And she was.
His hands came up to her shoulders. He steadied her. Claire swallowed, raising her head. She stared at the strong column of his neck, the chiseled angle of his jawline, suddenly shatteringly aware of their closeness. There was a scant hand’s width between them.
“Are you a woman of delicate constitution?”
“Certainly not!”
“Then is it possible there is another reason?”
Claire frowned. “I beg your pardon?”
A pause. “You said you’d never been prone to the vapors.”
“I am not.”
His eyes met hers. “There is no delicate way to broach this most delicate of female conditions. But if your husband has recently passed, Mrs. Westfield, is it not possible that you . . . that he—”
He was asking if she was with child.
She was of a mind to slap him for daring to speak of such a thing.
“No. That is impossible.” She couldn’t quite keep the ice from her tone.
“I’ve offended you. I humbly beg your forgiveness.”
Humbly? There wasn’t a humble bone in the man’s body. He gripped both of her hands now. It struck her that he doubtless wanted her to ask him in. Her head was spinning. Fate had aided her, for the night was going exactly as she’d hoped. But it was happening so fast.
“No need, my lord. I’m quite recovered.” She took a deep breath. “I insist you come in for tea. Or brandy? My—My husband savored one in particular you might enjoy.”
Even as she spoke, hatred spilled inside her. It was Oliver who favored brandy.
“I confess, Mrs. Westfield, brandy sounds just the thing.”
Claire stopped herself from looking at him sharply. For some strange reason, she’d neither examined nor pondered why, until now—indeed had told herself no liquor cabinet was complete without it—she’d made certain when she came to London that brandy numbered among the spirits.
Not whiskey, but brandy.
In the drawing room, she moved to a table near the sofa. There, she poured two glasses of brandy. She handed one to him.
“Cheers,” he said.
Crystal clinked. Claire took a small sip.
The viscount held it to the light. The brandy was clear and golden. He took another sip.
“Aged in wooden casks,” he murmured. “Very fine indeed, Mrs. Westfield.”
It raced through Claire’s mind that she’d known it would be to the viscount’s taste . . . which was ridiculous. She disdained the possibility.
“I commend your husband’s taste.”
The viscount held the glass so the brew warmed in his palm.
His nearness was discomfiting. There was a scant foot between them. Claire took a sip.
Nay, not just a sip. Her rather generous swallow burned her throat. Her eyes watered. She began to cough.
The viscount took her glass, lest it spill. He patted her on the back. Oh, but he was amused, the wretch!
“No more brandy for you, I think,” he said. “Perhaps wine. Do you enjoy wine, Mrs. Westfield?”
She’d recovered the ability to breathe. “I like a glass of wine or two, yes.”
“And champagne? Do you enjoy champagne?”
“Actually, I’ve never had it.” Claire was annoyed with herself. She felt like a green young girl.
“That should be remedied, then.” He still looked amused, the lout. “I shall see to it.”
The viscount studied her for a moment. “You’re nervous,” he said softly. “Am I the first man you’ve received since your husband died?”
Claire focused on the knot in his cravat. She hadn’t expected such straightforwardness.
“Yes,” she said quietly. “You are the first man in my home.”
She sought to validate the statement. It wasn’t a lie. It was true. Oh, on so many levels!
“Do I embarrass you? Make you uncomfortable?”
She swallowed, rendered immobile by his words. By the very man himself. He had that power over her, she decided vaguely, and she must be wary.
And yet she admitted, “You do.” It stunned her to realize her voice was shaking.
He took the glass from her hand. “Thank you for your honesty. I shall be just as frank.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“I am not a man of pretense.”
Pretense? She was reminded of her charade. What would he say if he knew?
She didn’t care. She didn’t care in the least what he would say . . . what he would do when he discovered the truth.
“And let us be direct, if you please.”
“Certainly.” Her pulse began to pick up.
“I confess, Mrs. Westfield, I wonder why I’ve never seen you before this.”
