Her lips parted, as if to offer some smart retort, but closed just as quickly. She sighed. Her expression softened, as did the rigidity of her posture. A bright flush rose into her cheeks.

“Oh, Claxton, let’s not bicker.” She exhaled morosely.

“Very well.” He seated himself on a high stool. “Let’s not.”

“Unpleasantness between us will accomplish nothing but a loss of dignity for us both, privately and in public.”

He’d always found the velvety tone of her voice soothing. He answered inanely now for the simple purpose of ensuring her response. “I am in complete agreement.”

“It’s not as if we are the first husband and wife to ever discover we are not well suited. This is a time for level heads and controlled emotions.”

The memory came out of nowhere, shocking him. Her lips pressed against his skin, willingly, in a moment of passion. A shadowy glimpse of her naked body beneath his, her soft thighs outspread.

He shifted on the stool, suddenly tight in the breeches.

He growled, “I shall endeavor to remain so.”

“I shall as well.” She let out a sudden breath—of relief or frustration, he did not know—and searched the room, her attention at last settling on the stove. “I built only a small fire. Being that we are departing shortly, it wasn’t practical to make anything larger.”

He crossed to the window and peered out, savoring the warmth of the earthenware mug in his hands.

“You’ve looked outside?” he said incredulously.

The forest encircled the back of the manse, a smudge against a white winter sky. There were outbuildings and a stable, and at the edge of the gardens, the cemetery encircled by a stone wall. All nearly obscured by snow.

The cemetery. His mother would be there. After she had died, his father had arranged for the paltriest, most shameful of monuments. As soon as he could arrange for it, Claxton had commissioned a memorial much more worthy of a duchess. Life had prevented him thus far from visiting her grave site for himself. Perhaps, more truthfully, he’d found reasons to stay away.

What would his gentle, kind mother think of him now? He could not help but believe she would be deeply disappointed that despite her love and motherly efforts, he’d turned out much like his father.

“Of course I have.” Sophia came to stand beside him, leaving a generous foot of space between them. Even so, his body reacted with awareness, with every muscle drawing tight. Feigning insouciance, he lifted his cup.

On the first sip of tea, he choked.

“What is wrong?” she asked, frowning.

“Och—nothing,” he sputtered, unwilling to tell her the dreg plastered at the back of his throat was the worst excuse for tea he’d ever had the misfortune to imbibe. He’d found better on the battlefield and at the lowliest roadside inns.

She bit her lower lip. “It’s so rare that I prepare tea myself, I’m afraid I’ve forgotten the proportions.”

Proportions? He wasn’t even certain that the contents of the cup were tea. Obviously, Sophia lacked practical skills in the kitchen, which of course was not uncommon among young women of her elevated social standing, who were expected only to plan meals with impeccable taste, with instructions to a fully staffed kitchen, not actually prepare them.

She bent over her valise. When she stood again, she held a thick gray scarf, one she proceeded to drape over her shoulders and tuck around her neck. Then she drew gloves onto her slender hands.

“What are you doing?” he asked stupidly, though her intentions were clear. Tension tightened the muscles along his shoulders.

“Going down to the village.” Settling her cap onto her head, she tied its sash below her chin. “Perhaps things aren’t so dire there as they appear here. Activity may have the streets cleared. Certainly someone will hire out a horse and carriage to convey us to London.”

Her words incited no small amount of turmoil within him. Once returned to London, she would withdraw from him completely to the protective circle of her family. Wolverton would step in. Though inevitable, he wasn’t ready yet.

Bloody hell, why not? Like a coward, he’d abandoned her, and she’d already made clear she would never forgive him. The sooner they got on with their separate lives, the better for them both. Especially him. He hadn’t slept with a woman in nearly a year and intended to resolve that matter as soon as he returned to London. After all, hadn’t she all but released him from their marriage vows? Once he’d relieved that particular urge, no doubt the world would become right again. If only he believed that.

Regardless, one glance outside proved they were going nowhere. Last night’s storm had been uncommonly severe.

