Passions of a Wicked Earl

by Heath Lorraine

  “Your elbow,” he blurted, to change the direction of the conversation, but hardly serving to alter the road on which his attentions were traveling.

  Another small burst of laughter as her eyes widened. “Pardon?”

  “The inside of your elbow. Is that your ticklish spot?”

  He wasn’t quite certain that he’d ever seen her exhibit such triumph. “I will never tell you, my lord. If you wish to know, you shall simply have to go exploring.”

  She started to walk off. Grabbing her arm, he swung her back toward him. “Don’t tease me, Claire, unless you’re willing to accept the consequences.”

  She took a step toward him, rising on her toes until she was almost in his face. Her breathing was harsh, her nostrils flaring. If there had been a trellis nearby, he’d have had her behind it in a heartbeat. “How do I convince you that I am?”

  Chapter 16

  To Claire’s disappointment, Westcliffe had left her in the garden without giving her a chance to convince him of anything. As she lay in bed, she wondered what he’d been thinking as he’d walked back to his office. She wasn’t aware when he left the residence. She only knew he hadn’t returned for dinner.

  When she was younger, she’d learned from Stephen that the most effective seduction was subtle, that it should occur without one realizing that it had taken place until it was too late. Strange how now that Westcliffe was willing to grant her freedom, she didn’t want to have it. No, that wasn’t exactly true.

  She no longer saw marriage as little more than legal shackles. He was not the overbearing young man he’d once been. The years had tempered him. He’d been little more than melted ore, to be finely crafted, but within the center of whatever he might be was a flaw, a remnant of what she’d done to him, how she’d hurt him.

  She could hardly blame him for doubting her now. But she didn’t want an end to their marriage. It would bring with it mortification. In that regard, nothing had changed during the intervening years.

  Except her. She was no longer willing to be a wife in name only.

  So many things to consider, so many plans to make. Yet she was so tired. A bit of warm milk. A good night’s rest. And in the morning she would begin anew, would plot her strategy to remain the Countess of Westcliffe.

  The house had settled in, everything was so quiet that she didn’t bother to grab a wrap. She simply padded out of her room and down the hallway. She came to a quick stop outside the door that led into her husband’s bedchamber. She couldn’t recall hearing any movement coming from the room. She didn’t want to contemplate the sting to her pride that came with the realization that he was probably finding solace in another’s arms. Nor did she want to admit that she desperately wanted to be the woman in whose arms he nestled. If he did ever succumb to her charms, she would demand fidelity. Perhaps that was the reason he refused her—he knew she would take no less than total commitment.

  She hurried down the stairs, wondering if she should detour by the library, see if he was there.

  What did it matter? The only thing that mattered was that he wasn’t in her bed.

  She made her way to the kitchen, surprised to see a lamp on the table where Cook usually went about preparing meals. She’d left a mess. Seared meat remained in the skillet. It would be rancid by morning, although at present its aroma was quite enticing.

  But there was no one in the room working. Perhaps someone was expecting a late-night visitor. However, when she went to set her own lamp on the table, she became aware of a soft murmuring.

  She had a quick thought—retreat, leave now—but her curiosity got the better of her. Bending slightly, listening intently, she identified the corner of the room from which the low sound came. Peering around the corner of the table, she saw Westcliffe sitting on the floor, a bottle of whiskey at his side.

  Cooper was nestled against his thigh, a plate of meat scraps—some raw, some cooked—set before him. Westcliffe’s hand was buried in the fur along Cooper’s neck. He was the one murmuring, encouraging the dog to eat, and she realized that in all likelihood, he was the one who had prepared a meal and left the washing up to someone else.

  She hadn’t meant to make a sound, but she must have because Westcliffe looked up at her, and her heart nearly broke at the sight of his red-rimmed eyes before he averted his gaze. As quietly and unobtrusively as possible, she padded over and knelt beside Westcliffe. “Is Cooper ill?”

