Never Entice an Earl (28 page)

T
he scent of gingerbread in the air!” exclaimed Sir Keyes, his aged blue eyes sparkling
with mischief. Winter wind swept through open doors behind him, carrying the sound
of carriages from the street. “And there’s mistletoe to be had from the peddler’s
stall on the corner.”

Though his pantaloons drooped off his slight frame to an almost comical degree, the
military orders and decorations emblazoned across his chest attested to a life of
valor years before. Leaning heavily on his cane, the old man produced a knotty green
cluster from behind his back, strung from a red ribbon, and held it aloft between
himself and Sophia.

“Such happy delights can mean only one thing.” He grinned roguishly—or as roguishly
as a man of his advanced years could manage. “It is once again the most magical time
of year.”

He tapped his gloved finger against his rosy cheek with expectant delight.

“Indeed!” The diminutive Dowager Countess of Dundalk stepped between them, smiling
up from beneath a fur-trimmed turban. She swatted the mistletoe, sending the sphere
swinging to and fro. “The time of year when old men resort to silly provincial traditions
to coax kisses from ladies young enough to be their granddaughters.”

At the side of her turban a diamond aigrette held several large purple feathers. The
plumes bobbed wildly as she spoke. “Well, it
is
almost Christmastide.” Sophia winked at Sir Keyes, and with a gentle hand to his
shoulder, she warmly bussed his cheek. “I’m so glad you’ve come.”

A widower of two years, he had recently begun accompanying Lady Dundalk about town,
something that made Sophia exceedingly happy, since both had long been dear to her
heart.

Sir Keyes plucked a white berry from the cluster, glowing with satisfaction at having
claimed his holiday kiss.

“I see that only a handful remain,” Sophia observed. “Best use them wisely.”

His eyebrows rose up on his forehead, as white and unruly as uncombed wool. “I shall
have to find your sisters, then, and posthaste.”

“Libertine!” muttered the dowager countess, with a fond roll of her eyes.

Behind them, two footmen with holly sprigs adorning their coat buttonholes secured
the doors. Another presented a silver tray to Sir Keyes, upon which he deposited the
price of Sophia’s kiss and proceeded toward the ballroom, the mistletoe cluster swinging
from the lions’ head handle of his cane. Together, Sophia and the dowager countess
followed arm in arm, through columns entwined in greenery, toward the sounds of music
and voices raised in jollity.

With Parliament having recessed mid-December for Christmas, the districts of St. James’s,
Mayfair, and Piccadilly were largely deserted by that fashionable portion of London’s
population oft defined as the
ton
. Like most of their peers, Sophia’s family’s Christmases were usually spent in the
country, but her grandfather’s recent frailties had precluded any travel. So his immediate
family, consisting of a devoted daughter-in-law and three granddaughters, had resolved
to spend the season in London.

But today was Lord Wolverton’s eighty-seventh birthday, and by Sophia’s tally, no
fewer than two hundred of the elusive
ton
had crept out from the proverbial winter woodwork to wish her grandfather well. By
all accounts, the party was a success.

In the ballroom, candlelight reflected off the crystal teardrops of chandeliers high
above their heads, as well as the numerous candelabras and lusters positioned about
the room, creating beauty in everything its golden glow touched. The fragrance of
fresh-cut laurel and fir, brought in from the country just that afternoon, mingled
pleasantly with the perfume of the hothouse gardenias, tuberose, and stephanotis arranged
in Chinese vases about the room.

Though there would be no dancing tonight, a piano quintet provided an elegant musical
accompaniment to the hum of laughter and conversation.

“Lovely!” declared Lady Dundalk. “Your mother told me you planned everything, to the
last detail.”

“I’m pleased by how splendidly everything has turned out.” The dowager countess slipped
an arm around Sophia’s shoulders and squeezed with affection. “The only thing missing,
of course, is the Duke of Claxton.”

The warm smile on Sophia’s lips froze like ice, and it felt as if the walls of the
room suddenly converged at the mere mention of her husband. It didn’t seem to matter
how long he had been away; her emotions were still so raw.

Lady Dundalk peered up at her, concern in her eyes. “I know you wish the duke could
be here tonight, and certainly for Christmas. No word on when our esteemed diplomat
will return to England?”

