Never Desire a Duke (One Scandalous Season) (25 page)

“Darker, you say?” Vane inquired, his gaze intent. He’d borne witness to his father’s darker nature, but according to Mr. Garswood, that shadow hadn’t always been there.

Mr. Garswood nodded. The gray hair over his ears shone like silver in the winter light. “Another naval officer of my acquaintance told me that as a young officer Follet had sustained some sort of injury while serving. A blow to the head, and that he’d not been the same after, but prone to long periods of moodiness and fits of rage. Of course, none of that mattered. I welcomed his return as a friend. We hunted together. Attended the same parties and balls.”

“An injury,” Vane repeated. As a boy, he’d tried so desperately to find some trace of goodness in his father, only to be disappointed time and time again. But perhaps an injury had long ago altered the elder Lord Claxton’s mind and not evil as he’d always feared. The knowledge gave him at least a measure of the peace he’d craved for as long as he could remember. “This is the first I’ve heard of that.”

“People don’t talk of such things, of weaknesses in men from whom greatness is expected. What am I thinking? It is cold here by the windows.” He pointed to two chairs. “The both of you, please sit nearer to the fire, where it is warmer. This may take a little time.”

Vane complied, leading Sophia forward, where they took occupancy of two armchairs, while their host remained standing. He leaned toward them, speaking in the measured tones of a storyteller.

“Well, it wasn’t long before, unbeknownst to each other, Follet and I fell in love with the same young woman.” He turned to a small lacquered chest, and when he faced them again, he presented something small and round on his palm, a miniature portrait, encircled by a delicate gilt frame, which he urged Vane to take.

Vane’s breath staggered in his throat. For the first time in nearly twenty years, he viewed his mother’s likeness.

“There she is,” he whispered solemnly. “Just as I remember her.”

Where Vane and his father possessed dark coloring, Elizabeth had radiated light, not only in her golden hair, but in the sparkle in her eyes and humor on her lips.

“She was lovely,” Sophia whispered, smiling at him through tears.

Mr. Garswood presented his hand for the return of the miniature, and Vane reluctantly complied. Of course, Mr. Garswood could not know he possessed no other likenesses of his mother.

The elder gentleman glanced at the miniature briefly but with clear affection before returning the memento to the chest. “When I made my interest in Elizabeth known and began to court her, it became very clear to me that he cared for her too. Elizabeth had no idea, and at the time, I did not tell her, not wishing to shame him by her declared preference for me. I attempted to speak to him about it, but by then he was the Duke of Claxton. He did not share his thoughts or feelings. He only made it clear our friendship had ended.”

Mr. Garswood sank into the chair beside Vane’s, holding one leg rigidly straight. “To my great honor, your mother and I became betrothed. Yet shortly after, my regiment was called up, I at the time being a proud and brash young captain of the dragoons. But your mother wanted a summer wedding, you see, and I indulged her, believing as all young men do that I’d return in a few months’ time so that we could be married.”

“Obviously that did not happen,” Vane concluded.

Mr. Garswood crossed his hands over the pommel of his cane. “I sustained wounds. For months, I lay insensible in a German hospital, my family believing me dead.” The elder man’s gaze faded. “Pardon your Graces for my being so forward as to speak so familiarly, but unbeknownst to me, I’d left your mother in a…a delicate condition.”

“Oh my God,” Vane uttered. “It’s true, what the duke said. You are my father.”

“What?” Sophia gasped, her face gone pale with shock. Her hand found his arm, and she squeezed.

Mr. Garswood’s expression softened, and he chuckled. “No, your Grace. I am not. Though I have often wondered what might have been if the story would have gone that way.”

Abruptly, Vane left Sophia’s side to stand alone near the fire, where he stared at the ducal ring on his finger, almost afraid to relinquish the doubt that had eaten away at him since the age of ten. He had lived with that doubt for twenty years. It had become a part of him.

“Are you certain?” A rush of emotion moved through him so fast it left him dizzied. He’d harbored that festering kernel of doubt inside him for so long. “He always told me I was another man’s bastard, not his son. That he’d been forced to acknowledge me as his own because of what my whore of a mother had done.”

Mr. Garswood’s eyes flashed with outrage. “It’s simply not true. Follet married Elizabeth, of course, to spare her the scandal, but she lost our child soon after. Lord Claxton, whether you like it or not, you are his spirit and image. When you walked into this room, the resemblance took the air from my lungs.”

Claxton nodded. “I suppose, in some way, I wanted what he said to be true. I did not want to be his son, only hers. And yet the idea that I’ve been living the life of an impostor, pretending to be someone I wasn’t—” He cast a deliberate glance at Sophia, to find her eyes glittering with tears. “That did not rest well with me either.”

“He was wrong to have said it.”

“You and my mother—” Vane couldn’t bring himself to say the rest.

Mr. Garswood’s cheeks pinked, but he shook his head. “We never resumed our affair. Her ladyship was too honorable a woman to betray her vows, no matter how badly your father tormented her.”

