Never Desire a Duke (One Scandalous Season) (27 page)

She made the sudden decision to flee. To back away into the house, but suddenly Clarissa was there, and Daphne, pushing gently, taking the basket of oranges from her hands—

Everyone jostled past her. Perplexingly, Haden pressed a brotherly kiss to her cheek as he did the same. “Merry Christmas, your Grace.”

She turned to follow him, but the flat side of the door closed in her face.

Slowly she turned back around.

Vane stared at her in silence, tall, beautiful, and elegant. She flushed all over, no longer aware of the chill.

“Hello,” she whispered morosely. “Happy Christmas Eve.”

“It wasn’t your fault, Sophia.” He spoke all in a rush, his breath puffing, visible on the night air. “The day before, don’t you remember, after the Branigans’ baby was born? That whole damn bottle of brandy tipped over and spilled across the carpet and the floor? I’m a lazy, slovenly man, and I didn’t think to clean it up. There was just so much happening. It was enough to help the fire along.”

“No.” She shook her head, imagining for the thousandth time the ravenous path the flames had taken. If only she could go back and do things differently. “It was not the brandy’s fault. Not your fault, but mine. I’ll never forgive myself.”

He shrugged. “The house was old. Neglected. In need of repairs. Mr. Branigan, it seems, is a skilled carpenter, and being that he’s in need of employment appears the perfect candidate to undertake them. In the spring, he’ll enlist help from some men in the village.”

The stone in her chest did not grow any lighter.

“Mr. Branigan can’t replace your dear mother’s letters, yours and Haden’s.” Just speaking of those treasures lost renewed her regret. Her voice became so thick she could hardly speak. “Your precious box of memories. All destroyed because of me.”

“Oh, that. I had already placed Haden’s letter in my coat pocket and gave it to him the next day. As for the rest, we managed to save the most important thing here.” From his pocket he pulled a small rectangular box tied with gold ribbon. He shook it gently. Inside, something slid back and forth, bumping the sides. “It is my most precious treasure, really. But you can look.”

An overwhelming curiosity overcame her, a desperate need to see the item in the box, to know that something had been salvaged. Anything to lessen the smothering guilt she’d carried since that day.

“You’re certain?” She stepped closer.

“Yes, look.” He rested the box on his palm.

She fell back. “No. I don’t deserve to see.”

He shook the box again. “I insist.”

With the box rested upon his open hand, she slid the ribbon free and lifted the lid.

A small mirror lay faceup in the box. Her own face peered back at her.

“A mirror,” she whispered, not feeling much better after all. All those letters, the miniatures. Lost. “Not the slightest bit of charring. Now, to whom did this mirror belong? Your mother?”

“No, silly,” Claxton murmured, his gaze steady and somehow questioning. “The mirror I bought from a trinket vendor for twopence on the ride over.”

Her thoughts buckled, making no sense of his words. “I don’t understand.”

“It’s not the mirror that is my most precious treasure, goose.
I
t is you
.”

She must have misheard him. But no, because the words he’d spoken still echoed in her ears.

She backed away. “Don’t say that.”

He followed, the house lamp illuminating his face and hair and the snowflakes falling to dust his shoulders. “Not that you’re a possession, mind you, but you are my most special thing. The box that burned held my past, Sophia. So be it. It is gone. You are my future.”

She could only listen, stunned and uncertain of what to feel or say.

“By the way, it is Christmas Eve. There is a gift in this box for you under the mirror.” Again, he lifted the box, holding it between them.

She shook her head. “I don’t deserve a gift.”

“Well, too late,” he asserted crisply. “If you don’t at least look at it, you’ll hurt my feelings.”

She frowned and lifted the mirror. A folded piece of paper lay concealed beneath.

No, not the list. The list had burned and destroyed Camellia House, along with her dreams.

“What is that?” she asked warily.

“It’s a list. I wrote you another.”

No. Her breath evaporated in her throat. He wouldn’t be that cruel. Would he?

“Open it,” he urged.

“No,” she said, too afraid, turning away from him, preferring instead to face the stone wall.

