Never Desire a Duke

compared.

She stood there transfixed as he blathered on.

“A change in the direction of the wind or pressure from the frost may have pried it open, allowing the creature to—”

He met her eyes and froze. Like weighted stones, his gaze dropped.

“Good God, Sophia,” he said softly. “You always did have the loveliest breasts.”

A glance downward revealed that in the activity of the previous moments, her breasts had spilled from her corset and now crowded the upper portion of her chemise. Her nipples, aroused by the chill in the room, jutted hard and plainly visible against the thin batiste.

She gasped and covered them with her hands.

Claxton’s gaze intensified. “I can do that for you if you like.”

She should have shouted no. She should have ordered him out and blistered him with a scathing set down.

Yet a paralyzing sort of bewilderment kept her silent.

He closed his eyes, his expression tortured, and exhaled through clenched teeth. When they opened again, they were lit by a predatory gleam she recognized from the first months of the marriage as a certain prelude to lovemaking. Every inch of her skin came alive, and the room around them dissolved to nothing, leaving only a woman and a man.

Despite every rational thought insisting no, her body begged yes. She wanted him to kiss her. Heavens, she wanted him to do much more than that. If the thick ridge at the front of his breeches was any indication, he wanted more than kissing too.

Quite suddenly he advanced, every bit of the warrior, a towering fantasy of long, muscled limbs and bristling intensity. A dark fall of hair tumbled across his forehead. Blue eyes, edged by dark lashes, thrilled her with their appreciative glow.

“Don’t tell me to go.” He reached to touch her bare arm, drawing his fingertips over her skin. That faint tracery of warmth in the chill of the room sent a shiver reverberating through her body.

Her feet remained rooted to the spot. Her tongue darted out to dampen her bottom lip.

“You don’t know how badly I need to touch you.” His voice mesmerized her, spoke promises she wanted to believe. He cupped her cheek.

“Let me make love to you again.”

Overtaken by a sudden fever, she turned her face into his palm, savoring the controlled strength of his long fingers against her skin, their calloused warmth. So familiar, but strange. So welcome, but forbidden. Every particle of her went molten and surged toward him like an ocean wave in worship of the moon.

“I’ve never begged any woman,” he said fiercely. “It’s only right that you should be the first.”

And the last. He was supposed to be hers. No one else’s.

Her breasts swelled, suddenly heavy and full, begging for his touch. The place between her legs grew damp and throbbed, aching to be satisfied.

“I’m begging you,” he murmured. “Ask me to stay.”

His hand moved behind her head, closing on the nape of her neck, a gesture of possession. Staring down, he pierced her through with his gaze.

“Sophia, say you want me to stay.”

She glanced toward the bed, imagining herself there, spread beneath him. Already she felt his weight on top of her.

The power of his thrusts.

The salty tang of his skin—

But at the center of the mattress lay the list, stained with the names of his lovers. Familiar faces flashed in her mind, painted in vivid color. He’d shared this with all of them, this intensity of feeling. In the end, it must have meant nothing because he’d left them, just as she knew in her heart he’d leave her again too. Her name might as well be on that list, just one of many.

She wasn’t strong enough, not yet. Her heart still felt too much.

The fire in her veins dimmed and flickered out. In an instant, the room grew immeasurably colder, and his touch on her skin, rough and foreign. She flinched.

“Please,” she whispered. “I want you to go.”

His hand flexed against her skull, gathering a fistful of her hair in his hand. He bent just enough so that his breath teased her temple. “You insisted on that damn list. Not me.”

He released her. Malice radiated from him so intense she recoiled as he brushed past her into the corridor.

She gripped the doorframe, listening to the sound of his boots as they descended the steps. From there, she listened to him mutter. Storm about the great room. Curse. Her chest tightened. Something crashed.

“You could have at least left me the damn key to the damn wine closet,” he thundered.

Her heart implored her to go to him. Instead she walked to the bed and took up the list and recited each of the names aloud. Her defenses renewed, she crossed the room again, closed the door, and backed away.

* * *

The next morning, after determining from the window that there would be no miraculous break in the weather, Sophia, armed with the ring of keys that Mrs. Kettle had given to her, located the upstairs storage room and linen closet.

There she found the necessary items to outfit a bed for Claxton, a sturdy bottom mattress of wool flocking, a softer upper feather mattress, and of course linens. Though old, everything was meticulously stored and in good condition. It was best, she determined, to do her good deed now, for if the events of the previous two days were any indication of how the third would unfold, she and Claxton would be on the verge of murdering each other by nightfall, and neither of them would make it to Christmas.

Five days remained. She wouldn’t panic just yet. She would remain optimistic that the weather would be clear and she’d soon return to the comfort and strength of her family. Until then, she would devote her energies to defining a new and different relationship with Claxton. Whether that meant their proceeding with a formal separation, she did not yet know. By her way of thinking, that all depended on her and her ability to break free of the emotion and expectations she’d previously held of marriage and of Claxton.

After completing the task, she went downstairs, which remained very much under the cover of darkness. Frost covered the windows, dimming what was already a meager winter light from outside. Neither she nor Claxton had been in the habit of wasting precious candles or oil when it was only the two of them, and she did not undertake to prepare a lamp now. All in all, the dreary lighting very much represented her mood.

After the way things had ended between them the night before, she felt no small amount of trepidation at seeing him again. How close she had come to capitulating. How angry he’d been when she hadn’t. Thank God she had come to her senses. Falling into bed with him in a fit of misguided passion would only complicate an already complicated matter. Absent the sort of love her parents had enjoyed, successful marriages weren’t based on temporary passions but on enduring mutual respect and common goals, and she and Claxton had not yet achieved that venerable state. If she hoped to retain any power at all in their present negotiations, their child must not be conceived until after she came to a decision about their separation—a decision she’d come to believe would be best delayed until they returned to London.

Oh, but London. She’d slept fitfully, the names on Claxton’s list pealing out like church bells inside her head until the early-morning hours. The truth stung. She felt wounded and betrayed, not just by Claxton, but by all the women on the list that she knew. How could she ever return to life in town and look any of them in the eye without giving in to the urge to lash out at them, and at Claxton as well, every time they crossed paths?

Even so, this morning she’d renewed her vow to move past the hurt. All emotion aside, she had forced her husband’s hand, and to his credit, he had complied with her demand for a list of his lovers’ names in an effort to appease her. She no longer doubted he wished to remain married, most likely for the same reason as she. They both wanted a child.

If the two of them were to proceed, Sophia would have to come to terms with the realities of her husband’s emotional limitations. That meant, on a more practical level, that she must arrive at a place where she could sit at