Passions of a Wicked Earl

by Heath Lorraine

“You’re not thinking of doing something naughty while we’re there.”

  “I wasn’t until you put the thought in my head.”

  “We’re going to behave.”

  “We’ll see.”

  “I’m ready,” Beth announced, and Claire spun around, hoping her cheeks were not as flushed with desire as she feared.

  Beth twirled, showing off her pale blue gown, edged with dark velvet. “What do you think?”

  Before Claire could respond, Willoughby strode quietly into the room carrying a silver salver with an envelope resting on it. “I’m sorry, my lord, but a missive has arrived. I was told it is quite urgent.”

  Claire watched with dread as her husband opened it, read it, and quickly tucked it into his jacket.

  “I’m sorry,” he said, his voice calm, absent of emotion. “You’ll have to attend the ball without me.”

  “Whatever’s wrong?”

  “Nothing to worry over. Simply a situation with which I must deal.” He put his hands on her arms, drew her in, and kissed her on the forehead. “I’ll join you at the ball as soon as I’m able. Save me a dance.”

  Before she could question him further, he was striding from the room.

  “That’s a bit of a bother,” Beth said. “I wonder what was so urgent.”

  Claire shook her head, wondering if a time would ever come when her husband trusted her completely, shared everything with her.

  Claire would have been impressed with the Claybourne ball—if she hadn’t been preoccupied with thoughts of Westcliffe. She didn’t want to admit to herself that she feared he’d gone to the rescue of Lady Anne Cavill.

  Jealousy was not an emotion she relished, but worrying that something was amiss with him was worse. She’d not wanted to come to the ball. She’d wanted simply to wait for his return, but Beth had told her she could pace at the Claybournes’ as easily as she could pace at home.

  Only she wasn’t pacing. She was talking with people, trying to give the impression that she cared about the weather or which gentleman had taken an interest in which lady. While Beth’s dance card had not filled up as quickly as before, she did not want for partners. Claire had even been asked to dance, but she’d politely refused both gentlemen. It wasn’t because she feared Westcliffe would get jealous or angry—although he might very well do both. It was simply that she had no wish to dance with anyone other than him.

  “Claire?”

  She recognized the soft voice so the informality didn’t surprise her. Turning, she smiled. “Lord and Lady Lynnford. How good it is to see you.”

  They’d often been visiting when she visited Ainsley’s estate with her father. She’d always considered Lynnford to be one of the most handsome men she’d ever seen. Even as a child she’d recognized that he’d been blessed with perfect features. His hair was the color of wheat, his eyes the blue of the sky that overlooked the grain. It always surprised her that his wife was so unimpressive in comparison, so much shorter than he, with a roundness that reflected the five children she’d given him. But she knew no one who was kinder.

  “We heard you were in London,” Lady Lynnford said as she took Claire’s hand, pulling her down gently as she reached up to kiss her cheek. “You look well.”

  “I am, thank you. I didn’t see you at the first ball.”

  “We were taking the waters in the south of France.”

  “Is all well?”

  “Oh, yes.” She laughed with a hint of self-mocking. “We’re simply growing older and more weary.”

  “To me you always look the same.” Although she didn’t, now that Claire studied her a little more closely. It did seem she’d aged, and not favorably. Whereas Lynnford did appear unchanged.

  “Is Westcliffe about?” he asked.

  “No, he had a matter to which he needed to attend.”

  “I see.” She heard the disapproval in his voice.

  “It was very urgent,” she assured him.

  “I’m certain it was.”

  And she suspected he thought her husband was with another woman. “Things are very good with our marriage.”

  He seemed surprised, and she realized she’d accurately judged what he was thinking about Westcliffe. “Are they?”

  “Yes, we’ve made amends.”

  “I’m very glad to hear that.”

  She didn’t know where to take the conversation, so she said, “My sister, Beth, is in London for the Season.”

  “Is she?” Lady Lynnford asked with true delight. “A pity our sons have no interest in marriage at the moment.”

