Meet here on occasion.” He did not know that to be certain, but he had a strong hunch that’s how the men he sought remained…well, invisible.

  “Oh…” Her face went slack. “Indeed. A mysterious lot, they are. Don’t come here for the entertainments, for the most part.”

  The beat of his heart increased. “Can you provide their names?”

  She glanced over her shoulder before whispering, “Never actually seen their faces, but gentlemen they be, all of them, with fancy clothes and carriages. They’ve not yet arrived, but soon, I think. Keep an eye over there beside the stage. They’ll come through the back.”