She heard a sound behind her, the soft shuffle of the box against a twopence mirror and paper.

He cleared his throat. “Reasons Vane loves Sophia. That’s what this list is called.”

Sophia fisted her hand against her mouth. Vane loves Sophia. How could he love her after what she had done?

“That Sophia snores, and I do not.” He paused and inhaled sharply. “That Sophia has such pretty toes. That she does not complain when I call her ‘goose.’”

She whirled toward him, eyes wide and filled with tears.

“I’m not finished,” he said, holding up two pages. “You see, this list is much longer than the other one.”

His eyes shone with such earnestness, she gasped. “Vane.”

“I could have written more, of course, but those idiots made me get in the carriage before I was finished.” He reached to brush her tears away. “Havering feared we’d miss the games.”

She turned her cheek in to his hand. “How can you forgive me?”

“I already have.” Eyes damp, he shoved the box into his pocket and pressed the pages into her hands. “The question is, my darling, can you forgive me?”

“There is nothing to forgive,” she cried. “I would change nothing about you, not now, not before. That horrible list I forced you to write. I’ll never think of it again.”

Grasping the same hands, he kissed them. “Sophia, please come home. I haven’t slept. I can’t without you.”

“Home?”

“Yes, our home here in London. In Lacenfleet. Wherever I am, be there with me. Always. I love you, Sophia. I love you.” His hands came up, framing her face, and he kissed her. “You.”

“You asked me that night if I would choose you again, if I had the chance. I never had the chance to answer.” She hiccuped, laughing. “Yes. Oh yes, Claxton. A thousand times, I would choose you again.” She threw herself into his arms. “Always. I love you too.”

He pressed his lips to her nose. Her cheek. “Merry Christmas, darling.”

“Reasons Sophia loves Vane,” Sophia exclaimed into the night. “He is mine. All mine.”

M
erry Christmas morning, darling.”

Sophia awakened to a kiss on her nose and a paradise of warm male skin and layers and layers of blankets.

“Mmmm.” She smiled. “Merry Christmas.”

She stretched across the bed, then suddenly remembered. “We’re not late, are we?”

“No, it’s still early yet. We’ve plenty of time.”

Her entire family, including Wolverton, had traveled to Lacenfleet to observe the dedication of the new church bell, to be rung for the first time on Christmas Day in memoriam of Claxton’s mother. Afterward, she and Claxton and the family would host lunch and games at Camellia House for the children of the orphan home, with Mr. Burridge and Mr. Garswood and numerous others from the village as invited guests.

Relaxing again, she sighed happily. “Could you bring Vinson to me, please? He must be hungry.”

The bed creaked as Vane left her to bend over the cradle. Dim morning light filtered through the draperies to define the deeply cut muscles at either side of his abdomen, above the waist of his low-slung linen drawers. Though she’d given him a nightshirt as an early Christmas gift, he’d worn the garment for only a blink the evening before. Remembering the pleasure he’d brought her after discarding the linen shirt on the bedside table, she reconsidered and wished she hadn’t asked him to bring the baby, who from his lack of noisemaking seemed to be perfectly content.

“If he’s sleeping, don’t bother him and come back to bed,” she hastily amended.

She heard the movement of the baby’s bedclothes and her husband’s low chuckle. “I was just thinking how quiet he’s been and that we’d been allowed to sleep uncommonly late.” He lifted a tightly swaddled bundle and turned the opening so that she could see within. Lord Misrule’s painted wooden face peered back at her. “Now I know why.”

“Daphne!” they both exclaimed.

All week her sister had taken immense pleasure in planning Lord Misrule’s next act of mischief.

A half hour later, with the flush of passion still on his cheeks, Vane brought Sophia her dressing gown. “Let’s go rescue our baby from your sisters.”

Though Camellia House, returned to its intended glory, had required a full staff hired from the village to tend to the house and the grounds, they met no one in the corridor outside their chamber, only polished wood walls and new carpet. The Duke and Duchess of Claxton had given their new retainers two days off to celebrate Christmas with their families in the village, in what they intended to be an annual tradition. The Branigans remained in residence, but they, like the Kettles, had become something closer to family.

