Passions of a Wicked Earl

by Heath Lorraine

  “I didn’t know this was what you had in mind. I think this is a terrible idea,” she said. She started to scramble out from beneath the covers, but he snaked an arm around her and drew her down.

  “Do you want him to bed you?” he asked.

  She looked up into a face she’d trusted since childhood, into eyes that had promised to hold all her secrets. She’d always been able to tell him everything. “No.”

  “Then trust me. He’ll be angry at me, not at you.”

  He tucked her beneath him, half his body covering hers. She could feel his breath wafting over her hair.

  “What if this doesn’t work?”

  “It will.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Because I know my brother.”

  “Tell me about him, then. Help me to know—”

  The door opened. Very slowly, Stephen turned his head to look over his shoulder. “West—”

  Before he could even finish addressing his brother, Westcliffe grabbed him, yanked him out of the bed, and threw him to the floor.

  Seeing the fury in Westcliffe’s dark eyes, she bolted upright, fearful for her own life. What had she expected? Had she thought he’d simply look at them, and say, “Oh, pardon. I’ll return later then, shall I?” He turned away from her. Before Stephen could get to his feet, Westcliffe had drawn him up and plowed his fist into his stomach, causing him to double over and drop to his knees.

  “No!” she screamed. “Leave him be!”

  But he didn’t. He hit him again, sending him crashing into a table. It shattered beneath Stephen’s weight. Westcliffe lifted him as though he weighed no more than a pillow and slammed his fist into him again.

  She scrambled out of the bed. “No, please, you’re going to kill him!”

  The door leading into the hallway banged open.

  “That’s enough!” a voice of authority rang out from the doorway. Ainsley strode into the room. Fearlessly, he stormed over to the brawl and shoved away his older brother. “Enough, I said!”

  She’d always been amazed that in spite of the fact he was the youngest, he wore a mantle of power. But at that moment, her attention was riveted on Westcliffe, who was breathing harshly, his large hands balled into massive fists at his side. She could see blood on his right, and her stomach lurched. Whether it was his blood or Stephen’s, she couldn’t tell, but either was too much.

  “Come along,” Ainsley said, pulling Stephen to his feet, one hand clamped around his arm while he used his free one to gather up Stephen’s jacket and waistcoat, as though he thought by keeping himself near his middle brother, he could protect him from the temper of his older. “Out with you, puppy.” Ainsley shoved Stephen toward the door.

  “Dammit, you’re my baby brother. I hate when you call me that.”

  “Then stop behaving like such a dolt.”

  She could scarcely blame Stephen for going so willingly when the devil remained in the room—although she would have found some comfort if he had just glanced back at her. But it was as though the play had come to an end, and he didn’t consider it worthy of applause. She felt abandoned and confused.

  “Get dressed,” Westcliffe ordered. “We’re leaving tonight.”

  And they had. He’d packed her into his carriage and taken her to Lyons Place. Exiled. Unloved. Unhappy.

  The bitter truth was that she understood she deserved it all.

  But surely three years was long enough for her to suffer for the foolishness of youth.

  She could no longer hear any sounds coming from the bathing chamber. Was he soaking in the tub? He would smell very different the next time she was near enough to inhale his fragrance. It would be all masculine, earthy, and rich. She wondered to whom the lilac scent belonged. She didn’t know why noticing it had been like a physical blow. She’d known he’d not honored his vows, so it should have come as no surprise that he carried the scent of a woman. She’d been married all of six months when her cousin Charity had visited and wasted no time in informing Claire of her husband’s perfidy.

  “It’s scandalous, Cousin. He openly flaunts these liaisons. Every week he is seen with a different lady in the park—walking, riding, driving her around in his curricle. I myself have seen him kissing a woman behind a tree! And we are not talking a kiss upon the hand or cheek, but upon the mouth. It went on so long that I could scarce believe she didn’t faint from lack of air. He’s making a fool of you, Claire.”