Sophia shook her head, hoping the woman would perceive none of the heartache she feared
was written all over her face. “Perhaps in the spring.”

A vague response at best, but the truth was she did not know when Claxton would return.
His infrequent, impersonal correspondence made no such predictions, and she had not
lowered herself to ask.

They came to stand near the fire, where a delicious heat warmed the air.

“Eighty-seven years old?” bellowed Sir Keyes. “Upon my word, Wolverton, you can’t
be a day over seventy, else that would make me—” Lifting a hand, he counted through
its knobby fingers, grinning. “Older than dirt!”

“We
are
older than dirt, and thankful to be so.” Her grandfather beamed up from where he
sat in his bath chair, his cheeks pink from excitement. His party had been a surprise
for the most part, with him believing until just an hour ago the event would be only
a small family affair. He appeared truly astounded and deeply touched. “Thank you
all for coming.”

Small, gaily beribboned parcels of Virginian tobacco, chocolate, and his favorite
souchong tea lay upon his lap. Sophia gathered them and placed them beneath the lowest
boughs of the potted tabletop yew behind them, one that would remain unadorned until
Christmas Eve, when the family would gather to decorate the tree in the custom of
her late grandmother’s German forebears.

Her family.
Their worried glances and gentle questions let her know they were aware that her
marriage had become strained. But she loved them so much! Which was why she’d shielded
them from the full magnitude of the truth—the truth being that when Claxton had accepted
his foreign appointment in May, he had all but abandoned her and their marriage. The
man she’d once loved to distraction had become nothing more than a cold and distant
stranger.

But for Sophia, Christmas had always been a time of self-contemplation, and the New
Year, a time for renewal. Like so many others, she made a habit of making resolutions.
By nature, she craved happiness, and if she could not have happiness with Claxton,
she would have it some other way.

She had given herself until the New Year to suitably resolve her marital difficulties.
The day after Christmas she would go to Camellia House, located just across the Thames
in the small village of Lacenfleet, and sequester herself away from curious eyes and
the opinions of her family, so that she alone could pen the necessary letter.

She was going to ask Claxton for a legal separation. Then he could go on living his
life just as he pleased, with all the freedoms and indulgences he clearly desired.
But she wanted something in return—a baby—and even if that meant joining him for a
time in Vienna, she intended to have her way.

Just the thought of seeing Claxton again sent her spiraling into an exquisitely painful
sort of misery. She had no wish to see him—and yet he never left her thoughts.

No doubt her presence would throw the private life His Grace had been living into
chaos, and she would find herself an unwanted outsider. No doubt he had a mistress—or
two—as so many husbands abroad did. Even now, the merest fleeting thought of him in
the arms of another woman made her stomach clench. He had betrayed her so appallingly
that she could hardly imagine allowing him to touch her again. But a temporary return
to intimacies with her estranged husband was the only way she could have the child
she so desperately wanted.

Sophia bent to adjust the green tartan blanket over Wolverton’s legs, ensuring that
His Lordship would be protected not only from any chill but also the bump and jostle
of the throng gathered about him.

“May I bring you something, Grandfather? Perhaps some punch?”

His blue eyes brightened.

“Yes, dear.” He winked and gestured for her to come closer. When she complied, he
lowered his voice. “With a dash of my favorite maraschino added, if you please, in
honor of the occasion. Only don’t tell your mother. You know just as well as I that
she and my physician are in collusion to deprive me of all the joys of life.”

Sophia knew he didn’t believe any such thing, but still, it was great fun to continue
the conspiratorial banter between them. Each moment with him, she knew, was precious.
His joy this evening would be a memory she would always treasure.

“I’d be honored to keep your secret, my lord,” Sophia said, pressing a kiss to his
cheek.

“What secret?” Lady Harwick, Sophia’s dark-haired mother, approached from behind.

A picture of well-bred elegance, Margaretta conveyed warmth and good humor in every
glance and gesture. Tonight she wore violet silk, one of the few colors she had allowed
into her wardrobe since the tragic loss of her son, Vinson, at sea four years ago—followed
all too soon by the death of Sophia’s father, the direct heir to the Wolverton title.

“If we told you, then it wouldn’t be a secret,” Sophia answered jovially, sidestepping
her. “His lordship has requested a glass of punch, and since I’m his undisputed favorite,
at least for this evening, I will fetch it for him.”

