Passions of a Wicked Earl (19 page)

“Nothing to worry over? Someone tries to kill you—”

“We don’t know that he was trying to kill me.”

“Why would he shoot at you?”

“We don’t even know that he
was
shooting at me. I just happened to be what he hit.”

“No one heard anything because of the fireworks, and if they did, they would have just thought it was noise accompanying the show,” she speculated. The perfect cover. But still it made no sense that anyone would want to kill him. She walked forward and took the cloth from the servant. “We should send for a physician.”

“It’s nothing more than a flesh wound.” Westcliffe took the cloth from her and pressed it against the wound.

She snatched the cloth away. “I should see to it. I’m your wife.”

“You’ll get blood on that dress—”

“I already have blood on me.”

He looked at her then, truly looked at her. The concern that flashed briefly in his eyes was deeper than any she’d ever seen. She’d known he was a man of strong emotions—she’d experienced his anger and his passion when fueled by anger or drink—but this was something else, and she realized he possessed a wider range of feelings than she’d ever given him credit for.

Taking the cloth from her, he slowly came to his feet and began wiping the blood that had splattered on her chest. Each stroke was so gentle, but his hand was larger than the cloth, and the edge of it grazed her skin. She thought she must be some sort of weak, wanton woman to be so distracted by his touch at a moment like this, when his arm was bleeding—or
had
been bleeding. It appeared that the wound had stopped seeping. Still, it needed to be bandaged. She’d get to it in a moment, when he ceased his ministrations.

She’d caught glimpses of his chest before, but only in the shadows, or at a distance, or only through the narrow V of a shirt. In the light, with no shirt, he was really quite lovely. Firm and muscular. She wondered what sorts of activities he engaged in to keep himself so. He had a fine sprinkling of hair that narrowed down and disappeared beneath the waist of his trousers. Trousers that presently sported a large bulge—and she realized that he was as affected by touching her as she was by being touched.

Swallowing hard, she lifted her gaze to his face, struck by the intensity with which he concentrated, as though he would allow no speck of blood to remain on her flesh. His touch was so unexpected, so delicious.

Gathering her courage, she pressed her hand to the center of his chest, surprised how the springy hairs curled around her fingers as though intent on holding them there forever.

To her chagrin, he stilled his ministrations. “We’re developing a rather nasty habit here of having me clean you up. I must confess to preferring the whiskey.”

“How can you be so calm?” she asked.

“What is to be gained by being otherwise?”

“It would at least make me feel better to know you were angry or incensed.”

“I was before you walked in and distracted me.” He stepped back.

“Let me wrap your wound,” she urged.

“My manservant can see to it.”

“He seems to have disappeared.” The servants were well trained in that regard. She didn’t wait for Westcliffe to argue further. She simply picked up the cloth that the servant had set aside and began to wrap it around his arm, securing the wound. She could smell the sweet scent of sweat. Perhaps he was human after all, to have sweated some, not to have been completely calm.

“Why the worry, Countess?”

She jerked her gaze up to his. What was he asking?

He cradled her face with his large hand. “If I were dead, so many of your problems would be resolved. No divorce, no scandal.”

“You idiot. Do you really think I would prefer you dead?”

Before he could respond, certain that anything he might have said would have been more ridiculous than anything he’d already said, she rose on her toes and covered his mouth with hers. She didn’t know where she’d gathered the courage and she’d fully expected him to set her back on her heels.

Instead, his arm came around her, lifting her slightly higher, as his mouth began hungrily to devour hers. She ran her hands up into his hair, pressing herself closer until her breasts were flattened against the wide expanse of his chest.

Oh, God, she wanted to feel every inch of him, wanted the freedom to run her hands over all his flesh, all of it. To think that tonight someone could have so easily taken from her what she had yet to know, to experience. In less than a second, within a heartbeat, all could have been lost.

Because she’d been too afraid to give what they might have had together a chance. Because she’d looked at Stephen and seen the familiar, and not been brave enough to reach for the unknown.

