Never Desire a Duke

“Thank you, Mr. and Mrs. Kettle,” she exclaimed. “You thought of everything.”

“Wonderful!” The housekeeper sighed. “So romantic.”

“A most merry Christmas,” declared Mr. Kettle.

Vane watched Sophia drift away and exhaled through his nose. His body raged in complaint at being so cruelly denied. If not for the Kettles’ presence, he would reach out and pull her back into his arms.

“Sir and madam, please sit at the table.” The older woman smiled. “Since reading the announcement of your marriage in the papers, it has been my greatest wish to prepare a meal for you and your duchess.”

She lifted the covers from two plates set close together, side by side, in what could only be described as romantic proximity.

“I had something finer in mind, but this will have to do.” She folded her hands and glanced downward in self-deprecation. “While certainly not the extravagant fare of your fancy town cook, a rabbit stew will warm your stomach and see you through until the morrow. Please sit, your Grace.”

Vane looked at Sophia to find her peering back at him.

She whispered, “I think the only polite thing to do is to enjoy the meal Mrs. Kettle has prepared.”

“For once, we are in agreement.” Vane gestured, indicating that she should sit, and followed her. The heat from the fire warmed his back and shoulders, relaxing him instantly. He did not miss, however, when Sophia discreetly scooted her chair so as to add several more inches of space between them.

The old woman straightened the tablecloth, fussed over the dishes, and issued orders to her husband to fill their glasses with claret.

“And a cup of negus, as well, for you both.” Mrs. Kettle settled two more glasses onto the table.

“Mrs. Kettle, you ought not to have gone through all of this trouble.” Even as Vane said it, his cheeks flushed with pleasure. The housekeeper’s did as well, pleased by his compliment. Mrs. Kettle had always been a marvelous cook and her meals the stuff of his non-Sophia-related fantasies.

Beside him, Sophia sat small and elegant. His blood thrummed, his every sense heightened with her nearness. But that was not all. He felt pride that she was his wife, that she sat beside him so appreciative of the Kettles’ simple gift.

When her small hand touched his arm, something in his gut twisted, bending him to her will before even hearing her request. With a tilt of her head, she directed his attention to the window, with its intricate tracery of frost, where Mr. Kettle silently fretted.

“It will be dark soon,” she murmured intimately. “Tell them to go home.”

Ah, yes. He ought to have noticed.

Vane stood. “I’ve been so distracted by the gift of this wonderful meal that I’ve forgotten the time and circumstances of the weather outside. I really must insist that the both of you return to the village.”

That would leave him alone with Sophia again, an inevitability that should not fill him with such wicked anticipation, but did.

Mrs. Kettle clasped her hands at the front of her apron in the pose of a dutiful servant. “Sir, we are more than prepared to remain in residence to attend you for the duration of your stay.”

Though her eyes remained warm, a faint tension worried her brow and thinned her lips. He read her expression easily, recalling it from his youth.

“Nonsense,” he answered. “Those young women and their unborn babes need you more than we do. And I insist, you must take the sledge.”

“Oh, sir.” She bent her head in servile deference. “How kind of you to think of them, but my primary duty and loyalty lies here with you and with the memory of your dear mother. Their families will come for me if needed—”

“Dearest, don’t argue with his Grace,” said Mr. Kettle quietly from his place at the window.

For a moment, the housekeeper appeared to take offense at her husband’s rebuke, but then she broke into a wide smile.

“What was I thinking? You and her ladyship are still newlyweds and by nature crave your privacy. That is why you came to Camellia House, is it not? To be alone.”

Vane suffered a heated flash of regret that things were not so between him and Sophia. Sophia, for her part, bit her lip and focused renewed interest on the bounty of the table.

“Before I forget.” From under her apron, the housekeeper produced a small ring, selecting a narrow brass key from the others. “This one for the linens, and the one beside it”—her smile held a flash of wickedness—“is for the cellar, if you’d care for another bottle of claret, or perhaps, Madeira. The attic, and so on.” Though Claxton extended his hand, she gave the keys to Sophia.

And just like that, Vane found himself alone again with his estranged wife.

For the longest while, they ate in silence, each cutting their food into ridiculously small bites, chewing without the slightest sound and displaying the utmost in culinary manners, as if they sat in the presence of His Royal Highness, the Prince Regent himself.

“This stew is delicious,” she murmured.

“Indeed.”

“And the silence between us completely ridiculous,” Sophia said, cutting two portions from a small plum cake.

Vane paused, midchew. “Pardon?”

She deposited the larger of the two slices on his plate. “Even if we plan to separate, we ought to be able to talk with each other.”

Separate. The word became no less offensive with repeated use. He flinched as if she’d struck him with the flat of her knife.

“What sort of talk? Inconsequential and meaningless talk?” The question came out sounding surlier than he intended.

He examined her face, always so expressive. She had never hidden anything from him. Never stretched the truth or told him only what he wished to hear. When they’d lost their child, he had shunned that honesty, not wanting to face what she must think of him, for certainly her sentiments could be no worse than his own. But in recent months, he’d come to crave that honesty. He wanted it now—an authentic conversation between them.

She tilted her head and then nodded. The firelight reflected off her dark hair and the softly rounded curve of her cheek. “There is value in polite conversation.”

“Not to me.”

She drew back defensively and sniffed. “Very well. If you don’t want to talk—”

His first instinct at having offended her was to grab her hand and pull her closer for another kiss as the last had been cut so appallingly short. But he had no right, not after what they’d decided last night.

“I did not say that,” he said. He shifted toward her and rested his arm along the upper frame of the chair. “I only said I don’t want to talk nonsense.”

“Well,” she began hopefully. “I like horses and know you do as well. Why don’t we talk about horses?”

“No.”

Sophia scowled and her green eyes flared. “No need to be peevish. You choose the topic.”

Amazing how a delicious meal and a glass of good wine could bring focus to one’s perspective. He’d been so certain until now that he’d somehow fail as a gentleman or fail Sophia by not following through on her demand for a separation. There had to be another way. An arrangement that could serve both their needs and purposes. He did not want to lose her, and certainly his proper little wife did not want scandal. What sort of negotiator simply walked away, relinquishing territory he so passionately desired to keep?

“Let us talk about our marriage.”

Dark lashes lowered against her cheeks, shuttering her eyes. He loved when she did that. She couldn’t know how seductive that small movement was. She poked her fork at the center of her cake. “I don’t know what else there is to say.”

His heart clenched on the finality of her words. There was so much more to say. He had only to compel himself to say it.

Tomorrow morning could very well bring a break in the frost, and they would be back where they started this morning, barreling toward separation. Though he might be a fool, he wasn’t stupid. If he wanted to diffuse the