Holding hands, Sophia and Vane descended the staircase, pausing for a brief moment midway to simply observe their well-loved guests and listen to their lively chatter. Sophia gave a sigh of happy contentment at seeing Wolverton in a chair beside the fire, holding three-month-old Vinson.

Fresh-cut laurel adorned the mantel behind him, verdant and glossy. The day before, they’d all ventured into the forest in a big raucous group to gather greens and cut a Christmas yew.

The house itself glowed with new life. Mr. Branigan and the other skilled carpenters from the village had made the necessary repairs in the spring, and no trace of last December’s fire remained. But more important, new life had come to Camellia House when Sophia had given birth to Vinson in the ducal bed in early October, with Mrs. Kettle and Mrs. Branigan acting as midwives.

“Merry Christmas, Grandfather,” she said, dipping to press a kiss to his cheek.

“Merry Christmas, dear,” he said. Vinson, at seeing her, began to wriggle. Wolverton’s old eyes opened wide, and he lifted the baby against his shoulder for a soothing pat on the back. “I’ve already got my best present. Here he is. That’s a good boy.”

But the round-faced child started to fuss.

Daphne reached up from where she sat reading a book at his feet. “I’ll take him again, Grandfather. I think he wants his auntie Daphne to sing him a Christmas carol.”

Clarissa turned from where she played with William, the Branigans’ one-year-old little boy. “Sister, dearest, your singing will only traumatize the child. Clearly he’s asking for his auntie Clarissa.”

Claxton kissed Sophia’s temple and murmured, “Best you rescue the poor boy now.”

And indeed, Sophia reached—

But Margaretta swooped in and took the baby in her arms. “He only wants his grandmamma.” She kissed the baby’s nose. “My sweet little Vinson. How your grandpapa and uncle would have adored you.”

“Breakfast is served,” called Mrs. Kettle from the direction of the kitchen. “Mrs. Branigan has made her special Christmas morning meat pie.”

“But we’re still missing several gentlemen!” called Clarissa, her eyebrows furrowed.

“More of Mrs. Branigan’s pie for us!” Daphne declared with a mischievous grin.

A tall figure turned from the nearby wall, where a large portrait of the Duchess Elizabeth hung, and joined them as they all made their way to the dining room.

“I’m still amazed, every time I look at it,” marveled Lord Haden, his hair still tousled from a night’s sleep. “The likeness is astounding. Sophia, I can’t thank you enough for thinking to have the portrait done.”

The painting had been Sophia’s birthday gift to Claxton the previous July, created by an artist who utilized Mr. Garswood’s miniature as inspiration. As for the damaged portrait of the old duke that Sophia had hidden away in the attic months before, the canvas had been painstakingly repaired and now hung in the cavernous gallery of their London home between a portrait of Vane’s great-grandfather and himself.

In the dining room, Daphne crossed to the window, where she peered out through the new peacock-blue draperies Mrs. Branigan had finished and hung with pride just the week before. “At last! Clarissa, our handsome husbands have returned from their walk about the property with Mr. Kettle and Mr. Branigan.”

Clarissa joined her, William perched on her hip. “They are handsome, aren’t they? And look, they’ve brought more mistletoe.”

The two of them broke into a round of delighted giggles.

“Girls!” chided Lady Harwick, momentarily looking up from Vinson’s laughing face. “Not at breakfast.”

Claxton pulled Sophia’s chair from the table, and she stood beside him, reveling in the familiar banter. To have her family here, at this happy place with her and Vane, meant more to her than anything. He moved to stand behind her, his arms encircling her waist and pulling her close.

“I believe my mother would be very happy if she were here to see,” he said, nuzzling her cheek.

“Of that, I have no doubt.”

“This is the best Christmas ever,” he murmured.

Sophia smiled. “You said the same thing last year.”

“Every Christmas will be my best Christmas as long as I have you.” He pressed a tender kiss to her temple. “I love you. Merry Christmas, goose.”