Never Surrender to a Scoundrel (31 page)

“
Mother!
” cried Clarissa.

She rushed down the front steps and threw her arms around the woman who stood there, dressed in yellow. Dominick followed at a slower pace, watching the melee of feminine excitement that ensued. How quickly Clarissa had forgotten him, and for good reason—for the first time since Abigail's birth, her mother had come for a visit, and this time, she had not come alone.

“Sophia! Daphne!” Clarissa exclaimed, stunned by her family's arrival. “Where's Christian? And where's Michael?”

The duke and duchess's son, Christian, was seven months older than her Abigail, and Michael, the oldest of the family children, was now nearly six years old.

“They're with Claxton and Raikes,” Daphne answered, kissing her sister's cheek.

“You left them behind?” Clarissa's voice cracked with disappointment.

“Of course not,” replied the smiling duchess as she moved past, headed straight for the children who had arrived in the arms of Colin and Lady Stade. “They'll be along in a moment.”

Daphne broke free of Clarissa's embrace to follow her.

Just then, a second and a third coach rumbled through the gates. Then a fourth.

Clarissa leapt off the earth, clapping her hands.

“Everyone's here!” She seized her mother's arm. “Is everyone here? Even Wolverton?”

“Wolverton refused to stay behind. Otherwise, we'd have been here two days earlier. We've been traveling slowly to ensure his comfort,” her mother answered.

Daphne returned with Samuel in her arms. “He's beautiful, Clarissa.”

Lady Margaretta peered down at the baby and touched his cheek. “Hello, Samuel. Oh, give him to his grandmother.”

Tears welled in Clarissa's eyes, and emotion tightened her throat. There had been dark days, not so long ago, when she couldn't have imagined this happy moment. Her gaze found Dominick's. He stood on the steps beside his family, his arms crossed over his chest, smiling at her.

Sophia returned, with Abigail in her arms. “She's not a baby anymore, is she? She's a picture of you, Clarissa.”

Daphne reached for the little girl's hand and squeezed it affectionately, teasing “I think she looks more like me.”

Lady Margaretta looked up from the baby in her arms, her eyes shining on her youngest daughter—and then on her son-in-law. “I'm so happy for you both.”

“We are happy as well, Mother. So happy.” Clarissa joined arms with her mother and sisters—with Abigail and Samuel perched in the center—and for a moment they formed a circle. “I can't believe you are all here. It's a dream come true.”

“Dreams
do
come true,” said Daphne.

“And more will come true. Just wait and see.”

The other coaches and their horses scrabbled to a stop behind the first.

“Go see Wolverton,” her mother urged softly.

Clarissa left their circle, pausing at the first carriage, waving through the windows at Claxton and Raikes and two little faces as they peered out. The third carriage, conveying servants who traveled with the family, moved around them and disappeared toward the back of the house.

The gentlemen and two rather grumpy-faced children in rumpled clothes disembarked, and Clarissa exchanged kisses and greetings with all of them.

“Is Wolverton there, inside?” she asked.

“Yes, he is, and he's waiting to see you,” replied Claxton.

“In the meantime, I'll get his chair.” Raikes set off toward the back of the carriage, but footmen, at Dominick's direction, had already lowered the chair to the ground. The two men shook hands.

Clarissa climbed the steps into the carriage, where shadows and the scent of soap and tobacco met her. Wolverton sat on the bench, smartly dressed in a traveling suit. He leaned forward, reaching for her. “There you are, my granddaughter.”

 He framed her face in his hands and kissed her cheek.

“I'm so happy that you've come, my lord,” she murmured.

“These old bones don't travel well anymore.” He let out a rusty chuckle. “I may decide never to leave.”

A deeper voice answered from the door—Dominick stood there, peering inside. “You're welcome to remain at Darthaven as long as you wish.”

“Normally I don't travel anymore, but I had to come to see you because I wanted to tell you myself.”

“Tell us what?” answered Clarissa, taking a seat beside him.

“Come,” he said, reaching for Dominick, who complied by entering and kneeling beside the earl.

He held both of their hands, his face flushed with excitement. “We're all free.”

“Free?” said Clarissa.

“St. Guerlain and his Black Violins. They are…no more. We and our children can all now live our lives as they should be led. Without fear. Without further harm.”

“How did it happen?” asked Dominick, his gaze intense.

“Well, that story will take quite a bit of telling. Perhaps tonight at dinner.” Wolverton smiled, his eyebrows raised. “Let me just say for now, we owe everything to Lords Havering and  Haden and…others.” His smile broadened. “Such brave young men. They are the new lions of the empire, and England is greater for them.”

Clarissa reached for Dominick's hand. “Do I dare believe it?”

Wolverton nodded. “Believe it, and know it would not have been possible if not for your own husband's bravery in leading us all to the truth before it was too late.”

