Passions of a Wicked Earl (3 page)

“Which you no doubt see as a noble sacrifice.”

Her patience snapped. “For God’s sake, Westcliffe, I’ve asked for forgiveness, which you withhold, and I’ve told you that I wish to be your wife in all matters. Why must you make this so blasted difficult?”

“Because I no longer want you for my wife.”

Her heart slammed against her ribs, her stomach dropped to the floor as he stepped away. She’d never even considered that he’d refuse her. That he’d make it difficult, that he’d make her pay for her youthful indiscretion—yes. But to not want her at all? He needed an heir. He needed a wife. He had a wife.

“It’s late. I’ll have Willoughby prepare a guest room for you,” he said, his voice flat, back in control. “We’ll discuss this situation in the morning.”

He began striding across the room.

“Where the devil are you going?” she called out after him.

But he didn’t answer, didn’t even glance back as he made his exit from the room. Sinking to the floor, she allowed the tears of humiliation to flow at last. How was it that her life had become such a frightful mess?

D
amnation! As his carriage clattered through the streets, Westcliffe could still feel the heat of her alabaster flesh against the tip of his finger. What had he been thinking to dare her so? She was still remarkably naïve not to realize the full extent of her betrayal and the lengths he’d go to in order to make her suffer.

He’d anticipated marriage to her as he’d anticipated nothing else in his life before or after. He’d known that at long last he’d acquire the funds that would set him free of Ainsley. But it had been more than that. In spite of how it might have all appeared, her damnable dowry was only a small part of the reason he’d honored a preposterous contract, the terms of which his solicitor could have no doubt relieved him with very little effort.

From the moment his mother had married the Duke of Ainsley, Lyons Place—Westcliffe’s ancestral home—had been relegated to a lost manor, of no consequence. Its upkeep cost more than the income it provided, so it was left to languish, while the family took up residence at the magnificent Grantwood Manor. It was there that he’d first caught sight of the girl who would one day become his wife.

He couldn’t deny the pleasure he’d felt when he’d initially glimpsed her smile. His own mouth had twitched when he’d first heard her laugh. While she’d played with the others, he’d watched from afar, and he’d known,
known,
in his heart and soul that she could help him bring Lyons Place back to what it was meant to be. It could become again a place where a family would gather. It would no longer be shunned and forgotten.

He
would no longer be shunned or forgotten. There were times when he felt like an outsider in his own family. Perhaps because he’d always fought to keep his distance, not to readily accept another man as his father, regardless of the other man’s goodness. The eighth Duke of Ainsley could not replace what Westcliffe had lost.

He’d been convinced Claire could somehow fill the void. He’d taken such damned care in preparing himself for his wedding night, bathing again, shaving again, donning fresh trousers and a silk dressing gown. He’d planned to be gentle with her, to take such care. He’d had no intentions of rushing her.

Then he’d walked into the bedchamber and seen his brother in his place, and once again he’d been struck with the realization of being worthy of nothing—not even his own wife would remain loyal to him.

He became acutely aware of his hands aching. They were fisted so tightly—as to almost push bone through skin. He unfolded them as his carriage came to a halt. He belonged to several clubs, but Dodger’s Drawing Room was his favorite haunt. Its owner, Jack Dodger, had risen from the streets to become a powerful man. He understood a gentleman’s needs—although he had recently dispensed with his girls. Marriage no doubt was taming him.

But no matter. There were brothels aplenty if a man was in need of a warm body. At the moment, Westcliffe simply needed to be away from his residence. He strode through the gambling room and went into the recently renovated tobacco room, where men enjoyed a cigar or pipe along with their liquor. He took a chair in a corner sitting area.

At Dodger’s, customer preferences were memorized by liveried youths whom the owner had pulled from the streets and given employment. No one was left to wait for more than three minutes. Westcliffe didn’t even look up when his favorite brand of whiskey and a cigar were quietly set on the table beside him.

He did look up when a gentleman sat in the chair next to his. He glared, but his brother paid him no heed.

“Thought I’d see you here tonight,” Ainsley said. “So how did you find Claire?”

