He should be satisfied. He’d won the return of her smile. They’d made love and would make love again. They even talked in pleasant terms about the future. But the pensiveness he’d glimpsed in Sophia at the cemetery troubled him. Had she agreed to the idea of future happiness only to appease him? If so, he would not press her further. He could not help but suspect she held some part of herself back. Could he blame her when he had done the same for so long?

Vane looked down at Sophia bundled up tight in the seat of the sledge, her gloved hands folded in her lap. He wished he knew what thoughts occupied that complicated little head of hers. Even though he knew he had no right to demand her unquestionable trust, he desired that prize no less, but he counseled himself to be patient. To simply enjoy this day together because it might possibly be their last before leaving this place and returning to their lives in London.

After the wide curve in the road, they arrived at the parish church, a place his mother had loved. He and his brother, not as much. Everything was just as he remembered—an impressive, Gothic structure with long windows, pointed arches, noble pilasters, and a spire that as a child he’d believed reached halfway to heaven.

“Let us go over our plan once more,” he said, assisting Sophia from the sledge.

In the spirit of subterfuge, Sophia glanced around to be certain they were not under observation. “I am to act as the distraction. The rector will be immediately suspicious of you because of the dreadful pranks you and your brother undertook when you were boys.”

“Correct,” Claxton said, chuckling rather subversively under his breath.

Claxton had also told her that in addition to Mr. Burridge being the rector, his mother had also, on occasion, retained the older man to be their tutor in various subjects. He and Haden had apparently been very naughty boys.

She recited the instructions he’d given earlier. “The key word to employ in distracting Mr. Burridge is history.”

“Very good.”

Together they entered the narthex, a narrow room formed of shadow and stone, where Claxton removed his hat. Upon their entrance, a heavily bundled, quill-thin man paused in his work stacking hymnals to shamble forth on knobby legs to call to another man who hung Christmas greens near the altar.

“Is that mistletoe I see mingled in with the greens? No, no, no, we can’t have druid’s weed in the church. Take it all outside, and remove every bit of it.”

Seeing them, he came to meet them midway along the nave. With each step, his breath puffed out in a cloud, visible in the frigid cold of the cavernous space.

“Your Grace.” The elderly rector gave a curt bow and peered down his prominent nose at Claxton, quite an interesting feat considering he stood a full two feet shorter than the duke. “What an unexpected surprise. I had heard you were in residence. At last you’ve returned after all these years.”

Claxton, looking every part the elegant nobleman, answered with all cordiality. “Temporarily at least, snowbound here by this uncommon winter frost.”

“Incommodious weather indeed.” Mr. Burridge sniffed. “Preventing all but three of my parishioners from attending services yesterday morn, the remainder confined to their homes.”

“Mr. Burridge, may I introduce you to the Duchess of Claxton.” Claxton brought her forward and introductions were made.

“What a lovely church,” said Sophia, peering up into the barrel-vaulted ceiling. “So much history.”

“Ah.” Gray eyebrows ascended Mr. Burridge’s wrinkled forehead. “You are a student of the arcane, then? Unlike his Grace, who as I recall, could never be persuaded to attend to his lessons.” His gaze narrowed on Claxton, as if fixing upon an old, familiar foe.

“No!” Sophia exclaimed in faux surprise. “Claxton, tell me that’s not true.”

Claxton manufactured a sheepish look.

Sophia returned her attention to the rector. “As for myself, I am fascinated by our glorious past.”

Mr. Burridge’s eyes brightened and his cheeks flushed with pleasure. “Then please, my lady, if you will allow me the honor of showing you the chapel’s most significant points of interest.”

Behind the rector’s head, Claxton nodded gleefully and gestured for her to continue.

Sophia bestowed an encouraging smile upon Mr. Burridge. “Nothing would delight me more.”

He gestured with a gloved hand. “Then let us begin in the nave with the font, which is cut from Turkish marble. Note the cherubim embellishment.”

It was too much to hope they would begin the tour with Sir Thomas, who according to Claxton’s prior description lay upon a stone table in the opposite direction, nearer to the narthex.

Instead they crept along for what seemed an eternity, pausing to examine every monument, coat of arms, statuary, and epitaph until Sophia thought she would faint from the effort of remaining so endlessly engaged.

