Passions of a Wicked Earl (7 page)

He ground his back teeth. “I didn’t see the point in having it done.”

“Of course there is a point, dear boy. It is family tradition to have a portrait of every earl and countess made shortly after they are married. For posterity’s sake.”

“I don’t recall your ever caring about the earl. What do you care of his posterity?”

“The previous earl, no. The present earl, yes. Why would you ever think otherwise?”

Before he could respond, his mother turned to Claire. “Perhaps you would be so kind as to take Leo on a tour of the rooms, so he can determine where the best lighting can be found.”

Claire appeared startled before rising to her feet. “Yes, of course.”

Westcliffe watched the young man follow his wife from the room. He was tempted to go after them, but what did he care if Claire was alone with a man? He didn’t. The time for such caring was past. Instead, he glared at his mother. “What are you about?”

“I told you. You need to have your portrait done.”

“And I told you there is no point. I intend to have this farce of a marriage brought to a legal end.”

“My God. Do you have any idea of the scandal—”

“Don’t be a hypocrite, Mother. If our family is known for nothing else, it is known for its unconventional flouting of societal rules. Your own scandals make mine seem paltry in comparison.”

He knew she couldn’t deny the charges, and she didn’t even try. Rather she arched a dark brow. “And what of Claire? Is she aware of this plan of yours that will bring shame and humiliation to your doorstep?”

“No.”

“I see. So it’s true then. Lady Anne Cavil has won your heart.”

He considered lying, considered claiming to be madly in love with Anne, but the truth was that he felt nothing for anyone. “I have no heart to be won, and well you know it. But Anne suits me.”

“Well, then, what more is there?”

But the icy tone of her voice set his teeth on edge. He watched warily as his mother rose, graceful as ever. She approached him, then proceeded to brush some lint from the shoulder of his jacket. Finally, she lifted her eyes to his. They were dark—brown—but his were darker still, his had come from the man who’d sired him.

“I gave you so little love growing up. I couldn’t separate you from your father, and I despised him. For whatever pain I caused you, I’m sorry. But it is not like you to be hurtful. Surely you can give Claire another chance to be your wife.”

“Is that the reason you’re here? To speak on her behalf? If so, you’re wasting your breath, and I would beg you not to interfere.”

“I’m here to see about having your portrait done.” She tilted her head slightly. “And because Claire invited us for dinner.”

He narrowed his eyes. “You’re meddling.”

“I’ve ignored you for a good part of your life. Don’t you think it’s time?”

Before he could answer, the painter walked back into the room. “I found the perfect lighting. I’m going to gather my materials from the carriage. Will you help the countess select an appropriate gown?”

Westcliffe almost answered no before his mother murmured her reply, and he realized the question had been directed at her. A gown. Not a dress with buttons clear to her chin. But a gown. Something that would lay bare the skin he’d touched last night. It would be pure torment—

“You are both going to a great deal of trouble needlessly,” he said. “I have no desire to sit for a portrait.”

“Don’t be petulant. Even if you dissolve this marriage, there should be a portrait.”

“Of the woman who betrayed me?”

“You can burn it in celebration afterward,” the artist said from the doorway.

Westcliffe glared, and the man merely shrugged. “I have burned a few portraits. There is satisfaction in destroying the image of one you wish to forget.”

“I see no reason to subject myself to hours of sitting—”

“Please,” his mother said quietly. “For me.”

Under his breath, he cursed her because that was all it had ever taken from her to gain what she needed or wanted from him. Watch out for your brothers—for me. Exceed in the classroom—for me. Teach Ransom to read—for me. Play with Stephen—for me. She was his mother, and in spite of her years of putting him last, he could no more deny her than not draw in a breath.

He didn’t know why he was surprised that the room chosen was his bedchamber. He was certain the artist was conspiring with his mother to accomplish something that Westcliffe did not desire.

