The corner of his mouth bent into a smile. “You’re just afraid I’ll seduce you.”

She threw him a warning glance. “You won’t, because it’s not allowed. I’m telling you that now I need time to clear my head and to think.”

He watched her move, admiring the way her gown clung to her curves.

“I know you’re attracted to me,” he drawled. “Don’t try to deny it.”

She glared at him. “Lots of ladies are attracted to you.”

He scowled and let out a growl of displeasure. At every corner she sought to drive a wedge between them.

“I’m finished talking about any other lady but you.”

“I’m tired of talking. I want to play the game.” She shook her hair back from her shoulders, for a moment thrusting her breasts forward. She didn’t even know how she tortured him. “I think you’re just afraid I’ll win the game.”

“Win? You?” His brow went up. Deep inside his chest, an old competitive flare snapped to life. “So you would choose to compete against me, a master of the game, rather than work together?”

“I would.”

He shrugged. “Be forewarned, I’m highly competitive.”

“So am I,” she claimed. “Daphne and Clarissa complain that I always must win.”

“Just so you know, there are no rules.”

She tilted her head, green eyes sparkling. “You mean to say that you cheat?”

“I strategize.”

“So be it,” she said, opening the envelope. “Let’s read the next quest.”

Claxton remained in the chair, watching her. She stood between the fire and the window, painted two shades of light—one golden, the other frost. If he were a painter, this would be how he would capture her for the ages. Ideally with her clothes off. Instead, he had to commit the image to memory. That she could speak to him in so light and friendly a manner about something as inane as a game, when so much between them remained unresolved, frustrated him beyond bearing. Had the hurt he’d submitted her to pushed her too far away to ever truly win her back?

She read aloud. “Make with your own hands twelve iced plum cakes. Deliver them to Mrs. Kettle, who will determine whether your efforts are worthy of the next quest.”

Claxton held silent, waiting for whatever she might say.

“Oh, my.” She lowered the parchment. “Twelve iced cakes. I hadn’t anticipated that as a quest for two little boys. I’d rather expected climbing a tree or crafting a man-of-war out of sticks.”

“Most often the tasks were very much so,” Claxton explained. “But other times my mother encouraged my brother and me to learn a broader array of skills, those of self-sufficiency.” He shrugged. “And humility.”

“Humph.” She sniffed, one slender eyebrow lifting archly. “Humility, you say.”

He ignored her jibe. “My mother believed it important for us boys to assist with the more menial tasks that kept the house in order so as to understand the difficult demands placed upon the Kettles, both of whom she adored, and the servants we would certainly one day employ. Sometimes her quests were intended to teach us empathy for a scullery maid. Other times, the groundskeeper. In this case, a cook.” He chuckled, remembering. “She or Mrs. Kettle would have helped us bake the cakes, so we did not burn the house down.”

She perched on the edge of the settee, glancing suspiciously at the suspect leg as if to be certain it did not fly out from under her.

“I think that’s wonderful. Indeed, I admire your mother more and more the more I learn about her.” She made a silly face. “Although I wish she would have chosen a different task, as baking is not my strongest talent.”

“Nor mine, but no matter.” He shook his head. “While it has been highly diverting to find this second quest, I don’t believe the game can proceed further. Too much time has passed. Mrs. Kettle won’t remember the details, and even if she did, I can’t imagine that she held on to a meaningless scrap of paper for this long.”

Sophia nodded, extending her arm to trace her fingertips over the carved leaves on the upper frame of the settee. “I understand your reluctance. Neither do I wish to subject myself to an hour or more of efforts in the kitchen when they may only result in disappointment. But we ought to try. You owe that much to your mother’s memory.”

Vane did not wholeheartedly agree. As much as the quest had brought back happy memories he’d not recalled for a very long time, what they had stumbled upon were the remnants of a child’s diversion, not King Arthur’s tomb. Yet he found Sophia’s excitement in the game undeniably intoxicating. More so, the discovery gifted him with a glimpse of the young woman she’d been before his past had driven them apart. She’d actually smiled this morning, and he did not want her to stop.

He stood with sudden conviction. “I had thought to go down to the village this morning for a bit of tobacco. While there, I will inquire with Mrs. Kettle.”

“Yes, let’s do pay a call.”