  She tried to remember their ages. She thought they were younger than Stephen. “Ainsley feels the same,” she said.

  “And what of Stephen? Do you hear from him?” Lynnford asked.

  “No. His regiment must be keeping him very busy.”

  “I’m sure it is.”

  “Well, my dear,” Lady Lynnford said, squeezing her hand. “We must go speak with others. Do not be a stranger.”

  “I won’t.”

  Watching them walk away, she wondered if Lynnford had always been so disapproving of Westcliffe. She wouldn’t let his doubts about her husband weigh on her. She would know if he’d been with Lady Anne. She’d know—

  “He trusted you to come alone?”

  Spinning around, to her immense surprise, she found herself facing Lady Anne Cavill. She was stunningly gorgeous. There were no other words to describe her. And she smelled strongly of lilac. Claire forced herself to smile politely. “I don’t believe we’ve been formally introduced.”

  “But I know who you are, and I suspect you know who I am.” She glanced around. “I’ve not seen Westcliffe here.”

  “I’m not surprised. As he’s not here, which I assume you knew since you mentioned my coming alone.”

  Lady Anne smiled, but there was nothing generous or kind in it. “You have not won him, my dear.”

  Claire’s stomach knotted up so tightly that she almost doubled over.

  “You may have him for the Season,” Lady Anne continued, “but I shall have him for always.”

  “No,” Claire said coolly. “I will not give him up, not to you, not to anyone. There will be no divorce.”

  “Is that what he told you?” She looked at Claire as though she were a silly child, as though she’d not changed or grown at all since her wedding night. “A man will always change his mind given the right incentive.”

  “He won’t. And neither will I.”

  “For your sake, I hope you’re right. I don’t know if you could survive another scandal.”

  “Do not make the mistake of underestimating me. I will fight to keep him.”

  She arched a brow. “It seems you’re not quite the gullible girl he said you were.”

  “You, however, seem to be quite the whore he said you were.”

  Claire saw her hand come up and was raising her own to block the strike when she heard, “Lady Anne, I’ve been looking everywhere for you.”

  “Ainsley.” She spun around, smiled becomingly, and allowed him to kiss her cheek. “I was just talking with your sister by marriage.”

  “Really? How fortunate for her. I, however, am in want of a dance. Tell me the next waltz has been reserved for me.”

  “Of course, dear man.”

  As he led Lady Anne away, Ainsley winked at Claire. She tried to draw comfort from it, but she was trembling from head to toe. She hated knowing that Westcliffe had spoken about her with that woman. What had he seen in her beyond the beauty?

  Beth was suddenly at her side, with Lord Greenwood standing nearby. “Was that Lady Anne Cavill speaking with you? Everyone is talking about the ball she’ll be hosting at the end of the month. We’ve yet to receive an invitation. Is that why she was here? To invite us?”

  “I do not think we’ll be invited, and even if we are, we’ll not be going.”

  “Why not? I want so desperately—”

  “You can’t have everything you want, Beth,” she snapped. “
I want my husband to be here. I want my marriage to be more than it is. I want—”

  She pressed her hand to her forehead. “Let’s get our wraps. It’s time to leave.”

  “But there are more dances. I won’t be happy if we leave.”

  “And I won’t be happy if we stay. Tonight, my happiness comes before yours.”

  “That’s not fair.”

  “You have no idea all I’ve done to ensure you have this Season. Do not speak to me of fairness when all I ask is that for one night we do what I want instead of what you want. I don’t want either of us to make a scene here. You will come with me now, or I shall send our regrets to the hostess of the next ball.”

  Beth set her face in a mulish expression. “But what if Westcliffe comes here looking for you? He said to save him a dance.”

  Oh, he had, blast him. If she wasn’t here, Lady Anne would certainly dance with him. But she couldn’t expect Westcliffe to trust her if she didn’t him.

  “I’ll explain to our hostess to tell him we had to leave early.”

