Passions of a Wicked Earl

by Heath Lorraine

  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.

  Claire had suggested their cousin Chastity, who had married in December.

  “She’s with child and won’t be in London,” Beth had informed her.

  “You might ask Westcliffe’s mother, the Duchess of Ainsley.”

  “She’s scandalous. Word is that she’s taken up with an artist. She won’t have time for me.”

  Who remained? Certainly not the aunt who had raised them. Seeing no other choice, Claire had consented to giving her sister a Season.

  Beth had hugged her tightly. “Oh, thank you, thank you. You have saved me from a fate worse than death.”

  But now Claire couldn’t help but wonder at what cost to herself.

  She was embarking on this endeavor with as much trepidation as she had her marriage.

  The ceremony had taken place at Ainsley’s country estate. In the small chapel just down the road from the manor. A gathering of Great Britain’s most illustrious families had been in attendance.

  The exchanging of their vows and all that followed had been a haze until Westcliffe escorted her from the small church and settled her into the white open carriage to journey back to the residence for a celebratory breakfast. The fog had lifted and reality had set in when he’d muttered, “Damned glad that’s done with.”

  Her heart had sunk clear through the floor of the carriage, to be left behind on the road, trampled by horses and carriage wheels. Her husband desired this arrangement no more than she did.

  What an unfortunate state of affairs, she thought hours later, as she walked through the elaborate gardens, having finally escaped the festivities that had continued throughout the day. While traditionally, the groom and bride would have left by then on their wedding trip, she and her husband were staying the night at Grantwood Manor because it was far nicer than his ancestral estate. At least for now—until her dowry allowed him to put matters to right.

  Soon she would have to retire to the bedchamber to await him. Her husband.

  She’d barely recognized the tall man who’d stood beside her at the altar. The last time she’d seen him, paid any notice to him, he’d been gangly, almost scrawny. But now at five-and-twenty, he had achieved a height that added grace to his slender physique. Humor, lightheartedness, joviality, however, continued to elude him.

  When her cousin Chastity had arrived in London the previous spring to experience her first Season, she had wasted no time in informing Claire of the latest gossip concerning her betrothed. Apparently, he had developed quite the reputation in the bedchamber. She tried to draw comfort from knowing he wouldn’t be a bungling fool when he came to her bed, but all she seemed capable of realizing was that he would bring far more experience with him than she wished him to have. How could it not be intimidating to know that he had lain with women far lovelier, and perhaps far more adventuresome, than she?

  Anytime she imagined lying on the bed while he raised the hem of her nightdress—as her spinster aunt, Mary, had warned her that he would—her heart fluttered madly like the bird with the broken wing that she and Stephen had nursed to health and sent back to the sky. It had been frightened. She’d felt it trembling against her palms, had known it simply wanted to be released. She felt that way now—if only she were free.

  “Claire?”

  She spun around, her heart filling with gladness. “Stephen.”

  He was so incredibly handsome standing there in his dark jacket, waistcoat, and gray trousers, his cravat perfectly shaped. His blond hair was a trifle disheveled as though he’d
recently plowed his fingers through it, but then it always gave that appearance. Even when he was outfitted in his finest, he did not appear nearly as put together as Westcliffe. With Stephen, there was always a bit of a tousled look as though he’d only just risen from bed, as though he didn’t take his role in life as seriously as his brothers did. Three men who shared the same mother but little else.

  He cradled her jaw with one hand, pressed his forehead to hers, and chuckled, his whiskey-scented breath wafting over her cheek. “What are you doing out here, sweetheart?”

  “Trying to gather my courage.”

  Swaying slightly, he reared back. “For what?”

  She felt the heat suffuse her face, but he was her friend. Had been forever. She could tell him anything. “My wedding night,” she whispered.

  “Ah, yes, consummation.”

  “Westcliffe terrifies me.”

