From where Vane stood, he perceived the glow of firelight in the great room. Realizing now was the time to announce his presence, he’d barely parted his lips to shout hello when he heard the sound of voices.

A woman’s and a man’s.

Every muscle in his body tensed. He approached, careful to remain out of sight from those inside.

“You’re so beautiful,” the man murmured. “A goddess.”

“We shouldn’t do this,” she whispered.

Vane’s blood turned to ice. In that moment he realized Sophia wouldn’t be leaving Camellia House with him tonight. Not only had she come here to escape him, but she’d come with a lover. Havering?

“Please,” she implored softly.

“Please yes, or please no?” the man whispered.

Clothing or blankets or whatever rustled loudly, evidence of sensual play. A moan, and then wet, smacking kisses.

A feminine gasp. “I don’t know. I can’t think.”

“Don’t let him come between us. Not now, not here.”

Vane clenched the frame of the door, tamping down the rage, the lightning-hot instinct toward violence that clawed up from inside his chest. He had to see for himself. He would forever preserve this picture of her in another man’s arms. Then and only then could he stamp out the fledgling hope he’d so foolishly allowed residence in his heart.

A long settee prevented Vane from seeing the lovers. He silently approached, the lamp shielded behind his hand. There, on the other side, the floor was a jumble of cushions. A smallish fire burned, a dot on the massive hearth, but a japanned screen dimmed its ambient glow. Still, he made out two figures struggling, with the man sprawled on top.

She gasped. “Please stop.”

“You don’t mean that.”

“No, really, I can go no further.”

“Come now, darling—”

Hearing this, Vane’s composure shattered.

“Get off her,” he roared, lifting the lantern high.

Sophia screamed. Legs and arms flailed, tangled in shirtsleeves and petticoats.

“Bloody hell,” her lover shouted.

Two faces peered up at him. Not Sophia!

Instead, the face belonged to—

Lady Meltenbourne.

She gaped, openmouthed and wide-eyed next to his brother, her hair wildly disarrayed. Vane’s first reaction was relief. Then fury.

“Haden,” he thundered.

Haden stood, thrusting his shirttail into his breeches. “Good God, Claxton.” He wobbled drunkenly. “Give me an apoplexy, why don’t you? What in the hell are you doing here?”

“Stopping you from making a big mistake. The lady is married.”

His brother rubbed a hand over his face. “So is half of the ton,” he slurred, “who is having an affair with the other half of the ton…who…aren’t their spouses.” He blinked several times. “Zounds, that didn’t exactly make sense, but…you…understand what I’m attempting to say.”

His brother, Haden, had always been reckless. Having spent most of his childhood in school, growing up in the company of other boys, he still lived each day in a spirit of ceaseless revelry, leaving a trail of broken hearts, gambling debts, and halfhearted business endeavors in his wake. Having spent so many years apart, they’d been little more than strangers until seven months ago when Haden, at Vane’s summons, joined him on the Continent to serve as his support attaché, assisting with matters of diplomatic minutiae Vane had no time to deal with. They’d again grown close, but God spare him, his feckless brother always knew how to put his boot right into the middle of a scandal. Vane did not know if Haden would ever settle down into a respectable sort of life.

Vane set the lantern on a small table. “If her ladyship’s married status is not enough, then please understand she is also one of the most indiscreet women in all of England.” No one knew that more than he.

“That’s not true,” Lady Meltenbourne blurted. Then she giggled. “Oh, pphssht. Perhaps it is.” Throwing her arms high over her head, she collapsed back into the cushions. A bottle beside her tipped over, thunking hollowly and rolling across the floor. The lady was foxed.

When he first became duke, the ton matchmakers had done their best to pair him with Annabelle. Though beautiful, he found her to be vacant and insipid—the opposite of everything Sophia proved to be. Later, when his betrothal to Sophia was announced, Annabelle reacted as a woman betrayed. Though he could not ever recall having specifically encouraged her affections, she remained quite determined about attaching herself to him, heedless of how her behavior might cause disgrace to herself or her husband.

Haden collapsed onto the settee and ran his fingers through his dark hair. “Well, if it makes you feel better, we hadn’t got past kissing and a bit of…er…Well, there’s really no need to go into those sorts of details, is there? I didn’t even know the woman before tonight, when I found her crying over some other bastard who’d broken her heart.”