Claire took a breath. “I’ve not spent much time in London. The year I was to come out, my mother fell ill.” That, too, was the truth. “Upon her death, my father fell victim to malaise as well. Then my husband—“ She broke off.
There was a pause. “I’m sorry,” he said finally. “About your parents. Your husband.”
But was he sorry about Oliver?
“You’ve borne a great deal, haven’t you?”
And so she had. She felt the onset of a sudden, scalding rush of tears. She blinked it back, casting an embittered gaze on him beneath her lashes. He did not notice.
He set his snifter aside and rose to his feet. “You should retire, Mrs. Westfield.” He took her hands.
Claire didn’t want him to touch her. Indeed, she longed to spit on him.
He brought one of her hands to his lips. She longed to snatch her hands away, but the possession of strong male fingers seemed to tighten around hers. Damn the rogue! Yet somehow she was shocked at the strange current that went through her as he brushed his lips over her knuckles. “I wish you pleasant dreams.”
Chapter Three
Early the next morning, the maid admitted Penelope. Claire sat in the dining room with her breakfast. She usually enjoyed the sun streaming in through the windows, but not today.
Pleasant dreams, he’d said. And for the hundredth time she lost patience with herself.
What a fool she was! So much for her plan to captivate and entice the viscount. Whatever thoughtlessness had possessed her to think she could captivate such a man?
All she had done was play the fool. No doubt Sutherland had guessed her stupid scheme and laughed uproariously at the way she flung herself across his path. How stupid of her to even attempt the role of femme fatale. No doubt he—
When Rosalie announced Penelope, Claire waved her to the chair next to her. “Tea, love? A croissant?”
Penelope declined, patting the swell of her belly. “I’m growing fat as a hen! I dare not.” Today she wore a dark navy gown that revealed the bump in her middle.
But Claire chuckled. She loved to tease Penelope about the babe to come. “Oh, pooh. Yes, he grows with each day! But that’s good, sweetings. Why, I vow this child will make an appearance this very day.”
Penelope was actually nearer her confinement than she looked. A little more than a month was all that remained.
She groaned. “Bite your tongue, Claire. If Theo were home, I should quite agree. I’m sure Felicity is growing as tired as I of fetching the chamber pot three times a night. We shall see if you are laughing when you sit in my place!”
Claire’s smile froze. There was a pinch in her heart. A husband—and children—were lost to her now. Society was unforgiving. If she were to accomplish what she set out to do—please, God—her name would be forever connected to the viscount. Forever connected to scandal. No man would have her as his wife.
But it would be worth it. It would be worth it, she decided with all that she possessed. It would be worth anything—everything!—to see that bastard Sutherland humiliated before her.
Newfound resolve gripped her. She bit into her toast almost fiercely.
Across the table, Penelope gave a small sigh. Claire knew she fretted each day th
at Theo was gone. She’d expected he would be back from the Peninsula by now. Alas, he wasn’t. Her friend kept up a good face, though, bless her heart! But Claire knew her too well, and realized that behind her facade there lurked an anxious worry.
She leaned forward. “What’s wrong, dear? Are you ill?”
Penelope shook her head. “No, dearest. I’m fine.”
Claire took her hands. “Pen,” she chided gently. “You know we keep no secrets from each other.”
Penelope gave a half sob. “Claire—oh, Claire, I haven’t heard from Theo for well over a month. And I so need him! I—I so want him here when the baby comes. We thought he would be home in time for our child’s birth.”
Claire squeezed her fingers. “He is here in spirit, Pen. With both of you. Every moment. Every second.”
Claire reached out and hugged her. Penelope hadn’t thought to find strength, but she indeed took strength from Claire.
Penelope sat back, wearing a brave smile. “You realize, Claire, that you’ve not yet told me if you will stand as godmother.”
Claire chuckled. “You are most insistent, aren’t you?”
“I am.” There was a pause. “Really, it will be a weight off my mind if you agree.”
