“We’ve got to be quiet.” He laughed, a chuckle deep in his throat. He cupped her breasts in his hands and squeezed before plucking at the tiny pearl buttons at the center of her bodice. “The Kettles—”

“Yes, quiet.” She tugged his shirttails from his breeches, tilting her head, so he could kiss her neck.

Suddenly, he stilled in her arms. A low, jagged breath issued from his lips.

“Vane?”

She felt something there at her breast. The brush of his fingertips, the sensation of—

Oh no.

He tore the folded page from her bodice.

“What the hell is this?” He held the folded square of paper in her face. “That damned list? You wear it here against your heart, a ward against me?”

He paled, his face having gone devoid of emotion. A sudden flick of his wrist unfolded the page with a snap.

“Vane, don’t be unfair. And please don’t misunderstand. Everything happened so fast, and I felt so scared. I just needed to keep my head in the right place, my heart—”

“Unfair?” he roared. “After everything? After last night? Don’t you know what that meant to me? Don’t you understand what we did? And you still woke up this morning and thought this of me?”

“I just—I just need more time. It’s only been four days, even less really…and I felt so overwhelmed—”

He trembled with rage. “Do you think I don’t feel? That I can’t love?”

He lunged forward to toss the list on the fire.

“No,” she wailed for some inexplicable reason, not ready to let go of the one thing that had given her power when she’d felt so powerless. It should be her choice when to burn it, not his. Once it was gone, she’d have no choice but to love him completely, to take the terrifying chance her heart might get broken again.

With the poker, she fished out the curling rectangle, an impulsive move she regretted instantly, for the page, already consumed by flame, floated on the air, an ashen wraith, to flatten against her skirt.

She beat it away with her hands, but too late. The flames latched onto the muslin. She screamed. Claxton cursed, throwing her to the floor, where he tore her skirts from her legs.

“There’s more,” she shrieked. “There.”

Flames rippled across the carpet, devouring old threads and the ancient wood beneath, but most horrifying of all, the little wooden chest containing his mother’s family treasures and Lord Haden’s letter, still unread.

Vane threw her a glance, one that in the brief second it lasted, screamed betrayal.

I gave you my love, and you give me this?

In that moment, she knew. She loved him more than anything. I love you. I take it back. Please forgive me.

But it was too late. She had doubted not only him, but herself, and in doing so destroyed everything she’d ever wanted.

Mr. and Mrs. Kettle rushed into the room, their faces transformed by fear. Sophia’s nose filled with smoke and her heart with frantic dread. How quickly the fire grew out of control. All she could think was that she had done this to them. Camellia House was on fire, a place she had so come to love now destroyed by her petty insistence on keeping a meaningless list.

Vane lifted her, snatching up her redingote. He carried her away from the horrible heat and light through the vestibule and out the door until his boots met snow and he flung her from his arms.

“Go,” he ordered, his eyes wild and furious. He threw the garment at her. “Stay out and don’t return.”

* * *

Sophia did not return. She waited with Mrs. Branigan in the stable, the both of them inconsolable until the fire had been put out. By then, villagers crowded into the yard, having come from the village to offer help. Boots trampled the melting snow, turning the grounds into an ugly mud bog.

Mr. Branigan eventually returned, his skin shadowed by soot and his eyes with regret.

Still, he explained to them one bit of good fortune. The frost, having thawed earlier that day, allowed Mr. Kettle to install a hose on a functional pump. The availability of water, combined with Lord Claxton’s quick action in smothering the flames with the heaviest draperies, allowed the fire to be extinguished. Although he described the great room as severely damaged, the remainder of the house had been largely spared.

“But no one was hurt?” Sophia demanded softly through tears.

He shook his head. “No one hurt.”

Thank God. But she could never face Claxton again, not after what she had done. He had given her the gift of his love, and in return, she’d continued to harbor secret doubts, ones that had brought about the destruction of not only the new trust between them but also his mother’s home. A place that had inspired his sweetest childhood memories. Just as heartbreaking, he’d lost the treasure chest of mementos, of a family he had never known. Such precious items could never be replaced or rebuilt. She had taken all those things from him.

