Sophia had the distinct impression Mrs. Stone wished her to inquire more about Lacenfleet’s luck, and so she complied.

Mrs. Stone clasped her hands in front of her apron. “Bad crops. No work. It happens to everyone. Things will improve, I vow, but it makes a dreary Christmas for some. I’ll tell you one thing, though.” She lowered her voice. “If his lordship decided to open Camellia House and staff her right, there’d be no shortage of qualified household help.”

“I’ll be certain to tell his Grace.” She could always write him a letter once she returned to London, but she didn’t know if her word would hold any sway.

Sophia’s gaze fell again on the center of the room, where the girl still sat, arms crossed, under the chandelier. “How long has that young woman been sitting there under the mistletoe? I can only assume she is waiting for a kiss from some handsome young fellow?”

“That’s Charlotte, the poor dear.” Mrs. Stone sighed and shook her head. “Too old now to remain in the orphan house where she grew up, she just hasn’t found her place. She’s been doing a bit of scullery for Mr. Stone and me in exchange for a place to sleep in the kitchen, but I’m not certain how long we’ll be able to keep her.”

Fine brown hair hung limply against Charlotte’s cheek, and the petticoat she wore was hopelessly frayed. Yet the girl sat in the chair proudly, shoulders back, her face a portrait of pride and determination. Everything about the girl touched Sophia’s heart.

“She wants a kiss that badly?”

“Not only a kiss, I’m afraid.” Mrs. Stone winked. “She wants a husband. That leggy farmer in the tall boots over there, to be exact, a widower with two young children in desperate need of a mother. Only he hasn’t looked at her once in the two hours he’s been here. Unfortunately, neither has anyone else.”

“How disheartening for Charlotte.”

Once Sophia was settled, Mrs. Stone pressed a warm mug into her hands and brought a plate of gingerbread for the side table. Sophia inhaled the tea’s fragrant steam and sampled the bread, determining the blend of spices to be superior to her own London cook’s recipe. Above her head, Claxton’s voice thundered, incomprehensible.

Lady Meltenbourne approached, her gaze settling waspishly on Sophia. With a huff, she sank into the inferior chair and with a dramatic wave of her arm draped herself in the cloak. Taking up a small beaded reticule, from which she extracted a mirror, she stared at her reflection, pinched her cheeks, and pursed her lips. Only Sophia realized Annabelle wasn’t looking into the mirror, but at her. Upon being caught, the countess looked away.

Sophia leaned forward in her chair. “You’re a married woman. A countess.” She kept her voice low so that only Annabelle could hear. “Don’t you care what people think about you and Lord Meltenbourne? What they say?”

“Of course I do. Do you think I wanted all of this attention?” Annabelle snapped, waving a hand to generally indicate the inn and its occupants. “The earl, when he drinks, becomes the most irrational and churlish creature. He is furious with me, but I am just as furious with him—but…but…oh, I don’t really want to talk about it to you.”

The countess twisted away, signaling an immediate end to their conversation. That suited Sophia just as well because she had nothing more to say to the woman, at least nothing an inn full of villagers should overhear. Instead she contented herself with sipping her tea, fuming silently, and listening to the villagers’ lively talk.

“Don’t matter if ’e’s an earl. Can’t have ’im goin’ about shootin’ at people,” said one young woman, counting out several stacks of playing cards.

“Right so,” agreed her partner in the game. “We can’t ’ave murder in the streets. Not this close to Christmas.”

Sophia sighed morosely, at last acknowledging that which she ought to have acknowledged from the start. Her rash decision to escape Claxton by coming to Lacenfleet had indeed been folly. With her grandfather’s health being so precarious, she simply could not miss Christmas. What if this was his last? What if even now he had taken a turn for the worse? She couldn’t bear the thought. She had six days to get home. Certainly this winter storm would not imprison her here until then.

“The poor duchess,” whispered one of the women, but loudly and plain enough for Sophia to hear. “So young and pretty, forced to abide ’is lordship’s strumpet sitting right there.”

Someone shushed her sharply.

Sophia’s hand tightened on the cup. The poor duchess. That would be her. Annabelle, seemingly oblivious, murmured something to the woman beside her. The woman glared at her and with a huff moved to the opposite end of the table.

Unaffected, Annabelle queried the room in general. “Does anyone know how to properly dress a lady’s hair?”

