Passions of a Wicked Earl

by Heath Lorraine

  sugar nor milk. “At least not three or four years ago.”

  Her gaze found and captured his, and in them he read the query. In spite of how much it galled him, he heard himself confessing, “Every shilling I had to spend came from Ainsley.”

  She glanced down quickly, but not before he saw the understanding, the sympathy. It was the reason he’d never said anything. He wasn’t certain which he detested more.

  When she looked back up at him, she had control of her facial features. Yes, sweetheart, I shall always know what you think, he thought.

  “That’s the reason my dowry was so important, the reason you didn’t annul the marriage immediately after …” She shook her head as though the words were too painful to say. “I’m beginning to have a clearer understanding of how you must have felt. I can barely stand the thought that last night, you went to her—”

  “I didn’t.”

  Her mouth opened slightly.

  “I went to the club,” he said. “I got foxed. In all honesty, I’ve gone to see her only once since the night you and I sat on the floor in the library. And then it was only for dinner.”

  “Why?”

  He shook his head. “I don’t bloody well know. Your apology, your sincerity—it just seemed wrong to continue as though you weren’t here.” It was harder to carry on with her here—her presence a constant reminder that he did indeed have a wife. He’d always planned to honor his vows. He knew his father hadn’t, knew his mother had suffered because of it.

  “Thank you,” she said quietly.

  “For what?”

  “For taking a care with my feelings. It will make it easier to be here, to go forward.”

  “Do not misunderstand, Claire. I still desire a divorce.”

  “But not until after the Season ends. And the fewer rumors surrounding us, the better Beth’s chances of finding a suitable suitor.”

  “Good God! Rumors about us could flourish, and she’d find a suitor. Did you not see the flowers?”

  She laughed. “I daresay, we’re off to a good start. What say we go to Cremorne Gardens this evening? It would be good for Beth to be seen about.”

  He tilted his head slightly. “I suppose you mean to go early, before the less-reputable people arrive.”

  “We shall absolutely go early.” She gave him an impish smile. “Although perhaps we will also stay late.”

  “Not if you wish her to marry. Reputations are ruined when the hour grows late.”

  “Then we must take pains not to remain longer than is prudent.”

  Anne was pouting. It wasn’t the first time he’d seen her out of sorts. She’d first approached him almost two years ago, desiring him to be her lover. But she was married at the time to the younger son of an earl. Knowing what it was for a man to find his wife with another, he couldn’t bring himself to have a liaison with a married woman. Then her husband had taken ill and died. She’d been Westcliffe’s companion for the past six months—as soon as she’d come out of mourning.

  “I waited half the night for your arrival,” she said caustically. “I assume you will at least be joining me for dinner tonight.”

  He’d never found her so unattractive. Before, he’d tolerated her little fits of temper, assumed they were a woman’s prerogative. Lord knew he’d grown up seeing his mother display enough of them.

  But today, Anne gave the appearance of pettiness. Coldness. He thought of Claire tossing the whiskey on him. Anger should be accompanied by fire. He could handle that. But cold … he’d never realized that he didn’t much like it.

  “Unfortunately, I’m taking my wife and her sister to Cremorne Gardens.”

  Anne lounged on the fainting couch, staring out the window with such intensity that he was surprised the glass didn’t shatter. “You’ve been to see me only once since that whore of a wife—”

  “Claire is not a whore.”

  “She took your brother to her bed. Don’t tell me you’ve forgiven her.”

  “She is not your concern, Anne.”

  “I don’t do well alone, Westcliffe.”

  He tried not to compare his wife—who’d had three years of solitude—to this woman. Claire had never complained. God knew she had a right to.

  “The sooner her sister is married off, the sooner things will return to normal,” he said, not willing to admit that he wasn’t certain he yearned for normal any longer.

  “Normal?” She came off the couch with self-righteousness etched in every move. “Did you inform her that you want a divorce?”

