Never Desire a Duke

as if he’d never seen her before.

“Oh my God,” he exclaimed thickly.

Touching her fingertips to swollen and tender lips, she teetered on unsteady legs and wholeheartedly concurred with his assessment. They’d shared thousands of kisses, but never anything as magnificent as that.

Just then, something appeared to draw his attention to another point of interest above her head. His face turned just a degree and his gaze intensified. For a moment, she feared they had drawn an audience, that behind her stood the whole of the village of Lacenfleet, gawking and pointing.

A strangled sound burst from his throat, something that sounded vaguely like her name. He shoved her—

The world careened.

Her shoulder, her cheek, slammed into the snow. His body smothered her in darkness.

“Claxton!” She gasped, bewildered, unable to breathe for his weight and the lapel of his coat smashed against her nose. His scent, woodsmoke and spice, filled her nostrils. Frigid cold worked through her clothes, chilling her backside. The snow numbed her skin. “What are you doing?”

He growled, “There’s someone—”

A crack shattered the air. Atop her, his every muscle went taut.

“Someone?” Sophia strained to see if a tree branch had given way under the weight of the frost, but—

“Stay down,” he growled, splaying his hand over her forehead and curling his body over hers. Crack. A split second later, a shower of snow covered them both.

His chest vibrated against hers as he uttered, “We’re going to have to run for the wall over there.”

The sudden realization came over her. A tree hadn’t made the cracking noise, but a gun. Someone was shooting at them.

“Who is trying to kill us?”

“I don’t know.”

A door slammed, and a woman screamed, “Claxton. Oh, Claxton, he’ll kill you.”

That voice. A familiar one. Footsteps sounded on the snow. Claxton’s head went up, turning sideways toward the inn. Sophia knew that for her own safety she should cower beneath him, but curiosity compelled her to see who screamed and ran toward them. She raised up onto her elbows.

“Bloody hell,” he uttered, his cheek pressed to hers.

Lady Meltenbourne bounded toward them, a vision of blue silk, bouncing breasts, and blonde hair.

“Don’t kill him,” she screamed, arms flung high.

She hurled herself against Claxton, knocking him off Sophia. At the same time, another figure sprang into the melee. Lord Haden burst out from the front door of the inn, coatless and shirttails flapping, a pistol in each hand. Sophia scrambled around so as to watch him, keeping low. His boots thunked heavily as he descended the wooden steps on long legs. Glassy red eyes set within his lean face surveyed the courtyard. His hair, a measure longer than Claxton’s, rippled in the wind, giving him a wild and dangerous appearance.

“Claxton, it’s your brother,” Sophia exclaimed to the struggling heap beside her. “He’s trying to kill you!”

She attempted to scoot backward over the snow, but her legs tangled in layers of petticoats. The faces of villagers peeked out from the windows, wide-eyed and openmouthed, some with steaming mugs raised.

A man’s voice shouted from inside, “Not the windows. Please, my lord. Spare the glass if you will.”

“I’m not trying to kill Claxton,” Haden bellowed, scowling.

Another shot echoed in the quiet, striking a distant patch of ground.

He whirled, aiming his firearms at the upper floor of the inn. “Lord Meltenbourne is trying to kill Claxton. Take cover.”

Chapter Seven

Sophia felt herself jerked from behind and twisted round. Claxton lifted her high and carried her like a child against his chest, depositing her in the shelter of a stone wall.

“Are you hurt?” he demanded ferociously, his brows gathered and nostrils flared. His hand came to her cheek, forcing her gaze to his.

“No.”

“Are you certain?” His hands roamed her shoulders, arms, breasts, hips, and legs. She gasped at the intimate touch. “Sometimes when you’ve been shot, you don’t know it. Sometimes you don’t feel the pain until later.”

Again, his hand paused on her cheek, and she clasped it there. “I’m not hurt, Claxton.”

He nodded, dragging the pad of his thumb across her cheek, a tender gesture that conflicted with the anger in his eyes. “Stay here, behind the wall.”

But as soon as he was gone, Sophia crawled low against the cornerstone, desperate for his safety. No matter how miserable he made her, she would never wish him dead.

At the center of the lane, Lady Meltenbourne still lay sobbing, facedown in the snow. She wore no coat or cloak, only the gown she’d worn since Lord Wolverton’s birthday party the night before. Haden had backed into a position to shield her, pistols cocked and ready. He prodded her with the heel of his Hessian.

“Blast you, chit,” he shouted. “Gather yourself up and get behind that wall.”

Claxton, like the hero Sophia had only moments before proclaimed him not to be, headed straight for the countess, never breaking pace until he grabbed hold of her arms. The sight was undeniably thrilling, other than the unfortunate reality that her husband was rescuing a woman who made no secret of wanting him as her lover.

“Here the bastard comes again,” Haden warned, lifting his weapons. From the shadowed interior of an upper window appeared a diminutive man wearing an old-fashioned tricorn hat and saggy trews. He wielded a pistol in one hand and an earthenware jug in the other.

“Think ye’ll cuckold me, do ye?” he squalled drunkenly.

Haden pulled his trigger. Crack. The weapon recoiled. The earl’s tricorn spiraled off, exposing his bald pate. Another shot—Meltenbourne’s—sounded an instant later.

A fan of white pitched upward, inches from Claxton’s boot.

“Claxton,” Sophia shouted or perhaps screamed. If he died now, leaving her with the memory of that kiss, she did not know what she would do.

Lady Meltenbourne remained as limp as a child’s doll. The duke hoisted her over his shoulder and carried her to the same location where Sophia crouched. Haden followed, his pistol trained on the window.

Just then a loud crash sounded from inside the inn. A mob of men, arms flailing, overwhelmed the earl. Curses echoed across the lane, loudly at first, then dimmer as they dragged their prisoner inside.

Lady Meltenbourne sobbed, throwing her arms around Claxton’s legs. “You saved my life.”

Haden muttered a curse and rolled his eyes.

Claxton pried the countess off him and lifted her to stand. With a firm nudge, he guided her toward Sophia as if she were a sticky-faced child with hands covered in jam to be handed off to her mother. Annabelle’s teeth chattered, and she shivered. While Sophia could not bring herself to put an arm around the woman, perhaps by not stepping away, Annabelle benefited to some degree from her warmth and would not catch her death of cold.

Claxton blasted a frigid glare at his brother. “Why, may I ask, is Lord Meltenbourne trying to kill me?”

Haden shifted his stance and polished the barrel of his pistol against his cuff. “Er…well, because he believes you had a tryst with his wife last night.”

Sophia’s heart stopped beating, her first instinct, however fleeting, to believe what Haden said.

“How interesting.” Claxton’s nostrils flared. “I don’t recall having any tryst with his wife.”

“Mere details.” Haden’s chuckle carried an edge of anxiety. He holstered the firearm at his waist. “Thankfully, everything turned out well. We are all still alive.”