  Because she’d made a fool of him. She’d tried to rationalize, to pretend it didn’t hurt, that she didn’t care—“It is not uncommon for a man to have an affair.”

  “Within months of his marriage, and so openly? You must return to London and take him in hand.”

  Only she’d stayed at Lyons Place and buried herself in all the matters that had needed tending to there. The estate was in shambles, and she’d set about righting it because she didn’t know how to do the same with her marriage. Even now, she didn’t know how to make a go of things with Westcliffe. She’d tried the direct approach, asking for forgiveness, stating that she wished to be a wife. And he’d merely mocked her, humiliated her by making her want his touch only to then withhold it. She was so damned lonely—that was the only reason he’d managed to take her breath last night.

  She couldn’t—wouldn’t—seek out the companionship of a man until she’d given her husband his heir, and perhaps not even then. In spite of the abysmal start to their marriage, she’d never intended to stray or to see him cuckolded. She’d only wanted Stephen to comfort her. Why couldn’t Westcliffe understand that? Why was he so consumed by his anger? Although in truth, she knew any man would be.

  A soft rap sounded on her door, then Judith entered the room. She curtsied. “M’lady. Did you sleep well?”

  “I didn’t sleep at all,” Claire said as she threw back the covers and clambered out of bed.

  “It’s the residence,” Judith murmured, glancing around warily. “It’s as cold as a mausoleum. It holds none of the warmth of Lyons Place.”

  Claire knew she wasn’t talking about the temperature of the air. It was the character of the house. Lyons Place had been the same when she’d arrived. Cold and dreary. Somewhere to take shelter from the elements but not the storms of life. She had worked diligently to change that, to make it a place where happiness could abide.

  She had begun to cherish her time there, but still she was haunted by loneliness and regrets. For a moment, she considered accepting the challenge of altering this residence, but what was the point? She would be here for one Season. If that long. She didn’t think she could stay when her husband so despised her. But neither could she stand the thought of not helping her sister avoid the lecherous hands of Hester.

  Claire chose a morning dress of hunter green, which flattered her complexion. If she was going to battle Westcliffe again, she was determined to do it in full armor. It took her an inordinate amount of time to see to her toilette and she knew she was dawdling, but she couldn’t seem to help herself. Well aware of the sounds coming from next door, she knew the moment he withdrew from his room. She recognized the tread of his steps in the hallway. Half an hour later, as she made her way down the stairs, part of her hoped he’d left for the day, and another part of her wanted him to still be there, to see that she was no longer a young girl who was fearful of him.

  Even if her stomach quivered at the sight of him sitting at the table in the breakfast dining room. His dark gaze homed in on her—she felt it almost like a touch—as his chair scraped across the floor, and he came to his feet.

  She tilted her head slightly. “Good morning, my lord.”

  “My lady. I trust you slept well.” His deep voice reverberated off the walls and shimmered through her. She cursed her knees for weakening at the alluring smoothness.

  “Very well, thank you.”

  Forcing a casualness to her step, she strolled over to the sideboard and began placing random delicacies on her plate, barely giving any attention to what the
y were. She was unsettled, the hairs on the nape of her neck prickling as she was acutely aware of him studying her. She wanted to appear sophisticated, calm. But he still had the power to rattle her.

  She walked to the foot of the table and took the seat that the footman held out for her. Deliberately, with as much of a challenge as she could muster, she lifted her eyes to Westcliffe’s. He was still standing as though not quite certain what to make of her. Finally, he sat down.

  He’d been reading the newspaper before she’d arrived. It rested on the table beside him. She fully expected him to return his attention to it. Her father always read while he enjoyed his breakfast. No one ever spoke during meals, so she nearly came out of her skin when Westcliffe did.

  “You must love your sister very much to have risked facing my wrath.”

  She made the mistake of trying to appear unaffected by lifting her teacup. The brew sloshed over the sides, revealing the truth of her nervousness. If he noticed, he didn’t react. As she set down the cup and fought to ignore the footman who was quickly replacing it with another, she supposed she could take some solace in the fact Westcliffe wasn’t gloating at her obvious discomfort.

