Never Desire a Duke

boots on the threshold of the old house, he struggled to calm the low thrum of trepidation in his blood, one that urged him to immediately turn and run.

Just as he knew she would, a small woman rushed toward him out of the shadows and out from his past, her hands clasped to her plump cheeks.

Eyes full of tears, she exclaimed, “Your Grace. It is you.” Her bright gaze took him in admiringly, head to toe. “A man full grown.”

A thousand memories crushed in on him with such force he immediately drew up his defenses lest he be overwhelmed.

It was, of course, Mrs. Kettle, a woman who, like so many pieces of his shattered childhood, he had left behind. Only he hadn’t ever forgotten her.

Since he had last seen her, her hair had grayed and she had almost certainly shrunk by a foot. For a terrifying moment, he feared she might actually embrace him, and if she did, he would most certainly fall to pieces and cry like a child.

“Oh!” she exclaimed, her face going instantly serious. “Sir, I do forget myself.”

With the utmost gravity, she curtsied, then winced and wobbled, her discomfort at executing the gesture all too apparent.

His mother’s household had never been one for strict formalities. Vane suspected the woman who had acted as the Duchess of Claxton’s housekeeper, and indeed, her maid of all work, had not only been a loyal servant, but also in the end her closest friend. Though he required the utmost in decorum from his retainers in town, he considered Mrs. Kettle and her husband exempt from such strictures.

He gently assisted her up. “How pleased I am to see you as well.”

Mr. Kettle appeared behind his wife, having insisted on driving the sledge round back and entering the house as he always did through the servants’ door. The stooped old fellow, who had once towered like a giant, acted the part of footman, taking Vane’s coat, hat, and gloves. Sophia, now absent her hat and redingote, joined them as well.

“His Grace was sixteen years old last time I saw him,” Mrs. Kettle said to Sophia. In that moment two avenues of his life collided, his past and his present, leaving him breathless. The housekeeper sniffled and snorted into a handkerchief.

Sixteen years old. Vane could barely remember that boy. He felt a thousand years older now.

Quickly recovering, Mrs. Kettle smiled. “Mr. Kettle and I have waited all this time for his lordship to return. We long ago took residence in the village, but these last few years have kept the house in readiness, as much as two old souls could, with a bed made up in clean linens, in hopes you would return. We were thrilled to receive her Grace’s missive indicating she would visit, but did not expect her—nor you—until after Christmas. I pray these simplest of accommodations have met with your approval.”

“They are more than enough,” he assured.

She sighed in relief. “Our apologies for not having come sooner. I’ve two confined mothers on opposite ends of the village. Within a space of mere days Lacenfleet will have not only one, but two new citizens, perhaps in time for Christmas.”

Mrs. Kettle had acted as the village midwife in the past and apparently still did. That service had always held a certain poignancy, as she and Mr. Kettle had never been blessed with children of their own.

She clasped her hands together, leaning forward. “Which is why Mr. Kettle and I only just learned of your arrival. We had passed the night at the Martindale home, you see, believing the babe would arrive last night, but it was not to be.”

Mr. Kettle chuckled. “They come in their own time.”

“Indeed they do,” Vane agreed, though he knew little of the subject.

He caught Sophia smiling at him. He knew what she believed, that this was a happy reunion between the lord of the manor and dutiful servants, a time for joy and remembrances. Though very much true, his homecoming involved more complicated emotions than that. There were reasons why he hadn’t returned before now.

“This way, my lord.” Mrs. Kettle extended an arm. “My lady.”

Mrs. Kettle led them into the great room, where a small table had been laid out beside the hearth, and upon it, several covered dishes. Here, a fire warmed the air, as well as the fragrance of something tantalizingly delicious.

“What is all this?” Vane asked.

Sophia came to stand beside him. “Mrs. Kettle has brought us supper.”

As a soldier, he had long ago grown accustomed to going days without food. It was only now, upon inhaling such marvelous scents, that he realized how ravenous he was. When had he eaten last? The day before yesterday, upon disembarking in Dover, he’d been too filled with anticipation about reuniting with Sophia to seek out a meal, and he’d remained so. Then last night in London the whole world had gone to hell, leaving food the last thing from his mind.

“And look,” added Sophia. “She’s even decorated in honor of the season.”

Indeed, she had. A garland of greenery now adorned the mantel top. Sprigs of the same stuff sprouted from atop the portraits and art hung about the room. A scraping sound came from behind them. Vane turned to see Mr. Kettle climbing onto a chair beneath the chandelier. A sphere swung from the chain in his hand, formed of holly, red apples, ivy, and damnably, mistletoe.

“It just wouldn’t feel like Christmas without the kissing bough, now, would it?” Mrs. Kettle clapped her hands in delight.

“The kissing bough.”

Vane’s eyes widened, and he blurted, “You mustn’t trouble yourself.

“Nonsense,” said Mr. Kettle. “It’s good to have young people in the house again. Oh—” He wobbled atop the chair and waved his arms for balance.

“Help him,” urged Sophia.

“Careful there.” Vane lunged forward, steadying the chair, and took hold of his elbow. “But again, you really shouldn’t have bothered yourselves.”

“Claxton,” Sophia chastised softly, lifting a finger to her lips.

Once the chain was fastened, he assisted the old fellow down.

“Success!” Mr. Kettle grinned. After an extended period of silence where they all looked at one another, Mr. Kettle said, “Don’t tell me I went through all that trouble for naught.”

Mrs. Kettle glowed with expectation.

Then suddenly, Sophia moved toward him, her dark hair shining like silk in the candlelight. The color of her cheeks had deepened to dark pink and her eyes sparkled brilliant and bright.

“Claxton can be so prudish,” she declared in a teasing voice.

He stared at her hard, raising one eyebrow at her taunt, unable to contain the fiery combustion inside his chest. Prudish? If she only knew the decidedly unprudish thoughts presently forming in his mind. She shouldn’t play with him. Not now, after kissing him so passionately outside the inn, only to show him and the rest of the world the kiss had meant nothing. Not after he’d come a breath from losing her to a drunken man’s bullet. A low growl rumbled from his throat. “It’s just a kiss,” she whispered tersely.

Vexatious termagant.

She did this for the Kettles, in an effort to please the endearing couple who had already won her heart. Not for him who had lost it.

His gaze dropped to her mouth, so soft and plush, to the feminine curve of her collarbone, just visible above the high neckline of her winter dress. She couldn’t know that their kiss in the snow outside the inn had awakened a raving beast inside him, one that at this moment bayed with need. If she did, she wouldn’t ask this of him. She wouldn’t stand so provokingly close, within the circle of his shadow.

Blood pounded in his ears. The muscles along his spine tightened. He grazed her cheek with his fingertips, the barest caress. Lifting her chin, he bent, touching his lips to hers in a kiss so different from the one before. Controlled and respectable and torturously sweet—

And over almost before it began.

Sophia stepped back, laughing and smiling as if they’d done nothing but cordially shake hands. While wearing gloves.