Never Desire a Duke

skin and inhaled, eyes closed, as if she exuded some intoxicating perfume. A mad, delicious tingling spiraled up from her toes along the back of her thighs.

His gaze captured hers. “If only you will say the word and allow it.”

Say what word? Half-drunk on sensation, she didn’t even recall what they were talking about.

The next kiss, placed at the center of her palm, sent a languorous pleasure into her veins, awakening long- buried desires.

Involuntarily she swayed toward him, her body a traitor that for too long had wanted and ached and yearned for the husband and lover she’d believed him to be. Over his shoulder, Fox and Pitt watched, two stone-faced voyeurs. From the other side of the column came the sounds of music and laughter and conversation, while she and Claxton remained just out of sight, hidden in shadows. The clandestine nature of the moment only made Claxton’s kiss more thrilling.

More thrilling? What was she thinking?

Her husband had shown no care for her whatsoever since the loss of their child. He had betrayed the sanctity of their marriage and abandoned her. And now…now he sought to seduce her? Angry heat gathered in her cheeks.

She tore her hand away. “Everyone knew you’d returned to London but me.”

He considered her steadily, the smile fading from his lips. “Perhaps I feared that given advance warning, you would flee.”

“I don’t flee,” she retorted too loudly.

“Oh, but you do, Sophia.” His blue eyes flashed heat. “Twice tonight, within the space of a quarter hour, which makes us almost even as far as me startling and you fleeing are concerned.”

Just moments before, in the book room, she’d felt so much the lioness. For once, she’d gained the upper hand against a man who always held the upper hand, whether it were with his young wife or a political foe. And oh, la! Clearly Claxton believed all it required for him to erase his sins from her mind was a sensual look. An intimate touch.

“I’ve missed you.” He leaned closer, his gaze hot on her mouth, his intention apparent. Her husband was going to kiss her, and she had but a half second to decide whether to let him.

It took her less than that.

She planted her hand against his chest and pushed. “Do you truly believe I’m that unskilled a player of the game?”

“Game?” His nostrils flared.

She stepped back. “That I am just a sad little ingenue who, at your first warm glance, will welcome you back into my life and my bed?”

Claxton’s expression darkened. “No to the ingenue part, but…I am hopeful that I will be welcomed back into your life.” He crossed his arms over his chest and slowly leaned closer. “And your bed.”

Her cheeks, already warm, now went to flames.

After a long moment, he prompted, “Sophia?”

“It’s just that”—her voice cracked with indignation—“I’m trying to determine what about our brief time spent together this evening has given you any cause to be hopeful on either front.”

“My darling.” He tilted his head and spoke in a low, patient tone, as if he need only talk her through an irrational female moment. “I’m the first to confess that when I departed England our marriage was not on the steadiest of footholds. Indeed, considering the circumstances, I assume full blame, but I had hoped that tonight we might—”

“You hoped wrong.” Roar. The lioness had returned. She would not fall so easily. “I require more from you than this.”

When she tried to quit him, he blocked her path, maneuvering her back into the shadows.

He did not touch her, but he might as well have for as close as he stood. “A moment ago, outside the book room, why the provoking comment about Lady Meltenbourne? I’m not married to her.” His gaze moved over her possessively. “I’m married to you.”

No doubt his words and manner were intended as reassurance, foreplay for a reconciliation. Yet the presence of Lady Meltenbourne’s name on his lips was like a bucket of cold water to her face, a reminder of an infuriating reality she simply couldn’t forget.

“That, my lord”—she reached for the punch glass—“is precisely the problem.”

He scowled, the frostiness she remembered so well returning to his blue eyes. “What are you saying?”

“Stolen kisses in shadows? Sweet words of seduction? After everything that has happened, after all this time—that is all you have to offer me?” She laughed sharply. “I’m your wife, Claxton, not some dreamy-eyed girl. Not anymore. You’re going to have to do much better than that.”

* * *

An hour later, Vane emerged from Lord Wolverton’s study, along with the select other gentlemen who had been invited by his lordship to stay for further conversation, cigars, and spirits. The party was over, the ballroom empty of guests. During the season, balls and soirees lasted until the morning hours, but the chime of a clock indicated the hour to be just nine.

Several gentlemen donned their hats and coats and pushed out into the night, where their drivers waited to convey them home.

“Good night, Fox,” Vane said to the man beside him, with all the cordiality he could summon.

He was sorely tempted, however, to plant his fist in Lord Havering’s face. For the entirety of the evening, Sophia’s childhood friend had submitted him to a ceaseless barrage of acidic barbs and black glares.

Without the slightest acknowledgment, Fox continued walking, unsmiling and with his gaze fixed forward. Under his breath he muttered, “It’s Lord Havering to you.”

Accepting his hat from the footman, he disappeared into the night.

Vane’s cheek twitched, but he held himself in check. He deserved the man’s disdain, but his jealous heart seethed over the idea that Havering should in any way play the part of his wife’s protector. Clearly, breaking the man’s face would only hinder his efforts to win Sophia back, so Vane instead turned to his wife’s grandfather.

He had always admired the earl, but perhaps because of the difficult relationship he shared with his own now-deceased father, he’d never been comfortable fully expressing that respect. Though Wolverton had remained cordial throughout the evening, Vane perceived a mistrust in the elder man’s eyes. Certainly, the state of his eldest granddaughter’s marriage was no secret and must be a grave disappointment.

A footman approached, as if to convey his lordship to bed.

“Wolverton, if I may have a word with you,” said Vane.

The earl lifted a staying hand, and the servant retreated.

He tilted his head. “What is it, Claxton?”

Vane cleared his throat, which suddenly felt as dry as sawdust, and forced himself to speak. “I’ve no desire to make excuses for myself, but I’ve misstepped where her Grace is concerned.”

“Indeed you have.”

“I intend to make things right with her.”

“I am an old man, Claxton, confined to my home by illness. If talk of your lack of commitment to your marriage has reached my ears, it is widely reported indeed.” The earl uttered the words with withering calm. “No matter how valiant your efforts are now, they may come too late.”

Age and Lord Wolverton’s confinement to a chair made him no less imposing. Vane felt like a small boy who’d received a thrashing. He felt not only shamed, but ashamed.

“I pray not,” Vane answered quietly. “Please know that I remain as committed as ever to the duchess, even more so today than when we first wed.”

He’d never spoken truer words. Time and distance had only proved that.

Wolverton steepled his fingertips and nodded, unsmiling. “Then I recommend you put your acclaimed diplomatic skills to work and begin your groveling posthaste. I suspect this will be the most difficult accord you’ve