Lily Dalton - Never Desire a Duke

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 ever attempted to negotiate.” The earl stared into his eyes. “That is, if you’re allowed through the door.”

“Thank you, Wolverton.”

“Don’t thank me,” he countered sharply. “If she decides to seek a separation from you, I’ll support her every step of the way.”

The air left Vane’s lungs. Separation. Hearing the word spoken aloud, when his mind had only ever whispered it, created a new and unpleasant reality.

Wolverton continued. “Scandal be damned. I’m too old and too stubborn to care what anyone in this town thinks. My only wish at this late stage of my life is for my girls to find happiness before I die. After my death, my title will pass to my nephew. An unworthy profligate if there ever was one. The man has no decency; he is wholly consumed with vice. I have made what arrangements I can to see that the girls’ futures are secure, but life will no doubt be very different for them when I am gone.” His frown deepened. “Needless to say, Claxton, I had hoped for better from you.”

Claxton bowed his head. “I vow you will have it.”

“She’s upstairs. The third bedroom on the left.”

With a gesture, the earl summoned the footman. The two disappeared down the darkened hallway. Vane ascended the stairs, preparing himself for the confrontation to come.

His knock on Sophia’s door elicited no response. Turning the knob, he peered inside to find the room darkened and empty. Of course—she would seek comfort from her sisters. Never having explored the upper floor of this house, he found himself in unfamiliar territory, but he moved from one door to the next until he heard familiar feminine voices. Unfortunately, the softness with which they spoke, and the thickness of the door, prevented him from knowing whether they plotted his demise. He knocked.

“Come in.”

He would not of course. They likely assumed him to be their mother or a servant.

“It is Claxton,” he announced.

Frantic murmurings ensued, accompanied by several thumps, as if someone ran about the room.

A moment later, the door cracked open and he glimpsed a sliver of Daphne’s nose and mouth. Her eyes narrowed. “What do you want?”

Miss Daphne.” He nodded. “I regret to disturb you so late in the evening, but I’m looking for her Grace. Is she with you?”

“My sister doesn’t want to talk to you, so go away.”

“It’s very important.”

“Important to you, perhaps,” called another voice, one he knew to be Clarissa’s. “I think the duchess is past the point of talking.”

He measured his response, remembering with whom he spoke. These were the two young girls who once stared at him with intense fascination and giggled delightedly at whatever he said. He and Sophia, after marrying, had taken her sisters on picnics and to Berkeley Square for pineapple ices. On quiet Sunday afternoons, they’d cajoled him into practicing the newest dance steps with them and interrogated him over what exactly men found arresting and pretty. His answer to them always: a happy smile. Never before had they spoken to him with such disrespect or dislike.

He endeavored to speak more gently. “I appreciate that you seek to protect your sister, but if that is the case, I ask that Sophia tell me herself.”

Peering over Daphne’s head, he spied Clarissa in a pink dressing gown, standing beside a large poster bed. Clarissa adored pink. Daphne, of course, deplored every shade of the same color.

Clarissa bent over a supine form covered in blankets, her face a portrait of sisterly concern. “Sophia. There, there, dear. Please stop crying.”

Crying? His heart stopped beating or at least felt as if it did. Belowstairs, when last he’d seen her, she had shown such strength, with no sign of softer emotion.

Clarissa continued. “Claxton is here. Do you wish to speak to him?” She bent low, placing her ear near the pillow. Rising up, she glared in his direction. “I’m afraid it’s exactly as I told you. She doesn’t want to speak to you. Can’t you see that she is overwrought? Please go away.”

“Overwrought?” he repeated, stunned. “Sophia?”

His lungs constricted. Though largely responsible for creating this wide chasm between them, standing here, ten feet away, he couldn’t abide that thought. “Move aside.”

Daphne shoved the door, seeking to shut him out, but with steady pressure he pushed her backward, easily forcing his way inside.

Striding toward the bed, he came face-to-face with a flying pillow. With a swipe of his hand, he fended it off. “She’s my wife.”

“You wouldn’t know it from your behavior. Stay away from her,” exclaimed Clarissa, her eyes ablaze. “Lothario!”

Daphne clutched at his coattails and skidded along behind him. “Philanderer!”

He now knew how Gulliver must have felt when attacked by the Lilliputians.

“Sophia.” Arriving at the bed, he brushed past Clarissa to touch Sophia’s shoulder—only to have that shoulder collapse beneath his hand. As Clarissa scrambled away, he yanked back the coverlet and found only pillows beneath.

“Where is she?” he gritted out and spun toward them.

Clarissa sneered. “We’re not going to tell you anything.”

“Brute!” Daphne threw a brush at him. It bounced off the center of his chest and fell to the carpet. Damn it.

“Have you both lost your minds?” he demanded.

“Perhaps so.” Clarissa crossed her arms at her waist. “People often lose their minds when they care deeply about someone. Can you imagine how it feels, Claxton, when a woman takes great pride in her husband and her marriage, only to be confronted with persistent rumor and innuendo?”