Claire’s heart melted. “Of course I will, Pen. Did you think I wouldn’t? But you haven’t told me yet who will be godfather.”
“Only because we haven’t decided yet!” Penelope laughed, then sighed. “We planned to let Theo choose—another reason to wish him home.”
Theirs had been a whirlwind romance. Penelope and Theo had met the night of Penelope’s come-out. Within a scant week she was swept away. Scarcely a fortnight had passed before Theo asked her to marry him. Penelope’s parents made them wait some six months, but both of them were prepared to wait forever.
And now they would soon welcome the fruit of that love.
Claire pushed aside her envy. Her wistfulness. She did not delude herself. She hadn’t from the start. A husband was the last thing on her mind. The only man in her life was her so-called dead husband.
Penelope’s expression grew troubled. “Claire,” she said, “if this charade is discovered, you’ll never be able to have a family of your own. You’ll be disgraced. The best you can hope for is a position as governess or companion.”
As always, it was as if Penelope read her mind. And once again a pang shot through her. Claire willed it away. She had known from the start that she could never have what Penelope and Theo had. An abiding love that would never be shaken. A husband who adored her as passionately as she adored him. Children. And children. They, too, were beyond her reach. The course she had begun last night would seal away that possibility forever.
Should she succeed, needled a voice within.
But she would. She would.
No, it did not sway her mind.
“We’ve discussed this.” Quietly—but oh, most fervently!—Claire reminded her friend. “I am ready. This is a sacrifice I make gladly.”
She poured tea for Penelope, then passed her cup and saucer.
“What happened last night, Claire? I asked after you, but I was told you had gone home.”
Claire took a deep breath. “I did.”
“And the viscount?”
Raising her teacup, Claire blew on the surface, pretending to cool it. “He escorted me.”
“And?”
“And . . . that is all.”
“What do you mean—’that is all’?”
“Precisely that. He escorted me home, we enjoyed a bit of brandy, and then he went on his way. His behavior was impeccable.” Her tone turned scathingly self-critical. “And this is where you tell me what an idiot I have been to think that one of London’s handsomest rakes would fall head over heels with the likes of me.”
“You would not be dissuaded,” Penelope reminded her. “And this has nothing to do with the way you look, Claire. You’re beautiful. That blackguard is not worthy of you. I pray you are well rid of him.”
Claire lowered her eyes.
“Tell me, Pen,” she said suddenly. “I aroused no speculation when he escorted me home? No whispers of scandal?”
“No. That’s one of the advantages of being a widow . . . Oh, Claire, I beseech you. Please! I beg you reconsider. But perhaps you should take this as a sign it can come to no good. I know how close you were to Oliver. But do not let Sutherland ruin your life any more than he already has.”
“Perhaps I should see it as a sign I am meant to continue.” Claire fell silent, deep in thought. “I wonder,” she said finally, “where the good viscount will be found tonight.”
Penelope didn’t hide her dismay. “I cannot dissuade you?”
Claire shook her head. “Not yet. I’ve barely begun! It’s far too soon for me to give up.”
“Very well, then. I will see what I can discover, but I must retire to my lying-in soon.”
“I will ask no more of you, Pen. I’ve been out and about enough that I can ferret out what I need—”
The knocker sounded at the front door. The sound of a male voice reached her ears. Then Rosalie’s. Then the sound of the door closing.
Claire sucked in a breath. Her heart was suddenly pounding. She knew that voice. “It’s him, Pen.” She hurried to the doorway.
In the foyer, Rosalie had already admitted Sutherland. He glanced around as Claire and Penelope appeared.
“Good morning, Mrs. Westfield.” He tucked his hat beneath his arm and gave a slight bow. His gaze settled on Penelope. “I believe I did not have the pleasure last night.”
Claire hastened to introduce them. “My lord, good morning. This is my dear friend, Mrs. Penelope Grove. Penelope, his lordship, Viscount Sutherland.”
The viscount bent low over Penelope’s hand. “Charmed, I assure you.”
