Passions of a Wicked Earl (8 page)

“I saw Ainsley last night,” Westcliffe said.

“At a gambling house no doubt,” the duchess stated, as though she knew exactly where they’d been.

Claire felt immense relief that they’d not been at a brothel although she was certain he’d been with someone. She didn’t want to contemplate that he no longer wanted her because he’d fallen in love with someone else. Through the wisdom of years, she couldn’t help but consider that his amour might be as passionate as his fury. What she’d feared as a child intrigued her now.

“I do worry about him,” the duchess said. “He gambles so much.”

“He was winning. He always wins.” Westcliffe slid his gaze over to Claire. “Fortune seems to smile on Ainsley.”

“Do you resent it?” She didn’t know from where the question had come.

His jaw working back and forth, he seemed to give it serious thought before shaking his head. “No.”

His answer made her smile inside, gave her a sense of relief. It was one of the things that had always bothered her about Stephen—that he could be angry at his brothers for things over which they had no control. They couldn’t help it if they were born to inherit titles and property while he was not.

The conversation drifted into more comfortable territory: the styles of the Season, which ladies were still unspoken for, which ones would be making their debut. While the duchess claimed to live on the fringes of society, she was quite well versed in the comings and goings of the upper crust.

It had been a long day, and Claire was quite relieved when dinner finally came to an end.

“We shall see you tomorrow afternoon,” the duchess said brightly, squeezing Claire’s hand and patting her son’s cheek before disappearing through the doorway with Leo.

“Thank God that matter’s done with,” Westcliffe muttered. Then he shouted, “Willoughby!”

“Yes, my lord.”

“Have my carriage readied immediately.”

“Yes, sir.”

Claire desperately wanted to ask him where he was going, wanted to ask him to stay. She didn’t want to be alone. She was so tired of being alone, but she’d promised not to make a nuisance of herself, so instead she said, “I’m sorry.”

He turned and looked at her as though only just remembering she was there.

“Your mother. I’m sorry. The portrait, the dinner, they weren’t my idea. I went to her hoping that she could assist me in being invited to balls, in introducing Beth to society. And she is going to help. She will let it be known that Ainsley will only attend balls if we’re invited—”

“I don’t need Ainsley to garner invitations.”

Without another word, he strode down the hallway toward his library, leaving her standing there, feeling foolish. What was she to do now? She’d thought he’d be pleased not to be bothered with courting invitations. She was about to ascend the stairs when he returned to the entryway and held out a handful of invitations to her.

“Are these to upcoming balls?” she asked, amazed.

“And dinners. And various other functions.”

Taking the offering, she stared at the half dozen envelopes. “I’m not sure why, but I assumed you weren’t invited to balls.”

“There is not a woman in London who doesn’t want to be seen dancing with me.”

Her joy over finding herself with entry into the finest houses diminished. “Of course.”

She heard his harsh curse, then his hand was beneath her chin, lifting her gaze to his. “Claire, I’m sorry. That was uncalled for. I’m invited because I’m a curiosity. I seldom accept.”

She nodded, licking her lips. Why was her mouth always so dry when he was near? “Perhaps you would consider altering your stance for this Season.”

He narrowed his eyes, and she rushed on to explain, “I should think it would go a long way to guaranteeing my sister is welcomed into society if you were to accompany us to the first ball. Of course, the sooner she is accepted, the sooner she is likely to find a match, and the sooner I may return to the country.”

If at all possible, he seemed almost bemused by her explanation. “I shall consider it.”

She offered him what she hoped was an appreciative smile. His gaze dipped to her mouth before returning to her eyes. She could think of nothing else to say except to ask him to stay, and she didn’t think he’d be pleased with that path of conversation, so she held her silence, acutely aware of his chiseled features, his dark eyes locked on hers. She inhaled his rich, masculine scent, could almost feel the heat from his nearness.

His hand still rested beneath her chin, and his thumb slid up to stroke her lower lip. She wondered if he was thinking about their earlier conversation regarding kisses. It seemed she was able to think of little else. She imagined his kiss would be vastly different from the innocent one Stephen had given her so long ago. His mouth appeared as though it had been shaped to deliver pleasure. It was an odd thought coming from her, when her experience was so lacking.