“It was you, Claxton,” she accused from the shadows. “You broke my heart.”

Haden’s head swung toward him. “What? Hell, I hadn’t realized. Claxton? I thought—”

Vane glared at his brother. “No. Just no. Never.”

“Good. Well…whatever the case…” Haden relaxed again. “I was just trying to make her feel better.”

“By taking off your breeches? You poltroon, this was our mother’s house.” Vane avoided looking at the portrait of his father that loomed above the mantel, one that had never been there when he was a boy. He could only assume it had been hung after his mother’s death. Yes, likely by his father, claiming the one bit of territory that had belonged to her. “How could you disrespect her memory like this?”

Haden winced. “It seemed a deuced splendid idea at the moment. Confound me, I shouldn’t have opened that third bottle.”

On the floor, her ladyship remained flat on her back, her face covered by her hands, encircled by the puddle of her rumpled gown. “This isn’t fun anymore. What time is it?”

“Time to get you home.” Haden tugged on his Hessians. On the first try, however, he put the left boot on the right foot. Once the mistake was repaired, with much grunting and muttering, he took up his coat and cravat and staggered past Vane. “Come along, my lady.”

“Look out for the—” warned Claxton, but too late.

His brother’s boot lowered onto the empty bottle that had rolled off moments before. With a shout he upended, feet flying over his head, and crashed to the floor.

“Haden?” Claxton crouched over him and discovered him to be senseless. “Damn. Damn. Damn.” How like his brother to leave him to clean up his mess.

“He’s dead, isn’t he?” asked the countess, sitting up.

“He is not dead.”

“That’s too bad because if I don’t get home soon, Meltenbourne will find us and shoot him. I would think that will be a much more unpleasant death. Oh, dear. It’s very late, isn’t it?” Lady Meltenbourne began to sniffle softly. Then cry. “I shouldn’t have come. Whatever was I thinking?” She flopped back onto the floor and, with a moan, pulled her silk overskirt over her face. Her bare legs jutted out from the tangle of her petticoats.

God help him, he pitied her, but he did not have the patience for all this tonight. Where in the hell was his wife? He must return to London posthaste to find her.

“I’ll return in a moment,” he announced in a loud voice, hoping she heard him through her skirt. “Please make yourself decent while I am gone.”

Grasping Haden by the arms, he dragged him into the vestibule and summoned a footman. Together they conveyed his unconscious brother to his waiting carriage.

Once the door was shut, he turned back to the house with the intention to retrieve Lady Meltenbourne.

“Ought we to go, my lord?” shouted the driver into the wind. Claxton spun round on his heel. Lord, it was dark. There was only the dim light from the carriage side lamps.

“No,” he shouted back, making a gesture to stay with his hand.

“No?” the driver repeated.

“No.”

The man nodded in understanding. Turning in his seat, he took up the reins. With a snap and a “Hee-yaw,” the carriage rolled into motion.

“Wait,” bellowed Claxton, lunging after the conveyance. “I said no, not go.”

Yet the wind caught his voice, carrying the sound toward the house. The vehicle continued on its way, growing dimmer as it traveled into the night. Claxton skidded to a stop and shouted curses into the dark. Slowly he turned, ignoring his own servants who watched with riveted interest, and marched to the door. He fumed on the threshold, mind abuzz at the injustice of what had just occurred.

He was alone with Lady Meltenbourne.

But not for long. He’d hasten the weepy tart into his carriage, discreetly return her to her residence, and hope to find Sophia warm and safe at home—even if behind a locked door and refusing to speak to him.

Bloody hell, this had turned out to be the most miserable of nights. He was done. Exhausted. Finished. At least until morning.

Inside, he found the countess in the same position in which he’d left her, only now she snored.

Crouching over her, he shook her shoulder. “Lady Meltenbourne, please wake up.”

Once he got her sitting upright, he set about collecting her things. Slippers and a cloak and a pair of clocked stockings. With a befuddled mien, she stood at last and smoothed her skirts. Disheveled curls framed her face.

She spoke, her speech slurred. “I was so very vexed with you earlier tonight for refusing to speak to me.”