“Penelope was just leaving,” Claire said crisply. “Would you care to wait in the drawing room, my lord? I’ll have tea sent in.”
“Certainly.” He bowed. “Good day, Mrs. Grove.”
As soon as he disappeared, Rosalie handed Penelope her parasol. Penelope gave a shake of her head. “Claire,” she whispered, “you must have a care. His eyes . . . Such an icy shade of blue . . .”
That was the first thing Claire had noted about him too.
“. . . He makes me shiver, Claire. He seems—oh, I don’t know how to say it! It’s as if he’s looking right through one.”
Claire silently acknowledged that as well. But she did not shiver, but instead shuddered, she told herself staunchly. She knew she could never destroy him, but she would damn well make a fool of him, no matter the consequence to herself. Relentless purpose filled her heart. She would have her revenge.
A quick hug and Penelope was off, then Claire walked into the drawing room. The viscount was standing at the window. Hearing the rustle of skirts, he turned.
“I apologize for the interruption. I shall not keep you long. I came to inquire as to your health this morning. It pleases me to find you well.”
“I am indeed well, my lord.”
She handed him a cup. Their fingers brushed. Her heart leaped. It spun through her mind that he touched her deliberately, and it was all she could do not to scratch that very handsome face.
“Excellent, then.” He stopped. Tipped his head to the side, a slow smile edging across his lips. “Actually, I came for another matter as well. It’s a fine day. Will you join me for a stroll in Hyde Park this morning?”
She felt like singing. Yes, yes, oh, yes!
“I should love to.”
“Fetch your wrap and let us go, then.”
Upstairs, Claire changed into a blue muslin gown trimmed with a dainty white lace. Just before she left, she glanced at her reflection. Were her cheeks overly bright? Excitement bounded in her breast. Yes. No. Rats, she didn’t want to appear overeager. She brushed a bit of powder over them before joining the viscount downstairs. There, that was better.
Rotten Row was empty except for a carriage far do
wn the track. Later in the day those in the Fashionable Set would parade down the promenade. At this hour, most of the ton were still asleep from the activities of the previous night. After he’d left her last night, had such “other” activities kept the viscount from his bed?
The day was already beginning to warm, and Claire needed no more than a shawl around her shoulders.
They walked toward the Serpentine at a leisurely pace. But her heart lurched when he tucked her hand into the crook of his elbow. She was immediately aware of the knotted strength in his forearm and hardness of his bicep.
And did he hold her hand longer than necessary? She wasn’t sure, but alarm raced through her. She hadn’t been wearing gloves when he kissed her hand last night. Now she recalled the touch of his lips with a shocking vividness that echoed all through her.
She pushed it aside. Taking a breath, she closed her parasol and lifted her face to the sun.
She caught Gray’s eye. He raised a brow.
“Oh, come,” she said. “It’s far too enjoyable a day to hide away beneath a parasol.”
“Shall I doff my hat as well?”
He did, spurring a laugh she somehow couldn’t quite withhold. “I have no objections, my lord.”
They stopped where the waters of the Serpentine glimmered. ”You’re aware that both of us could be perceived as quite wicked. Quite the rebels. Perhaps we’ll both be banished.”
“Well,” she said lightly, “I suppose I do have an excuse to offer.”
“And what might that be?”
“I am a country girl at heart.”
“Are you?” He appeared skeptical.
“Yes. Couldn’t you tell when you waltzed with me last night?”
“I did not notice,” he declared.
Claire bit her lip. He was teasing—teasing her! And heaven above, she had the most absurd notion to laugh!
“It’s not often we have occasion to waltz at Wildewood.”
“Wildewood?”
“Yes. My home in Essex.”
Heaven above—why had she divulged that? Foolish, oh so foolish! If he chose to look further into her background—
Yet why should he? Her plan was progressing even quicker than she had expected. Nonetheless, she must be careful. Because if she wasn’t—
The Sins of Viscount Sutherland Page 3