Clarissa's chest constricted, filled with love for Dominick.

“I'm so proud of him,” she answered, looking between them.

“As am I. Now give your grandfather a kiss for forcing you to marry him in the first place.” He grinned, his aged eyes crinkling at the corners, and tapped his cheek with his finger. “Aren't I an astute judge of character?”

“You certainly are.” She leaned forward and kissed him.

Dominick chuckled. “I think I have to kiss you as well, then, for forcing me to marry Clarissa.”

“A handshake will do.” The earl laughed.

A moment later, two burly footmen carried Wolverton up the front steps of Darthaven in his chair. Clarissa and Dominick followed, hand in hand. At the top of the stairs, their families waited in a loud, moving jumble, laughing and chattering. A cool wind rustled the leaves of the trees.

“Just look at that,” said Dominick. “Did you ever think to see them all here together at Darthaven?”

“It looks like home, doesn't it?”

“It makes me very happy to hear you say that.” Dominick drew Clarissa to a stop beside him and looked into her face.

“You
are
a hero, you know,” she murmured.

“I'm honored to be recognized by your grandfather as such, but I'm just a man who did as any man would have done.”

“But you aren't just
any
man. You're my husband, and my hero, every day. I love you.”

“I love you too.” He bent and murmured, “It's
you
and our children who make Darthaven home for me.”

He lifted her chin with his hand and kissed her. She sighed, brimming over with happiness. The crowd on the steps above them grew instantly hushed.

“Everyone is watching,” he murmured against her lips.

“I don't care,” she murmured against his.

She
didn't
care. She wanted the whole world to know how much she loved him.

Laughing, she threw her arms around his shoulders and kissed him again.

The sound of horses' hooves striking earth sounded again, along with carriage wheels. She and Dominick turned to observe an approaching conveyance.

Clarissa looked to the top of the steps. “More visitors? Who is it?”

“It's Havering,” called Claxton. “And my brother, Lord Haden.”

“Aren't they lucky?” smiled Clarissa. “They got a whole carriage to themselves?”

“Oh, no. They aren't alone,” replied her mother.

“Who else is with them?” she asked.

Wolverton winked. “You'll just have to wait and find out.”

T
he scent of gingerbread in the air!” exclaimed Sir Keyes, his aged blue eyes sparkling with mischief. Winter wind swept through open doors behind him, carrying the sound of carriages from the street. “And there's mistletoe to be had from the peddler's stall on the corner.”

Though his pantaloons drooped off his slight frame to an almost comical degree, the military orders and decorations emblazoned across his chest attested to a life of valor years before. Leaning heavily on his cane, the old man produced a knotty green cluster from behind his back, strung from a red ribbon, and held it aloft between himself and Sophia.

“Such happy delights can mean only one thing.” He grinned roguishly—or as roguishly as a man of his advanced years could manage. “It is once again the most magical time of year.”

He tapped his gloved finger against his rosy cheek with expectant delight.

“Indeed!” The diminutive Dowager Countess of Dundalk stepped between them, smiling up from beneath a fur-trimmed turban. She swatted the mistletoe, sending the sphere swinging to and fro. “The time of year when old men resort to silly provincial traditions to coax kisses from ladies young enough to be their granddaughters.”

At the side of her turban a diamond aigrette held several large purple feathers. The plumes bobbed wildly as she spoke. “Well, it
is
almost Christmastide.” Sophia winked at Sir Keyes, and with a gentle hand to his shoulder, she warmly bussed his cheek. “I'm so glad you've come.”

A widower of two years, he had recently begun accompanying Lady Dundalk about town, something that made Sophia exceedingly happy, since both had long been dear to her heart.

Sir Keyes plucked a white berry from the cluster, glowing with satisfaction at having claimed his holiday kiss.

“I see that only a handful remain,” Sophia observed. “Best use them wisely.”

His eyebrows rose up on his forehead, as white and unruly as uncombed wool. “I shall have to find your sisters, then, and posthaste.”

“Libertine!” muttered the dowager countess, with a fond roll of her eyes.

Behind them, two footmen with holly sprigs adorning their coat buttonholes secured the doors. Another presented a silver tray to Sir Keyes, upon which he deposited the price of Sophia's kiss and proceeded toward the ballroom, the mistletoe cluster swinging from the lions' head handle of his cane. Together, Sophia and the dowager countess followed arm in arm, through columns entwined in greenery, toward the sounds of music and voices raised in jollity.

With Parliament having recessed mid-December for Christmas, the districts of St. James's, Mayfair, and Piccadilly were largely deserted by that fashionable portion of London's population oft defined as the
ton
. Like most of their peers, Sophia's family's Christmases were usually spent in the country, but her grandfather's recent frailties had precluded any travel. So his immediate family, consisting of a devoted daughter-in-law and three granddaughters, had resolved to spend the season in London.

