Never Desire a Duke (One Scandalous Season) (12 page)

“Claxton, look.” She propped the frame against the wall. “There is an envelope with your name on it.”

He turned from the window with a dubious look.

She tugged the envelope free from where it had been wedged into the frame. He met her in the middle, eyeing the object in her hand.

His expression softened. “That’s my mother’s handwriting.”

“Open it,” she urged.

He made no move to accept the object. “You may do so.”

“What if she wrote something private?”

“You are my wife,” he answered quietly, the look of sleepiness he still wore an unintended seduction. “What could she possibly have written that I would not want you to read?”

You are my wife.
The words branded her. Took her breath away. She calmed the racing beat of her heart and slid her thumb beneath the seal. From inside the envelope, she removed the folded sheet of paper.

“Well, it’s not a letter.” She turned the open page for his view so that he could see the hand-drawn pictures of smiling pixies and curlicued words. “I don’t know what it is.”

Claxton threw a cautious glance at the paper. After a moment, relief eased his features and a faint smile turned his lips. “It’s a quest for a game of lookabout.”

“Lookabout?”

He exhaled, and his skin flushed a shade deeper. He nodded. “My mother used to write quests for my brother and me. Boons, if you will. There were usually four or five tasks or trials that we would complete here inside the house or outdoors or even at times in the village, and once we’d located all the quests and completed whatever requirements, we would receive a reward.”

“So this quest will include instructions to find the next, and so on?”

“Yes.” Again, he glanced at the paper. Quickly. Then looked away. “She’s written a number one up in the corner. This is the first boon in a series.”

“Claxton.” Excitement bubbled up inside her to spread a smile across her lips. “How special that we found your mother’s note. To think I was only moments away from burning it.”

“It’s just a child’s game,” he said quietly from where he situated himself beside the woodbox at the far side of the hearth.

Her mind buzzed with curiosity. “But if we so wished, we could find the second quest, and so on?”

“I don’t know.” He crouched, his muscular thighs flexed, to lower a large log on the steel frame atop the dying fire. Sparks spiraled up as the heavier wood invaded the embers and ash. His response lacked Sophia’s enthusiasm. “So many years have passed. No doubt she wrote it up to keep Haden and me occupied, but forgot about it.”

“But how would the quest have come to be on the back of your father’s portrait, which you yourself said did not hang here while she was alive?”

“I—I don’t know.” His eyebrows drew together.

“Strange also that Haden’s name does not appear.”

He raised his shoulders. “We did not always play together.”

“Twenty years,” mused Sophia softly. “It’s almost magical to find her quest now and so close to Christmas. Oh, Claxton, let’s read her instruction and see where to go next.”

His lips drew into a wan smile, and he shook his head. “I told you, Sophia. I’m not that boy anymore. It’s like finding a note she wrote for someone else.”

Sophia’s heart softened. “You think she would have been disappointed in the way you lived your life, but you’re wrong. Mothers love their children unconditionally. They forgive.”

“But wives don’t?”

Flustered by the sudden intensity of his gaze, Sophia waved the paper about. “This isn’t about you and me; it’s about your mother’s quest. Come now, how else shall we occupy our time?” she implored, desperate for any activity that would provide distraction.

“I can think of plenty of ways to occupy our time,” he murmured, coming to stand behind her back. “You just refuse to oblige.”

Sophia’s cheeks filled with heat at his bawdy suggestion. The list of names she carried between her chemise and heart provided a convenient reminder that she wasn’t ready for such ease of familiarity. When she could think of the names on that list and feel nothing—no anger or hurt—then she’d be ready.

“And I don’t intend to cooperate. Please, Claxton, the last two days have been emotionally taxing.” She shook her hair back from her face. “I hope you can appreciate that I need a bit more time. Which makes the idea of playing a game perfect.”

“Do you intend to proceed with a separation or not?” he demanded with sudden vehemence.

“I don’t know,” she exclaimed. “And I don’t appreciate being pressed on the subject.”

At that moment, a solid rapping came from the front vestibule. Claxton pivoted toward the sound.

“Oh, dear Lord, yes, thank you,” she whispered.

“I heard that,” he growled.

With a step in the direction of the door, he tucked his shirt into his breeches and jerked his shirtsleeves and collar into place.

“There.” Combing his hair with his fingers, he inquired, “Do I look presentable, as the lord of the manor should?”

“For a lord of the manor who is without a decent valet to tend to his appearance, yes.”

“Or a decent wife, for that matter.”

Sophia watched him go, knowing he had intended the last comment to cut.

She retrieved his coat from where it had fallen from the settee and draped it over the back of a chair. Fastidiously, she straightened the cushions. Hearing the door open and voices, she waited to welcome whatever visitor might accompany Claxton over the threshold.

