“How very mature of you.” Claxton’s lips curled, his compliment clearly not a compliment at all.

Stung, she blurted, “Don’t belittle me for being mature enough not to demand from you a promise you could likely never keep.”

He laughed, an empty sound that filled the darkness.

“The awful thing is, Sophia, that maybe you speak the truth.” He turned from her suddenly. His head falling back, he stared at the ceiling, legs spread into a wide stance. If she didn’t believe in him—if she saw no honor in him—what hope was there for any sort of a future together? Hopelessness flooded his veins like ice. “God, yes, the truth. Any other man in his right mind would have stayed, but like a coward, I left you. I left you, and for that you will never forgive me. Even if you did forgive me, you’ll never forget.”

His shoulders heaved, but he did not turn back in her direction, still requiring that bit of privacy in which to compose himself.

After a long moment, she said, “So please stop getting angry with me when I am only trying to be realistic. We will endeavor to have this child, and once the task is accomplished, we will both be free to continue on with our lives as we wish.”

Now he did turn—a smooth pivot on the heel of his Hessian.

“But we will remain married,” Claxton confirmed in a low voice. The light from the fire painted the gentle curves of her face. “There will be no separation even then.”

“That is my hope,” she said. “Many couples remain married but lead completely satisfying separate lives. I could name five such pairings right now if I had to. I’m certain you could as well.”

He could, indeed, but that didn’t mean he liked her tidy little plan. He didn’t like it at all. If they had a child and went on to pursue separate lives, she might take a lover. His mood turned decidedly sour at the thought. Worse yet, her lover might seek to become some sort of friend or mentor to his child. A child that was part him and part Sophia, theirs alone. Such scenarios occurred all the time in their landed society, but no, he would not stand for it. Possessive rage took to simmering in his blood. He would be the only father his child knew from the first day of its life and each day forward.

He would remain by Sophia’s side, whether she wished him there or not.

He scowled. “What about another child? Wouldn’t we want two? Or three?”

Or four? Or six? Or eight? If he kept her pregnant, would that be enough to bind her to him?

She blinked rapidly, and her lips formed a thin line.

“Speaking of three, where is the third quest?” she asked quietly. “Let’s read it so we know what is in store for us tomorrow.”

So she was finished and ready to change the subject. What if he wasn’t ready? He was still trying to figure out what had changed between them this afternoon and transformed her from a warm and delightful woman who welcomed his kisses into someone cold and distant who forbade his touch.

“I liked the other Sophia better,” he growled.

“What other Sophia?”

“The one who dumped salt into my bowl and absconded with my cakes. The one who rode on a village boy’s sled with me. The one who isn’t afraid.”

“That was child’s play.” Her brow gathered. “The matter of my heart is not. Please don’t kiss me again.”

He grabbed his coat, and scowling like the devil, he delved into its pocket for the envelope, which he promptly dropped into her lap. Sinking back into the cushions, he sulked. “You read it.”

She looked at him overly long, but in the end she opened the envelope and the note inside.

“Sir Thomas has a bee up his nose.” She blinked. “That’s all it says. Sir Thomas has a bee up his nose. Do you even know what that means?”

He barely heard the words, for the dark cloud crowding the inside of his head.

“Yes.” He stood, going to the table, where he lifted the bottle of claret, but tilting it to its side, found it disappointingly empty. “It means we are going to church tomorrow.”

“Very well, then.” She stood, retrieving her redingote and folding it over her arm. “I will see you in the morning.”

He rested his elbow on the mantel and rubbed his jaw, growling, “I suppose.”

“You needn’t be so surly about my simple request for time.” She stopped at the foot of the stairs, her hand on the newel post. “Your life will go on exactly as before, unchanged. For me, everything will be different. You don’t have anything to be afraid of. I do.”

Oh, but she was wrong. She terrified him each time he looked into her eyes. Miss Sophia Bevington was the only thing he’d ever really wanted, and he feared that while he’d won this battle, he would never win her heart.

“Go, then.” He waved his hand dismissively.