Claxton’s attempts to wander away from them proved futile. On each occasion that he fell behind, Mr. Burridge insisted, quite firmly, that he return to the tour so as not to miss details he’d certainly not retained from their lessons during his childhood. After several failed efforts, Claxton followed dutifully behind, scowling sullenly, his hands clasped behind his back.

“You are certain I’m not boring you?” Mr. Burridge inquired for the thousandth time. A most attentive individual, the rector required constant nods, smiles, and assurances to ensure their progression.

“Not at all,” Sophia assured him, her throat parched from repeating similar niceties over and over again. “Why, each treasure is more interesting than the next.”

He sighed, pleased. “My thoughts precisely. It is so rare that I’m able to share these artifacts with someone who appreciates them as much as I do.”

Claxton, at last, came to stand beside her, so close she shivered from the heat he gave off. He touched her back and peered into her eyes.

“I do believe, my dear,” he said with deliberate intonation, “you will find the next statuary the most fascinating of all. Mr. Burridge?”

Mr. Burridge tilted his head as if he was unsure whether to trust Claxton’s sudden display of enthusiasm.

“Why, yes, I do agree,” he said, nodding slowly.

At last, they approached the sculpture Sophia believed to be Sir Thomas, who according to Claxton’s mother would have a bee up his nose. Whatever that meant, she could not wait to find out.

“This magnificent table monument fashioned of freestone dates from the sixteenth century. Upon it, as you can see, lie two figures, one an armed knight. Do examine the detail of his sword, as it is quite breathtaking.” He extended a hand toward the center of the carved figure. “And there beside him is his lady. Is she not beautiful?”

“Just look at their faces. So lifelike.” Indeed, the lord and his lady stared upward toward heaven, their faces forever preserved in placid contentment. Sophia could not help but notice the knight boasted a magnificent pair of cavernous nostrils. Above their heads were words etched in stone. Sophia read aloud. “Sir Thomas Longmead and his wife.”

One glance toward Claxton revealed the same relief she felt. At last.

Sophia marveled over Sir Thomas and his bride long enough to avert any suspicion, then chose another point of interest to draw Mr. Burridge away. “Oh, look at that kneeling angel and the detail of its wings. What can you tell me about that sculpture?”

Sophia proceeded down the aisle, Mr. Burridge following close behind. Claxton, of course, lingered behind.

However, something made Mr. Burridge glance back. A lingering suspicion perhaps.

There, to Sophia’s abject mortification, Claxton sprawled atop Sir Thomas’s supine form, his fingers thrust inside his marble nose.

Chapter Fifteen

Is there some problem, my lord?” barked Mr. Burridge. His narrow physique bristled with outrage.

Claxton jumped, his Hessians instantly returned to the floor with a resounding thump, his expression one of a schoolboy caught in a prank, eyes wide and lips slack.

Sophia, for her part, considered a dash for the door.

But a look of calm came over Claxton’s features. “I—ah—was attempting to clean his nose. There’s a bothersome bit of dust floating about his nostrils.” From his coat pocket he produced a handkerchief. He reached again, re-creating the same awkward pose, and rubbed Sir Thomas’s nose free of the imaginary dust. “It is our duty, after all, to keep Sir Thomas dignified. There. All tidy.”

Sophia clapped a hand over her mouth, desperate to contain the bubble of laughter that crowded the back of her throat.

Just then, a young woman and a small boy entered the narthex, each carrying a wooden box.

Mr. Burridge glared at Claxton reprovingly. “If you will excuse me.”

Joining the visitor, Mr. Burridge positioned himself with obvious purpose so that he could still keep his eye on Claxton. Under this scrutiny, Claxton joined Sophia, looking every part the guilty scoundrel.

Despite their peril, Sophia experienced the sudden, overwhelming urge to grab Claxton by the lapels and kiss him, which would be quite improper given their ecclesiastical surroundings. It was easy here, in the golden light created by the church windows, to believe that they would always exist in this blissful state of happiness.

She whispered, “So? Was there a bee in Sir Thomas’s nose?”

A conspiratorial smile slanted his lips. “Indeed, something is there in the nostril on the farthest side, the one closest to his lady.” He leaned closer to murmur in her ear, “But my fingers are too large to pinch the object out.”