She wasn’t certain when she’d begun to care for this man. Perhaps when she’d first recognized the torment that her selfish actions had brought him. Perhaps when she’d watched his lonely figure walking over the moors with only a dog as his companion. Perhaps when he’d welcomed her sister into his home. Perhaps when she’d caught glimpses of a tenderness hidden behind a scowl or an expressionless façade. She couldn’t identify a single moment, but, somehow, moments woven together had given her a glimpse of what her life could be. Tonight, it had almost been snatched from her.

His low growl reverberated through his chest, vibrated through hers. Her hair tumbled down. She’d not even been aware of his removing the pins, so lost was she in the sensations running through her. His kiss was as powerful as he was—it demanded, insisted, required that pleasure rise and be celebrated.

Tearing her mouth from his, she dragged her lips over his neck, tasting the salt of his sweat. She nipped at the vulnerable skin at his collarbone. She wanted to taste of all of him. She wanted—

Shoving her away, he staggered back, turned, and grabbed onto the mantel as though it alone gave him the strength to stand. Breathing harshly, he bowed his head. “You should leave.”

She took a tentative, trembling step toward him. “No, I want this.”

“If I take you—” He shook his head. “It would be unfair to take you, then seek a divorce.”

“I don’t want a divorce.”

Shaking his head, he closed his eyes. “Tonight, emotions are high. In the morning, there will be naught but regret.”

“You’re wrong. I want—”

“I don’t.” He slammed his hand against marble. Then he was gripping it again, his knuckles turning white. “I don’t. Not like this. Not because a brush with death has us wanting to feel alive. You deserve a man who wants you because it is you. God help me, it has taken me long enough to realize that.”

“And you are not that man?”

“I don’t know. I only know that taking you to my bed tonight would be a mistake, and if you do not leave, that is exactly what I am going to do.”

“I’m not going to leave.”

“So be it.”

He turned around. The agony on his face nearly brought her to her knees. Then he strode past her, leaving the room, leaving her behind.

T
he Honorable Stephen Lyons wished he were dead. Whenever he moved, his skull felt in danger of splintering into a thousand shards. The room carried the musky scent of glorious sex. Like a blind man, he gingerly searched the sheets for the bare bottom of the lovely lady with whom he’d shared the night, but she’d apparently already taken her leave. Just as well. He had to report to the War Office this morning. He wondered at the time.

Squinting, he rolled over to grab his watch only to see a man sitting in the shadows. He jerked upright at the unexpected visitor, then grabbed his head as pain reverberated through it. “Damnation. What the devil are you doing here?”

“I could ask the same of you, puppy,” Ainsley said. “You’re supposed to be in India.”

“Devil take you! I’ve told you not to call me that.”

“But it suits.” He glanced around the shabby room. “Your accommodations are not to be desired.”

“They’re temporary.” Just someplace to stay when he had a bit of leave. Tossing back the sheets, not bothering to hide his nakedness, he clambered out of bed and lumbered to the washbasin. He displayed the cocky mien for which he was so well-known, the one that irritated the devil out of his brothers—brothers who possessed the one thing he never would: a title. He resented their power and influence. Splashing the cold water on his face, he shivered and reached for a towel. Drying off as he went, he wandered back over to the bed, sat down, and flicked the sheets over his hips. “How did you find me?”

“I have my ways.”

“I’ve always suspected there is more to you than shows on the surface. So
why
did you feel a need to find me? I’ve not been frequenting your circles. As a matter of fact, I’ve been working very hard not to draw attention to myself. So why the bother?”

“Westcliffe’s been shot.”

“Good God. I’m now the earl?” He’d wanted the title for as long as he could remember, but he’d never expected to have it. He’d not wanted to pay this price for it. Christ! He shook his head. “Why would someone kill him? Was it a hunting accident?”

“I didn’t say he was dead.”

He snapped his gaze over to his brother, only to find him scrutinizing him with those sharp green eyes of his. He knew women who bought emeralds simply because they matched the shade of Ainsley’s eyes. Women had fawned over his brother from the cradle.

“You were truly taken by surprise,” Ainsley said quietly.

“Naturally, I was. It’s not every day that someone is sh—bloody hell! You’re here because you think I did it.”

“The thought occurred.”

“Why would I do that?”