The furniture in the seating area had been rearranged, brought nearer to the windows, where the drapes were drawn back to allow in the afternoon sunlight. In a pale blue gown with a scooped neck that revealed the upper swells of her breasts, Claire sat on the settee. At her throat was the string of pearls he’d given her on the morning of their wedding. It had once belonged to his grandmother. If his mother hadn’t put it away for safekeeping, he’d have sold it long ago. He found it difficult to be sentimental about
things
that might have been responsible for his previous state of
poverty.
He wanted to tell her that it was not a good idea to remind him of that day, yet neither could he deny that they accented her throat perfectly. Resting near her feet was Cooper.

“I thought the portrait would have more meaning for you,” Claire said quietly, “if your dog was part of it.”

It would ensure he didn’t burn it. When he was thirteen, he’d acquired the puppy. The Earl of Lynnford, who’d become their guardian after the duke had died, had given the dog to Westcliffe as though he’d recognized that the boy had little enough in his life.

She reached up and scratched her nose. Just the edge of her gloved finger moving quickly against the tip of her upturned nose. She had such tiny features. Everything about her was delicate. He remembered how awkward she’d been as a child, chasing after Stephen, for whom responsibility was a foreign word. But he’d been popular with everyone because he’d been ever so good at playing and giving everyone a good laugh.

“If you’ll stand here, my lord,” Leo said, directing him so he stood behind and slightly to the right of Claire, which gave him an unencumbered view of her bared skin as well as his bed.

Was this his mother’s perverse notion of matchmaking?

“My lord, you’re creating a bit of a shadow … if you’ll move in just a little closer to the countess?”

Westcliffe felt her stiffen as his stomach nestled against her back.

“Very good. Let’s curl your hand around her nape—”

“This isn’t going to work.”

Leo actually appeared stunned. “Pardon?”

Westcliffe glanced at his mother, who was observing near the doorway. “The proximity isn’t going to make me want her.” He felt a tiny jerk go through Claire, beneath his fingers, as though he’d slapped her. “You’re forcing me to be cruel. Claire and I have an arrangement. She is here only for the Season, then she is gone.”

“Then the portrait should be done now, while she is here,” his mother said.

He shook his head but stayed where he was.

“If you’ll look here, my lord, a bit of profile, very good,” the artist said, as though no tension resided in the room. He moved behind his easel.

“I shall be in the parlor,” his mother said, and quickly vanished.

“Was this your idea?” Westcliffe asked Claire.

“No. I want it no more than you do.”

“Then why are we here?”

“To please your mother. I need her assistance this Season to help me find a suitable husband for Beth.”

“So you wish to acquire her good graces?”

“Precisely.”

They posed for several minutes, neither moving nor speaking. He was acutely aware of her scent infiltrating his room, her warmth penetrating his fingers, her profile bathed in sunlight. He’d never noticed before, but she had three small freckles—two high, one low—on the curve of her cheek. He wondered if the sun had caught her without a bonnet. He wondered how often she’d walked over his land.

“My lord, there are some stray strands of her hair falling over her cheek,” Leo said. “Would you be so kind as to tuck them up behind her ear?”

Three strands at the most. How the devil had Leo spotted them from his distance?

“You’re an artist. Pretend they’re not there.”

“I fear I lack imagination. I paint what I see.”

“But you are not yet painting.”

“No, I’m outlining, but they are a distraction.”

With a sigh, knowing his cooperation would help speed things along, Westcliffe reached out and moved the strands aside, his fingers glancing over her cheek. She shivered beneath his touch. Against his will, his gaze darted to the bed, and he imagined her shivering there. Unlike the artist, he had a keen imagination. He could imagine his mouth trailing over her skin—

With more force than needed, he tucked the stray strands back into place. As he did so, he noticed the faintest of scars intersecting her right brow. “How much longer?” he snapped.

“Not much. You’re free to speak,” Leo said.

“It actually assists me with my painting, to get a clearer idea of your character. For example, what is your favorite color, my lady?”

“Blue.”

That explained the color of her gown, which even from the disadvantage of his angle he could see enhanced the shade of her eyes.

“My lord?”

Westcliffe tore his gaze from his wife and glowered at the artist, arching an eyebrow.

“Your favorite color, my lord,” he said smugly.

“I see no reason to encourage your inquiries.”

“Brown,” Claire said softly. “His favorite color. It’s everywhere in his residence. Dull and dreary. Is that how you see your life, my lord?”

