Never Desire a Duke

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.”

“My apologies. I assure you the slight was not intentional. I must not have seen you.” He chose his words carefully, so as to install an appropriate distance between them. “Having only returned to London this morning, I admit to being distracted and wishing to spend the evening with my wife, her Grace. I believed her to have come here as well, or else I’d not have made the trip out.”

“Oh—” Her pretty face scrunched into a scowl, and she swiped a silencing hand at him. “Shush!”

“I’m more than happy to shush,” he muttered to himself, then urged her more loudly, “Now, come on. Fasten your dress.”

Each moment ticked by in his mind, loud as cannon fire. What must the servants outside be thinking?

She shoved the hair from her face. “Your brother told me how pretty I was. I suppose I just…wanted him to be you. The two of you do look alike.” She giggled, unaware or uncaring that her sleeve slipped off her shoulder, nearly baring a breast. “At least when one is drinking brandy and the light is sufficiently dim.”

He gave her his back and exhaled through his teeth.

“Hurry along,” he urged gruffly. “The weather is foul, and we should be off before it worsens.” A glance over his shoulder provided confirmation that she worked to fasten the front of her bodice.

“I beg you, Claxton, don’t tell Meltenbourne.” She smoothed her hair. “You are already quite a sore spot with him—”

He gritted his teeth. “I shouldn’t be.”

“—and he can become overwrought over the slightest thing.”

The slightest thing? Vane recalled his reaction just moments ago, when he’d believed it was Sophia he’d discovered with a lover. The emotions that had exploded inside him; yes, overwrought might describe how he had felt.

“I don’t see what good telling Meltenbourne would do any of us. Most especially me.” He’d already been called Lothario once tonight and had no wish to incur more of the same allegations, not with matters so precarious between himself and Sophia.

“I know it may seem ridiculous for me to say it, but I really—” She hiccuped. “I really do care for my