Never Desire a Duke

five pair at once. Her redingote and skirts formed an unseemly puddle at her hips.

Claxton paused, his expression unabashedly satisfied. “Your Grace, do you require assistance?”

“Of course not,” she snapped, struggling to extract her legs and proceed forward. When they did not follow the rest of her body, she toppled forward into the snow, landing on her forearms.

Gasping for air, she almost screamed from frustration, but she would not grant her husband the pleasure of seeing her fall to pieces when it was she who had insisted on coming into the village in the first place.

Large hands grasped her shoulders, righting her. Claxton thrust her valise into her arms.

“Hold this,” he ordered.

Without preamble, he lifted her into his arms, crushing her to his chest. Snow fell from her skirts and boots.

“You’re damnably stubborn,” he said, plowing down the lane.

Frowning, sensual lips spoke the words just in front of her nose, impossible to ignore unless she shut her eyes.

“Not with most people,” she answered sullenly, not closing her eyes.

He’d not shaved this morning. Dark, glossy whiskers shadowed the masculine curvature of his jaw. She remembered the pleasure during their lovemaking of having his unshaven beard dragged against her skin. Sometimes in the mornings, she’d had to hide the abrasion marks left behind from the curious eyes of her young maid.

“Is it normally so difficult for you to ask for assistance?”

“Not at all. Just from you.”

He lifted a dark brow. “I don’t recall you being this willful before.”

His heat warmed her through his coat, a reminder of how wonderful it had once been to be held in his arms. He’d carried her in this manner before, but never on a public street. Only in the privacy of their bedroom and always toward their bed. Her heart began to beat faster, remembering how blissful things had once been— how they could never be again, because this was the man who had abandoned her in her grief, without as much as a regretful backward glance. As if neither she nor their lost baby had ever held a place in his heart.

A painted sign, encased by icicles, indicated that they had arrived at the inn. There were footprints, and the snow had been cleared from the wooden steps.

“It’s called self-sufficiency.” Sophia elbowed Claxton and kicked, wriggling free. She skittered away from him through the snow. Her body complained at the loss of his comfortable warmth and strength. “You were gone a very long time. I had to learn it.”

“Self-sufficiency, you say?” he muttered darkly. He followed, reaching to take the handle of her valise. “You would never have arrived at this inn without my assistance.” His eyes narrowed. “You’re quite welcome, by the way.”

Yet she held tight, seizing the case against her chest.

“You expect my thanks?” She blinked back a sudden surge of tears.

She’d been a coward at the house, sneaking out so she wouldn’t have to say good-bye to him face-to-face. He’d gone and ruined that for her. Now, this was good-bye, and the enormity of the moment created a ball of emotion in her throat, difficult to even breathe around. They would never see each other again like this. Didn’t he realize everything would change? Or was it that he just didn’t care?

For Sophia, there was something devastating about the knowledge they would never spend another moment alone again until after the details of their separation—settlements and annuities and agreements—were negotiated through intermediaries and finalized. In these last moments could he not speak to her with some gentleness out of respect for the happier times they’d shared?

With all the force within her, she yanked the case back, inadvertently jerking his hand in her direction because he did not let go. His eyes flared wide with surprise.

Of course she overreacted, and in a most irrational and childish manner, but in this moment she did not care. Her mind buzzed with hurt and anger, and she didn’t even feel the cold anymore. Did he not wish for them to have a decent and meaningful good-bye? They had once loved each other.

His jaw flexed. “This excursion was utter folly. Admit you were wrong in leaving the house.”

That he would be so obstinate here, on the threshold of the place where she would say good-bye to him forever, upended her composure. Once she regained full possession of her case, she could go inside, shut the door on Claxton, and convince her heart to forget him.

“Of course I was wrong. I’m a foolish, silly woman. Thank you, your Grace, for being such a gentleman as to point out my every failing,” she said archly. “And for being so much larger and stronger than me, your helpless, little wife.”

She backed away in an attempt to free the handle, but still he did not release it. Indeed, he gritted his teeth and held tight.

“Sophia—” he warned.

“But I’m not your wife any longer.” She jerked the case, throwing all her weight into the effort. “Not really, not for long, because you’ve made it clear, not just to me but the whole of England, that you prefer to be anywhere in the world and with anyone but with me.” And jerked it again. “So you’re not a gentleman after all and most certainly not my hero, so no, I’m not inclined to thank you for anything.”

For a moment, there was nothing but the sound of the wind and ice cracking and the echo of her words in her ears.

“Not a gentleman, you say?” he said in a hushed voice.

His expression dangerous, he yanked the handle hard, gaining possession of the valise and Sophia, who pitched forward along with it. The force of this brought her crashing against him. The valise between them halted her abruptly, her face inches from his. Her heartbeat raced wildly, but not in fear. With the attraction she struggled even now, in her anger and hurt, to conceal.

“It took you until now to realize?” he said, nostrils flared.

With a downward shove, he wrenched the case from her hand, throwing it to the ground. He stepped toward her.

“Don’t you touch me,” she gasped, retreating toward the steps, thinking to escape him, but he lunged, closing the distance between them to capture her face in his hands.

“Dear God, you drive me mad,” he growled, his eyes alight with blue fire.

She waited for the squeeze of his fingers, for him to twist off her head in the middle of the lane for being such a tiresome, troublesome wife who had ceased to bring him a single moment’s peace or pleasure.

His mouth fell on hers.

Stunned, she grabbed his hands to remove them, but…

Didn’t.

She gasped against his lips, inhaling his breath, and in an instant remembered all she craved. His full lower lip. The bristly texture of his unshaven skin. The taste and scent that was only, deliciously Claxton. Every particle of her being exploded with need. His hands found her waist. She grasped his upper arms. He groaned, devouring her.

The world around them faded into a maelstrom of desire, she only vaguely aware of the snow crunching under their feet as they danced, struggled…his hands—her hands—tangled in hair and wool. On skin.

“Claxton,” she breathed.

He made a guttural sound.

In a wild surge, all the anger of the past months exploded inside her, transforming the kiss into something more primal. She bit him. He nipped her back, a moment before his tongue entered her mouth to slide over hers. Consciousness blurred into a frenzy of pleasure and not-so-terrible pain.

Pain.

With a gasp, she thrust her hands against his chest and pushed.

Dazed and heavy lidded, he stared at her, his cheeks ruddy with passion, his arms bent at his sides, almost