“My life is seldom dull and never dreary. I simply find brown … peaceful.” In truth, he’d never given it any thought. But his mood was often flat. He couldn’t remember the last time he laughed. Anne brought him moments of pleasure, but he seemed incapable of holding true joy.

“How did you get the scar?” he asked quietly.

Her hand came up quickly, and before Leo could chastise her for moving, she’d returned it to her lap. “When I was eight, I took a tumble off my horse.”

Then she’d had the scar for years. The scar, the freckles. What else had escaped his notice? He realized he was falling into his mother’s trap—taking an interest in Claire he’d not meant to take.

“What are your intentions regarding my mother?” he asked bluntly of the artist, deciding turnabout was fair play. Besides, he had no desire to delve into his own mannerisms.

Claire seemed almost as surprised as Leo. She swung her head around to look at Westcliffe, her blue eyes wide, her luscious lips parted. They were the red of a rose.

“Did he kiss you?” he suddenly demanded, not certain what had provoked the question. Maybe it was simply that her mouth appeared so damned kissable.

She appeared even more flummoxed, her brow pleating.

“Stephen. Did he kiss you?”

“No. Never.” She squeezed her eyes closed. “Yes, once. I was ten. I was curious. I asked him to kiss me. He did. It was … disappointing.”

He was trying to process her disjointed answer. She’d been ten? A child? Curious? She’d gone to Stephen instead of the one to whom she’d been betrothed? Where had he been? All the times when she and Stephen had been frolicking about—he’d been riding or reading or off doing something that put distance between them. He’d been older, had no patience for their childish ways. A man needed to know very little about a woman—only that he desired her—before he bedded her. What did a woman of quality require? He’d never given it any thought. Had assumed Claire would welcome him only because he wanted her.

“That’s the only time he kissed you?” he heard himself ask.

She nodded. “Yes.”

Unblinking, she held his gaze. The only sign of her distress was the reddening of her cheeks.

And she’d found Stephen’s kiss disappointing. He took perverse satisfaction in the knowledge until he realized that Stephen would have been fourteen, on the cusp of childhood, no doubt still unschooled in the art of seduction. Westcliffe was damned tempted to take her in his arms and show her exactly what a kiss should be. Only the idiot painter was standing there.

“I’m losing the light,” Leo said calmly. “So we’re done for the day, but we shall meet at the same time tomorrow. You’re not to look at the work until it’s completed. You may leave if you like, and I’ll set matters to rights here.”

Westcliffe didn’t bother to argue. He strode from the room before he did something very foolish. He needed at least two tumblers of whiskey, perhaps three, before dinner, or he’d never survive it.

C
laire didn’t recall inviting the duchess to dinner, and yet there they all were, sitting at the dining table while soup, pork cutlets, and garnished brussels sprouts were served as though the guests had been anticipated. It occurred to her that the duchess had seen to matters regarding the cuisine while everyone else was in Westcliffe’s bedchamber.

It was not the room she’d have chosen. She thought the light in the salon with its floor-to-ceiling windows was better, but Leo—while she was uncomfortable referring to him so intimately, he insisted it was the only name he possessed—had assured her that the bedchamber was the only room that would do. She had stared at that massive bed, which had obviously been crafted especially for Westcliffe’s size, and wondered how many women had shared it with him.

“Your décor is rather interesting,” the duchess said to her son, breaking into Claire’s thoughts. “Paintings and statues of dogs, but no people.”

“I purchase that from which I receive enjoyment. Besides, dogs are loyal. People seldom are.”

“And by ‘people,’ I assume you mean family.”

Her husband did little more than hold his mother’s gaze.

“You might say that of Stephen, and perhaps of me,” she said quietly. “But Ainsley would give you the shirt off his back if you asked. He has always adored his oldest brother.”

Westcliffe dipped his gaze to his plate and began to concentrate on his food, and Claire wondered if he were uncomfortable with Ainsley’s adoration. She knew Stephen had sometimes felt conflicted, loving his brothers but resenting what they possessed. He was in a unique position of being the middle brother between two lords.