Westcliffe arched a brow at him, and his brother merely shrugged. “She came to my residence earlier, thinking that you still lived there. She was quite surprised to discover that you had purchased a residence of your own. Do you not communicate with your wife?”

“No.” Westcliffe reached for his glass, relished the slow burn as he swallowed the caramel-shaded smoky-flavored brew. He set the glass down, right side up, a signal that it was to be refilled. Promptly, it was.

Ainsley grabbed his own drink and leaned forward. “Why is she here?”

He’d always wanted to dislike Ainsley—simply on principle. He’d been born with everything: wealth, a powerful title, his mother’s love, and his father’s adoration. But he couldn’t help but admire him because he’d always been such an affable fellow, willing to help when needed, never keeping accounts on what was owed. Sometimes it irked knowing that his youngest brother was the best of them. “Apparently her sister has one Season in which to find a suitor, or their father will force her to marry Hester.”

“What has the man got against his own daughter?”

Westcliffe gave his brother a wry grin. “If you’re so appalled by the notion, why don’t you offer for her?”

“Good God, no! I’ve only just reached my majority, taken my seat in the House of Lords. That’s ample accomplishment for one year. I do not need to add taking a wife to my list of achievements.”

Westcliffe hardly blamed him. He’d have not married so young if he’d not been desperate for funds. But no matter when he’d married, he’d have honored the right to marry Claire that his father had reserved for him.

Ainsley sipped his brandy, tapped his snifter. “I thought Claire looked well. Hale and hearty actually. I’d say she spent a good deal of time roaming over your estate.”

“I didn’t notice.” The lie rolled easily off his tongue. He’d noticed every detail about her. Her upswept blond hair. The gentle slope of her throat. The fire in her sunset blue eyes when he’d ordered her to unbutton her bodice. She’d wanted to tell him to go to the devil. Three years ago, she’d run from him. Tonight, she’d stood up to him. What had happened to strengthen that backbone?

But he’d noticed more. So much more. The heat of her skin against his finger. The quiver of her muscles as his touch lingered. Her rose scent wafting enticingly around her.

He’d spoken true. He no longer wanted her as his wife, but that didn’t mean he didn’t want her beneath him. Traitorous wench. How could he desire her? Because she was a woman, and he was a man. It was as simple as that. It had nothing to do with the blue of her eyes or the fine figure she presented. Or the defiance. Women desired him, granted his every wish in an effort to please and tame him. But in the end, they bored him with solicitousness. Claire infuriated him.

He reached for his glass, having lost track of how many he’d emptied while he and Ainsley sat there. The liquor swirled through him, as did the memories, the past and the present nudging up against each other. Only now, having seen her tonight, looking back did he realize how very young she had been on the day they’d married.

More sixteen than seventeen. Why had he and her father thought that a single day, the celebration of her birth, would change her from a girl into a woman? She’d been thinner then, but now she possessed more womanly curves. Then she’d not been so far removed from the swing.

“I know the situation with your wife is none of my business—” Ainsley began.

“No, it’s not.”

Ainsley sighed. “Is that why you avoid me? Because you don’t want to know my opinion on the matter?”

“Our paths seldom cross because I have matters that require my attention.”

“Based upon the rumors, most of those
matters
involve women.”

Westcliffe clenched his jaw. “Are you judging me?”

Ainsley shook his head. “No. Can’t say I wouldn’t do the same under similar circumstances. Only I’d be more discreet.”

“Not if you care nothing for the woman.”

“She’s still your wife. That should garner her at least some consideration.”

He had no plans to get into a debate regarding his indiscretions. Claire was the one who’d initially set the terms of their marriage. He’d accepted that it was unlikely he’d ever hold her love, but he’d been convinced he’d have her loyalty. And then he’d walked into her bedchamber and realized even
that
would be denied him.