He reappeared alone.

“Who was it?” she inquired.

“A young man from the village. Mr. Kettle sent him to deliver the horse and sledge for us to use at our convenience.”

“How thoughtful of Mr. Kettle.”

“Well, it is our sledge and horse after all.”

“I assumed that. You gave the man a shilling, of course.” The words slipped out before she’d given them any thought, reminding her disturbingly of the way her mother used to speak to her father.

“Don’t play games with me, Sophia,” Claxton warned quietly, sending a chill through her. “Either you are my wife or you are not.”

“I’m not playing games,” she said. “Not the sort of games you imply. All I’m saying is there is no reason we must rush into a decision. Perhaps we should separate. Perhaps not. I don’t claim to know the answer, but there’s no reason we have to decide at this very moment.”

“Perhaps you’re correct,” he muttered darkly. “Heaven forbid we actually enjoy a pleasant Christmas together.”

“That’s not fair. Don’t use Christmas against me.”

“Better you learn now; I don’t play fair.” He lifted the teapot. Removing the lid, he peeked inside and sniffed suspiciously.

“It’s just tea,” she advised.

“Yes, that’s what I’m afraid of,” he muttered.

“What is that supposed to mean?”

He leaned toward her and with a wicked grin said, “It means I’m dumping out this swill and making a new pot.”

She’d known full well her tea wasn’t as good as her maid Mary’s at home, but for him to label her efforts as
swill
? She frowned in consternation but returned her attention to the quest.

“Claxton, where is the Evil Dark Spirit Room?”

He set down the teapot and tilted his head. “What did you say?”

D
id you even bother to read what your mother wrote?” She held up the quest, exasperated. “The Evil Dark Spirit Room. It’s all in capitals, as if it is a rather formal designation. The. Evil. Dark. Spirit. Room.”

“If I told you, then I’d have to kill you.” He sauntered closer, looking dangerous and handsome. “I am rather inclined to strangle you right now.”

She threw him a distancing look. “I beg your pardon.”

“It’s quite the family secret.”

“Well?” she demanded urgently. “Tell me.”

“It’s all right here in front of you.” He rested his hand on the mantel.

“The great room is the Evil Dark Spirit Room?” She harrumphed, lowering the quest in disappointment. “That’s not very interesting.”

“No?” His hand moved to the right side of the mantel where the wall was overlaid with wood paneling. With his fingertips, he applied pressure to a narrow bit of decorative framing. With a click, a man-sized section of the wall released and shifted inward to reveal a darkened space behind.

“A secret passage,” she exclaimed. “Or a priest hole?”

“It’s the Evil Dark Spirit Room,” he quipped. Then more dramatically, “Enter if you dare.”

“Aha! That’s how you got inside the house the first night.”

His wry smile confessed all. How delightful! Of course, she hadn’t thought that the first night, but she did now.

“You go first,” she said, after lighting a lantern and handing it to him. “I’ll follow.”

Oh, how she wished Clarissa and Daphne were here to see. Her sisters shared her appreciation for games and adventure, and she’d much prefer their company to Claxton’s. Well, that wasn’t necessarily true, but it felt right to think it.

“Why me first? Are you afraid?” His query held a hint of the nefarious, as did his wicked expression.

A little ripple of excitement traveled through her at being the recipient of that wolfish stare. “Just cautious. Given our present circumstances, I wouldn’t be surprised if you wished to murder me.” Or seduced her. “I don’t want to find myself shut up in this wall.”

“Wouldn’t that be convenient?” He smiled devilishly. He stepped into the dark and disappeared. She followed him and bumped straightaway into his shoulder. “Careful, there are steps here, rather steep.”

His hand caught her arm just above the elbow, and she allowed it, appreciative of his guidance in the dark. Here, frigid air chilled her skin. Extremely narrow, the passage forced them to sidle along in close proximity, the duke a tall and tautly muscled presence beside her in the dark. He put off the most delicious heat, which kept her close. After just a few feet they arrived in a tiny, slightly more expansive space crudely finished and with a tiny door that she knew would lead to the outside of the house.

“This is it. The Evil Dark Spirit Room.” He crouched, because if he stood full upright, his head would strike the low ceiling. His breath puffed like smoke from his nostrils. “I could be wrong, but I believe we are looking for a loose stone, but please don’t get your hopes up. There may be nothing here for us to find.”

He stood behind her and directed the lamp’s light over the wall. Keenly aware of every brush of his clothing and his body against her, Sophia’s hands moved over the cold stone and mortar, seeking movement or imperfection. Her heart beat faster, nearly bursting with curiosity.

