Claxton grunted in assent.
“And that the child, once born, will live with me to be raised by me and my family.”
Her words came like a cudgel to the back of his head.
“No.” He shook his head, a snarl forming on his lips. “I don’t agree to that, not completely.”
“You will,” she answered calmly, hovering at the edge of the candlelight.
He felt dragged in the dirt. Drawn and quartered.
“You’ve got this all worked out in your mind already, don’t you?” he growled.
She responded in a quiet voice. “I had a lot of time alone to think about it.”
He shook his head. “Again, I won’t agree.”
“We will work out all the details then.” She circled round the end of the settee.
“Whatever,” he snapped.
From the cushion, she collected her valise, her cap, and the oil lamp and stood like a woman preparing for an arduous journey. “Unless there’s something else, I am very tired and shall retire.”
Only she didn’t leave. She hovered there, staring at him.
“What do you expect?” he barked. “That I should bid you a good night?”
It was not a good night. It was a terrible night.
She looked him up and down. Her lip twitched as if she found him lacking. “I don’t expect anything from you, Claxton. I haven’t for a very long time.”
With a glare, she disappeared down the corridor and up the stairs. The glow of the lamp dimmed with her every step, until he was abandoned to deeper darkness, with only a dying fire by which to see. Her footsteps grew faint, and at last there came the sound of a door closing.
The sound gutted him. Only in the ensuing silence did he acknowledge what he’d done. He had agreed to a legal separation from the only woman he had ever loved.
There were men on the battlefield who when faced with overwhelming force chose to blast their brains out rather than be torn apart by their enemy. In one fell moment, he’d done much the same, murdering his dreams rather than exposing himself to failure. He’d never been a coward in life or in war, but when faced with the disdain in his wife’s bewitching green eyes, he had run like a callow boy.
He muttered an oath and said to the portrait over the mantel, “Are you quite happy?”
The painted countenance responded with a sneer of disdain, as his father had so often done in life. Of course, anyone else looking at the portrait would have noted only a dignified mien, the same expression emulated in countless portraits of important men. But Vane saw it. The artist had captured the dark glimmer, there in the farthest reaches of those steely blue eyes. Likely, his father had been an insufferable ass during each sitting. Oh yes, it was there. The elder lordship’s general attitude of contempt for all things that breathed.
Throwing open one cabinet and then another, he searched for a bottle of something,
Not tonight. Tonight he wanted to get ape drunk. His search yielded no such paradise, and the wine cellar was most certainly locked and the key in Mrs. Kettle’s possession down in the village. Though less desirable in the given moment, he did, however, find another lamp and a store of oil.
With the lamp lighting his way, he followed the path Sophia had taken, noting the waning light seeping out from under the door of the ducal bedchamber,
Everything was familiar here, each panel and stone etched into his memory. There were his books. His drawings. Even his collection of miniature soldiers painted by his own boyish hand, waiting just where he’d left them on a table beside the window. But there were no linens or pillows. There wasn’t even a mattress on the bed, just bare ropes. A glance into the other rooms—
He’d passed many a night in less gracious circumstances, on cold earth, unyielding stone, or creaking, damp boards, believing anything was better than a bed provided by his father’s tainted largesse.
Though narrow and shorter than he by a good foot, the settee would more than suit for the next few hours.
Sophia stepped back from the fire she’d only just managed, after numerous failed attempts, to coax to life. Accustomed since birth to the skilled assistance of servants, she couldn’t recall the last time she’d built her own. That she’d successfully accomplished the task gave her some satisfaction. If she could build a fire, she could certainly survive her future alone.
A strong wind battered the house, rattling the shutters. The cavernous room, despite its smart insulation of wood paneling, heavy draperies, and wall hangings, remained as frigid as her husband’s winter-blue eyes. The fire, at least, made the chill bearable. Even so, she crossed her arms at her waist, a pitiful self-embrace, fearing she would never be warm again.
Claxton had agreed to her demand. She ought to feel triumphant or at least satisfied, but she didn’t.
Behind her stood a wonderful old estate bed, made up with fine linens and thick velvet curtains, the latter of which she would not draw completely closed out of fear she would be unaware if the old house caught on fire and burned down around her. She craved the oblivion of sleep, but despite her weariness, with each passing moment, the tangle of thoughts in her head only grew more out of hand.
In some small way, she was grateful to be at Camellia House and alone in this unfamiliar room. There had never been a time in her twenty-two years when her life’s biggest decisions were not decided by family committee. By her parents, or her grandfather, or the lively chattering pair that were her sisters, or some combination thereof. All her life, she’d welcomed as much as suffered the constant barrage of remarks and opinions that determined her path.
She’d rather overexaggerated to Claxton her grandfather’s involvement in the matter of their separation. She and the earl had never discussed the possibility of a separation or the involvement of attorneys. When she returned to London, the news might come as a shock to Wolverton and, indeed, the rest of her family.
She couldn’t even bring herself to imagine their reactions. They loved her, yes. There was not a doubt in her mind that they would support her through anything, but still, a formal separation from Claxton, even a private one, would mean some degree of social disgrace for her and the associated repercussions. If Claxton received an invitation to a party or ball or dinner, then she would not and neither would any member of her family.
Though she believed her family possessed the stature to weather such a storm, she had no wish to ruin her sisters’ upcoming season. For young women whose very futures depended on a successful match, any scandal could be calamitous. No matter how lovely and charming Daphne and Clarissa were or how besotted their suitors, if any parent or adviser caught a whiff of disgrace, no offer would be forthcoming.
Thankfully Claxton had agreed to endeavor toward having another child, which if all went accordingly, would delay their public scandal for up to a year, or…perhaps longer. A flush rose to her cheeks, imagining how many times they might have to attempt conception. Even now she could not comprehend separating herself from the emotion that their lovemaking had always inspired.
Attired in a flannel sleeping gown, Sophia filled the bed warmer with coals and after situating the brass pan, climbed onto the enormous feather mattress. The floor above her creaked, sounding almost like ghostly footsteps. In that regard, the knowledge of Claxton’s presence gave her comfort.
Her heart whispered his name. Her hand curled into the linens, and a sigh broke from her lips.
And yet…she’d never felt more lonely.
And on that sad little thought, the tears commenced.
The silent presence of the old house embraced her, making no judgments or efforts to dissect her thoughts, her fears, or her motivations. Nor did it chastise her when she wished, against all good sense, that Claxton—the most colossal ass on God’s green earth—was lying here beside her.