  Why was he angry at her for being furious? She had a right. She was his lover, but this summer was not what she’d expected or hoped for. He knew that. He knew tolerance was needed. Still.

  “Yes,” he bit out.

  She nearly staggered back, in surprise he assumed. “What did she say?” Her voice was once again soft, sweet.

  He strode to the window and glanced out. “She worries about scandal.”

  “She should have thought of that before.”

  “She was a child before.” Coming to Claire’s defense so easily and without thought surprised him.

  “Surely you’re not excusing her behavior.”

  He turned around. “No, but until the matter with her sister is taken care of, and I can see to bringing an end to my own marriage, I think it is best that I not … pay court to you.”

  “You expect me to wait with bated breath for your return?”

  “I expect you to understand how difficult all of this is and that it requires my full attention to bring it to fruition.” He crossed over to her, gave her a look of longing, and gently touched her cheek. “Anne, we will be together soon, I promise.”

  “I’m not certain you completely understand how badly I want you. I miss what we had together. I miss you.”

  “I miss it as well.” Taking her in his arms, he held her. Always before he’d felt the stirrings of desire. Strange, how all he felt now was a keen interest in leaving.

  Chapter 14

  Claire had heard of Cremorne Gardens but had never visited. Her father had never been too keen on sharing the sights of London with his daughters. And the aunt who had helped with her upbringing after her mother died had never favored walking—aching joints, you know—and the gardens were designed for walking.

  She’d taken great care in preparing for the evening, selecting a dress that was not quite as revealing as the gown she’d worn the night before but still designed to display the barest hint of cleavage. Beth was more modestly attired, but then she was still a maiden, whereas Claire was a married woman—one who was determined to garner her husband’s attention. Presently, they were strolling with her arm intertwined with his.

  “I suppose if you spot a gentleman who would be appropriate for Beth to meet that you’d make an introduction,” Claire murmured quietly.

  “No gentleman I know would be appropriate.”

  He wore a burgundy jacket and dove gray trousers. Being seen with him brought her both pride and pleasure. He strode through the gardens with such confidence. She didn’t recall him exhibiting so much in his youth, perhaps because he’d always felt beneath Ainsley’s thumb—not that she could imagine Ainsley lording his position over his brother.

  But she could envision Westcliffe resenting having to ask his youngest brother for so much as a farthing. She’d only ever considered what marriage had meant for her, she’d not taken into consideration what it had meant for him. He’d gained a certain amount of freedom, perhaps absolute, to be his own man.

  And within hours of taking on the responsibility of a wife in order to address the responsibilities that came with his position, he’d found her within his younger brother’s arms. At the time, she’d thought only of her own fears and needs. How little she’d known about Westcliffe. How much more she was coming to know.

  She should have come to London sooner. She shouldn’t have docilely accepted his edict that she remain at the estate.

  “Oh, may I have some
lemonade?” Beth asked brightly, holding out her hand like a child before the answer had been given.

  Westcliffe looked at Claire. “Would you care for some?”

  “No, thank you.”

  He withdrew a coin from his pocket and handed it to Beth, who fairly skipped over to the table where beverages were being sold.

  “I don’t think I was ever that young,” Claire said.

  “You were.”

  She looked up at Westcliffe questioningly. His jaw was clenched as though he wished he’d held his tongue. “When was I?” she asked softly.

  He shook his head as though he had no answer, then he said, “You were fifteen before I realized you could walk. You were always chasing after Stephen, running to elude your sister, leaping over flowers—”

  “I was dancing,” she said haughtily.

  He arched a brow at her, and she relished this moment of teasing each other. In spite of his claims to want a divorce, she couldn’t help but hope she could somehow change his mind. “How could you notice all that? You were around so seldom.”

  “I was around enough.”

  “Why did you never join us?”