  “You really do want to leave badly, don’t you?” Beth asked.

  “I truly do.”

  Her sister nodded. “Very well then.”

  Chapter 20

  Westcliffe was not in residence when they returned. Claire prepared for bed, then went to his bedchamber, climbed into his bed, and began reading The Last of the Mohicans. It made her feel closer to him. While there was much he didn’t share with her, at least he’d shared his favorite author.

  It was a little past midnight when the door opened. She glanced over, and her breath caught. Her husband wore no jacket. His waistcoat was unbuttoned and his cravat missing. He was disheveled, his clothes torn and covered in dirt and blood. Black smudges marred his face. His right hand was wrapped in a filthy cloth.

  “Oh, my God.” She scrambled out of bed and rushed over to him. “What happened?”

  “What are you doing here? Why are you awake?”

  “I was worried about you.” He seemed distracted as she led him over to a chair and forced him to sit. She cradled his face. “Westcliffe, what happened?”

  “There was a railway accident. I don’t know what happened. The train went off the track. It was … awful.”

  “Why did they send for you?”

  “I’m one of the investors. It was my railway. Nine died, Claire. At least forty were injured.”

  “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. Why didn’t you tell me? I would have gone with you.”

  “I didn’t want you to worry. There was the ball.” He shook his head. “You didn’t need to see this.”

  “You didn’t need to go alone.” She touched his hair, his face. She could see the effect the night had on him in the strain in his face, the weariness in his eyes. Gingerly, she lifted his injured hand, realizing he’d wrapped his neckcloth around it. “What happened here?”

  “I tore it, lifting metal. A man was trapped beneath what remained of a car. We got him out, but there was so much blood. I don’t know if he’ll be all right. His wife was crying, just standing there crying. Her dress was torn. I gave her my jacket.”

  He was rambling. He never rambled. It frightened her to see him like this. Leaning up, she pressed a kiss to his forehead. “I’m going to have the servants prepare you a warm bath.”

  “It’s too late.”

  “No, you’re trembling. I think a bath will help.”

  He nodded. “All right then.”

  “Just wait here until I have everything ready.”

  Claire had been right. He needed this. His aching, bruised body soaking in the steaming water. The tumbler of whiskey that she’d filled three times already. Her hands slowly, methodically washing the grime from his body.

  He knew the horrific scenes would haunt him for as long as he lived. He couldn’t imagine that a battlefield could look much worse. When it was all over, when there was nothing left for him to do, when he could finally leave, the only place he’d wanted to be was here—with her.

  That terrified him more than anything. That he’d needed to be with her. He knew no other woman would console him as she did. No other woman would care for him as she did. No other woman could reach below the surface of him like she could.

  Her hands gently massaged the lather through his hair and scalp. It felt wonderful. She didn’t pressure him to talk. She didn’t ask questions. She was simply there. It was more than enough.

  “Close your eyes,” she said, and she poured warm water over his head—again and again until the soap was gone. When she was finished, she moved around beside him, took a cloth, and began to tenderly wash his face. Earlier, she cleaned the gash on his hand and wrapped linen around it, with orders to keep it out of the water.

  He thought he’d never smile again, but he did when he saw the wet spots on her gown, one in particular that made the shadow of her turgid nipple very visible. He flicked a finger over it. “Your nightgown is getting wet. You should take it off.”

  Cradling his cheek, she forced him to look at her. “I need more between us than just … bedding.”

  He blinked in confusion. What was she talking about? He felt as though his mind were swimming through thick pudding. His thoughts jumped around, never seemed to be sharp enough to grab onto conversation. Her words made little sense. No woman had ever wanted more from him than a good romp between the sheets. “I thought you enjoyed it.”

  “I do. It’s wonderful.” She dipped the cloth in the water and began scrubbing his chest. “But I want so much more. When your dog is dying, I want you to come to me, tell me, let me share the sorrow with you. When you have bad news, I want to know so I can share the worry or can help you find a way to make it all better. You don’t have to do everything alone, Westcliffe. It’s why I’m here. Not only to be beneath you, but to be beside you.”

