All might be lost.
Truths . . . Untruths. She couldn’t let them become blurred in her mind.
“I’ve been called far worse than rebel. Indeed, I need no excuse at all. At times I believe I am received only because of my mother.”
Claire suspected he was right.
Now, he looked down at her. “So,” he said, “a country girl, eh? I must say, you appear to be finding your legs exceptionally well.”
“Except when I’m dancing,” she said dryly.
He laughed softy.
“Come with me tonight,” he said.
“I beg your pardon?”
The light in his eyes seemed to flame. Claire’s cheeks were suddenly burning. He smothered her hand with his—
And she knew it wasn’t the sun at all.
He lowered his head. His mouth was so close to her that he brushed her cheek. “Come with me tonight. There is a play at Drury Lane. Join me.”
Her composure was shaky, her heart pounding. She wasn’t sure if she was elated or afraid! She sensed something dangerous in him. But she wouldn’t refuse. There was too much at stake.
She lifted her chin. “I would be delighted, my lord.”
Chapter Four
Claire could not help it. She was in a tizzy. She lay down for a nap but was far too excited to sleep.
She dressed carefully for the play. She didn’t want to appear ostentatious, for that would hardly befit a widow. Instead she chose a dark gold gown with a shimmering pleated skirt that flowed around her legs.
Rosalie clapped her hands together. “I’ve never seen you look lovelier, my lady!”
Claire was caught between excitement and dismay. “Tell me true, Rosalie! It is not too revealing?” Her hand fluttered up to her neckline. The tops of her breasts thrust up beneath the clinging bodice. “Should I tuck a swatch of lace in it?”
“Oh, no, milady! It is all the rage. Truly, your gown shows far less bosom than most women. And the color is heavenly. Your eyes look so very green!”
So began her evening out.
For whatever reason, she had not thought to enjoy the play. Instead she found it delightful. She leaned forward, utterly entranced as it unfolded. Yet all throughout, she was singularly conscious of the man beside her every second.
Her gaze inevitably drawn to him, her mouth had grown dry as she watched him cross the lobby. Once again she was struck by the sheer physicality of the man. No one would ever think him a dandy, she decided. And she was certain no man would dare tell him so. He looked every inch the vital aristocrat, his shoulders impressively wide. He embodied raw, primitive strength, from the tip of impeccably shined boots to the crisp white of his cravat. Evening clothes did nothing to disguise the power beneath.
When he had called on her, Claire deliberately kept him waiting for several minutes. Their earlier conversation high in her mind, she decided it best not to appear too eager to see him. His hard mouth was curled up in a half smile as she descended the stairs.
His gaze had wandered over the bareness of her shoulders. The pearls around her throat were Penelope’s. Rosalie had threaded a matching strand through her hair, pulled back in soft curls.
And now it was she who waited. She stood motionless before him while those eyes Penelope had called crystal seemed to devour her in a journey up and down her form that left her breathless. The was no denying the approval on his features.
“You are stunning,” he told her.
He settled her cloak over the narrow bridge of her shoulders and they were off.
At the playhouse, she noticed several acquaintances. Sir Brownleigh’s wife Rebecca looked startled. She quickly composed herself and nodded a greeting.
Gray’s box was in the first balcony. Most of the audience had already taken their places. When she was seated, more than one quizzing glass turned their way. She wished heartily that they had arrived earlier.
Gray was totally unperturbed. “I see you’ve noticed we’re garnering a bit of attention. Does it bother you? Pay no heed. The curtain will rise soon.” He laid a hand on her gloved fingertips, clasped together in her lap . . . her lap! Her heart lurched. She felt like leaping out of her seat. She hoped no one had seen that.
The curtain was raised high. Then all else was forgotten as she found herself caught up in the play.
After the first act, Gray glanced at her.
“Are you enjoying the play?”
“Oh, yes,” she breathed. “It’s enchanting.”
“I’m glad I asked you to accompany me, then. You’ve never before been to a play?”
She shook her head.
“Your husband was remiss, then.” He cocked a brow. “Shall we go for refreshments?”
She fell quiet when they descended into the lobby.
“Wine?” he asked. “No, there is champagne. Would you like some?”
She nodded.
Gray brought her a glass of frothy champagne. Claire accepted it, her gaze skidding up to his.
She discovered him regarding her with an almost lazy amusement. He leaned forward. “I did promise you champagne,” he murmured, “did I not?”
Heads turned. Gray paid no heed. He kept her hand anchored to his sleeve. His own covered it. Touching him like this made her pulse race, the way it had this morning at Hyde Park. Her eyes grazed his; Claire was the first to look away.
Rather nervously, she sipped her champagne. Gray, however, seemed totally at ease. A man near the refreshment table had turned toward them. Lifting a quizzing glass, he stared at them for a moment. If she wasn’t mistaken, he had been with Gray last night.
He approached, and Gray greeted him easily. Before he had a chance to introduce him, the man caught hold of her hand and bowed over it. He brought her hand to his lips as he straightened. His manner told her that he was as boldly confident as Gray.