  “I was the oldest. Playing was … beneath me. My father was not with us that long, but he taught me that with my rank came great responsibility. I must never do anything that would give the impression I was unworthy of the title I would someday inherit and the courtesy title I was born possessing. I envied Stephen his freedom to play, to play with you. You had the most amazing laugh.” He cleared his throat, as though suddenly uncomfortable. “I’d have not given your sister a coin had I known it would take her so long to purchase a lemonade.”

  She didn’t know what to say. His words humbled her. He’d no doubt expected her laughter to fill his house once they were wed. “I didn’t know,” she finally said, devastated by all that he’d revealed. “I didn’t know you watched, I didn’t know … I didn’t know you.”

  Before he could respond, if he would have responded, Beth reappeared. “You two look so melancholy. I swear you are the most boring of creatures. Come, let’s have some fun.”

  She led the way as though she were the leader of a parade.

  Westcliffe seemed to think their conversation was over, perhaps to be forgotten. But Claire wanted that moment remembered. She squeezed his arm, and when he glanced down on her, she gave him a secretive smile. “You know, should you ever long to hear my laughter in the future, you should know that I’m terribly ticklish. Unfortunately, it is only one spot. I wonder if you’d have any luck in finding it.”

  Before he could respond, she released her hold on him and hurried to catch up with her sister, wrapping her arm around Beth’s, walking briskly along as they had when they were younger. When she glanced back, it was to see Westcliffe standing like a statue in the middle of the path, staring after her. She couldn’t judge his expression, but she did hope she’d given him something to think about.

  Westcliffe studied Claire in the shadowy darkness as the first burst of fireworks filled the sky. Anyone else watching might have thought she had the joy of a child, but there was nothing childish about her. She had matured since the day he’d taken her as his wife.

  In her expression, he saw pleasure, a woman’s pleasure, and he couldn’t help but wonder if the same satisfaction would fill her face when she lay replete after lovemaking. He remembered the way she’d looked when he’d kissed her the night when he’d discovered her rearranging furniture. Ravished and ravishing, like a woman who’d had her senses awakened. The hardest thing he’d ever done was walk out of that room.

  He would not take her to his bed, dammit. He wouldn’t search for that ticklish spot. He would not.

  She made him feel things he didn’t wish to feel. A gentle stirring in his heart that could destroy him if it wasn’t returned. Anne was a much better choice. Her eyes never welled up over silly gifts. She didn’t smile because of something he’d done for another. Her flirtations carried no innocence. Her fury was brittle. It didn’t heat him with desire. She didn’t have a damned ticklish spot. She was safe. If she left him, if he found her with another man …

  He’d be angry. He might even punch the fellow. But he could easily walk away and never look back. He’d invested none of his heart and none of his soul.

  From the moment he’d left Claire at Lyons Place, he’d continually looked back. That was the reason he’d taken numerous lovers. To forget her, to replace the memories of her, the hope for happiness he’d placed in her.

  Now here she was, enticing him with her smiles, laughter, and flirtation. Even her anger lured him. He’d be within his rights to lay her down on a bed and have his way with her. She was still his wife. But once he did that, she’d be soiled goods. What man would want her? Three years ago, he wouldn’t have cared. Hell, a month ago, he wouldn’t have cared. He’d have thought she deserved to suffer.

  But now he found himself wanting to protect her from gossip, scandal, and himself—a man without the ability to love.

  As though suddenly aware that her sister was spellbound by the spectacular display of colors dotting the sky, she eased away until she was beside him. Placing her hand on his arm, she urged him away from the crowd until they stood alone in the shadows.

  “Thank you for bringing us. I know Beth was disappointed that Greenwood didn’t call today. I think this outing was the perfect remedy to her melancholy.”

  Rising on her toes, she brushed a kiss near the corner of his mouth. It took every ounce of willpower he possessed to hold himself perfectly still and not turn into her movement, not capture her mouth and give her the blistering kiss his body demanded of him.

  “Did you enjoy the evening?” she asked.

  Strangely, he had. He’d never been to the Gardens when decent folk were about. It was much more entertaining later—or at least in his youth he’d found it so. God, he was getting old when he took as much pleasure in the modest gowns as he did in the indecent ones.