It took all the strength Sophia owned to remain seated. She had the sudden, overwhelming urge to “dress” Annabelle’s hair with a good, savage tug.

Boots sounded on the stairs. Again, the villagers fell into rapt silence. Haden appeared first, then Claxton, two lithe giants emerging from shadows.

The duke’s gaze searched the room, but stopped upon finding her. Her pulse leapt and her mouth went dry.

How would she ever forget their kiss? She feared that, like a mortal sickness, that moment of passion had gone into her blood. How else could she explain the jumpy excitement that overtook her body the moment he’d reappeared—not to mention the feverish flush that rose to her cheeks and…other parts of her body, she felt quite certain. Without a word, Claxton returned the pistol handle-first to his brother.

A cluster of men emerged from the shadowed stairway behind the duke. Sophia recognized them as their carriage drivers and footmen. They escorted a churlish Lord Meltenbourne, whom they deposited in a corner chair, and two of them remained to stand guard. Each retainer bore the rumpled clothing and weary expression of a difficult night passed. Apparently no one who had undertaken the trip to Camellia House the evening before had ever made it out of the village.

Meanwhile the countess had found a sympathetic friend, an old village woman who held a large hearing trumpet to her ear.

“Last night I had to sleep here in my ball gown.” Annabelle lifted a length of her silk overskirt now hopelessly crushed and streaked by melted snow. “Without even a maid to assist me.”

“Pardon?” shouted the woman, leaning in closer, thrusting the open end of the metal tube nearer to Annabelle’s mouth.

From his chair in the corner, her husband squawked, “Then you ought to learn to stay home, where you belong.”

Annabelle sagged and lifted her hand to her forehead. She issued a low, suffering moan.

Claxton spoke to the most senior of his drivers. “I take it, then, by your presence here that the river is frozen and the ferry out of service?”

Sophia sank an inch in her chair, having no desire to hear her unfortunate circumstances once again confirmed.

“Indeed, sir.” The elder man nodded, his face weary beneath his cap. “Lord Meltenbourne’s conveyance came over last, with none the rest of us granted return passage for fear the ferry barge would be confined midway by ice. We all slept with the horses in the stables last night, save Lord Haden and Lord and Lady Meltenbourne, of course, who took rooms above stairs on account of their elevated personages. The innkeepers have been most kind.”

“Well, then.” Claxton nodded, throwing a darkly satisfied look at Sophia. “There is nothing more to be done than to wait out the frost. For now, I would like to see the stables, if you please, and view the horses’ accommodations for myself.” To Sophia, he said, “You’ll be well here until I return?”

She nodded over her raised mug. “Oh yes. I have gingerbread.”

In fact, she’d be very well here in Mr. and Mrs. Stone’s inn until tomorrow or the next day if necessary.

If the kiss they’d shared outside in the snow was any indication of what could occur when they were alone together, without question, she must not allow such a thing to happen again. Kisses like that enslaved, and there would be nothing worse than being enslaved to a man like Claxton, who could never be enslaved back. Hadn’t she learned well enough the first time? She’d fallen so desperately in love with him, but in the end, her love had not been enough to hold him. She wouldn’t be so foolish as to make the same mistake again.

Knowing she had better confirm her arrangements before he returned, she set aside her cup and stood. Across the room sat a man who wore an apron that matched Mrs. Stone’s. It was to him she made her request.

The innkeeper looked at her with no small amount of surprise. Doubtless he could not imagine any circumstances under which the Duchess of Claxton would prefer a smoky, overcrowded village inn to the grand-by-comparison manse on the hill.

“I regret, your Grace, that we’ve only three rooms and all of them occupied. Unless Lady Meltenbourne will agree to share accommodations—”

“That won’t do, I’m afraid,” Sophia answered. She turned away, at a loss as to what to do.

Annabelle stood in front of Sophia. “If you’re so set on staying here, you can have my room.” One of her narrow eyebrows lifted. “I’ll go to the house with Claxton.”

Sophia’s mouth popped open, and the skin of her scalp prickled with fury. She glanced around to be certain that no one had heard the countess’s brazen suggestion. While she didn’t think they had, everyone in the room appeared to be watching them and waiting for a fight.

“You go too far, Annabelle,” she hissed.