  “He terrifies everyone. It’s that perpetual scowl he wears as though he’s not happy with anything. But not to worry.” He leaned in as though to impart a secret. “He’s very skilled when it comes to the bedchamber. Not as skilled as I, of course, but then no one is.”

  She saw no humor in his remarks. “Stephen, you make it sound as trifling as a game of cards.”

  He seemed momentarily taken aback, then his blue eyes widened. “Are you crying? Good God, sweetheart, don’t cry. You know I can’t deny a weeping woman anything.”

  “I’m not crying,” she said, swiping at the tears trailing down her cheeks. “It’s just that”—she spun away from him—”I barely know your brother. And the things that will … pass between us … I don’t know. I only wish I were more comfortable with him.”

  “Tell him. Tell him you’re not ready to be a wife.”

  She turned back to him. “Do you think he’ll listen?”

  “No, unfortunately. He needs this marriage, Claire, needs the dowry that comes with it. He’ll want to ensure nothing will take it from him. He’ll no doubt feel obliged to, well, to do his duty.”

  Duty? Was that all it would be to him? No passion, no fire? Just cold duty?

  He touched her cheek. “How truly frightened are you?”

  “Truly, truly.”

  “Well, then. We just have to ensure that he doesn’t want you tonight.”

  “How do we do that?”

  He gave her a devilish grin. “Do you trust me?”

  “With my life.”

  “Good girl. Then listen carefully. Prepare yourself for bed, place a lamp in the window when you’re ready, then leave it all to me.”

  And she had left it all to him, she mused now. She’d not wanted to take responsibility for meekly accepting her marriage, so she gladly accepted his offer to make everything all right. In the end, they’d done little more than step onto a path leading to disaster.

  She didn’t want to make that mistake again, but God help her, she didn’t know how to avoid it.

  The residence was quiet when Westcliffe returned. Servants all abed, and with any luck, his wife was as well. He supposed it would behoove him to stop thinking of her as such. He walked past the parlor. Something caught his eye. He doubled back. A lamp had been left burning on a small table, but that hadn’t drawn his attention. The room appeared somehow more welcoming, but he couldn’t put his finger on exactly why it was.

  Inhaling deeply, he detected the faint scent of roses. Claire had been in here. What had she done? Or was her mere presence enough to bring warmth to his residence?

  Don’t be ridiculous. It’s because someone left the damned lamp burning.

  He extinguished the flame, sending the room into shadowed darkness, the only light now coming from the entryway and the outside gas lamps. Why did the residence have a different feel to it? Because he knew she was here. It was no more than that.

  He strode to the library, where no footman waited. The only one to greet him was his faithful dog, who began struggling to his feet.

  “Stay, old boy.”

  Cooper dropped back down. Westcliffe thought he might have even sighed with relief. He poured two tumblers of whiskey before joining Cooper on the floor, pressing his back against his favorite chair. He dipped two fingers into one tumbler before extending them toward Cooper, who licked them. Westcliffe savored his own glass and released his own sigh.

  Claire had blossomed into a beauty. Not that there’d been anything lacking in her when she was barely seventeen—except for loyalty and devotion—but she’d still had the willowiness of a child. She’d been as flat as a well-planed plank of wood. Now she was enticing curves. Her eyes had lost their innocence, and he regretted whatever role he might have played in that transition. Although he suspected Stephen was more at fault there. He doubted his brother had kept in touch with her over the years, as no one else in the family had received letters from him.

  In anger over Stephen’s betrayal and his family’s disappointment in what they had considered the young man’s lack of character, Westcliffe and Ainsley had purchased him a commission in a regiment. Ainsley inquired with the War Office from time to time regarding his brother’s whereabouts, but then that was Ainsley’s way, to want to give the appearance that he was a member of a caring and loving family when the truth was they were all much better off going their own way.

  Westcliffe saw Ainsley with a bit more frequency of late. It was gratifying to no longer have to hold out his hand. He’d taken Claire’s dowry and invested it, until it had grown into a substantial amount. It seemed he had a knack for determining sound investments. He’d never again be dependent on Ainsley—or anyone—for anything. He’d acquired what he’d always desired: total independence. He couldn’t understand why he felt something was lacking in his life.