“That woman in the portrait over there,” inquired Sophia. “Is that your wife?”

His gaze joined hers on a richly painted portrait of a smiling, auburn-haired woman holding a bouquet of wild roses.

“Indeed. Viola was a wonderful woman and very understanding about a young man’s first love. She actually sought out your mother, and they became friends.”

Claxton leaned forward in his chair and shifted toward Mr. Garswood. “I thought she looked familiar. I remember her. She visited the house from time to time and always brought my mother flowers and a book to read.”

Mr. Garswood nodded, a wistful smile on his lips. “She grieved Elizabeth’s death as if she’d lost a sister.” His voice softened. “I lost her in May of last year.”

“I’m sorry for your loss, sir,” Claxton murmured.

“I count myself among the luckiest of men to have known them both.”

“Thank you also for telling me all this.”

Mr. Garswood nodded. “It ate away at his soul. The jealousy. His love for your mother, however sincere in the beginning, eventually bordered along obsession. He could not abide the fact that she had once loved another, and the knowledge that it was me, a man he came to believe was a rival rather than a friend, tormented him.”

With difficulty, he again stood, pushing up on his cane. Slowly he made his way to a side table, where he poured two brandies and a sherry, which he distributed among them.

“When I was recovered enough from my wounds to return to England, Elizabeth visited me here, only to wish me well and to explain in person what had happened with our child and why she had married another.” Mr.
Gar
swood emptied his glass. “The servants talked, and the duke immediately believed we’d resumed our affair. You, meanwhile, had already been conceived within the honorable bonds of their marriage. They reconciled to whatever extent, long enough for you and Haden to be born, but he never forgave her for her alleged betrayal. Their relationship was always stormy and he eventually set her aside. But almost as if to torture himself, he placed her there, in Camellia House, in close proximity to my home.”

They spoke a while longer, talking over smaller details of those stories and lives forever entwined. At last Vane stood, raising Sophia by her hand.

To Mr. Garswood he said, “I cannot thank you enough. All these years I lived with that grain of doubt, one I carried with me always, believing in my darkest moments that I had no right to bear my ancestors’ name. And knowing of this injury my father sustained…it gives me peace that he was not purely evil, but somehow changed forever quite against his will.”

“I am glad to have set things right.” Mr. Garswood’s eyebrows shot up. “But this old man and his stories are not your reward. At least, not the best part of it.”

From his desk he withdrew a small wooden chest and handed it to Vane.

“This was delivered along with the instructions for that game of lookabout. Among other things, there’s a letter inside she wrote to you, just before her death, and one intended for your brother, Lord Haden, as well. I was only to give them to you if you completed the final quest.”

Their return to Camellia House took nearly twice as long as the initial trip to the Garswood estate. The blades that had conveyed them so swiftly from place to place for the last several days now sank deep into the melting snow, even touching the earth beneath, requiring the draft horse to exert more effort than before. As Vane held the reins and urged the animal to continue, his gaze continually fell to Sophia’s lap, where she held the precious box containing his mother’s letters and mementoes of his past. In a matter of moments he’d be able to examine everything. He looked forward to sharing the moment of first discoveries with Sophia. How strange and wonderful it had been to realize, as Mr. Garswood had revealed one secret after another, that no matter what the man had said—no matter how it might have shocked Vane or shaken his foundations—as long as Sophia was there standing beside him, everything would be all right.

Once returned to the house, he rekindled the fire and they spread a large blanket before it and reclined there with the box between them.

Hours before, Lord and Lady Meltenbourne had returned to the village to await the first possible ferry passage to London. Mr. and Mrs. Branigan and the baby were comfortably settled into their new quarters over the stable. As for Mr. and Mrs. Kettle, the excitement of the previous days had resulted in considerable fatigue for them. At Sophia’s urging, they rested in their old quarters adjacent to the kitchen, refusing to leave Camellia House until the Duke and Duchess of Claxton made their departure the next day.

Sophia removed the lid of the box and peered down at the envelope resting on top. “Don’t wait another moment, Vane. Read your mother’s letter.”

Vane stared at the letter, and at last returned it to the wooden box filled with old diaries, miniatures, and letters he had yet to examine but appeared to represent the history of her family, which had ended with her death. In his head, it was almost as if he could hear his mother’s voice.

Sophia touched his hand. “This is all so wonderful. I couldn’t be more happy for you.”

Vane stood from the floor, eyes wide and amazed.

Sophia peered up at him. “How do you feel now after reading her letter?”

“Broken.” He exhaled and straightened his shoulders. “Healed.”

He pulled her up to stand beside him.

“Then it was all worth it. The ruined cakes.” She beamed. “Lady Meltenbourne. The duel and the surprise Branigan baby.”

He rubbed his hands down her arms. It wasn’t a seductive touch, but one that spoke of affection. “Tomorrow we return to London.”

“Yes. Just in time for Christmas.”

“Before we go, I need to tell you something.”

“What’s that?”

Touching her chin, he lifted her gaze to his. He felt freed. Somehow the words that had seemed so difficult before weren’t any longer.

