Lily Dalton - Never Desire a Duke

“My apologies. I assure you the slight was not intentional. I must not have seen you.” He chose his words carefully, so as to install an appropriate distance between them. “Having only returned to London this morning, I admit to being distracted and wishing to spend the evening with my wife, her Grace. I believed her to have come here as well, or else I’d not have made the trip out.”

“Oh—” Her pretty face scrunched into a scowl, and she swiped a silencing hand at him. “Shush!”

“I’m more than happy to shush,” he muttered to himself, then urged her more loudly, “Now, come on. Fasten your dress.”

Each moment ticked by in his mind, loud as cannon fire. What must the servants outside be thinking?

She shoved the hair from her face. “Your brother told me how pretty I was. I suppose I just…wanted him to be you. The two of you do look alike.” She giggled, unaware or uncaring that her sleeve slipped off her shoulder, nearly baring a breast. “At least when one is drinking brandy and the light is sufficiently dim.”

He gave her his back and exhaled through his teeth.

“Hurry along,” he urged gruffly. “The weather is foul, and we should be off before it worsens.” A glance over his shoulder provided confirmation that she worked to fasten the front of her bodice.

“I beg you, Claxton, don’t tell Meltenbourne.” She smoothed her hair. “You are already quite a sore spot with him—”

He gritted his teeth. “I shouldn’t be.”

“—and he can become overwrought over the slightest thing.”

The slightest thing? Vane recalled his reaction just moments ago, when he’d believed it was Sophia he’d discovered with a lover. The emotions that had exploded inside him; yes, overwrought might describe how he had felt.

“I don’t see what good telling Meltenbourne would do any of us. Most especially me.” He’d already been called Lothario once tonight and had no wish to incur more of the same allegations, not with matters so precarious between himself and Sophia.

“I know it may seem ridiculous for me to say it, but I really—” She hiccuped. “I really do care for my husband. Even though he is old and…not you.”

He could not help but wonder whether it might be possible that Sophia felt a similar duality of feeling for him. Love and aversion. He knew full well, more than anyone, that such a thing was possible. If Sophia cared for him in at least a miniscule amount, then all was not lost. All he wanted was to find her. To settle this thing between them so they could move forward.

“Not me?” he muttered, closing his eyes in consternation. “You know nothing at all of me but the most superficial of details. I can’t imagine what Meltenbourne has done to deserve this sort of betrayal, other than—what Annabelle, be old? You pledged your troth to him. How would you wish to be cherished when you are of a similar age?”

He peered at her over his shoulder to gauge her response. She sat very still for a moment, her expression unchanging, but with each breath she took, her breasts heaved a degree higher.

“It wasn’t as if I had a choice but to marry him after you chose someone else!”

He quickly turned from the countess and again cursed Haden that he had been placed in this position. The sounds of sniffling and a strangled sob came from behind him. Pray no, he couldn’t bear it if the countess began to cry in earnest.

“Let’s not talk about it any longer,” he suggested in a hopeful voice. “We must return you to town posthaste and with all discretion. Then we can all just forget tonight ever happened.”

“Yes,” she agreed. “Perhaps…perhaps Meltenbourne went to bed hours ago and does not even realize I’m gone.”

“I’m certain he did.” He was quickly losing his patience. “Hurry now. The carriage is waiting.”

“Your Grace?” she inquired.

He turned to her. “Yes?”

She flung herself into his arms. He stumbled back, and she with him, almost falling, but he caught her under the arms. In the next moment, she gave a little jump and with puckered lips took aim for his mouth. He averted his face.

“Ah. Please don’t.” He laughed through clenched teeth. Laughed because he was so damn tired, and this night, which he had hoped would end so differently, had taken such a turn for the ludicrous.

“I’m not trying to seduce you. I promise,” she gushed, her brandy-sweet breath filling his nostrils. Her arms came round his shoulders and her large breasts squashed against his chest. “It’s just that you’ve been so wonderful tonight, just as wonderful as I always supposed you to be.”

“No.”

She leapt again, springing up from her toes, trying for a kiss. “Let me say thank you, darling.”