  He remembered the satisfaction he’d felt when he’d handed over the money for this residence. It was the first thing of any significance he’d purchased without help from Ainsley. That night he’d gotten drunk to celebrate. Alone. Because he had no one who could understand how liberating it had been to require no assistance from anyone. Only now the woman who had made it all possible was sleeping here, in a bedchamber upstairs, her eyes closed, her breaths quietly puffing.

  With the help of Claire’s substantial dowry, Westcliffe had been able to rise above his beginnings, to become his own man, to step out from beneath his brother’s long-reaching, suffocating shadow.

  “What are we going to do about her, Cooper? Without her dowry, we’d have not had the means to purchase this house or make investments. And you saw the estate each time we visited. She may have avoided us”—her avoidance had actually begun to amuse him—”but I clearly saw evidence of her efforts.”

  His overseer, his manager, and his solicitor had often come to him with requests from Claire for funds regarding improvements she wished to make. He’d approved them all. He’d fought not to admit even to himself how much he’d anticipated their visits, reading her letters to them, knowing what she was about. She might have been a silly girl when she married him, but he’d never been able to find fault with the manner in which she’d handled the estate.

  Perhaps she’d known that as long as she did a fair job of it, he’d stay in London for the most part and leave her be. Only now she needed him.

  He gathered more whiskey on his fingers and extended them to Cooper, who took the offering, his intelligent gaze never leaving Westcliffe. “Damnation, you think I owe her this blasted Season for her sister.”

  With a heavy breath, he dropped his head back and stared at his book-lined shelves. Books and boudoirs. They entertained him. “I don’t much like it when you’re right. Christ.” He downed his whiskey, then finished off Cooper’s.

  Burying his fingers in the soft fur, he stroked the one creature with whom he’d shared all his secrets, his disappointments, his dreams. He wished he could overlook what he owed Claire, send her back to the country or, at the very least, to his mother’s.

  But he couldn’t. Damnation, he couldn’t. Because the blasted dog was correct.
He owed her.

  Chapter 4

  Claire awoke neither relaxed nor rested. Having just rung for her maid, who’d traveled with her from the estate, she lay in bed and listened to the occasional clanging activity taking place in the bathing room that separated her bedchamber from Westcliffe’s. She wondered if he’d anticipated that Willoughby would see her settled into a room so near his.

  She wondered exactly what he was doing. Bathing, no doubt. Perhaps shaving. Getting dressed for the day.

  The last time she’d heard sounds such as the ones she was hearing now had been on her wedding night. Her maid had left her alone, and she’d stood there in her night rail, listening as he prepared to come to her. Tremors of fear had rippled through her. They’d never kissed. Their skin had never touched. She couldn’t imagine him climbing into bed with her, touching her intimately. It was wrong, wrong to have something so personal happen between two people who were virtually strangers.

  She started to carry the lamp to the window, to signal Stephen—

  And stopped. It was equally wrong.

  But he wasn’t terrifying. He was safe and comfortable. Just one night, if she could gain just one night’s reprieve—

  So she took the lamp to the window, unlocked it, and scurried to the bed.

  She lay there, listening to the movements of her husband. She’d waited too long to summon Stephen. She should have acted sooner. She heard a sound, then the window was opening. She came upright. “Stephen?”

  “Shh.” He smiled, his sapphire eyes filled with the deviltry that made him so much fun. He tossed his jacket onto the floor.

  She’d not expected that. “What are you doing?”

  “Ensuring that he leaves you alone.” He quickly removed his waistcoat and nimbly unbuttoned his shirt.

  “I thought you were going to talk to him. Explain—”

  He winked at her. “No, sweetheart. Words will have no effect on my brother tonight.” His shoes came off next and he crawled onto the bed.