  Or perhaps it wasn’t the gown so much as the woman inside it. The dress wasn’t cut nearly as low as the ball gown she’d worn the night before, yet it was just as enticing, if not more so. Perhaps because his tongue knew exactly how silky smooth her skin was.

  No, she was no longer a girl. That was evident in the way she stood there, challenging him—to do exactly what he wasn’t sure. Kiss her perhaps. Or take her farther into the shadows. He wasn’t half-tempted.

  A hundred white lights burst through the sky, and in their reflection, he saw the errant strands of her hair that always seemed to work their way loose of any pins or combs. He reached for them, to tuck them back into place—

  Another burst of fireworks, followed by the accompanying boom—

  Fiery pain ignited through his upper arm. “Damnation!”

  Grabbing his arm, he felt the warmth pooling through his fingers.

  “What? What happened?” she asked.

  “Good God, I think I’ve been shot.”

  He’d been shot.

  His assumption wasn’t confirmed until they returned home because the obstinate man wouldn’t let Claire look at his arm. He had allowed her to tie his handkerchief around it, for what little good that did.

  After giving the crowd a cursory glance, he’d decided it was too dark and the crowd too immense to begin a search to determine who might have fired a pistol. He’d ordered the ladies to stay near him as they made their way to the carriage, then decided his proximity put them in danger and told them to hurry ahead.

  Beth had complained incessantly because they were leaving before the fireworks extravaganza was over, but Claire hadn’t told her the reason for their hasty departure because she hadn’t wanted to worry her. As for herself, she was petrified. How she managed to keep her legs moving was beyond her. She kept looking back at Westcliffe, urging him on—torn between shielding her sister and dropping back to protect him.

  It wasn’t until they were safe in the residence that Claire told Beth what had transpire
d—and only then because she needed Beth to go to her room while Claire saw to her husband. Beth had nearly swooned until Claire had shaken her and told her to get control of herself. She had no time to deal with theatrics. She had to see how Westcliffe was.

  He’d immediately called for his manservant and retreated to his bedchamber. By the time she’d finished dealing with Beth and joined him there, he was sitting bare-chested in a chair while Mathers was dabbing at the crimson furrow in Westcliffe’s upper arm.

  Westcliffe glanced over at her as though she were to be given no more consideration than a fly that had entered his domain. “It’s just a gash. Nothing to worry over. Go on to bed.”

  “Nothing to worry over? Someone tries to kill you—”

  “We don’t know that he was trying to kill me.”

  “Why would he shoot at you?”

  “We don’t even know that he was shooting at me. I just happened to be what he hit.”

  “No one heard anything because of the fireworks, and if they did, they would have just thought it was noise accompanying the show,” she speculated. The perfect cover. But still it made no sense that anyone would want to kill him. She walked forward and took the cloth from the servant. “We should send for a physician.”

  “It’s nothing more than a flesh wound.” Westcliffe took the cloth from her and pressed it against the wound.

  She snatched the cloth away. “I should see to it. I’m your wife.”

  “You’ll get blood on that dress—”

  “I already have blood on me.”

  He looked at her then, truly looked at her. The concern that flashed briefly in his eyes was deeper than any she’d ever seen. She’d known he was a man of strong emotions—she’d experienced his anger and his passion when fueled by anger or drink—but this was something else, and she realized he possessed a wider range of feelings than she’d ever given him credit for.

  Taking the cloth from her, he slowly came to his feet and began wiping the blood that had splattered on her chest. Each stroke was so gentle, but his hand was larger than the cloth, and the edge of it grazed her skin. She thought she must be some sort of weak, wanton woman to be so distracted by his touch at a moment like this, when his arm was bleeding—or had been bleeding. It appeared that the wound had stopped seeping. Still, it needed to be bandaged. She’d get to it in a moment, when he ceased his ministrations.