The Sins of Viscount Sutherland (9 page)

Release claimed him. He cursed her. He cursed himself, even as an explosion of release sent him collapsing above her.

Claire’s body was still burning, the world still spinning as Gray rolled from the bed and stood. A single glance downward confirmed the truth. His rod was stained with her blood and his seed.

His movements taut and jerky, he pulled on his trousers, then turned to face her.

Claire had rescued the sheet and her nightgown from the foot of her bed. She latched onto the sheet and held it tight against her breast like a shield, her head bowed low. She needed that moment to grasp the enormity of what had just occurred.

Gray was swearing, blistering words that made her face burn with embarrassment.

“No wonder you kissed like a virgin. You were,” he stated flatly. It was less a declaration than an accusation. “God, I should have listened to my . . . How? How can that be”—his lip curled—”
Mrs.
Westfield?”

He seized her hand. His jaw clenched as he stared at the ring she wore. Claire tried to tug her hand free. His grip merely tightened.

“Oh, do forgive me. Is it
Miss
Westfield, then? Enlighten me, if you would.” His voice was dangerously low.

Claire’s mouth opened, then closed. She stared into his eyes with dread.

“What? Nothing to say?”

His mockery cut deep. His expression was awful, as blistering as his tone.

Oh, what had she been thinking, to yield, and to
this
man. Her brother’s killer. She chided herself bitterly. She must have been mad, to yield her body the way she had. What had she done? Lord, what had she done?

“What did you intend? To blackmail me? Claim I stole your virtue? I won’t succumb to such chicanery. I won’t be used. Not by you. Not by anyone.”

“What?” she cried. She finally managed to drag her hand free of his, then leaped from the bed. Everything inside her was still whirling. It wasn’t supposed to happen like this, she thought vaguely. When she’d dreamed of the moment she would confront him—this reckoning of accounts, as it were—she had been the one in control. Not him. Never him.

His gaze pinned hers accusingly. “Dammit, what the blazes is going on? Why this”—he gestured furiously—“this masquerade? This charade? You are not a widow—”

“An astute observation, my lord. May I commend you?”

The air was leaping with currents. Claire didn’t care that she stood before him clad only in her nightgown. Their eyes collided, hers flashing with golden fire, his alight with a silver flame.

He reached for her. She knocked his hand away.

He looked at her with narrowed eyes. “Your name is not Westfield, is it?”

“No,” she said evenly. “I am Claire Ashcroft.” She watched him intently. At his silence, outrage began to smolder in her breast. “The name Ashcroft means nothing to you?”

“No. Why the devil should it?”

Claire stared at him. It couldn’t be—

“Oliver Ashcroft? The name means nothing to you?”

“Did you not hear? No. I don’t know the man.”

She was shaking with outrage. “Oliver Ashcroft was my brother. My
brother
.”

“Lovely for both of you. I’m afraid, however, that has nothing to do with me.”

Claire did not consider. She delivered a stinging slap hard across his cheek. She would have done it again, but iron-hard fingers curled around her wrist.

“It has everything to do with you!” Raw pain wrenched at her breast. She let loose the storm in her heart. “You killed him, you bastard. You killed my brother! Have you killed so many that you remember none of them?”

Gray released her hand. “Your brother,” he repeated. “And when did this alleged event take place?”

“Rutgers Field. A duel. How ironic that it’s precisely nine months to the day! A gambling debt, we were told. Why did you have to kill him? Why?” she cried. “He was so young! And it was just a pittance to a man like you!”

There was a moment of complete and utter silence. Something flickered across Gray’s features. Claire was too incensed to notice. His hands were tainted with blood—Oliver’s blood.

The taste of tears was bitter upon her tongue. “Leave,” she said. The word came out low and choked. “Leave.”

He reached for her. Lean hands closed about her upper arms.

“Claire. For pity’s sake, Claire—”

She tore herself away. “Get out!” she cried. “Get out before I summon the constable!”

His jaw clenched. With a furious curse, he snatched up his clothing and left.

He didn’t look back.

With a half sob, Claire sank to the floor in a flood of tears and fury. She had sought revenge.

But all she had gained was shame.

Home in his chamber, Gray went straight to the liquor cabinet. He poured himself a generous portion of whiskey. It burned its way down.

He downed it, then another.

His body was still on fire.

At the washstand, he stripped naked, then glanced down.

Traces of blood still smeared his member.

He splashed his face with water, then wiped his member. The towel was left there on the rug.