“Thanks are unnecessary. Please—”

He considered allowing her to fall to the floor, but that would be ungentlemanly. Instead, he exhaled and gathered his patience. Without a doubt, he was in for a long and cold ride home, for by apparent necessity he would be forced to ride atop with his driver. He prayed her ladyship, deprived of all companionship, would simply fall asleep inside.

“My lady, if you could please finish dressing,” he urged, grasping her by the arms and trying his best to return her to the support of her own two feet. “Oh, look, how fortuitous. I’ve your stockings right here in my hand—”

A gasp sounded behind him.

He twisted round, the countess clinging to him like ivy on a wooden fence.

Sophia stood on the threshold, bundled in a hat, scarf, and redingote with a valise in hand.

Stay where you are,” Claxton roared.

Sophia halted, the power of his voice momentarily stunning her. Throughout all of their difficulties, Claxton had never shouted at her before, and the force of his command moved through her like thunder. Slowly she pivoted toward her husband, who still had that woman dangling from his neck like a human necklace.

Lady Meltenbourne exclaimed, “How mortifying! Your wife.”

Except the countess didn’t appear one bit mortified. Rather, she looked like a naughty cat eating the evening haddock while the cook’s back was turned. Sophia took in her wildly tousled hair, bare legs and feet, and the cushions everywhere. A toppled bottle of brandy. Two stockings dangled from her husband’s hands. Her mind exploded all over again.

How much more sordid could the picture be?

She’d come to Camellia House for privacy. To untangle her thoughts before seeing Claxton again and making her demand for a separation. What she’d gotten instead of privacy was indisputable proof of her husband’s infidelity. It hurt more than she’d expected.

Seeing them with her own eyes in each other’s arms, she wanted to shriek. She wanted to break something, preferably over Claxton’s head. She wanted to tear out Annabelle’s hair. She wanted to retch. She wanted to wake up from this nightmare to a different reality, one in which Claxton was a different man and her heart had not been irrevocably shattered.

“In this moment it occurs to me, Claxton,” she said coldly, her voice rising on each word, “that I don’t have to listen to you anymore.”

With an oath, Claxton pried Lady Meltenbourne from his person and thrust her shoes and stockings into her hands. One moment more and he’d retrieved her cloak and fastened it at her neck. Every move, every touch, no matter how imbued with impatience, crushed Sophia’s spirit a fraction more.

He strode past, leading the countess by the arm.

Lady Meltenbourne squealed. “You’re hurting me, darling.”

Claxton released her. “Then, please, if you will, proceed at a more alacritous pace.” He wrenched the door open. “And do not call me darling.”

He turned, and with a piercing glare at Sophia, gritted out, “Do not move from that spot. You and I must talk.”

“I don’t want to talk.” Her fingers tightened around the handle of her valise. She suffered the most overwhelming urge to throw the leather case at both of their heads. “There is nothing to be said that can resolve this.”

She glared at Lady Meltenbourne, who leaned against Claxton’s arm, her hands clutched at his wrist, her cheeks flushed and eyes bright.

Claxton’s nostrils flared and he closed his eyes, visibly seething. Of course, he was very angry. Angry at his liaison being interrupted by his peevish wife. Angry at being caught. “I will return in a moment’s time.”

Sophia stood in place as he escorted his lover into the night. Seven months ago, he’d abandoned her. In this moment, she felt that depth of loss all over again.

The door remained open a crack. Cold air and snowflakes wafted through.

“Oh no, you won’t.”

Sophia rushed forward and slammed the door closed behind him.

“Yes, your Grace. We shall escort your lady home.” His driver nodded in understanding.

Prior to his betrothal, his retainers had exercised the utmost discretion with regard to his private activities. They had waited in rain, fog, sleet, and snow while he enjoyed the sumptuous comforts of various ladies’ company. Seeing his men now, their caps and coats covered in frost, he experienced a deep wave of regret that they should be subjected to such discomfort on the whim of their employer.

“The woman inside the carriage is not my lady,” Vane felt compelled to say. “My lady—the duchess—is inside.”

He wanted to shout that furthermore nothing untoward had occurred here tonight, at least not involving him, but it would not do to defend himself to a servant.

The man’s eyes widened. “Just like old times, sir?”