She fled up the stairs, abandoning him for the third night. At least he had a bed. Unfortunately, all this talk of heirs and boundaries had him wound tight. He would never be able to sleep.

* * *

An hour later, he hauled the third steaming bucket up the stairs. If he couldn’t convince Sophia to spend the night with him, at least he would provoke her envy by preparing a nice hot bath. Without closing the door, he dumped the bucket into the hip tub, ensuring she heard the crash of water against the metal.

No doubt she stood with her ear pressed to the door at this very moment, coveting the luxury only he would enjoy just as soon as he could get his clothes off.

He closed the door rather loudly and stripped naked. Sinking into the water, he eased back, relaxing into the delicious heat.

There, as steam bathed his chest, shoulders, and face, he fumed, wishing she was there naked across his lap, her golden skin slippery and wet. For nearly a year, such fantasies had tormented him, although in reality he’d never enjoyed her in such a manner. In those early months of their marriage, he’d taken immeasurable pleasure in their lovemaking, but the nightly act had always occurred in the very respectable paradise of their marriage bed. She’d been so young and inexperienced. He had thought to take things slowly, assuming there would be plenty of time later to teach her other pleasures and to explore more daring settings.

For nearly a year he had been a dedicated onanist. Only in the vivid imagination of his mind, in the silent privacy of his rooms in Vienna or Töplitz, had he taken her against a wall as she cried out his name or thrust into her from behind as she bent over a chair, her long hair tumbling to the floor.

The idea of not pulling out of Sophia, his beautiful wife, at the moment of completion had become a constant fantasy in his mind. That she had now agreed to intimacies but held him at a distance made the anticipation all the more torturous. When he’d told her he was half out of his mind for wanting her, he had not been exaggerating.

With his hand clamped on his cock, he held a vision of her riding him in the bath, her glistening breasts bouncing in his face. Candlelight bathed her skin, and she smiled as she leaned down to kiss him, long and hard on the mouth, with no trace of doubt or mistrust on her lips.

Vane, his imaginary temptress whispered against the skin of his throat and down his chest, until with a sudden cry she arched back, bearing down with her hips so forcefully her movement sent water splashing to the floor.

With a groan, Vane closed his eyes and reclined his head, rhythmically sliding and squeezing his hand along his rigid length until he exploded, her name an agonized whisper on his lips.

* * *

Sophia paced in her dressing gown and slippers, unable to bear Claxton’s cruel taunt any longer. The parading of the buckets. The sloshing of all that delicious hot water. Bah! She could practically feel its luxurious heat from here behind her very cold door, standing on her frigid floor in her chilled bedchamber.

That he would wield such an extravagance as a means of torment, to make her pay for displeasing him, proved what an insensitive lout he was. She intended to confront him and tell him exactly what she thought of his cruel games. Only she had to wait until he was finished with his infernal bath.

But no…just then she heard his footsteps in the corridor, stealthy ones, as if he were trying to sneak down the hall, outside of her hearing. Lucky for her the floorboards of the old house told tales.

Throwing open the door, she leaped out.

“Did you forget the soap?” she loudly accused.

Claxton barreled into her.

Only it wasn’t Claxton.

Another man stared down at her, his eyes wide and his face pallid beneath a mountainous winter cap. A scarf covered his mouth and chin. Sophia shrieked.

The man plowed past and bumped her shoulder. Sophia went sprawling. He uttered some indeterminable exclamation and turned back toward her. Fearing violence, Sophia cowered against the wall.

“No, please,” she begged.

Claxton’s door flew open. “What is it? Another creature in your room?”

When he saw her, his query stopped short. His eyes fixed on the man, now a shadow in the darkness at the end of the corridor.

“Who are you?” he growled, his expression instantly murderous.

The man ran for the stairs, his boots pounding out each step.

“Stop there,” Claxton roared.

But the man didn’t stop.

Claxton lunged into the hall to crouch beside Sophia, unconcerned, it appeared, that he was almost completely naked, with just a towel across the waist, clutched at his hip. His thigh, dusted in glossy dark hair, covered the most intimate part of him.