All for an imbecilic list she ought to have burned the same night it had been written, committing its sins to the past. Claxton’s stunned look of betrayal would forever be preserved in her mind.

How would he ever forgive her? How could she ever expect him to?

She’d never felt so choked with sadness, so dead inside.

“Mr. Branigan,” she said numbly. “Would you please take me down into Lacenfleet?”

The young man displayed reluctance, clearly in fear of provoking the duke’s displeasure, but at last, when faced with her tears, he took pity on her. She would indeed be home for Christmas, but with her spirit broken and more hopeless than she’d ever imagined.

They arrived at the village inn a short time later, she with no possessions other than the clothes she wore, ruined by soot and flame.

“My lady,” exclaimed the innkeeper. “What a relief to see you in good health. We all saw the smoke. This gentleman who says he knows you had just inquired as to your residence. I was just about to tell him the terrible news.”

Only then did Sophia look at the man who stood beside him. She recognized the familiar face and golden hair of a childhood friend.

“Oh, Fox,” she exclaimed, dissolving into tears and collapsing into his arms. “Please take me home.”

Within moments his carriage conveyed them toward the Mowbray ferry landing, where the vehicle paused to await the disembarkment of a wagon and horses that had just come over from the other side. The river, swollen from melted ice and snow, nearly overwhelmed the dock.

“I came on behalf of your family, of course,” Fox explained from the seat opposite her. “They, having heard nothing from you since the night of your grandfather’s party, wished to confirm your well-being as soon as the river became passable.”

Her well-being. She would never be well again. What she had told Claxton last night was true. The past four days had been the most uncommon of her life. Now forever, they would be shadowed in darkness. She grieved their loss and Claxton’s loss like a death.

“Sophia.” He extended a handkerchief, which she gratefully clutched to her eyes. “You must tell me what happened.”

“I can’t,” she rasped. “It’s all too terrible.”

He pulled aside the window curtain, an action that provided a direct view of Camellia House high upon the hill over Lacenfleet. Even from this distance, Sophia clearly saw the gaping hole and the cloud of soot that smudged the lovely façade. She moaned and buried her head in her hands.

It was then that Fox’s composure fractured.

“Why is he not with you?” he demanded ferociously. “Why have you left in this fashion, unescorted, with only the clothes on your back? As if in secrecy. As if in escape?”

She shook her head, unable to respond for a sudden eruption of tears. He lunged across the carriage, taking her in his arms. Sobs racked her body.

“Tell me, Sophia, what did he do to you? If Vinson were here, he would demand to know. Since he is not, then I will.”

Just then the door of the carriage flew open. Claxton’s face appeared in the door opening, his eyes cruel and his skin and clothing blackened by soot. He breathed heavily and his features were strained, as if he’d run all the way on foot. His boot slammed onto the step and he gripped the handle, for all appearances prepared to hurl himself inside.

“You would leave me now?” He uttered the words hoarsely, his gaze only briefly veering to Havering before returning to her. His body shuddered with some emotion, his expression grew hard, and he fell back to simply stand and stare. “I was a coward for abandoning you before, for not fighting harder for us. But make no mistake. It’s you, Sophia, who are the coward today.”

Nostrils flaring with rage, he slammed the door.

“Oh, Fox,” she cried. “It’s not what he did to me, but what I did to him. He will never forgive me.”

* * *

Two days later, upon returning to town, Vane took residence in his London house instead of his club. He had no fear of crossing paths with Sophia because from what he could surmise, she had not spent one moment in their marital home, but had flown straight into her family’s waiting arms. He expected it was just a matter of time before Wolverton summoned him to discuss their separation.

“It’s officially ‘eve,’” Haden said, looking at his timepiece. “Christmas Eve, that is, which means it’s almost time for me to depart.”

Vane didn’t bite. Haden had been dangling some supposed invitation in front of his nose all evening. As if Vane had ever cared about society or parties before, and he most especially did not now.