But today was Lord Wolverton's eighty-seventh birthday, and by Sophia's tally, no fewer than two hundred of the elusive
ton
had crept out from the proverbial winter woodwork to wish her grandfather well. By all accounts, the party was a success.

In the ballroom, candlelight reflected off the crystal teardrops of chandeliers high above their heads, as well as the numerous candelabras and lusters positioned about the room, creating beauty in everything its golden glow touched. The fragrance of fresh-cut laurel and fir, brought in from the country just that afternoon, mingled pleasantly with the perfume of the hothouse gardenias, tuberose, and stephanotis arranged in Chinese vases about the room.

Though there would be no dancing tonight, a piano quintet provided an elegant musical accompaniment to the hum of laughter and conversation.

“Lovely!” declared Lady Dundalk. “Your mother told me you planned everything, to the last detail.”

“I'm pleased by how splendidly everything has turned out.” The dowager countess slipped an arm around Sophia's shoulders and squeezed with affection. “The only thing missing, of course, is the Duke of Claxton.”

The warm smile on Sophia's lips froze like ice, and it felt as if the walls of the room suddenly converged at the mere mention of her husband. It didn't seem to matter how long he had been away, her emotions were still so raw.

Lady Dundalk peered up at her, concern in her eyes. “I know you wish the duke could be here tonight, and certainly for Christmas. No word on when our esteemed diplomat will return to England?”

Sophia shook her head, hoping the woman would perceive none of the heartache she feared was written all over her face. “Perhaps in the spring.”

A vague response at best, but the truth was she did not know when Claxton would return. His infrequent, impersonal correspondence made no such predictions, and she had not lowered herself to ask.

They came to stand near the fire, where a delicious heat warmed the air.

“Eighty-seven years old?” bellowed Sir Keyes. “Upon my word, Wolverton, you can't be a day over seventy, else that would make me—” Lifting a hand, he counted through its knobby fingers, grinning. “Older than dirt!”

“We
are
older than dirt, and thankful to be so.” Her grandfather beamed up from where he sat in his bath chair, his cheeks pink from excitement. His party had been a surprise for the most part, with him believing until just an hour ago the event would be only a small family affair. He appeared truly astounded and deeply touched. “Thank you all for coming.”

Small, gaily beribboned parcels of Virginian tobacco, chocolate, and his favorite souchong tea lay upon his lap. Sophia gathered them and placed them beneath the lowest boughs of the potted tabletop yew behind them, one that would remain unadorned until Christmas Eve, when the family would gather to decorate the tree in the custom of her late grandmother's German forebears.

Her family.
Their worried glances and gentle questions let her know they were aware that her marriage had become strained. But she loved them so much! Which was why she'd shielded them from the full magnitude of the truth—the truth being that when Claxton had accepted his foreign appointment in May, he had all but abandoned her and their marriage. The man she'd once loved to distraction had become nothing more than a cold and distant stranger.

But for Sophia, Christmas had always been a time of self-contemplation, and the New Year, a time for renewal. Like so many others, she made a habit of making resolutions. By nature, she craved happiness, and if she could not have happiness with Claxton, she would have it some other way.

She had given herself until the New Year to suitably resolve her marital difficulties. The day after Christmas she would go to Camellia House, located just across the Thames in the small village of Lacenfleet, and sequester herself away from curious eyes and the opinions of her family, so that she alone could pen the necessary letter.

She was going to ask Claxton for a legal separation. Then he could go on living his life just as he pleased, with all the freedoms and indulgences he clearly desired. But she wanted something in return—a baby—and even if that meant joining him for a time in Vienna, she intended to have her way.

Just the thought of seeing Claxton again sent her spiraling into an exquisitely painful sort of misery. She had no wish to see him—and yet he never left her thoughts.

No doubt her presence would throw the private life His Grace had been living into chaos, and she would find herself an unwanted outsider. No doubt he had a mistress—or two—as so many husbands abroad did. Even now, the merest fleeting thought of him in the arms of another woman made her stomach clench. He had betrayed her so appallingly she could hardly imagine allowing him to touch her again. But a temporary return to intimacies with her estranged husband was the only way she could have the child she so desperately wanted.

Sophia bent to adjust the green tartan blanket over Wolverton's legs, ensuring that His Lordship would be protected not only from any chill but also the bump and jostle of the throng gathered about him.

“May I bring you something, Grandfather? Perhaps some punch?”

His blue eyes brightened.

“Yes, dear.” He winked and gestured for her to come closer. When she complied, he lowered his voice. “With a dash of my favorite maraschino added, if you please, in honor of the occasion. Only don't tell your mother. You know just as well as I that she and my physician are in collusion to deprive me of all the joys of life.”

