Passions of a Wicked Earl (26 page)

“Here,” he said, twirling his tongue over her ankle.

“No.”

“Can you not at least give me a hint?”

She gave him a seductive smile. “I’d rather you explore.”

She couldn’t believe her boldness, lying completely bare before him. His smoldering gaze traveled over her, causing her breathing to quicken.

“It must be someplace I’ve not touched, but I swear I’ve touched all of you.” He studied her intently and she fought not to squirm. He sat up and skimmed his long, talented fingers along her leg, past her knee, along the sensitive flesh of her inner thigh. He teased the juncture between thigh and hip. She jumped but only smiled. His eyes narrowed.

“I’ve been very thorough,” he murmured seductively, “along your front, along your back. Have I neglected your side?”

She shivered as he made his way up her body, like some predatory beast, until his face was directly over hers. “Which side, Claire?”

Shaking her head, she instinctively pressed her left arm closer to her body, and his beautiful, naughty mouth spread into a victorious smile. He released a low chuckle before moving to the side as though to leave her. The second she relaxed, he pounced, grabbing both her wrists, and carrying them over her head, holding them in place with one hand, his leg pinning her hips against the bed.

“Westcliffe—”

His laughter was both dark and teasing, just before his fingers lightly taunted her skin, near the swell of her breast. Beth had tickled her when they were girls, her fingers probing and jabbing—still she’d been powerless not to laugh. But his touch—

“Oh, God, don’t!” She tried to buck him off, but he was too large, too strong, too powerful—except for the touch at her side that was more devastating, that made her squirm until a bubble of laughter erupted. “Don’t!”

He stopped abruptly. As her laugh died, he cradled her face. “I love your laughter.” Then he was kissing her deeply as though he wanted to explore for the sound.

Love. A word she was certain didn’t come easily for him. But could he love her laughter without loving more of her? Perhaps eventually all of her?

He released her wrists. The game changed. It was no longer about tickling and making her laugh. It was about touching intimately, making her moan. And she did. She never could have imagined there were so many different ways to touch. Light and hard, soft and firm. A slow stroke, a tantalizing circle. A cool breath stirring the fine hairs on her nape. A warm breath heating her throat. There was nothing he would not do. There was nothing she’d not allow him to try.

She trusted him completely—in her bed and out of it. She believed he trusted her implicitly in his bed. She hoped that he was tentatively beginning to trust her beyond the bed. He’d brought her here, shared with her a place he’d shared with no one. They talked on the balcony about his dreams of travel. He wanted children with her. He wanted a legacy that was not a crumbling estate and a need to marry for coin. He’d even told her how very well-off they were now—he’d never be content with it, would always want more. He knew what it was to be dependent on another’s good graces. He didn’t want that for his children. He’d work to obtain what he desired, when most nobles wouldn’t.

He was a man she respected, admired, and had come to love.

The passion between them flared as it always did. He entered her with one sure thrust, and she received him gladly, welcoming the thickness of him. They moved together in rhythm. Holding his gaze, she watched the contours of his face strain against the escalating pleasure. Beneath her hands, the muscles of his back bunched and undulated. Within her, the sensual sensations rippled and grew—until they could no longer be contained. When they burst through her, he was there with her, his body jerking, his hoarse calling of her name echoing and mingling with her unrestrained cry.

They came down from the pinnacle together, their arms wrapped around each other, their bodies slick and heated. Outside the waves crashed, but within, she knew a contented peace.

Stretched out on the sand, raised up on an elbow, he watched her wading out into the water wearing only a light cotton shift. This was an isolated stretch of coastline. There was little chance that anyone would come across them. He should join her, but the desperation with which he wanted to do so troubled him.

He’d never before felt anything beyond the physical with any woman—but with her he felt far too much. Always, he could hold his own satisfaction at bay, prolong it to draw out the pleasure, but when he made love with her, the emotional satisfaction of watching her climax heightened his pleasure to such a degree that he lost all control. His body shuddered with its intense release as hers did or so very near that he barely had time to draw in a breath.

With other women, he’d always felt something was missing. With Claire, he feared he might have found it. Her. He wanted her as he’d never wanted anyone. He needed her—and he had no desire to need anyone. He enjoyed her company. He appreciated all aspects of her.