  He cupped her face. “Claire, no woman has ever meant more to me than you. But you ask too much.”

  “You don’t have to do it all tomorrow. Just know that I will never, ever betray you again. Whatever you tell me, whatever you share with me, it will be safe with me. I want to be here for you, Westcliffe.”

  “You want to give me what I need?” he asked.

  “Yes.”

  He took her hand, carried it beneath the water, and used it to cover his rigid shaft. “This is what I need. Right now. I need you to stop talk—”

  She rose, grabbed the hem of her nightgown, and lifted it over her head, revealing her slender, glorious body, inch by marvelous inch. He’d seen her naked before, but tonight it was a reaffirmation of the beauty of the human form—not mutilated or torn or battered. It was perfection.

  Standing there, she unbraided her hair, then bent forward and brushed it through with her fingers before tossing it back. He couldn’t believe how provocative so simple an action was. He started to get out of the tub, to take her to his bed if he could make it that far. Lifting a leg, she pressed her toes against his chest and pushed him back down.

  She slid her foot down to his hip and slipped it into the water. Gracefully, she brought the other foot to rest in the tub. Straddling him, she lowered herself, enveloping him in a cocoon of molten heat. Wrapping his arms around her, burying his face against her breasts, he came fast and hard, with an intensity that nearly caused him to black out. For that brief moment, the horrors he’d seen had ceased to exist.

  All that existed were the two of them.

  She was stroking his back, combing her fingers through his hair, whispering that all would be all right, that she loved him. He couldn’t repeat the words, couldn’t allow himself to become that vulnerable to hurt, but he held her close for the longest time.

  When the water had gone lukewarm, he rolled her over and washed her while she washed him. After they dried off, he lifted her into his arms and carried her to the bed.

  Claire hadn’t meant to tell him she loved him, but the words had slipped out of their own accord. Strange to think that when she’d married him, she’d f
eared the physical side of their relationship—and to realize now that quite possibly he feared the emotional. He used his body to communicate, much more than words.

  As he laid her on the bed, his mouth came down on hers with an urgency, then a gentleness. He massaged her neck, stroked her cheek. There was almost a sweetness to the kiss, as though he were imploring her to accept him, to want him. To be content with what he could give, even as he seemed to be acknowledging that he knew it wasn’t enough. He could carry her to incredible heights of pleasure, but he couldn’t reveal his heart.

  He trailed his lips along her throat, a leisurely sojourn, leaving behind the dampness of his mouth and little tongue tickles. The urgency he’d expressed in the bathtub was gone. He’d needed her for a physical release that would cleanse him as much as the soap and water. She understood that, the importance of it. But how did she convince him that she could be so much more?

  Had all the women he’d been with wanted nothing more from him than this? As exquisite as it was, she wanted him to know that he was so much more than this. But it was a task for another time, because he was very skilled at this—until all her concerns melted away, until she was lost in sensations.

  His tongue circled one breast while his hand kneaded the other. Desire swirled, clamoring for the release he could provide. She threaded her fingers through his hair, as he scooted down, his breath wafting over her stomach. Delicious, intoxicating. He moved lower, parting her thighs.

  “Westcliffe?”

  “Shh.” He looked up at her with heavy-lidded eyes. “It’s your turn now.”

  He buried his mouth in the soft curls, and his tongue swept over her sensitive flesh. She nearly came off the bed, only he held her down, the fingers of one hand splayed over her stomach. They inched upward to cup her breast, and his thumb toyed with her nipple while his tongue continued its wicked doings below.

  She skimmed her hands over his shoulders, felt his muscles rippling beneath her touch, just as her own body undulated with each stroke of his tongue. He suckled and nibbled. He thrust and soothed. The pressure built until she was arching against him, crying out, experiencing a cataclysmic release that had her soaring among glittering stars before falling back, breathless and limp.