Lily Dalton - Never Desire a Duke

“It’s called self-sufficiency.” Sophia elbowed Claxton and kicked, wriggling free. She skittered away from him through the snow. Her body complained at the loss of his comfortable warmth and strength. “You were gone a very long time. I had to learn it.”

“Self-sufficiency, you say?” he muttered darkly. He followed, reaching to take the handle of her valise. “You would never have arrived at this inn without my assistance.” His eyes narrowed. “You’re quite welcome, by the way.”

Yet she held tight, seizing the case against her chest.

“You expect my thanks?” She blinked back a sudden surge of tears.

She’d been a coward at the house, sneaking out so she wouldn’t have to say good-bye to him face-to-face. He’d gone and ruined that for her. Now, this was good-bye, and the enormity of the moment created a ball of emotion in her throat, difficult to even breathe around. They would never see each other again like this. Didn’t he realize everything would change? Or was it that he just didn’t care?

For Sophia, there was something devastating about the knowledge they would never spend another moment alone again until after the details of their separation—settlements and annuities and agreements—were negotiated through intermediaries and finalized. In these last moments could he not speak to her with some gentleness out of respect for the happier times they’d shared?

With all the force within her, she yanked the case back, inadvertently jerking his hand in her direction because he did not let go. His eyes flared wide with surprise.

Of course she overreacted, and in a most irrational and childish manner, but in this moment she did not care. Her mind buzzed with hurt and anger, and she didn’t even feel the cold anymore. Did he not wish for them to have a decent and meaningful good-bye? They had once loved each other.

His jaw flexed. “This excursion was utter folly. Admit you were wrong in leaving the house.”

That he would be so obstinate here, on the threshold of the place where she would say good-bye to him forever, upended her composure. Once she regained full possession of her case, she could go inside, shut the door on Claxton, and convince her heart to forget him.

“Of course I was wrong. I’m a foolish, silly woman. Thank you, your Grace, for being such a gentleman as to point out my every failing,” she said archly. “And for being so much larger and stronger than me, your helpless, little wife.”

She backed away in an attempt to free the handle, but still he did not release it. Indeed, he gritted his teeth and held tight.

“Sophia—” he warned.

“But I’m not your wife any longer.” She jerked the case, throwing all her weight into the effort. “Not really, not for long, because you’ve made it clear, not just to me but the whole of England, that you prefer to be anywhere in the world and with anyone but with me.” And jerked it again. “So you’re not a gentleman after all and most certainly not my hero, so no, I’m not inclined to thank you for anything.”

For a moment, there was nothing but the sound of the wind and ice cracking and the echo of her words in her ears.

“Not a gentleman, you say?” he said in a hushed voice.

His expression dangerous, he yanked the handle hard, gaining possession of the valise and Sophia, who pitched forward along with it. The force of this brought her crashing against him. The valise between them halted her abruptly, her face inches from his. Her heartbeat raced wildly, but not in fear. With the attraction she struggled even now, in her anger and hurt, to conceal.

“It took you until now to realize?” he said, nostrils flared.

With a downward shove, he wrenched the case from her hand, throwing it to the ground. He stepped toward her.

“Don’t you touch me,” she gasped, retreating toward the steps, thinking to escape him, but he lunged, closing the distance between them to capture her face in his hands.

“Dear God, you drive me mad,” he growled, his eyes alight with blue fire.

She waited for the squeeze of his fingers, for him to twist off her head in the middle of the lane for being such a tiresome, troublesome wife who had ceased to bring him a single moment’s peace or pleasure.

His mouth fell on hers.

Stunned, she grabbed his hands to remove them, but…

Didn’t.

She gasped against his lips, inhaling his breath, and in an instant remembered all she craved. His full lower lip. The bristly texture of his unshaven skin. The taste and scent that was only, deliciously Claxton. Every particle of her being exploded with need. His hands found her waist. She grasped his upper arms. He groaned, devouring her.

The world around them faded into a maelstrom of desire, she only vaguely aware of the snow crunching under their feet as they danced, struggled…his hands—her hands—tangled in hair and wool. On skin.

“Claxton,” she breathed.

He made a guttural sound.