“This is Lacenfleet, not London,” he said. “There will be no organized efforts funded by the municipality to clear the streets. Even if the citizenry endeavors to dig themselves free, ice floes on the river have likely rendered the ferry and any other rivercraft out of service.”

“Certainly there is another route to London other than the ferry?” Her brows furrowed, and her voice took on a desperate edge. “One by land that would eventually take us to a bridge? The mail coaches would still be running.”

“Not in this uncommon storm and not to Lacenfleet. It’s too small and inconsequential a village to command such extraordinary efforts. Even if the roads leading northward could be discerned beneath this depth of snow, they are not paved and would be a frozen bog. Any travel, I’m afraid, would be too dangerous, not only for you but for the horses. It is doubtful you’d find anyone willing to chance the trip. People here just wait things out.”

At this, her gaze dropped. Clearly the idea of spending just another moment in his company made her miserable. His heart hardened against her a fraction more.

He set the cup down. “I’ve no more wish to remain here than you, but we’re better off staying here until the frost subsides. Certainly we can suffer each other’s presence for just a day. Two at the longest.”

She did not remove her scarf, but neither did she reach for her valise. “I will not spend my Christmas here with you.”

“This may come as a shock to you, but I don’t particularly wish to spend mine with you either.” He stepped back toward the doorway. “But Christmas is seven days away. No doubt by then the weather will clear. For now, I intend to build a fire in the great room. There are books there, old, but readable, with which to pass the time.”

She responded with a slight nod. “Yes. Build a fire if you wish.”

* * *

Moments later, from the snow-covered front lawn, Sophia paused for one last look.

Camellia House peered back at her through broad mullioned windows, an Elizabethan fantasy of pinnacles, dormers, transoms, and chimneys. She could only imagine how in summer, the wild, terraced gardens, riotous with color, would run clear to the woods. She would have loved to explore every nook and cranny of the residence and grounds, but simply could not remain in such torturous proximity to Claxton for another minute.

Not when her sensible mind told her everything between them was finished. If only she did not cherish so many memories of their life before. They haunted her like friendly, well-intended ghosts, blurring her mind and making her forget, however momentarily, how intolerable life as his wife had become.

Instead she would rip the bandage from the wound quickly, no matter how much pain it caused her, and assume her new role as an independent lady posthaste. Her present and future happiness depended on it. Once returned to London, she would seek the comfort of her family, accept the counsel of her grandfather’s attorneys—and most important, put herself into a proper frame of mind for resuming temporary intimacies with Claxton, something that even now she couldn’t imagine without experiencing an unbidden rush of fever and desire. But simple attraction couldn’t erase the past.

Turning, she wobbled, momentarily disoriented by the sudden give of snow under her boot and a blinding expanse of white that gave little indication of space or direction. Thankfully, a discernible, smoother swath undulated down the hill, indicating the path of the elevated private road she must follow to reach the village.

She embraced her valise with both arms and proceeded, stepping high and quick so as not to drag her hem and stockings against the snow.

All to no avail, because with each step the snow sank suddenly and gave, dropping her in above her knees.

My, it was cold, especially under her skirts. Perhaps the ladies’ drawers that she had read about in Ackermann’s Repository, fashioned of Spanish lamb’s wool (and warranted never to shrink!), would not be such a terrible addition to one’s winter wardrobe. But if she kept this rapid pace, she would arrive in the village easily in less than half an hour. There, she would find an inn and tea and, she felt quite sure, enough fresh, warm rolls to make her forget her insufferable husband.

Crunch, crunch, crunch. With each step, her valise grew heavier. Crunch, crunch, crunch. Lord, she hadn’t even reached the bridge. Cold permeated her boots and wool hose, numbing her feet and, worse, her bottom. She paused, gasping for the next painful breath, and assessed her plight.

No, she assured herself, her decision to walk to Lacenfleet had not been an ill-conceived folly. It wasn’t far to the village. Still, it seemed as if the private road had been laid out with the intent to provide arriving visitors with an impressive view of the house, rather than to convey a person from one place to the next in an efficient fashion.