“You need not accompany me.” He would almost prefer that she did not. Though the game had inspired an easier manner between them, he knew the list of names he’d written out at her behest the night before remained in her thoughts. She did not trust him. He saw that in her every wary glance.

“Of course I will accompany you,” she said. “You made clear you don’t intend to play by the rules. I’ll not forget that warning. Do you think I would allow you to achieve an unfair advantage by proceeding without me?” Her eyes sparkled like emeralds ablaze in candlelight.

She came to stand beside him at the fire, an oblivious seductress. Firelight deepened the shadowy crevice between her breasts. His body thrummed with the primal urge to stalk and seduce.

Yet she only blabbered on about the game, suffering no such distractions.

“But we cannot go to Mrs. Kettle empty-handed,” she said. “To do so would be contrary to the spirit of the game, even if our efforts advance no further. Certainly there’s a baker in the village. Couldn’t we simply purchase the plum cakes or something similar and present them to Mrs. Kettle?”

Resigned, he answered, “I’m happy to humor you in any way.”

* * *

They arrived at the Kettles’ cottage after leaving the sledge at the nearby livery stable so that the horse could be tended to. Moments later, installed in the tiny parlor, they sat in comfortable chairs warmed by tea and news of the Martindale child’s arrival early that morning. News of the birth inspired a pang of wistfulness in Sophia, but joy for the parents as well. She borrowed pen and paper from her hosts and penned a short congratulatory note from herself and the duke, something Mrs. Kettle assured her would become a treasured family heirloom for the Martindales.

As for her and Claxton’s news, Sophia could hardly wait to share the discovery of the Duchess Elizabeth’s quest and learn whether Mrs. Kettle remained in possession of the third boon.

“Do forgive us Mr. Kettle’s present state,” said Mrs. Kettle. “As you’ll remember, your Grace, he suffers terribly from chilblains.”

Mr. Kettle sat beside the fire, a blanket over his shoulders and his feet ankle deep in steaming water.

“Indeed, I do,” said Claxton, looking elegant and huge in a patchwork chair much too small for his muscular frame. “One of the officers with whom I served had some success with porridge.”

“Really,” exclaimed Mrs. Kettle.

The duke nodded. “He would prepare a large pot and, once it cooled a bit, immerse both his feet in the stuff.”

“That’s very interesting.”

Mr. Kettle nodded. “Something we shall have to try.”

Sophia sat quietly and listened to the comfortable conversation between Claxton and the Kettles. She found the exchange unexpectedly heartwarming, and yes—entertaining. She for one would never have thought to ask the duke about remedies for chilblains.

“Has Haden paid a call?” he asked. “He is at the inn.”

“No, he hasn’t, but he was younger when the two of you left Lacenfleet. I’m certain a reintroduction is not foremost in his thoughts. Mr. Kettle will venture over in a bit and invite him to visit.”

Claxton nodded toward the fireplace and grinned. “You still have naughty Lord Misrule, I see.” He stood and from the mantel carefully lifted a wooden doll dressed in the green-and-gold costume of a jester. Little bells, sewn at his toes, jingled at the movement.

Mrs. Kettle responded, “I only just let him out of his box.”

“You always were more trusting than me. Better keep your eye on him.” Claxton winked at Sophia. “Every Christmas he causes all sorts of mayhem. I remember one year he hid all the spoons in the tea jar, and until we found them, we had to eat our custard with forks.”

Mrs. Kettle snorted and clasped a hand over her mouth. “Yes! Yes! I remember! The custard had not set, and we all had such a time getting it to our mouths.”

Beneath his blanket, Mr. Kettle nodded and smiled.

Claxton returned the doll to his perch. “Another time, the sneaky wastrel poked holes all over a sack of sugar that had been left on the kitchen table, creating quite the mess. Haden and I caught him red-handed too, with a skewer clutched in his little hand.”

“What a wicked fellow.” Sophia laughed.

At that moment, three small faces appeared at the window, bright cheeked and topped by winter caps. The muffled voices of children carried through.

“…Y’see? I told you. That be the duke, ’imself!”

“Robert won’t believe us when we tell ’im.”

“Go get ’im then!”

“You go get ’im. I’m stayin’ ’ere.”

Claxton gave a quiet laugh and a flush rose up from his neck, going as high as his cheeks. Sophia watched, transfixed by his discomfort at being so admired by three little boys.