Bracing his hands on the washstand, he stared at his reflection in the shaving mirror. Christ, what had he done?

Claire was right. He was a bastard.

Darkness took hold inside him. Turmoil raged in his breast. Cad that he was, he thought, he couldn’t help it—a part of him felt betrayed by her lies.

On the dresser lay the ribbon she’d worn the night of the masquerade, the ribbon he’d rescued from the ground.

He picked it up—then crushed it in his fist. Fresh memory of the mind-splitting instant he plunged inside her swept over him, the way her passage clamped around his flesh, hot and sweet and velvet. And tight. Ah, damn, so tight.

Shock had held him motionless, but only for a breath. Dammit, why hadn’t Claire stopped him?

But there was the rub. Could he have stopped?

A fresh wave of self-loathing flooded him. Once again he remembered her hands on his shoulders. Had he hurt her? The thought cut through him like a knife. He remembered her body trembling in his arms. Her flesh giving way to the power of his. Lord, it had felt too good. She had felt so good. He could almost feel her again, lunging into her almost wildly.

The truth battered him. He should have stopped the moment he discovered that frail membrane of flesh that signaled her maidenhead. An inner voice sneered at him. A noble man would have. But he didn’t have a noble bone in his body. Not anymore.

No, he couldn’t have stopped.

And he had just found a new contempt for himself.

His recall was fuzzy, but he remembered the young cub, her brother. Not his name but the deed. His mouth twisted. There had been rain. He remembered the way the cub shot early. His fingers unwittingly went to the scar on his shoulder. Yet what point was there in telling Claire? He’d hurt her enough already, and he wouldn’t tarnish her memory of her brother.

Crossing the room, he lay facedown on the bed. No, he wouldn’t tell her.

The best thing he could do for her was forget they’d ever met.

T
here was no more to be said. No more to be done. She had failed. Failed Oliver. Her mother. Her father. Failed in her search to avenge Oliver’s death.

With nothing to keep her in London, she fled home to Wildewood.

Yet reminders of her visit to London were impossible to forget.
He
was impossible to forget. Gray. All she wanted was to be rid of him forever. At night when she closed her eyes, she relived afresh the sweet pressure of his mouth on hers. The feel of his hand claiming her breast, branding her as if she were his.

The taste of bitterness was vile on her tongue. She wouldn’t hide from the truth. She had let him into her bed.

She had surrendered.

Now all she wanted was to forget they had ever met.

Despite everything that had passed, it was good to be home again. She refused to allow herself to wallow in self-pity. She busied herself with resuming management of the small estate left her by her father.

It was time to begin a new life. A new course in life.

The fall had been a profitable one. Her estate manager had taken good care of the house and property. Winter was settling in, though. The days were chill. There was even snowfall in mid-November.

At the market one day she wandered through the booths, shopping for a warm, woolen scarf.

“Excuse me, miss.”

Claire turned to find a man behind her. He looked pleasant enough. Her gaze was even with his.

She hated the way her mind immediately swung to Gray. Gray was far taller than this man—

She bit off the thought, wrenching herself away from the memory.

She didn’t recognize the man before her.

“Yes, sir?”

He offered a smile. “I’m afraid I may have missed a turn. I’m hoping you can help me find my way.”

“I will certainly try.”

“Excellent. I’m looking for Walnut Lane.”

“Certainly. Walnut Lane is there behind the church. It ends several miles from here. There’s nothing there but a small estate, though. I believe the house is empty.”

“Not anymore. Rather, not for long. I purchased the property some time ago, and now I find I don’t remember the way.”

“Indeed. It appears we are neighbors, then. I live at Wildewood, on the southern boundary of your property.”

“I’m very pleased to meet you. My name is Lawrence Townsend.” He took off his glove and extended a hand.

Claire shook it briefly. “Claire Ashcroft.”

“Perhaps we’ll see each other again.”

“Perhaps.” Claire smiled slightly.

“Good day, Miss Ashcroft. Ah, forgive me. Is it Miss or Mrs.?”

“It’s Miss.” She inclined her head. “Good day to you, Mr. Townsend.”

At next week’s market day Claire saw him again.

He hailed her. “Miss Ashcroft!”

“Mr. Townsend. Have you settled into your new home?”

“I have indeed.”

She saw him again at the market a week later.

Again he hailed her. “Miss Ashcroft!”

“Mr. Townsend. How are you, sir?”