“I never wanted anything more than I wanted you,” he said quietly. “From the first moment I saw you.”

She said nothing, but her eyes softened and she let out a little breath.

He continued, having so much more to say. “On paper, I had everything, a title and wealth, to be a worthy husband to you. But on the inside, here in my heart and inside my head, I felt like a fraud. For living the life I’d lived and for doubting who I was. I believed myself wholly unworthy of someone as lovely as you. I know it sounds strange to say, but the happier we were, the more fearful I became that one day you would see me for what I was.”

She stared up into his eyes. “What you are is a good man.”

“But not then. That day, everything came crashing down. We lost the baby, and I believed I’d lost you too. When I should have stayed beside you and held you and proved to you I was someone else…I didn’t. I was wrong.” He touched her face and looked down into the green eyes that had always enchanted him. “I can’t take those memories and those hurts away, but I can tell you I love you. I have
always
loved you.”

I
love you too.
The words hovered at the back of her tongue. She did love him. Desperately. She always had. But she hesitated. Why? When she wanted to throw her arms around him and kiss him and cry yes to happiness. Yes, to forever.

“It’s all right,” he said. “I don’t expect you to say you love me too. Not after these few days. I just wanted you to know before we left Lacenfleet how I felt, now more than ever. Sophia, I wouldn’t have been the honorable man my mother describes in the letter if not for you.” He pointed at the wooden chest.

“That’s not true.”

I love you too.
Still, the words wouldn’t come.

She wanted to cry because it hurt her to be so begrudging, that she couldn’t simply let go of the fear that had consumed her for so long.

She’d forgiven him, but why couldn’t she forget?

“It is true.” He took her in his arms, embracing her tight, the naked admiration in his eyes almost more than she could bear, because she craved it so deeply, but feared once they left this magical place, that light would fade. She wouldn’t be able to survive losing him a second time. She needed more days like this one with Claxton before she could at last say good-bye to her doubts. A history. Then she could finally surrender everything. She could again give him her heart. “If you’d not been here, goose, I would have thrown that first quest on the fire with his portrait without ever having read it, a coward from my pain.”

She shook her head. “You’re the furthest thing from a coward. To hear what you have suffered at the hands of your own father, a man who should have treasured you. I can hardly bear it.”

“No pity.” He mouth found hers, breathtakingly ardent.

“Vane.”
She sighed. “No, never pity.”

He had fought his battle and won.

“I need you now,” he murmured. His mouth burned a hot path down her neck to her breasts.

Sophia stared into his eyes, her heart swollen with a love she couldn’t express in words, so strong and consuming she felt terrified from the immensity of it. “Claxton, I—”

He touched his fingertips to her lips. “I told you. You don’t have to say anything. Not until you’re ready.”

Sophia melted in his arms, lost to his touch. He scattered kisses along her temple and cheek. Down her throat.

“Let me make love to you now,” he rasped against her skin. “One last time before we go…then again in our bed in London.”

“
Please
,” she begged, grasping fistfuls of his shirt and tugging the linen free from his breeches.

“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 g
entl
eman 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.

“Where will
you
go tonight, Claxton?” asked Rabe, who also made ready to depart, donning his hat and gloves.

“To bed, I suppose.” Vane had given the servants two days’ leave in honor of the holiday. He wanted to be alone. He had not slept in two days, not since the fire. Not since Sophia had left Lacenfleet in the company of Lord Havering. If he could just force himself to fall asleep, he might stay there forever.

“To bed? But it’s Christmas Eve.” His cousin frowned.

“And?” Vane answered stolidly.

From outside came the sound of waits singing on the pavement outside his window, a song of hope and goodwill toward one’s common man, two sentiments he could not summon within himself.

“Come with me to Mother’s,” Rabe insisted.

“Thank you,” Vane answered. “But no.”

Haden jumped in. “I, for one, have accepted an invitation to participate in one generous family’s traditional holiday festivities.”

Vane spread the morning’s newspaper on the table and pretended to read. It wouldn’t do to murder his only remaining immediate relation on Christmas Eve. Perhaps, though, tomorrow.

“Well?” demanded Haden.

“Well, what?” Vane responded darkly.

“Aren’t you going to ask who invited me to spend Christmas Eve with them?”

“No,” Vane growled, his head feeling as if it might just explode.

“The two of you are imbeciles.” Rabe rolled his eyes. “Tell us, who invited you, Haden?”

Haden puffed his chest out and smiled. “The Duchess of Claxton.”

Rabe whistled through his teeth.

Vane glared at his brother, his hands seizing the paper. “No, she didn’t.”

Haden’s eyebrows jumped with mischief. “Yes, she did. That morning after the duel. I can only assume the invitation still stands.” Turning to gaze into the gilt-framed wall mirror, he whistled cheerfully and pinned a sprig of holly to his lapel.

“If I were you, I would assume,” Vane seethed, “that the invitation has been rescinded.”

“Last I checked I was still her brother by marriage. You might do well to—”