cursed portrait. Or perhaps it was Haden of whom he thought.
She again lifted the destroyed canvas by its frame, prepared to condemn the despised countenance to the flames.
Only then did she see the pale rectangular object affixed to the back. A piece of parchment. No, an envelope, fragile and yellowed with age. Setting the lower edge of the frame on the floor, she tilted the destroyed surface back for a better view. Across the front of the envelope written in a beautiful script was the name—
“Claxton, look.” She propped the frame against the wall. “There is an envelope with your name on it.”
He turned from the window with a dubious look.
She tugged the envelope free from where it had been wedged into the frame. He met her in the middle, eyeing the object in her hand.
His expression softened. “That’s my mother’s handwriting.”
“Open it,” she urged.
He made no move to accept the object. “You may do so.”
“What if she wrote something private?”
“You are my wife,” he answered quietly, the look of sleepiness he still wore an unintended seduction. “What could she possibly have written that I would not want you to read?”
“Well, it’s not a letter.” She turned the open page for his view so that he could see the hand-drawn pictures of smiling pixies and curlicued words. “I don’t know what it is.”
Claxton threw a cautious glance at the paper. After a moment, relief eased his features and a faint smile turned his lips. “It’s a quest for a game of lookabout.”
“Lookabout?”
He exhaled, and his skin flushed a shade deeper. He nodded. “My mother used to write quests for my brother and me. Boons, if you will. There were usually four or five tasks or trials that we would complete here inside the house or outdoors or even at times in the village, and once we’d located all the quests and completed whatever requirements, we would receive a reward.”
“So this quest will include instructions to find the next, and so on?”
“Yes.” Again, he glanced at the paper. Quickly. Then looked away. “She’s written a number one up in the corner. This is the first boon in a series.”
“Claxton.” Excitement bubbled up inside her to spread a smile across her lips. “How special that we found your mother’s note. To think I was only moments away from burning it.”
“It’s just a child’s game,” he said quietly from where he situated himself beside the woodbox at the far side of the hearth.
Her mind buzzed with curiosity. “But if we so wished, we could find the second quest, and so on?”
“I don’t know.” He crouched, his muscular thighs flexed, to lower a large log on the steel frame atop the dying fire. Sparks spiraled up as the heavier wood invaded the embers and ash. His response lacked Sophia’s enthusiasm. “So many years have passed. No doubt she wrote it up to keep Haden and me occupied, but forgot about it.”
“But how would the quest have come to be on the back of your father’s portrait, which you yourself said did not hang here while she was alive?”
“I—I don’t know.” His eyebrows drew together.
“Strange also that Haden’s name does not appear.”
He raised his shoulders. “We did not always play together.”
“Twenty years,” mused Sophia softly. “It’s almost magical to find her quest now and so close to Christmas. Oh, Claxton, let’s read her instruction and see where to go next.”
His lips drew into a wan smile, and he shook his head. “I told you, Sophia. I’m not that boy anymore. It’s like finding a note she wrote for someone else.”
Sophia’s heart softened. “You think she would have been disappointed in the way you lived your life, but you’re wrong. Mothers love their children unconditionally. They forgive.”
“But wives don’t?”
Flustered by the sudden intensity of his gaze, Sophia waved the paper about. “This isn’t about you and me; it’s about your mother’s quest. Come now, how else shall we occupy our time?” she implored, desperate for any activity that would provide distraction.
“I can think of plenty of ways to occupy our time,” he murmured, coming to stand behind her back. “You just refuse to oblige.”
Sophia’s cheeks filled with heat at his bawdy suggestion. The list of names she carried between her chemise and heart provided a convenient reminder that she wasn’t ready for such ease of familiarity. When she could think of the names on that list and feel nothing—no anger or hurt—then she’d be ready.
“And I don’t intend to cooperate. Please, Claxton, the last two days have been emotionally taxing.” She shook her hair back from her face. “I hope you can appreciate that I need a bit more time. Which makes the idea of playing a game perfect.”
“Do you intend to proceed with a separation or not?” he demanded with sudden vehemence.
“I don’t know,” she exclaimed. “And I don’t appreciate being pressed on the subject.”
At that moment, a solid rapping came from the front vestibule. Claxton pivoted toward the sound.
“Oh, dear Lord, yes, thank you,” she whispered.
“I heard that,” he growled.
With a step in the direction of the door, he tucked his shirt into his breeches and jerked his shirtsleeves and collar into place.
“There.” Combing his hair with his fingers, he inquired, “Do I look presentable, as the lord of the manor should?”
“For a lord of the manor who is without a decent valet to tend to his appearance, yes.”
“Or a decent wife, for that matter.”
Sophia watched him go, knowing he had intended the last comment to cut.
She retrieved his coat from where it had fallen from the settee and draped it over the back of a chair. Fastidiously, she straightened the cushions. Hearing the door open and voices, she waited to welcome whatever visitor might accompany Claxton over the threshold.
He reappeared alone.
“Who was it?” she inquired.
“A young man from the village. Mr. Kettle sent him to deliver the horse and sledge for us to use at our convenience.”
“How thoughtful of Mr. Kettle.”
“Well, it is our sledge and horse after all.”
“I assumed that. You gave the man a shilling, of course.” The words slipped out before she’d given them any thought, reminding her disturbingly of the way her mother used to speak to her father.
“Don’t play games with me, Sophia,” Claxton warned quietly, sending a chill through her. “Either you are my wife or you are not.”
“I’m not playing games,” she said. “Not the sort of games you imply. All I’m saying is there is no reason we must rush into a decision. Perhaps we should separate. Perhaps not. I don’t claim to know the answer, but there’s no reason we have to decide at this very moment.”
“Perhaps you’re correct,” he muttered darkly. “Heaven forbid we actually enjoy a pleasant Christmas together.”
“That’s not fair. Don’t use Christmas against me.”
“Better you learn now; I don’t play fair.” He lifted the teapot. Removing the lid, he peeked inside and sniffed suspiciously.
“It’s just tea,” she advised.
“Yes, that’s what I’m afraid of,” he muttered.
“What is that supposed to mean?”