  His hand resting heavily on the dog’s back, he nodded. “Simply far too old. The veterinarian says things are no longer working properly. Cooper’s in pain, miserable. He’s offered to put him down, but I thought he should have a last meal. He won’t eat.”

  She covered his free hand, which was resting on his thigh, surprised when he turned it over and tightly laced his fingers through hers. “Is that where you were earlier? With the veterinarian?”

  He nodded. “Then I took him for a lengthy carriage ride, but even it couldn’t restore his enthusiasm.”

  She wished he’d come to her. She wanted so badly for him not to feel that he had to go through moments like this alone.

  “Fifteen years,” he said quietly, “he has been my companion. Loyal beyond measure. He has accepted me, faults and all. Always happy to see me.”

  Tears burned her eyes and throat. This gentle, mourning soul was a side to him she’d never seen. “How did you come to name him Cooper?”

  “James Fenimore Cooper. My favorite author. I always thought that if I had been born second, I’d have traveled to America and lived the adventures of a frontiersman.”

  “I suspect it’s much more romantic in a book than in life.”

  He gave her a half smile. “I suspect you’re right.” He released a deep breath and the hold on her fingers. “I’m going to take him outside.”

  Her chest tightened. “And do what with him?”

  “I should think he would like to lie in his favorite spot, beneath the roses for a bit. I’ll send for the veterinarian in the morning.”

  “The ground will be cold this time of night. Wait here while I gather some blankets.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous. You should go to bed.”

  “I’m not going to leave you to go through this alone.” Before he could object, she hopped up and hurried off to gather blankets from a closet in the hallway. When she returned to the kitchen, Westcliffe was holding the dog in his arms, murmuring to him.

  He had told her that he was incapable of love, and yet here was evidence to the contrary. He had a great capacity for love.

  Grabbing a lamp and opening the door for him, she followed him out into the garden. The large rosebush to which he led her was in a distant corner, near a wall, near the bench where they had sat and talked one night. She arranged the blankets. Sitting down, she rested her back against the stone while Westcliffe made Cooper comfortable. The scent of roses wafted on the air.

  “You should go in,” Westcliffe said quietly when he settled in beside her.

  “I’ll be fine.”

  The lamp provided enough light that she could see Cooper’s head resting on Westcliffe’s thigh as he ran his long fingers through the dog’s coat. Unexpectedly, she felt Westcliffe’s arm come around her, drawing her near.

  “Come closer, you must be cold,” he said, and she wondered if his true reason had been to provide her with warmth or because he’d welcome a bit of comfort for himself. She burrowed herself against him, inside his jacket where the heat from his body had been captured.

  “Your sister seems to get along quite well with Lord Greenwood,” he said quietly, and she understood his need to distract himself from sorrowful thoughts.

  “And he with her. In truth, I feared she’d find the Season a disappointment. She says I’m a pessimist, always fearing the worst.”

  “Yet you always persevere.”

  “I must confess that I did not come to London simply for her. I came for myself as well.”

  “To have the Season you never had?”

&
nbsp; “No,” she said softly, her heart hammering with the truth, wondering how he might take it. “To truly be the wife I never was.”

  She thought he would stiffen, perhaps turn away. But he held her nearer.

  “I never thanked you for what you did with Lyons Place,” he murmured. “Since you’ve been seeing after it, it is a … pleasure to visit there. It is almost what I had always hoped it could be.”

  “What is lacking?”

  “Noise. Small footsteps echoing along the hallways. Laughter. Whispered secrets. It is too quiet there.”

  “Do you not relish the quiet? I was under the assumption most men did.”

  “Silence reminds me too much of sitting before my father’s casket. I was only five, but I sat there all night. I thought perhaps he would come back if I did. I know my mother did not care for him, but I never doubted his affection for me.”

  “It’s difficult to lose a parent,” she said. “I was not allowed to go to my mother’s funeral. I was always afraid that she somehow knew, that it made her sad, made her doubt my love for her.”