He would awaken next to her, and his chest would tighten with such gladness—

He didn’t like being dependent on her in this manner. He’d been dependent before. It made a man feel closed in, uncertain, less than a man. He felt none of those things with her, yet he knew she had far too much power. She could hurt him as she had once before.

She knelt in the water, then rose like some sort of nymph and began walking toward him. Devil take her! He laughed at the sight of her shift clinging to her, the stark white revealing the darkened shadows of her body. When she reached him, he grabbed her hand, pulled her down, and tucked her beneath him.

Smiling up at him, she issued her invitation. Bending down, he kissed her deeply, with longing. It had been only a few hours since he’d last taken her, but he intended to have her here while the sun and clouds watched, and the tide lapped at them.

She wanted him to trust her with everything. He wondered when she might recognize that he already did. That against all odds, he trusted her with his heart.

C
laire sat on the ground in the garden, pulling a red stick on a string, chuckling as Fen jumped on it and attacked it with such vigor. A week had passed since she and Westcliffe had returned from the seaside. Beth had survived her time with the duchess remarkably well. Leo had begun painting a portrait of her. Another suitor, the third son of an earl, had begun calling on Beth, although she still favored Greenwood above all others.

She glanced up as Beth flounced down beside her. “You seem so remarkably happy,” Beth said. “Are you glad you came to London?”

Claire bit her lower lip, then nodded. “I should have come long ago. I should not have accepted exile so docilely.”

“What choice did you have? A woman is supposed to obey her husband.”

Reaching over, she squeezed Beth’s hand. “Which is the reason that it is important for you to consider all suitors. You wanted a choice, and you seem to have very quickly settled on one.”

“But he’s perfect. Why do you have such a difficult time believing that?”

Claire sighed. “Perhaps because I thought if I’d been given a choice, I’d have chosen another, and now I realize that marrying Westcliffe was the correct thing to do.”

“What happened with you isn’t going to happen with me.”

“But sometimes what we think is right, isn’t. I just want you to be cautious.”

“I would rather listen to my heart.”

Claire rolled her eyes. “Oh, you are quite the romantic.”

Beth smiled. “Because I’m being courted by a very romantic man. When we take our daily walks through Hyde Park, he recites poetry. A different poem each day. Does Westcliffe read you poetry?”

Claire laughed softly. “No. Lately, we’ve been discussing how to ensure that Fenimore learns not to do his business in the house.”

Beth groaned.
“That
is not something to be discussed.”

“At least he is finally warming up to Fen. I had not considered that he would need time to mourn his loss. It made me like him all the more for it, though.”

“At least he finally gave you flowers.”

He had. That morning a dozen red roses had arrived for her, with a note.
Simply because.

Because what? she’d wondered. Because he cared for her? Because things were right between them? She could think of a hundred things—and perhaps they all applied.

“Can you believe how many have arrived for me?” Beth said. “I think if Greenwood does ask for my hand in marriage that I might delay giving him an answer until next Season.”

Claire worried that her sister might be becoming infatuated with the wrong things. “You risk losing him altogether. What if he decides you’re not worth waiting for?”

“Then he doesn’t deserve me.”

“Wherever do you get your confidence?”

“I don’t know. But I do know that I’m not marrying old Hester.”

Claire looked up as the butler approached. Bending down, he presented a card on a silver salver. Everything within her went cold as marble when she saw the name: Lady Anne Cavill.

“Oh, my word!” Beth exclaimed, snatching up the card. “Do you suppose she’s come to invite us to her ball?”

Claire was hit with a sense of dread. Nothing good could come of this meeting. Westcliffe wasn’t here. He had matters concerning the railway to deal with. He’d been gone since early that morning. Perhaps that was the reason for the flowers—just to let her know he was thinking of her. She turned her attention back to Beth. “I don’t know why she’s here.”

“We must welcome her immediately.”

Beth made a move to get to her feet, and Claire grabbed her arm, stilling her actions. “I shall see her. Alone.”

“But, Claire, why? To be accepted by her—”

“Willoughby, on whom is she calling?” Claire asked the butler, hoping to put a swift end to further argument with Beth.