  “I love her immensely.” This time when she lifted her cup, she was pleased to discover her hand had ceased its trembling. Perhaps the trick was to concentrate on Beth, rather than Westcliffe.

  “As I recall, your father does not come to London for the Season. Where did you intend for Beth to reside?”

  “With me.”

  Across the length of the table, she could see his jaw tighten, his eyes narrow.

  “I assure you that you’ll barely be aware of her presence,” she promised.

  “Can you say the same for your own?”

  His question startled her. Avoiding him was not what she’d planned. But then he’d clearly stated that he no longer wanted her. She was going to have to make the ladies understand that she had no control over the man she’d married—or she was going to have to convince him to change his mind regarding her. She was certain that confessing to them would be much less humiliating than trying to seduce her husband.

  “I’m sure that can be arranged,” she stated succinctly. At least until she could determine how best to handle this matter.

  “Then you may stay. But I want nothing to do with you or your sister.”

  “You’re a hard man, Westcliffe. Little wonder I was so terrified of you three years ago.”

  “Do not blame me for your actions.”

  “For my actions, no. For my fears, yes.”

  His eyes narrowed. “I’m giving you leave to stay here. You should be grateful.”

  “To stay in a residence my dowry no doubt purchased? Perhaps ‘tis you who should be grateful.”

  He came up out of the chair so fast that she nearly tumbled backward in hers. “I am well aware of what I owe you. It’s the only reason you’re still here. Give your sister her damnable Season. Spare no expense to find her a husband as quickly as possible; and then I want you gone.”

  He strode from the room with the force of a storm. If they were engaged in a war, she supposed she could claim victory over the first battle. But seeing the anger and hatred in his eyes made it ever so bittersweet.

  “No one is to disturb me,” Westcliffe ordered the footman outside his library right before he closed the door behind him and locked it.

  He needed to prowl, and he did just that, weaving through the library, fighting not to remember the sight of Claire taking a seat at his breakfast table, just as he’d imagined before they were married. The scene had been an idealized version of marital bliss—to have company at every meal. To look up from his paper to see her sitting there. To detect only a hint of her sweet fragrance.

  He would have to find another residence for her while she was in London. He couldn’t have her in his house. She would drive him mad with her nearness.

  She was nothing like any of the women he’d ever bedded. Even Anne. For as much as he enjoyed her, she was nothing at all like Claire. When she walked into the room, she brought with her an icy chill. Claire brought warmth.

  It was incredible, his reaction confusing. He wanted to be rid of her. He would be rid of her. As soon as her sister was betrothed.

  He marched over to his desk, took his seat, dipped pen in inkwell, and began to scrawl the name of every eligible man he knew.

  Following breakfast, Claire stood at the window in her bedchamber and gazed out on the lush greenery. How often had she done the same thing at Lyons Place? He’d exiled her there, forbidden her to come to London. He was doing the same now—exiling her, banishing her from his company.

  She’d have to face London without him. Sighing heavily, she wondered where Stephen was when she needed him. She’d asked Ainsley when she stopped by his residence last night looking for Westcliffe—only to learn he now had his own residence. Ainsley had told her that he had word Stephen was in India. He’d shown her on a globe in his library exactly where his brother might be. It seemed so dreadfully far away.

  She was on her own here, but then she’d been that way for three years. Stephen had not come to see her before he’d embarked on his adventures, nor had he written. Whether it was fear for her safety or fear of his brother’s wrath, she didn’t know. Nor did it really matter. It could have been any of a hundred reasons. He was a soldier now, with more important matters with which to deal.

  The Season would go so much better for Beth if Westcliffe was at Claire’s side. And Claire had to admit it would be much easier for her as well. Only then would she have any hope of putting rumors about her husband’s romantic escapades to rest. Besides, she didn’t want him with other women while she was here. She no longer wanted it when she was in Lyons Place either.

