Lily Dalton - Never Desire a Duke

A moment later, the door cracked open and he glimpsed a sliver of Daphne’s nose and mouth. Her eyes narrowed. “What do you want?”

Miss Daphne.” He nodded. “I regret to disturb you so late in the evening, but I’m looking for her Grace. Is she with you?”

“My sister doesn’t want to talk to you, so go away.”

“It’s very important.”

“Important to you, perhaps,” called another voice, one he knew to be Clarissa’s. “I think the duchess is past the point of talking.”

He measured his response, remembering with whom he spoke. These were the two young girls who once stared at him with intense fascination and giggled delightedly at whatever he said. He and Sophia, after marrying, had taken her sisters on picnics and to Berkeley Square for pineapple ices. On quiet Sunday afternoons, they’d cajoled him into practicing the newest dance steps with them and interrogated him over what exactly men found arresting and pretty. His answer to them always: a happy smile. Never before had they spoken to him with such disrespect or dislike.

He endeavored to speak more gently. “I appreciate that you seek to protect your sister, but if that is the case, I ask that Sophia tell me herself.”

Peering over Daphne’s head, he spied Clarissa in a pink dressing gown, standing beside a large poster bed. Clarissa adored pink. Daphne, of course, deplored every shade of the same color.

Clarissa bent over a supine form covered in blankets, her face a portrait of sisterly concern. “Sophia. There, there, dear. Please stop crying.”

Crying? His heart stopped beating or at least felt as if it did. Belowstairs, when last he’d seen her, she had shown such strength, with no sign of softer emotion.

Clarissa continued. “Claxton is here. Do you wish to speak to him?” She bent low, placing her ear near the pillow. Rising up, she glared in his direction. “I’m afraid it’s exactly as I told you. She doesn’t want to speak to you. Can’t you see that she is overwrought? Please go away.”

“Overwrought?” he repeated, stunned. “Sophia?”

His lungs constricted. Though largely responsible for creating this wide chasm between them, standing here, ten feet away, he couldn’t abide that thought. “Move aside.”

Daphne shoved the door, seeking to shut him out, but with steady pressure he pushed her backward, easily forcing his way inside.

Striding toward the bed, he came face-to-face with a flying pillow. With a swipe of his hand, he fended it off. “She’s my wife.”

“You wouldn’t know it from your behavior. Stay away from her,” exclaimed Clarissa, her eyes ablaze. “Lothario!”

Daphne clutched at his coattails and skidded along behind him. “Philanderer!”

He now knew how Gulliver must have felt when attacked by the Lilliputians.

“Sophia.” Arriving at the bed, he brushed past Clarissa to touch Sophia’s shoulder—only to have that shoulder collapse beneath his hand. As Clarissa scrambled away, he yanked back the coverlet and found only pillows beneath.

“Where is she?” he gritted out and spun toward them.

Clarissa sneered. “We’re not going to tell you anything.”

“Brute!” Daphne threw a brush at him. It bounced off the center of his chest and fell to the carpet. Damn it.

“Have you both lost your minds?” he demanded.

“Perhaps so.” Clarissa crossed her arms at her waist. “People often lose their minds when they care deeply about someone. Can you imagine how it feels, Claxton, when a woman takes great pride in her husband and her marriage, only to be confronted with persistent rumor and innuendo?”

“Of course he doesn’t,” said Daphne. “If he did, he would never submit Sophia to such humiliation. I can only pray my future husband does not commit me to the same shame and misery.”

Their words troubled him more than he wished to admit. But he wasn’t going to beg for their forgiveness.

He returned to the door. “I understand you are both angry with me, as you have every right to be. But I will not defend myself to you, not until I make things right with your sister, my wife. My confessions are for her ears only—and my forgiveness hers alone to give.”

They stared at him in silence.

“Please. I beg you. I must see her. I must speak to her.”

Something in his words must have broken through their feminine defenses because the sisters visibly softened and tears glimmered in their eyes.

“You’re truly going to make things right with Sophia?” Clarissa asked, her green eyes pleading.

“I can only do that if you tell me where she is.”

“Really, Claxton,” Daphne chided softly. “What took you so long?”