His head dipped a fraction, her heart thundered, his eyes heated—

“Sir, your carriage is ready,” the butler suddenly announced.

Westcliffe stepped back easily as though he’d been meaning to go in that direction all along. He nodded slightly. “Good night.”

Then he was gone, out into the night, and she was alone.

He possessed a key, so he didn’t bother to knock. He simply entered Anne’s residence. No servants were about. A single lamp waited on the entryway table. He knew where he’d find her this late. He grabbed the lamp and took the steps two at a time. At the landing he set the lamp on another table and extinguished the flame. Opening the door, he entered Anne’s bedchamber.

Lounging on a chaise, she was reading a book. He’d expected her to be miffed with his tardiness. But they had no set hours, no formal arrangement. He came and went as he pleased, and she welcomed him as it suited her. On occasion they attended the theater or an opera. They had planned to meet each other at various balls this Season, perhaps even to arrive together. They made no secret of their liaison.

She set the book aside and came to her feet. “I was afraid you weren’t going to come tonight.”

“I need you.” He crossed the room in half a dozen strides, took her into his arms, and plundered her mouth. He skimmed his hands up and down her back, her sides, her bottom, acutely aware that she wore nothing beneath the silk. She moaned low. He threaded his fingers through her hair, holding her head, angling it so he could taste her more fully.

The entire day had been hell, nearly every moment of it spent in Claire’s company. There was still an innocence to her, a sweetness, and yet there was also a strength. And her favorite color was blue. He’d had no idea. He knew Anne’s favorite color. It was whatever was the most expensive. She loved her trinkets and her baubles. Because of Claire’s dowry, he could shower Anne with them.

Claire. Claire. Claire. He didn’t want to think about her anymore. But he seemed incapable of catapulting her from his mind. She was there even now. With Anne’s lithe body pressed up against his. Tearing his mouth from hers, he swung away from her.

“Whatever’s wrong?” she asked. He heard the confusion, her panting.

He was breathing just as heavily, his heart racing. She deserved the truth. Better to hear it from him than the gossips. He faced her, regretting any hurt his words might cause her. “My wife is in London for the Season.”

He watched as displeasure crossed Anne’s face. Her features were all defined lines and sharp angles, but they came together in a mosaic of beauty. “After all this time, why now?”

He knew the reasons didn’t matter. He walked back over to her. “I know it’ll be difficult, but her being here has nothing to do with me. She wishes to give her sister a Season.”

“And you will play the role of dutiful husband?”

“I will do what I can to help her. I owe her that.”

He’d never seen her with tears in her eyes. It was like a blow to his chest.

“I want to be more to you than I am,” she said.

“You are everything.” Reaching inside his jacket, he removed a slender black box and extended it toward her. He held his breath while she glared at the object as though it were vile. Finally, she snatched it from him and opened it. Inside was nestled a necklace of emeralds. “It’s gorgeous.”

She looked up at him then, more tears welling. “But it’s not enough.”

Pressing her body against his, she cradled his jaw. In a low, provocative voice, she said, “I will do anything to have you. Will you say the same of me?”

“Anne—”

“Be rid of her.”

“An annulment is not possible. A divorce will create a scandal that—” The words lodged in his throat as she cupped him intimately and began a slow, seductive massage that he knew from experience concluded with her talented mouth doing wicked things no wife would do.

“Surely, you must admit that I’m worth scandal.”

Oh, yes, she was worth scandal … and a good deal more.

S
ipping a Bordeaux, Claire sat on the floor in the library and listened to the residence settling in for the night. A creak here, a moan there. She’d done the same a thousands times at Lyons Place. She’d drawn comfort from the noises, had felt she was absorbing some part of her husband’s history. But here—he had very little history here.