“Here, I think,” said Claxton, his voice low and sensual. His arm came around her, half of an embrace, to press his fingertips against a stone level with his chin. The rectangle shifted, emitting a soft grinding sound. “You do the honors.”

Sophia caught the edges of the stone and carefully pulled it out. Claxton lifted the lantern outside the resulting space.

An envelope lay inside, very much identical to the first.

Sophia gasped in pleasure. “How exciting. It’s like a voice from the past, Claxton, your mother’s. I’ve got chills. Don’t you?”

“Yes,” he answered quietly. “I do.”

“Aren’t you going to take it?” she asked, glancing over her shoulder. He stood close enough to kiss.

“You.” He did not smile. “You are the one who insisted on searching for the next quest, when I would have preferred other activities. It seems only right that you should claim it.”

Sophia ignored his comment and reached inside. After replacing the stone, they returned to the great room. She sought the warmth of the fire, relieved to again put a bit more space between herself and her maddeningly attractive husband.

Sophia peered down at the envelope. “When you and your brother played the game together, did you compete against one another or work together to complete the quests?”

Claxton crouched beside the settee and located its errant leg underneath. “It depended on our mood, really, whether we could suffer one another’s company for the day.”

“Oh, Claxton, let’s play lookabout. Let’s accomplish the quests and claim the treasure.”

He lifted the legless corner of the settee, and for the second time since arriving at Camellia House, he affixed the missing post into place. “Convince me.”

“I shouldn’t have to.” Sophia’s eyes widened in dismay, as if he were a clod for not immediately agreeing.

“After the state you left me in last night,” he muttered, but playfully, hoping to extend the agreeable mood between them, “I’m not inclined to do you any favors.”

Sophia’s lashes lowered against her cheeks and she blushed. “You wouldn’t be doing me, but yourself, a favor. Your mother wrote the clues. I think it would be wonderful to finish the game, no matter your age. As a tribute to her.”

He sank into the tufted armchair, extending his legs. “Likely we’d go through all the trouble only to find the next clue missing or destroyed. It’s been twenty years. Why don’t you come over here and sit with me.” He threw a wolfish glance down at his lap. “And we can discuss it.”

“As if I would truly come and sit in your lap,” she retorted, but softly and without anger.

“I have my own game of lookabout that I’d like to propose. One that involves you and me and a bed—and the only quest that in this moment I’m hoping to accomplish.”

There, he’d coaxed a smile. A big, shocked one with blushing cheeks to match.

“I want to play this version of the game,” she said, flapping the envelope in her hand.

He shrugged. “A man can hope.”

She glanced down at the quest. “We’ve already found the second quest. How will we know about the existence of the next if we don’t at least try?”

“For what reward? A petrified piece of peppermint or a shriveled orange? It’s cold anywhere but here beside the fire. Again, it’s been—”

She walked the perimeter of the room. “Twenty years, yes, I know. Come now, it is better than sitting here in this dark room all day dancing around the subject of things we’ve already discussed to death. It also takes my mind off worrying about Christmas and that we might not make it back to London in time.”

The corner of his mouth bent into a smile. “You’re just afraid I’ll seduce you.”

She threw him a warning glance. “You won’t, because it’s not allowed. I’m telling you that now I need time to clear my head and to think.”

He watched her move, admiring the way her gown clung to her curves.

“I know you’re attracted to me,” he drawled. “Don’t try to deny it.”

She glared at him. “Lots of ladies are attracted to you.”

He scowled and let out a growl of displeasure. At every corner she sought to drive a wedge between them.

“I’m finished talking about any other lady but you.”

“I’m tired of talking. I want to play the game.” She shook her hair back from her shoulders, for a moment thrusting her breasts forward. She didn’t even know how she tortured him. “I think you’re just afraid I’ll win the game.”

“Win? You?” His brow went up. Deep inside his chest, an old competitive flare snapped to life. “So you would choose to compete against me, a master of the game, rather than work together?”

“I would.”

He shrugged. “Be forewarned, I’m highly competitive.”

“So am I,” she claimed. “Daphne and Clarissa complain that I always
must
win.”

“Just so you know, there are no rules.”

She tilted her head, green eyes sparkling. “You mean to say that you cheat?”

“I
strategize
.”

“So be it,” she said, opening the envelope. “Let’s read the next quest.”

Claxton remained in the chair, watching her. She stood between the fire and the window, painted two shades of light—one golden, the other frost. If he were a painter, this would be how he would capture her for the ages. Ideally with her clothes off. Instead, he had to commit the image to memory. That she could speak to him in so light and friendly a manner about something as inane as a game, when so much between them remained unresolved, frustrated him beyond bearing. Had the hurt he’d submitted her to pushed her too far away to ever truly win her back?