He remembered so clearly the words he’d spoken when he’d delivered her to Lyons Place. “You’ve made it abundantly clear that you hold no affection for me. So be it. Ours shall be a marriage in name only until I decide otherwise. You shall reside here and I in Town. Until you give me an heir, I expect you to keep your knees tightly clamped together. Find yourself with a child that is not of my loins, and I shall destroy your reputation, and while the law may force me to accept it as mine, rest assured that society will not.”

He’d been walking toward the door when she’d yelled, “I hate you!”

And he’d forced himself to laugh so she wouldn’t know that at that moment he’d hated himself as well. He’d never wanted to be cruel, but she’d forced him to turn his back on her. His fury had known no bounds, and his pride had demanded that on this matter he would take no crumbs.

Over the years, he’d had his servants send reports. He knew about her infrequent visitors—an occasional lady, her cousin, her sister. No gentlemen. She spent a considerable amount of time alone, except for servants. Little wonder she was so devoted to the estate. What else did she have to do with her time?

“Do you remember when her family would come to the estate?” Ainsley asked, falling into his habit of arbitrarily shifting conversations around. Westcliffe, however, knew there was usually a method to his brother’s methods. “She was always such fun.”

“And yet you always hid from her.”

“It was part of the game.”

Westcliffe remembered once—she couldn’t have been more than seven, while he was fifteen. He’d been sitting in a chair in the library reading when she’d barged into it, searching for his brothers. He’d given her a harsh glare, and she’d promptly retreated.

“I knew you could make her leave!” Ainsley—all of eight—had gloated as he scampered out from beneath the desk where he’d been hiding.

Westcliffe hadn’t been quite as happy with the results as Ainsley. He was afraid he’d frightened her. He’d been torn. He knew someday he was to marry her, but he also knew he had to look out for his brother.

“What are you reading?” Ainsley had asked.

“The Last of the Mohicans.
It’s about life in America.”

“Isn’t it the same there?”

“No.”

“Are you going to travel there?”

“I can’t. I have responsibilities here.”

Responsibilities that had always weighed on him, duties that would be easier to bear with the dowry that came with marriage to Claire. He’d never questioned it, never doubted it, never wondered if she did.

“I always liked her,” Ainsley said now. When Westcliffe glared at him, he shrugged. “Not as much as Stephen did, of course. They were inseparable until he discovered what was hidden beneath skirts and found interests elsewhere.”

He didn’t need the reminders.

“So what are you going to do about this situation with Claire?” Ainsley asked.

Westcliffe answered with brutal honesty. “Haven’t a bloody clue.”

Claire wandered through the residence. She’d not taken the time before Westcliffe’s arrival, because she hadn’t wanted to be caught snooping, so she’d waited for him in the library. But now, alone again, she wanted to get some sense of her husband. He had an eye for finely crafted furniture, but everything appeared haphazardly arranged. In the parlor, she moved a large lamp from a small table to a sturdier one. Then placed a miniature statuette on the first table. Such a small adjustment, but it balanced the room a bit. Why did she care anyway? She wasn’t going to be staying. He’d made that perfectly clear. She should leave tonight, but where the deuce would she go? Her father didn’t have a residence in London. He abhorred the city. Claire would have to give serious thought to her next plan. But not tonight. She was so weary, yet she was fairly certain she’d not be able to sleep.

Hence the aimless wandering. What struck her the most about the residence was that there were no family portraits. She supposed they were all at the estate. The occasional painting here depicted a dog. The most poignant one showed a dog curled up beside a casket. She didn’t know why she was so troubled by it, why her husband enjoyed such gloomy images. This residence possessed a loneliness that seemed to settle over everything. She pushed a small sofa nearer the fireplace, to create a sitting area that was a little cozier, then wondered why she bothered. It was her nature she supposed. She’d done the same with the manor. She wanted each room to welcome and embrace its occupants.

She went to move a chair and stopped herself. “Leave it,” she muttered. “Once you truly begin, you’ll be here all night, and you have no idea when Westcliffe will return.”

Or if he even would. She’d handled everything so poorly. It was time to consider another plan. But there were so few options. She’d considered them all when Beth had first approached her about providing her with a Season. Their mother had died, no other woman would tolerate their father’s ill temper.