Cooper made a small snuffling sound. He was asleep, his head resting on her lap. She wore her nightgown and wrap, her hair braided and draped over one shoulder. Having prepared for bed, she’d been unable to sleep, so she’d come in search of something to help her relax. It seemed her husband had quite the collection of spirits. The wine slid down her throat smoothly, warming her almost as much as the fire. With her back against the chair, she wiggled her bare toes and tried not to wonder what Westcliffe might be doing. It was past midnight, and Claire was fairly certain he was engaged in some sort of errant behavior. She was going to demand his fidelity while she was in London. She had dealt with overbearing estate managers and surly staff whose loyalty had been to the master of the manor rather than the mistress. She’d won them all over with a firm but fair hand. She’d dealt with unhappy tenants and villagers who attempted to cheat her.

What was one irascible husband compared to that?

She heard the
snick
of the door opening, followed by a heavy tread—

Her heart barely sped up. The wine she supposed. She was almost finished with her second glass, and her pours were generous.

“Claire? What the deuce are you doing here?”

She glanced up at him. From this angle he appeared to be a foreboding giant. It might not be the best time to lay out her rules, especially as her mouth had begun to tingle. She wondered if his kisses made a lady’s mouth tingle. When Stephen had kissed her, he’d simply pushed his mouth into hers, bruising her lips against her teeth. What had either of them known of kissing then? What did she know of it now?

“Don’t you remember?” she asked, striving to concentrate on the question. “I came here to give my sister a Season.”

He crouched, his elbows resting on his thighs, his large hands clasped together. She couldn’t help but recall the feel of those hands, his fingers especially, against her skin. He hadn’t even been trying to seduce her, and yet she’d been seduced. Little wonder he’d developed a reputation in that regard.

His brow furrowed, his eyes narrowed. “Are you foxed?”

“Absolutely … not.”

He released a dark chuckle. She didn’t like the way it shimmered through her, as though they were sharing a private moment. His knees popped as he straightened and moved beyond her sight. Peering around the chair, she could see him at the table. When he turned, he was holding a glass and the bottle of wine. She moved quickly out of his sight.

“Playing hide-and-seek, Claire?” he asked as he dropped to the floor, pressing his back against the chair opposite hers, stretching out his long legs until his feet reached past her hips. “You were much better at it when you were younger.”

She realized she was indeed foxed because he sounded almost amused, amiable. It could only be the influence of the wine making her think so. “How would you know? You never played with us.”

Leaning forward, he filled the bowl of her goblet. “That didn’t mean I wasn’t aware of what you were doing.”

He poured wine for himself, then settled in against the seat of his chair. She couldn’t help but notice how his long fingers held the bowl of the glass—in the same manner that he might clasp a breast. These intimate thoughts had never haunted her before. They were no doubt a result of the mortification he’d put her through last night.

“You seem to have won Cooper over,” he said quietly, further creating a sense of intimacy between them. Or was it simply the wine? She should stop drinking.

She skimmed her fingers over the dog’s head. “I think he was simply lonely. I know what it is to be lonely. I’m certain once he wakes up, he’ll return to your side.”

“Were you lonely at Lyons Place?”

She lifted her gaze from the dog. She saw no mockery in Westcliffe’s eyes, only true curiosity. “Wasn’t that your purpose in leaving me there?”

“My purpose was to keep you out of my sight. You seemed to welcome the idea. I didn’t even see you when I visited the manor.”

She sipped the wine, felt it tripping over her tongue. “The first winter you were there, I could see your bedchamber from mine.” The manor was built in the shape of a U. She lived in the east wing while he’d taken up residence in the west. It was very easy to avoid him. The first night, she’d peered between the draperies in her room and watched him undress. She’d been amazed by the clarity of the view. She’d watched as his body had been unveiled—toned muscles, flat stomach, rounded buttocks. He’d turned, she’d slammed her eyes closed, and when she’d dared to open them again, he was standing at the window, visible from the waist up, his arms stretched high over his head as though he’d been gripping the window casing. “You seemed to put yourself on display. Were you aware I was watching?”

Instead of answering her, he raised a knee, draped his wrist over it, swirled his wine, and asked, “What did you see?”