Hours later, Vane sat up and rubbed his hands over his face. His breath puffed out before him, visible in the morning chill. A quick glance at the distant window showed the glass to be completely glazed with frost.
He had not slept well.
Some time before dawn, the fire burned out. Not only that, but one of the settee’s damned legs, located just above his head, had abruptly failed. The sudden movement had jammed the top of his head against the armrest. Too exhausted to make any effort to repair either situation, he had passed the remainder of the early-morning hours uncomfortably cold, hovering between sleep and awareness, continually conscious of the world’s lopsided slant.
Furthermore, the hellish scene that had taken place between him and Sophia the night before had played continually, even in his dreams—or rather nightmares. Nightmares, because to his horror he’d not been himself at all, but rather his father. If only he could have gotten fuddled and slept like the dead. He would have much preferred wakening to a shattering headache than this soul-deep crater in his chest.
Having slept fully dressed in all but his cravat, his foray into the world required only a push up from the settee and a brief shamble through the vestibule out the front door. There, his lungs frosted over in one breath.
A glance to his watch showed that, surprisingly, the day had gone well past noon.
Fog and snow blanketed the countryside to an extent he’d not anticipated. Only the tops of the nearby hedges remained visible, indicating an overnight fall of several feet. Having no wish to venture thigh deep into the stuff, he balanced himself at the edge of the ice-covered porch and unfastened his breeches. There, he relieved himself against a brass plaque affixed to the wall of the house, one bearing the Claxton crest. A smile curled his lips. As a boy, the same rebellious act had given him no small measure of delight.
Returned inside, he took a moment to repair the settee. He then sought out the kitchen, where he hoped to find a store of wood to renew the fire. Rounding the corner to the corridor, he came face-to-face with Sophia. The sight of her hit him like a cannonball to the chest.
She froze, her lips parting but saying nothing, as if he’d startled her as well. Her face was small and pale above the collar of her indigo gown, and weariness shadowed her eyes. Her hair fell in dark waves around her shoulders—all in all, a sight so lovely his gut twisted with want.
Sophia,
“Good morning,” he half murmured, half growled, determined to win the first contest of the day, the one for most-civilized-spouse-seeking-a-formal-separation. After all, if they were going to proceed at some mutually negotiated point in the future to conceive a child, it might prove helpful if they remained, at the least, on cordial speaking terms.
She did not return his greeting. “The pump is frozen, but I melted some snow. There is a basin, if you’d like to wash.”
She indicated the door to the scullery and continued on through the open door of the kitchen, a shadowy winter goddess. A stranger forevermore.
Vane washed, and when he was finished, he examined himself in the small looking glass above the basin. A stark-faced man with disheveled hair and stormy eyes stared back. God, he looked frightening and so much like his father. He splashed another round of water on his face and ran the dampened fingers of both hands through his hair.
Claxton rejoined Sophia, strangely unable to stay away. Soon she would be gone from his life forever, hidden behind a wall of go-betweens and legally binding rules of engagement. To his shame, he craved with a sudden and surprising intensity whatever togetherness, whatever memories, these final hours would bring. Two narrow windows illuminated the kitchen with waning winter light. A delicious heat emanated from the stove, which he paused over to warm his water-chilled hands.
When he moved aside, she bent over the grate, peeking into a metal teapot. “There’s tea. That’s all, I’m afraid.”
Vane granted himself the guilty pleasure of drinking her in, of committing to memory the way she looked now. The fire’s glow painted red streaks in her mahogany hair. The simple lines of her unadorned gown, no doubt intended to be demure, only intrigued him, revealing the narrow column of her torso, and in alluring contrast, the high fullness of her breasts.
He remembered the body under that dress and the pleasure it had once given him in the shadowed privacy of their marriage bed. The memory of her naked, illuminated by morning’s first light, was enough to awaken within him now a low, simmering madness. The understanding that he could never freely touch her again only intensified his need.
But words had been said. The decision made. He would prove himself a better man by seeing their separation through and giving her some hope for happiness, in a world that did not include him. He owed her that much.
Bloody hell, he was such a martyr. He made himself sick.
She left the stove, making no effort to assist him. Finding a cup, he poured tea, needing something to occupy himself besides mooning after her like a love-struck idiot.
“There is no need to scowl at me,” she muttered in a low voice.
The accusation startled him. “I wasn’t scowling at you.”
Though he ought to be, given their circumstances. Shouldn’t he hate her? God help him, he couldn’t. They were both wounded, the two of them.
She glanced pointedly at the cup in his hand. “I can’t imagine you would be so displeased over a cup of tea, so it must be me that displeases you.”
“It’s not you or the tea.” He rubbed a hand over his face. “I did not sleep well.”
“Neither did I, but I’m not scowling at you.”
He managed a smile. A small one. “Actually, you are.”
Her lips parted, as if to offer some smart retort, but closed just as quickly. She sighed. Her expression softened, as did the rigidity of her posture. A bright flush rose into her cheeks.
“Oh, Claxton, let’s not bicker.” She exhaled morosely.
“Very well.” He seated himself on a high stool. “Let’s not.”
“Unpleasantness between us will accomplish nothing but a loss of dignity for us both, privately and in public.”
He’d always found the velvety tone of her voice soothing. He answered inanely now for the simple purpose of ensuring her response. “I am in complete agreement.”
“It’s not as if we are the first husband and wife to ever discover we are not well suited. This is a time for level heads and controlled emotions.”
The memory came out of nowhere, shocking him. Her lips pressed against his skin,
He shifted on the stool, suddenly tight in the breeches.
He growled, “I shall endeavor to remain so.”
“I shall as well.” She let out a sudden breath—of relief or frustration, he did not know—and searched the room, her attention at last settling on the stove. “I built only a small fire. Being that we are departing shortly, it wasn’t practical to make anything larger.”
He crossed to the window and peered out, savoring the warmth of the earthenware mug in his hands.
“You’ve looked outside?” he said incredulously.
The forest encircled the back of the manse, a smudge against a white winter sky. There were outbuildings and a stable, and at the edge of the gardens, the cemetery encircled by a stone wall. All nearly obscured by snow.
The cemetery. His mother would be there. After she had died, his father had arranged for the paltriest, most shameful of monuments. As soon as he could arrange for it, Claxton had commissioned a memorial much more worthy of a duchess. Life had prevented him thus far from visiting her grave site for himself. Perhaps, more truthfully, he’d found reasons to stay away.