Wolverton winked at Sophia. “I shall have the secret pried out of him before you return.”
With that, Margaretta bent to straighten the same portion of Lord Wolverton’s blanket
her daughter had straightened only moments before.

Still a beautiful, vibrant woman, Margaretta drew the gazes of a number of the more
mature gentlemen in the room. Not for the first time, Sophia wondered if her mother
might entertain the idea of marrying again.

Sophia crossed the floor to the punch bowl, pausing several times to speak to friends
and acquaintances along the way. Though most of the guests were older friends of Lord
Wolverton, the presence of Sophia’s pretty younger sisters, Daphne and Clarissa, had
assured the attendance of numerous ladies and gentlemen from the younger set. Her
fair-haired siblings, born just a year apart and assumed by many to be twins, would
make their debut in the upcoming season. That is, if favored suitors did not snatch
them off the market before Easter.

At the punch bowl, Sophia dipped the ladle and filled a crystal cup. With the ladle’s
return to the bowl, another hand retrieved it—a gloved hand upon which glimmered an
enormous sapphire ring.

“Your Grace?” a woman’s voice inquired.

Sophia looked up into a beautiful, heart-shaped face, framed by stylish blonde curls,
one she instantly recognized but did not recall greeting in the reception line. The
gown worn by the young woman, fashioned of luxurious peacock-blue silk and trimmed
with gold and scarlet cording, displayed her generous décolletage to a degree one
would not normally choose for the occasion of an off-season birthday party for an
eighty-seven-year-old lord.

“Good evening, Lady…”

“Meltenbourne,” the young woman supplied, with a delicate laugh. “You might recall
me as Annabelle Ellesmere? We debuted the same season.”

Yes, of course. Annabelle, Lady Meltenbourne, née Ellesmere. Voluptuous, lush, and
ambitious, she had once carried quite the flaming torch for Claxton, and upon learning
of the duke’s betrothal to Sophia, she had not been shy about expressing her displeasure
to the entire
ton
over not being chosen as his duchess. Not long after, Annabelle had married a very
rich but very old earl.

“Such a lovely party.” The countess sidled around the table to stand beside her, so
close Sophia could smell her exotic perfume, a distinctive fragrance of ripe fruit
and oriental spice. “Your grandfather must be a wonderful man to be so resoundingly
adored.”

“Thank you, Lady Meltenbourne. Indeed, he is.”

Good breeding prevented Sophia from asking Annabelle why she was present at the party
at all. She had addressed each invitation herself, and without a doubt, Lord and Lady
Meltenbourne had not been on the guest list.

“I don’t believe I’ve been introduced to Lord Meltenbourne.” Sophia perused the room,
but saw no more unfamiliar faces.

“Perhaps another time,” the countess answered vaguely, offering nothing more but a
shrug. Plucking a red sugar drop from a candy dish, she gazed adoringly upon the confection
and giggled. “I shouldn’t give in to such temptations, but I admit to being a shamefully
impulsive woman.” She pushed the sweet into her mouth and reacted with an almost sensual
ecstasy, closing her eyes and smiling. “Mmmmm.”

Meanwhile, a gentleman had approached to refill his punch glass and gaped at the countess
as she savored the sugar drop, and in doing so, he missed his cup altogether. Punch
splashed over his hand and onto the table. Lady Meltenbourne selected another sweet
from the dish, oblivious to his response. Or perhaps not. Within moments, servants
appeared to tidy the mess and the red-faced fellow rushed away.

Sophia let out a slow, calming breath and smothered her first instinct, which was
to order the countess to
spit out the sugar drop
and immediately quit the party. After all, time had passed. They had all matured.
Christmas was a time for forgiveness. For bygones to be bygones.

Besides, London in winter could be rather dreary. This one in particular had been
uncommonly foggy and cold. Perhaps Annabelle simply sought human companionship and
had come along with another guest. Sophia certainly understood loneliness. Whatever
the reason for the woman’s attendance, her presence was of no real concern. Lady Meltenbourne
and her now candy-sugared lips were just as welcome tonight as anyone else. The party
would be over soon, and Sophia wished to spend the remainder with her grandfather.