  “Children should not lose parents,” he said quietly.

  “Parents should not lose children.” She squeezed his hand. “And people should not lose their dogs.”

  “No, but I have.”

  Sitting up, she thought she could see a well of tears in his eyes. “Is he gone then?”

  He nodded.

  “At least he was not alone.”

  “But now I shall be.” He released a quick bitter chuckle. “I’m quite the selfish bastard, aren’t I? Would you mind giving me a few moments alone?”

  “No, of course not. I shall fetch a servant to help you see to him.”

  “Have him bring a shovel. I shall lay Cooper to rest here beneath the roses.”

  Her throat thick with tears, she nodded, rose to her feet, and headed to the house. She wanted to do so much more, but she knew he was not ready to welcome more affection or caring from her. He thought he was now alone, and she realized she needed to try so much harder to make him realize how much she’d come to care for him.

  She needed to show him, make him understand, that he wasn’t alone. That a collie named Cooper wasn’t the only being to love him.

  Chapter 17

  Lord Greenwood has the most astounding sense of humor,” Beth said, as their carriage journeyed along Regent Street.

  They’d visited a milliner and a dressmaker. Of a sudden Beth was in want of a new gown to wear to the Countess of Claybourne’s ball next week. And she required a new hat for her walks in the park with Lord Greenwood.

  Both items purchased contained something that no other item in her wardrobe did: a shade of blue, which was Lord Greenwood’s favorite color. Claire found herself wondering what Westcliffe’s favorite color was. She’d thought it brown, but she was no longer certain. Quite honestly, she couldn’t envision him taking up any thought with something so trivial.

  “He constantly makes me laugh,” Beth continued.

  From the moment they’d left the residence that morning, she’d been lauding Greenwood’s attributes.

  “Do you think it wise to settle on one man so early in the Season?” Claire asked.

  Beth gave her a look that conveyed she thought they should make a stop by Bedlam to drop off her sister. “When he is perfection, of course.”

  “No man is perfection, Beth.”

  “What are you saying?”

  “That perhaps you should strive to discern his imperfections.”

  “There you are again, always looking for the worst. If you seek it, you shall find it.”

  “I simply think that a man’s flaws determine whether or not he is easy to live with.”

  “And what are Westcliffe’s flaws?”

  “He is passionate in all things.”

  “And that makes him difficult to live with?”

  “When his anger is sparked, but it does not make him intolerable. Our father, on the other hand, when he is angry—”

  “Oh, God, please do not liken Greenwood to our father. He does not compare.”

  “It is only that while he is courting you, he is showing you only his better side. Were you to marry him, you would see all sides of him. I think it better to see all sides before you marry him.”

  “If you’d seen all sides to Westcliffe, would you have married him?”

  Claire glanced out the window at the shops and busy walkways as the driver directed the carriage onto one street and then another. “I think I would have—yes.”

  And she would not have feared him at all.

  “Have you come to love him then?” Beth asked.

  “I have come to discover that he is very different from what I thought.”

  “That’s not an answer.”

  “It’s all I’m willing to provide at the moment.”

  “I find it amazing that Westcliffe is so much darker in temperament than Ainsley, and yet they are brothers. I should expect them to be more alike.”

  They had stopped to visit with Ainsley before going to the dressmaker. He had a way of making them feel welcomed. Claire had a question for him, and to her delight, he knew the answer. “They have different fathers, and their inheritances were very different, which in essence gave them different lives.”

  “Greenwood will inherit his father’s title; he’ll be a marquess.”

  “Very commendable.”

  “I do not think he is after me simply for my dowry.”

  As Westcliffe had been. He’d have not married her without the dowry, which he’d made plain enough. But that did not mean that they could not be happy. “I should hope not.”

  “How is a woman to know?”

  “The greater question, I should think, would be: Does it make a difference?”