“Please tell me.”

“Where she thought you’d never look. She’s gone to Camellia House.”

Camellia House. The setting of Vane’s best—and worst—childhood memories. He and Haden had lived there with their mother on the edge of London, while their father, the duke, resided a world away in a place called Mayfair.

Indeed, Vane had no memories of his father before the age of ten, when, upon the death of his mother, a tall, stern-faced man had appeared without any prior announcement and taken him and Haden away. The only reason Vane had even realized the bastard was their father was because he recognized the Claxton coat of arms on the magnificent carriage parked outside the gates of the cemetery, though the man inside the conveyance hadn’t, for the entirety of the funeral, deigned to step outside.

Claxton. Vane had learned to hate the name. The very name he now bore as his own.

Snow flurries swirled outside his window, illuminated by the lamps of his carriage. In warmer months, the night streets of London would still be thick with carriages, hansoms, wagons, and pedestrians crowding the pavement. But tonight, winter ruled. Even the vendors had abandoned the streets. Anyone with a place to call home was there now, near a fire or stove until morning. Sophia had left a place of warmth and comfort, one inhabited by those she loved best. It was just more proof of her desperate need to escape him.

He had never mentioned Camellia House to Sophia. How she knew of the small estate and why she’d chosen to escape from him there, he did not know. The prospect of setting foot inside his childhood home brought a thousand memories crashing down around him, and so close to Christmas, which had always been such a special time for them there.

As each moment passed, his pulse quickened, and something akin to anxiety coiled in his stomach far greater than he had experienced on any line of battle. His nerves were already wound tight anticipating all he must say to her, all he must confess.

Philanderer. Lothario. At least there were no questions as to the allegations against him. They came as no real surprise. Only now, given the advantage of retrospect, could he look back on the darkest days of their marriage and comprehend the magnitude of rage and soul-deep hurt that had consumed him. Having lost Sophia and his child, he had for a time fallen into old vices—gambling hells, excessive drink, and yes, the company of old amours. For weeks he had danced along a dangerous edge, from which, in the end, he had stepped back. Yet…though he had not betrayed his marriage vows, he’d not particularly respected them either, allowing himself to be observed in questionable circumstances.

Perhaps, then, it was fitting that their reunion take place at Camellia House, for only by acknowledging the mistakes of his past could he hope to renew his future with her.

Vane shared more than an hour with those thoughts before his carriage concluded its passage over the Thames to trundle off the Mowbray ferry and pass through the sleeping village of Lacenfleet. At last the vehicle turned the final corner before making its way up the lawn toward the dark shadow at the top of the hill. With gloved hand, he denied his footman his duty and turned the handle, stepping down onto pavement already concealed by snow. A sudden gust caught his coat, piercing him through with frigid cold.

His footman rushed to meet him. “Your instructions, your Grace?”

“Wait for me.” The rising clamor of the wind forced him to shout just to be heard. “I shan’t be more than a half hour.”

Though the house appeared dark, another carriage occupied the drive, its driver hunched under the burden of a thick coat and blanket. Sophia must have only just arrived. Having been shut up for some fifteen years, the residence was not regularly staffed by servants. She and her maid were likely inspecting the premises before releasing their carriage to the village livery.

Here, there were no guests to be shocked, no family to overhear. Sophia had nowhere to escape. She would have no choice but to hear him out. Then she would either return home with him or he would depart alone. He had stopped at their London residence only long enough to change out of his evening clothes and to obtain a key, yet he stood on the steps, prepared, as a courtesy, to knock. However, with a push of the ornate brass handle, the door opened. He did not wish to startle her with his unexpected arrival, but on second thought, neither did he wish for her to bolt the doors against him. He proceeded inside.

A small oil lamp glowed on a side table. After removing his gloves and tucking them into his coat pocket, he lifted the lamp so that he might better see through the darkness. The fragrance of wood polish scented the air, whereas he’d expected mustiness and decay. Mr. and Mrs. Kettle, the married couple who’d tended the house and grounds for his mother, had remained in his employ despite their advancing years but resided in the village. He’d never expected them to actually work for their pay.