“You, my lady.”

Claire handed Beth the string. “Keep Fen occupied, please.”

Beth pouted, then shrugged. “Very well.”

With the butler’s assistance, Claire rose to her feet. She did hope Lady Anne was gone before Westcliffe returned. She couldn’t imagine what the woman wanted. Or perhaps she could imagine only too clearly because her stomach was knotting. Ridiculous really.

If Westcliffe held no affection for Claire, surely he’d not continue to come to her bed and to remain there all night so he awoke to her each morning. He wouldn’t hold her near. He wouldn’t murmur in her ear. He wouldn’t make her feel cherished. While he’d never proclaimed undying love, she couldn’t help but feel that they were growing closer.

Inside the residence, she removed her bonnet and gloves, tidied her hair, and pinched her cheeks, not that they really needed any more color. She strolled as casually and calmly as she could to the parlor, taking pride in how welcoming it felt. She had truly begun to make the house into a home.

As Claire entered the parlor, Lady Anne Cavill turned from the window. Her pale green dress was the perfect accent to her red-tinted hair.

“My lady,” Claire began, grateful that her voice did not quiver and give away her nerves, “how kind of you to call. I’ve sent for tea.”

“I doubt I’ll be here that long.” She extended a creamy white envelope. “I’m having a ball, and I wanted to personally extend an invitation.”

Claire took the invitation. “Thank you. I’d—I’d not expected such kindness. Particularly after our last encounter.”

Lady Anne blushed, her high cheekbones almost scarlet. “I must apologize for my behavior that night. I still had hope that I would be victorious. But it seems, my dear, that Westcliffe has developed an affection for you. He has informed me that there is no hope for anything between us.”

Studying her, Claire did not think she could take being turned aside so calmly, not if she truly cared for the man. Now that she knew Westcliffe, she thought she would fight for him tooth and nail. “Will it not be difficult to have us present at your ball? I know it was no secret that you were his lover.”

“And now it is no secret that I am not. But I’ve never been one to seek solace in shadows. I enjoyed his company and am grateful for the time we had together. I have little doubt that he will be reluctant to accept the invitation. As I’m sure you’re aware, he has never been one to welcome attention. But it would truly mean the world to me if you would attend my ball. I believe in time we could become friends.”

Claire thought that highly unlikely. The woman was too cold. She couldn’t see Westcliffe wanting to be with this woman. But neither was she one to run from an uncomfortable situation. Not any longer. “I shall certainly consider it, and I shall talk with West—”

“Oh, Fenimore, come back here!”

Suddenly, Fenimore was scampering into the parlor, with Beth quickly in pursuit. Claire had the sneaking suspicion that it was not by accident that the dog had escaped his leash and run into the parlor to create havoc.

“Oh, please get him away!” Lady Anne exclaimed as Fen threw his small wiggling body against her skirt. “I can’t tolerate the creatures.”

“I’m so sorry,” Claire began, bending down and picking up the excited Fen.

Clearing her throat, Beth nudged Claire’s arm, giving Claire cause to remember her manners. “Lady Anne Cavill, allow me to present my sister, Lady Beth.”

Claire thought perhaps she’d misread the earlier chill because the smile their guest bestowed upon Beth was warm and sincere. “I’ve heard quite a bit about you. You are all the talk among the gentlemen.”

Beth blushed with pleasure. “Thank you, my lady.”

“I daresay Lord Greenwood has set his cap for you. He is quite the catch. I hear he is of good fortune, three thousand a year, and when he inherits, it will be far more than that.”

Beth’s smile quivered. “It is not his potential wealth that draws me to him.”

“But it is his wealth that will keep you warm, fed, and clothed. Do not take offense at what I’ve told you. When a man is of independent means, then you can be assured that his affections for you are based solely on yourself, which was all I was attempting to convey with my feeble efforts. My husband, may he rest in peace, married me for my dowry. It was a cold, loveless marriage. Sometimes I think he even resented that I was responsible for getting him out of debt. I was not sorry to see him pass, which no doubt makes me appear heartless, but there is nothing worse than knowing a man visits your bed out of obligation rather than desire.”