  “In my esteem of him, no. I enjoy his company.” She glanced out the window as the carriage drew into the drive of a residence. “Who are we calling upon?”

  “Lord Chesney.”

  “Why ever are we calling upon him?”

  Claire smiled as the carriage came to a stop. “Do you remember Ainsley mentioning that Lord Chesney had a litter of pups?”

  “No.”

  “Well, he did. That day at the park.” Which was the reason she’d had them stop by Ainsley’s earlier—to garner the address. “And I’m in need of a puppy.”

  He was not a man who allowed his emotions to rule, but in the three days since Cooper’s passing, Westcliffe could not deny that melancholy nipped at his heels in much the same manner as Cooper had when he was a puppy—always getting underfoot, tripping him up.

  He kept telling himself that it was only a dog, but Cooper had been his friend. He knew of no one who was always as happy to see him as Cooper had been.

  Although sitting in his library, he couldn’t help but think part of his doldrums were brought on by the investment report he’d just received. Damnation, one of his investments was floundering. He had to right this situation immediately because he would not—could not—hold out his hand to Ainsley again. With the pages spread over his desk, he took a blank piece of parchment from the desk drawer, dipped the pen into the inkwell, and began scrawling out solutions to his investment woes. What he might sell, where he might invest with more success.

  The door opened, and he fought not to groan as his intense concentration was shattered. Now was not the time for interruptions. Unfortunately, it seemed he was the only one aware of that.

  He came to his feet as his wife walked into the room, holding something behind her back. Whatever it was required both hands. She looked like a mischievous young girl as she strode toward him. Before any damage to her feelings could be done, he said, “Claire, now is not a good time for visiting.”

  She gave him a gamin smile. “But I have something for you.”

  She came to a stop before his desk. “Do you want to guess what it is?”

  He wished it was not so, but he was not in the mood for games. “Claire—”

&nb
sp; Then out from behind her back, she brought a tan-and-white puppy, a collie. He’d have recognized the breed anywhere. His reaction came fast and furious, with no thought, no consideration. “Why in God’s name would you get me a dog?”

  Startled, she opened her mouth, closed it. Shook her head. “Well … to replace Cooper.”

  “Do you think something I have loved for almost half my life is so easily replaced?”

  “I thought Fenimore would help fill the hole—”

  “It cannot be filled, and it is certainly not your place—”

  The tapping of water on paper stilled his words as horror swept over Claire’s face. She pulled the dog back into her embrace, which only served to send an arc of dog piss over the corner of his desk.

  “Did you have him drink a bloody lake before you brought him in here?” he demanded to know.

  “I’m so sorry.”

  He looked at the mess on his desk. Life’s sweet mockery. His life was a cesspool. “Bloody hell.”

  Knowing full well that a servant would be in to clean it up, he strode past Claire.

  “Where are you going?” she called after him.

  “Riding.”

  “But the dog?”

  “I don’t want him.”

  During times like this he missed not being in the country. It was damned difficult to urge his horse into a gallop when people and conveyances swarmed over the streets. Even the parks didn’t allow for the sort of hard riding he craved because people strolled hither and yon.

  Good God, he was in a foul mood.

  Finally, he made it to the edge of town, where there were fewer houses, buildings, and people. He gave the horse its lead and let it race down the road as though they had someplace to go and only a limited amount of time in which to arrive.

  When the horse was lathered, Westcliffe took pity on him. Stopping, he dismounted and walked him over to a stream. Crouching while the horse drank, Westcliffe stared at London in the distance. He’d not ridden nearly far enough, but the truth was that it was impossible to do so.

  He was trying to outrun himself.

  He didn’t want his wife to show him a kindness because it would be all the more difficult to let her go. He’d set his sights on starting the proceedings for a divorce at the end of the Season, of starting his life over with Anne, but he couldn’t see Anne sitting with him on the cold ground while he waited for his beloved pet to cross over into the next life. He couldn’t imagine her delight at bringing him a puppy.