“I’m just the thing. I have a confession to make, though.”

“Oh?” She wasn’t sure what to think of that.

“My name is Lawrence. I would be pleased if you called me by my given name.”

“Very well, then. And you may call me Claire.”

“It’s good to see you again, Claire.”

“Likewise.”

“I hope you won’t consider me too forward, Claire, but I have another confession.”

“Yes?” If she was rather wary, she couldn’t help it.

“I came to the market hoping to see you again.”

She adopted a faint smile. “And why is that?”

“I would like it if you would join me for tea this afternoon.”

Claire hesitated. “Sir—”

“Lawrence. Please call me Lawrence.” He must have sensed her reluctance. “If you prefer,” he said, “we could have tea now.”

Somehow it didn’t seem so intimate at the inn rather than at one of their homes. “Very well, then.”

At the inn, he seated her at a chair near the window. The owner’s wife served them tea and scones.

Claire blew on the surface of her tea. “So how are you acclimating to your new home, sir?”

“I am quite enjoying it. I’m in the process of hiring staff.”

“What brought you here, Lawrence?”

“I’ve lived all my life in the Midlands. I am a widower, you see. I lost my wife several years ago.”

Widow. Widower.
Claire tensed. Her mind sped straight to Gray.

“I have two sons who are grown and have started their own families. As much as I adore them, they are occupied with their lives, and I think it’s time I moved on.”

Move on.
It sounded so simple. But she was discovering it was not.

With his thinning hair and ready smile, Claire found him pleasant to look upon. They began to meet for tea several times a week. Each provided companionship to the other. Sometimes he made her laugh, when she had never thought to laugh again. She told him of Penelope, but did not speak of her brother Oliver.

Or Gray.

In December a letter arrived from Penelope. Claire lowered it to her lap.

A christening date for little Merriweather had been set. Penelope gaily wrote that of course little Merriweather was anxious to meet her soon-to-be godmother.

Claire did not wish to return to London—heaven save her, there were too many hurtful memories!—but she was anxious to see her friends and little Merriweather.

Beyond that, she refused to think.

Lawrence saw her off from Wildewood several days later. He took both of her hands as she prepared to enter the carriage.

“Hasten home, my dear Claire.”

“I will,” she said.

He continued to hold her hands. Leaning forward, he kissed her on the lips.

It was a sweet, gentle kiss. One that was more than a kiss of friendship. And Claire loathed herself for the single thought raised high above all else . . .

That Lawrence’s kiss was nothing like Gray’s.

United at last, the Grove family could not have been happier. Theo was an excellent father, Penelope a doting mother. Only one thing marred Penelope’s contentment. Well, actually there were two . . .

Both had to do with Claire.

Claire had closed up the house she had rented in London and returned to Wildewood. Of course, they exchanged letters. But Penelope had known Claire too long not to realize that beneath the surface, there was a spark missing.

Theo was not happy that Penelope had helped with Claire’s plan. Both of them had risked their good name. Indeed, Theo thought both had risked the wrath of a viscount. So it was that he was surprised the viscount sent an inquiry asking after the family’s health—mother, child, and daughter—and a gift for little Merriweather, a music box.

Oh, yes, surprised and pleased.

Pen and Theo had decided long ago that they wanted Claire as godmother.

As Penelope told Theo, “It often happens that the mother chooses godmother for the little one.”

What with Theo’s service in the Peninsula, however, they had never decided on a godfather for Merriweather. And so both were in agreement that the choice would be his.

Almost from the moment he had wife and daughter back in his arms, it was very clear in Theo’s mind whom he would ask. To that end, he invited Lord Sutherland to dinner one night. Penelope didn’t think the viscount would accept.

She was wrong.

It was a pleasant enough dinner. The viscount’s manner was polite and courteous, perhaps a bit reserved, Penelope decided.

She had written to Claire to ask if her friend had any contact with the viscount. Claire’s reply was short. “I have heard nothing,” she said, “nor do I wish to.”

Did the viscount feel the same way? If she were honest with herself, Penelope had to admit that she hadn’t expected the viscount to have any further contact with Claire.

Over port, Theo put forth the question.

“My lord,” he said, “I would consider it a great honor if you would serve as godfather to our Merriweather.”

The viscount was clearly taken aback.

“If not for you,” Theo said quietly, “my daughter and my wife might not be here today. That is a debt I can never repay.” He glanced at Penelope. “We would consider it an honor if you would accept.”