Sophia knew he didn't believe any such thing, but still, it was great fun to continue the conspiratorial banter between them. Each moment with him, she knew, was precious. His joy this evening would be a memory she would always treasure.

“I'd be honored to keep your secret, my lord,” Sophia said, pressing a kiss to his cheek.

“What secret?” Lady Harwick, Sophia's dark-haired mother, approached from behind.

A picture of well-bred elegance, Margaretta conveyed warmth and good humor in every glance and gesture. Tonight she wore violet silk, one of the few colors she had allowed into her wardrobe since the tragic loss of her eldest son, Vinson, at sea four years ago—followed all too soon by the death of Sophia's father, the direct heir to the Wolverton title.

“If we told you, then it wouldn't be a secret,” Sophia answered jovially, sidestepping her. “His Lordship has requested a glass of punch, and since I'm his undisputed favorite, at least for this evening, I will fetch it for him.”

Wolverton winked at Sophia. “I shall have the secret pried out of him before you return.” With that, Margaretta bent to straighten the same portion of Lord Wolverton's blanket her daughter had straightened only moments before.

Still a beautiful, vibrant woman, Margaretta drew the gazes of a number of the more mature gentlemen in the room. Not for the first time, Sophia wondered if her mother might entertain the idea of marrying again.

Sophia crossed the floor to the punch bowl, pausing several times to speak to friends and acquaintances along the way. Though most of the guests were older friends of Lord Wolverton, the presence of Sophia's pretty younger sisters, Daphne and Clarissa, had assured the attendance of numerous ladies and gentlemen from the younger set. Her fair-haired siblings, born just a year apart and assumed by many to be twins, would make their debut in the upcoming season. That is, if favored suitors did not snatch them off the market before Easter.

At the punch bowl, Sophia dipped the ladle and filled a crystal cup. With the ladle's return to the bowl, another hand retrieved it—a gloved hand upon which glimmered an enormous sapphire ring.

“Your Grace?” a woman's voice inquired.

Sophia looked up into a beautiful, heart-shaped face, framed by stylish blond curls, one she instantly recognized but did not recall greeting in the reception line. The gown worn by the young woman, fashioned of luxurious peacock-blue silk and trimmed with gold and scarlet cording, displayed her generous décolletage to a degree one would not normally choose for the occasion of an off-season birthday party for an eighty-seven-year-old lord.

“Good evening, Lady…”

“Meltenbourne,” the young woman supplied, with a delicate laugh. “You might recall me as Annabelle Ellesmere? We debuted the same season.”

Yes, of course. Annabelle, Lady Meltenbourne, née Ellesmere. Voluptuous, lush, and ambitious, she had once carried quite the flaming torch for Claxton, and upon learning of the duke's betrothal to Sophia, she had not been shy about expressing her displeasure to the entire
ton
over not being chosen as his duchess. Not long after, Annabelle had married a very rich but very old earl.

“Such a lovely party.” The countess sidled around the table to stand beside her, so close Sophia could smell her exotic perfume, a distinctive fragrance of ripe fruit and oriental spice. “Your grandfather must be a wonderful man to be so resoundingly adored.”

“Thank you, Lady Meltenbourne. Indeed, he is.”

Good breeding prevented Sophia from asking Annabelle why she was present at the party at all. She had addressed each invitation herself, and without a doubt, Lord and Lady Meltenbourne had not been on the guest list.

“I don't believe I've been introduced to Lord Meltenbourne.” Sophia perused the room, but saw no more unfamiliar faces.

“Perhaps another time,” the countess answered vaguely, offering nothing more but a shrug. Plucking a red sugar drop from a candy dish, she gazed adoringly upon the confection and giggled. “I shouldn't give in to such temptations, but I admit to being a shamefully impulsive woman.” She pushed the sweet into her mouth and reacted with an almost sensual ecstasy, closing her eyes and smiling. “Mmmmm.”

Meanwhile a gentleman had approached to refill his punch glass and gaped at the countess as she savored the sugar drop, and in doing so, he missed his cup altogether. Punch splashed over his hand and onto the table. Lady Meltenbourne selected another sweet from the dish, oblivious to his response. Or perhaps not. Within moments, servants appeared to tidy the mess and the red-faced fellow rushed away.

Sophia let out a slow, calming breath and smothered her first instinct, which was to order the countess to
spit out the sugar drop
and immediately quit the party. After all, time had passed. They had all matured. Christmas was a time for forgiveness. For bygones to be bygones.

Besides, London in winter could be rather dreary. This one in particular had been uncommonly foggy and cold. Perhaps Annabelle simply sought human companionship and had come along with another guest. Sophia certainly understood loneliness. Whatever the reason for the woman's attendance, her presence was of no real concern. Lady Meltenbourne and her now candy-sugared lips were just as welcome tonight as anyone else. The party would be over soon, and Sophia wished to spend the remainder with her grandfather.