In a wild surge, all the anger of the past months exploded inside her, transforming the kiss into something more primal. She bit him. He nipped her back, a moment before his tongue entered her mouth to slide over hers. Consciousness blurred into a frenzy of pleasure and not-so-terrible pain.

Pain.

With a gasp, she thrust her hands against his chest and pushed.

Dazed and heavy lidded, he stared at her, his cheeks ruddy with passion, his arms bent at his sides, almost as if he’d never seen her before.

“Oh my God,” he exclaimed thickly.

Touching her fingertips to swollen and tender lips, she teetered on unsteady legs and wholeheartedly concurred with his assessment. They’d shared thousands of kisses, but never anything as magnificent as that.

Just then, something appeared to draw his attention to another point of interest above her head. His face turned just a degree and his gaze intensified. For a moment, she feared they had drawn an audience, that behind her stood the whole of the village of Lacenfleet, gawking and pointing.

A strangled sound burst from his throat, something that sounded vaguely like her name. He shoved her—

The world careened.

Her shoulder, her cheek, slammed into the snow. His body smothered her in darkness.

“Claxton!” She gasped, bewildered, unable to breathe for his weight and the lapel of his coat smashed against her nose. His scent, woodsmoke and spice, filled her nostrils. Frigid cold worked through her clothes, chilling her backside. The snow numbed her skin. “What are you doing?”

He growled, “There’s someone—”

A crack shattered the air. Atop her, his every muscle went taut.

“Someone?” Sophia strained to see if a tree branch had given way under the weight of the frost, but—

“Stay down,” he growled, splaying his hand over her forehead and curling his body over hers. Crack. A split second later, a shower of snow covered them both.

His chest vibrated against hers as he uttered, “We’re going to have to run for the wall over there.”

The sudden realization came over her. A tree hadn’t made the cracking noise, but a gun. Someone was shooting at them.

“Who is trying to kill us?”

“I don’t know.”

A door slammed, and a woman screamed, “Claxton. Oh, Claxton, he’ll kill you.”

That voice. A familiar one. Footsteps sounded on the snow. Claxton’s head went up, turning sideways toward the inn. Sophia knew that for her own safety she should cower beneath him, but curiosity compelled her to see who screamed and ran toward them. She raised up onto her elbows.

“Bloody hell,” he uttered, his cheek pressed to hers.

Lady Meltenbourne bounded toward them, a vision of blue silk, bouncing breasts, and blonde hair.

“Don’t kill him,” she screamed, arms flung high.

She hurled herself against Claxton, knocking him off Sophia. At the same time, another figure sprang into the melee. Lord Haden burst out from the front door of the inn, coatless and shirttails flapping, a pistol in each hand. Sophia scrambled around so as to watch him, keeping low. His boots thunked heavily as he descended the wooden steps on long legs. Glassy red eyes set within his lean face surveyed the courtyard. His hair, a measure longer than Claxton’s, rippled in the wind, giving him a wild and dangerous appearance.

“Claxton, it’s your brother,” Sophia exclaimed to the struggling heap beside her. “He’s trying to kill you!”

She attempted to scoot backward over the snow, but her legs tangled in layers of petticoats. The faces of villagers peeked out from the windows, wide-eyed and openmouthed, some with steaming mugs raised.

A man’s voice shouted from inside, “Not the windows. Please, my lord. Spare the glass if you will.”

“I’m not trying to kill Claxton,” Haden bellowed, scowling.

Another shot echoed in the quiet, striking a distant patch of ground.

He whirled, aiming his firearms at the upper floor of the inn. “Lord Meltenbourne is trying to kill Claxton. Take cover.”

Sophia felt herself jerked from behind and twisted round. Claxton lifted her high and carried her like a child against his chest, depositing her in the shelter of a stone wall.

“Are you hurt?” he demanded ferociously, his brows gathered and nostrils flared. His hand came to her cheek, forcing her gaze to his.

“No.”

“Are you certain?” His hands roamed her shoulders, arms, breasts, hips, and legs. She gasped at the intimate touch. “Sometimes when you’ve been shot, you don’t know it. Sometimes you don’t feel the pain until later.”