The viscount’s gaze turned to Penelope. “And you, Mrs. Grove? Is it your wish as well?”

Penelope chose her words carefully. “It is.”

Theo reached for Penelope’s hand. “Do you accept, then?”

“I accept.” There was a pause. “May I ask who will stand as godmother?”

“Claire Ashcroft,” she said.

A fractional pause. “And does Miss Ashcroft know whom you’ve asked to stand as godfather?”

Penelope’s gaze was fixed on his face. His expression was difficult to read.

“Not yet,” she told him, her head held high.

The viscount said nothing.

“We would like the christening to take place the following Sunday after next. “Does that suit, my lord?”

It was late afternoon when Claire arrived at the Grove home. Her plan was to stay only a few days. Penelope was disappointed her visit would be so short, but she understood Claire’s feelings.

Claire did not tell Penelope that she’d made love with Gray—odd words, those. Passion. Desire. But in truth no love had passed between them.

Penelope ordered tea for the two of them in the salon. Only a few minutes passed before Merriweather’s nurse brought her to the room. Penelope took the child in her arms and cooed.

“Oh, Claire, isn’t she the most darling thing you’ve ever seen?” Penelope reverently touched the blankets wrapped around her baby.

“My word, Pen, she is the very image of Theo!”

Penelope gave a breathless laugh and shaped the babe’s head in her hand. The child wore a lace-trimmed cap that covered her head, except for where a bit of fuzzy red hair peeped out.

“It’s the exact color of Theo’s!”

“It is, isn’t it? But I think she has my nose,” Penelope announced. “And my chin,” she added, almost as an afterthought.

Claire chuckled. “Oh, most certainly.”

“We’ve decided to call her Merry. Merriweather is a tad long.”

“Well, little Merry,” Claire said gravely, “I am very pleased to see you again.” Almost as if she knew what Claire was saying, the child waved a fist and opened one eye.

“There! She likes you. And now she’s smiling!”

Claire laughed and gave the wee hand the veriest shake.

That little hand curled around Claire’s finger and didn’t let go.

“See how strong she is already.” Penelope laughed delightedly. “And only two months old!”

“Indeed, she is!” Claire glanced up at Penelope. “She is thriving?”

“Oh, yes. The physician continues to marvel. She is truly a miracle.” Penelope gave a blinding smile. “Here, Claire, you must hold her.”

“Oh, oh! But she is still so tiny. So tiny I’m afraid to hold her!”

“Oh, pooh. Don’t be silly.” Penelope passed the baby to her.

Little Merry settled into her elbow. God save her, Claire thought, the weight of a child nestled in her arms felt so—so right! For one fleeting instant she imagined gazing down at her own little one, whispering lovingly into one tiny ear, inhaling the sweet baby scent.

All that was lost to her.

She did not deceive herself. There was no point in it. Marriage was beyond her. There would be no husband. No children.

No man would marry a woman who’d already lost her virginity.

Never would she hold her child, Raw pain wrenched her heart at the thought. She sought to banish it, for to yearn for it so would be but foolish, foolish nonsense.

The nurse came in for baby Merry. Claire finished her tea, but ate only half of a pastry on the tea tray. It didn’t set right with her digestion.

“Penelope, I hope you will forgive me, but I think I should like to rest for a bit.”

“You do look rather tired, love. Would you like a dinner tray in your room?”

“That would be lovely.” Claire smiled her thanks. “It has been a long day. Isn’t it amazing how tired one can get from simply doing nothing?”

“It is indeed,” Penelope laughed.

The following morning the Grove household was in a bit of an uproar. The christening was set for early afternoon, with a reception following at the Grove home.

In the carriage, Penelope blew a stray hair from her forehead. Theo hadn’t stopped grinning all day. Merry looked charming. A tiny little cap covered her head. Her christening gown was of elaborate lace and satin. Dressed all in white, the little one looked like an angel. Upon entering the church, she waved a fist and yawned, oblivious of the commotion about her.

Claire followed behind Penelope and Theo. Heavens, what with all the commotion this morning, she hadn’t found time to ask after Merry’s other godparent. All she knew was that he would be waiting at the church.

Inside, the robed figure of the reverend stood at the baptismal font. He raised his hand in welcome when he saw them. A tall figure was already there as well, his back to them.

The figure turned his head ever so slightly. A strange sensation swept over Claire. Desperation clutched at her.

No, she thought in mounting horror. No—

It was Gray.