She read aloud. “Make with your own hands twelve iced plum cakes. Deliver them to Mrs. Kettle, who will determine whether your efforts are worthy of the next quest.”

Claxton held silent, waiting for whatever she might say.

“Oh, my.” She lowered the parchment. “Twelve iced cakes. I hadn’t anticipated that as a quest for two little boys. I’d rather expected climbing a tree or crafting a man-of-war out of sticks.”

“Most often the tasks were very much so,” Claxton explained. “But other times my mother encouraged my brother and me to learn a broader array of skills, those of self-sufficiency.” He shrugged. “And humility.”

“Humph.” She sniffed, one slender eyebrow lifting archly. “Humility, you say.”

He ignored her jibe. “My mother believed it important for us boys to assist with the more menial tasks that kept the house in order so as to understand the difficult demands placed upon the Kettles, both of whom she adored, and the servants we would certainly one day employ. Sometimes her quests were intended to teach us empathy for a scullery maid. Other times, the groundskeeper. In this case, a cook.” He chuckled, remembering. “She or Mrs. Kettle would have helped us bake the cakes, so we did not burn the house down.”

She perched on the edge of the settee, glancing suspiciously at the suspect leg as if to be certain it did not fly out from under her.

“I think that’s wonderful. Indeed, I admire your mother more and more the more I learn about her.” She made a silly face. “Although I wish she would have chosen a different task, as baking is not my strongest talent.”

“Nor mine, but no matter.” He shook his head. “While it has been highly diverting to find this second quest, I don’t believe the game can proceed further. Too much time has passed. Mrs. Kettle won’t remember the details, and even if she did, I can’t imagine that she held on to a meaningless scrap of paper for this long.”

Sophia nodded, extending her arm to trace her fingertips over the carved leaves on the upper frame of the settee. “I understand your reluctance. Neither do I wish to subject myself to an hour or more of efforts in the kitchen when they may only result in disappointment. But we ought to try. You owe that much to your mother’s memory.”

Vane did not wholeheartedly agree. As much as the quest had brought back happy memories he’d not recalled for a very long time, what they had stumbled upon were the remnants of a child’s diversion, not King Arthur’s tomb. Yet he found Sophia’s excitement in the game undeniably intoxicating. More so, the discovery gifted him with a glimpse of the young woman she’d been before his past had driven them apart. She’d actually smiled this morning, and he did not want her to stop.

He stood with sudden conviction. “I had thought to go down to the village this morning for a bit of tobacco. While there, I will inquire with Mrs. Kettle.”

“Yes, let’s do pay a call.”

“You need not accompany me.” He would almost prefer that she did not. Though the game had inspired an easier manner between them, he knew the list of names he’d written out at her behest the night before remained in her thoughts. She did not trust him. He saw that in her every wary glance.

“Of course I will accompany you,” she said. “You made clear you don’t intend to play by the rules. I’ll not forget that warning. Do you think I would allow you to achieve an unfair advantage by proceeding without me?” Her eyes sparkled like emeralds ablaze in candlelight.

She came to stand beside him at the fire, an oblivious seductress. Firelight deepened the shadowy crevice between her breasts. His body thrummed with the primal urge to stalk and seduce.

Yet she only blabbered on about the game, suffering no such distractions.

“But we cannot go to Mrs. Kettle empty-handed,” she said. “To do so would be contrary to the spirit of the game, even if our efforts advance no further. Certainly there’s a baker in the village. Couldn’t we simply purchase the plum cakes or something similar and present them to Mrs. Kettle?”

Resigned, he answered, “I’m happy to humor you in any way.”

They arrived at the Kettles’ cottage after leaving the sledge at the nearby livery stable so that the horse could be tended to. Moments later, installed in the tiny parlor, they sat in comfortable chairs warmed by tea and news of the Martindale child’s arrival early that morning. News of the birth inspired a pang of wistfulness in Sophia, but joy for the parents as well. She borrowed pen and paper from her hosts and penned a short congratulatory note from herself and the duke, something Mrs. Kettle assured her would become a treasured family heirloom for the Martindales.

As for her and Claxton’s news, Sophia could hardly wait to share the discovery of the Duchess Elizabeth’s quest and learn whether Mrs. Kettle remained in possession of the third boon.

“Do forgive us Mr. Kettle’s present state,” said Mrs. Kettle. “As you’ll remember, your Grace, he suffers terribly from chilblains.”

Mr. Kettle sat beside the fire, a blanket over his shoulders and his feet ankle deep in steaming water.

“Indeed, I do,” said Claxton, looking elegant and huge in a patchwork chair much too small for his muscular frame. “One of the officers with whom I served had some success with porridge.”