  She’d spoken true last night. She wanted to be his wife. She wanted children. She wanted respectability. She didn’t want people snickering about her and her inability to hold her husband’s interest. She’d kept her knees clamped together as he’d ordered. She was damned well ready to unclamp them.

  She thought.

  She still yearned for what she had three years ago—to know him before he came to her bed. Was that too much to ask? She knew so little about him, and he no doubt knew even less about her. Why couldn’t they have a courtship?

  But a more nagging question was: If he didn’t want her, who did he want? And could Claire offer any sort of competition? Where did she even begin?

  The only person in London who could possibly counsel her was Westcliffe’s mother, and she wasn’t happy with Claire either.

  She marched across the room and yanked on the bellpull. Her life was in a sad state of affairs because she’d chosen retreat over confrontation. She wasn’t going to make that mistake again.

  In spite of the queasiness in her stomach, she was determined to call on the Duchess of Ainsley.

  Tessa Seymour, Duchess of Ainsley—mother to the eighth Earl of Westcliffe, the Honorable Stephen Lyons, and the ninth Duke of Ainsley—lounged on the bed with the silk sheet bunched at her waist and trailing over one hip and thigh, leaving the other provocatively revealed. Her black hair with only a hint of gray at the temples provided a covering for her shoulders and exposed one breast to the eye of the beholder. And the beholder had such gorgeous golden eyes. Before she’d commissioned this painter, she’d never seen anything like them. Soulful. But when passion ignited them, they flared like the sun.

  “You’re thinking again about getting me in that bed with you,” he said as he stood at the window, where the light cast its brilliance over his canvas.

  “How can you tell?” she asked saucily. Leo was all of fifteen years her junior. Firm and not yet gone to fat.

  “Your eyes,” he said. “They darken.”

  “So come join me then.”

  “I want to work on your portrait while the light is still good.”

  “I told you. I always come first. The painting second.”

  He grinned. “Ah, but I’m workin
g on my favorite part right now. Your long, slender legs.”

  “Come over here, and I’ll wrap them around your waist.”

  “Later. Right now, they’re perfect just as they are. You’re perfect as well.”

  “Is there any doubt as to why I love you?” He’d created three portraits so far, and each time he convinced her to wear less. This one was the most scandalous so far. She wasn’t quite certain what she would do with it when he finished it.

  “Then marry me.”

  She laughed. “No. I’ve had two husbands. That is more than enough for any woman.”

  “Neither was young. You deserve a young husband.”

  “Who will eventually grow old.”

  “But what fun we’ll have until then.”

  “We have fun now. Marriage will simply ruin everything.” Although her second marriage had not been too awful. Ainsley, at least, had treated her well, and she had cared for him. But her heart had only ever belonged to one man. The Earl of Lynnford. They’d had a brief affair while she was married to Westcliffe. By the time Westcliffe died, Lynnford was married. He’d ended their affair when he became betrothed and had remained faithful to his wife. As much as Tessa despised him for his devotion to his countess, she couldn’t help but admire his loyalty.

  “Now you’re thinking of someone else,” Leo said softly. “Who is it that always turns you melancholy?”

  She brought herself back to the present. “It’s your talk of marriage that has ruined my mood. Perhaps if you were to paint without your clothes on, my fair temperament would be restored.”

  Grinning, he set the palette aside. Before he’d removed his loosely fitting white shirt, a knock sounded on her door, and her lady’s maid peered in. “The Countess of Westcliffe has come to call.”

  That was a surprise although Tessa refused to show it. She’d not even known the girl was in London. Well, that could prove interesting for the Season. Still, she responded tartly, “Tell her I’m not at home.”

  “No,” Leo said, moving away from the canvas. “You should see her.”

  Tessa waved a hand at the maid, who promptly retreated, closing the door in her wake. “She took two sons from me. I have no wish to welcome her into my home.”