“Just as you stated. To gain the title.”

“He’s my brother.”

“You cuckolded him.”

He sighed deeply. “It wasn’t like that.”

“You let everyone believe it was. Suppose you explain.”

He wished his head would stop aching, wished his brother would leave, wished the woman hadn’t.

Ainsley leaned forward, resting his elbows on his thighs and grasping his hands. In spite of the fact that he was the youngest of the brothers, he’d always given the impression that he was the family patriarch. He had the more prestigious title and family heritage, and he had wealth. He’d given Stephen a generous allowance until the fiasco with Claire. “Why did you do it, Stephen? You can’t have believed your family would forgive you for so flagrant a betrayal—”

“Mother did.”

“She’s the reason you’re still in England.” It was part question, part statement.

“It’s astounding the influence she has. I truly had no idea.”

“Why?” Ainsley persisted.

Stephen rubbed his brow and sighed. “Claire didn’t want to be married. Not really. She was terrified of Westcliffe. So was I, truth be told. He’d always been so deadly serious. I thought if he found me in her bed, he would do exactly what he did. He’d exile her to the country estate. He desperately needed her dowry, so I knew he wouldn’t seek an annulment. When Claire was ready to be a wife, she could explain things to him.”

“And you truly believed he’d forgive her?”

“I was twenty-one and drunk. I believe in my invincibility and wisdom when I am drunk.”

“I can scarcely believe Claire went along with this.”

“She’d just turned seventeen. She’d never been in the London ballrooms. She had no sophistication. And … I didn’t tell her everything.”

Ainsley glared at him.

He released a deep breath. “I didn’t explain that I was actually going to get into bed with her, not until I did. But I knew it would convince Westcliffe my intentions were dishonorable.”

“He beat you to a bloody pulp.”

“I know. I was there. Got a scar on my chin and one near my eye.”

“You are a bloody fool.”

“I love her, Ainsley. Not with passion or desire, but with a purity that doesn’t characterize my experiences with other women. It’s a brotherly devotion toward a sister I suppose. She has always been my friend, and I hers.”

“Why didn’t you simply tell Westcliffe how she felt?”

“He’d not listen to me. There has always been a strain between us.”

“You could have told me.”

“You’re my baby brother.”

“Idiot,” Ainsley muttered.

Stephen shrugged. “In retrospect, I can’t argue that.”

Ainsley studied him for a long moment. “She’s in London, you know.”

“Claire?”

Ainsley nodded.

“Are things well between her and Westcliffe then?”

“Not quite, but they’re not so awful either. He could scarcely take his eyes off her at the ball the other night.”

He couldn’t stop the smile from forming. “Well, then, perhaps all will turn out well.”

“You’re to stay clear of her, puppy.”

“Absolutely. I want her to be happy. That’s all I’ve ever wanted.” He furrowed his brow. “So, who do you think shot him? Or perhaps more importantly, why?”

“Haven’t a bloody clue.”

The laughter echoing beyond the windows interrupted Westcliffe’s concentration. Normally he would have been irritated with the distraction, but instead he was intrigued. It seemed to bring a lightness with it that made his office less gloomy. It flittered away, leaving behind a silence that wasn’t quite as oppressive as before.

Only when he heard the trilling again did he realize that he’d paused in his work and leaned back in his chair, waiting in anticipation for the merry sound to enter his domain once more. He’d never brought ladies, not even Anne, to his residence. It had merely served as a place to study his accounts, consider his investments, discuss business with those who saw after his affairs. A place to sleep, to drink, to reflect.

It felt very different with Claire in residence. And even though hers wasn’t the only laughter filtering in, he was fairly certain that he had accurately identified which belonged to her. It struck a chord deep within him that he didn’t particularly want plucked.

Rising from his chair, he strolled to the window and looked out on the gardens. Lord Greenwood had arrived earlier. After a rather boring ten minutes of sitting in the parlor, doing little more than listening to the ticking of the clock on the mantel and addressing the occasional question about literature preferences, Claire had suggested they retire to the garden in order to appreciate the lovely sunshine. He’d not been surprised she’d prefer the light of the sun.