“Enchanté, madame,” he drawled. “Clive Fielding at your service. And you are . . . ?”
“Mrs. Claire Westfield,” supplied Gray.
“Where have you been hiding this gem, Sutherland?”
Fielding had yet to release her hand. She tugged it free.
“I will not share her, my friend,” Gray drawled.
Claire bristled. It seemed he was as audacious as Gray! She glanced between the two. Both were tall. Powerfully built. Both possessed a commanding, immediate presence.
And bounders, both of them.
They chatted briefly. It spun through her mind that Penelope would have been quite proud of her. Then once again Fielding kissed her gloved fingertips. “Perhaps we will meet again soon, madame. For now, I shall bid you good evening.”
Claire looked after him, her mouth compressed.
Gray noticed. He laughed. “Did he offend you? His Grace has a tendency to live up to his reputation.”
“His Grace?”
“Clive. The Duke of Braddock.”
Claire gasped. She had very nearly set down a duke! She recovered quickly. “Speaking of which, sir, you neglected to tell me your own title.”
“I am honored that you chose to find out.”
The lout!
“Does he have as scandalous a reputation as you?”
“I daresay, perhaps equal to mine. But please, you must call me Gray.”
Claire could think of a good many things she’d like to call him. “My lord” and “Gray” were not among them.
Just then a tiny woman dressed in black and white satin stopped before them in a swirl of skirts. She offered her hand to Gray. He took it and lightly kissed her fingers.
“Mother,” he murmured. “May I present the lovely Mrs. Claire Westfield?”
His mother! The woman looked anything but matronly. She was stunning, her complexion like ivory. What a beauty she must have been when she was young!
Rats! Wasn’t it enough that she must guard herself against Gray, lest she give herself away? And now his mother was here!
She sank into a curtsy. “Charmed to meet you, my lad
y.”
“Are you enjoying the play, Mrs. Westfield?”
“Oh, yes, my lady. I find it quite riveting.”
“There’s no place like London for the arts. Even Paris cannot surpass London.”
She wasn’t sure what to say to the viscountess. “I’ve never been to Paris.”
“A pity! It’s quite divine, or at least it will be when Napoleon is defeated.”
Claire thought of Penelope’s husband Theo.
The viscountess looked her up and down with her quizzing glass. “I don’t believe I’ve seen you before, dear . . . do you often frequent Town?”
“No, my lady. But I confess, I find it quite charming.”
“Charming?” The viscountess laughed. “Perhaps not the word I would use, but life in London is certainly lively.” They chatted a few minutes more. Claire discovered she quite liked his mother—and wished she didn’t. It was going to make her mission . . . more difficult. She wished fervently that the woman would leave.
Charlotte Sutherland finally tapped her son’s forearm with her fan. “Come visit, boy. It seems I see you at these affairs and never at home. Indeed, Gray, I do hope you’ll make time to come to your birthday fete next week.”
“Mama—”
“Oh, it has just now occurred to me.” Her smile was vivacious. “Mrs. Westfield, you must come too! I am hosting a birthday celebration for Gray next week. Please, join us. I vow you’ll enjoy it.”
For all her fragile appearance, Claire sensed that Charlotte Sutherland could be a woman of icy disdain. She had an impression of ever-abundant energy. It struck her that the countess was also a strong-willed and knew what she wanted. Somehow, she knew that Gray was equally as willful. She wondered if perhaps he and his mother ever butted heads.
Claire shook her head. “My lady, I’m flattered at the invitation, but—”
“I insist, Mrs. Westfield. You simply must come, mustn’t she, Gray darling?”
“Mama, it may well be that Mrs. Westfield has a prior engagement.”
“Do you, Mrs. Westfield?”
“Well . . .”
“No? It will be a delightful affair, I promise you.” She gave Claire no time to respond. “Now then, do enjoy the rest of the play, Mrs. Westfield. And I trust that you’ll see that my son behaves.”
“Oh, rest assured that I will,” Claire said promptly. Too late she realized how that sounded.
Charlotte laughed. “Yes, child, I believe you will.”
She bade them good evening.
Claire felt she’d been weighed and measured—and apparently passed muster. Why it mattered, she had no idea. Gray—drat, why did she now think of him as Gray?—kissed his mother’s cheek.
Claire’s head was still whirling. “I daresay your mother is a bit of a whirlwind.”
“At the very least,” he said dryly.
“She’s very beautiful.”
“She is.”
“Is your father here tonight?”
Gray shook his head. “My father is dead.” There was a pause. “A gentleman asked for my mother’s hand last year. She refused. She never said why, but . . . somehow I think she felt that marrying again would be a betrayal to my father’s memory,” he said softly. “But I think my father would have approved.”
All at once Claire wished she had never come. Something inside her twisted. She wished violently that she’d never met his mother. Seeing her . . . it made him too . . . human. Too vulnerable. She didn’t want to think of him as a man with a family, a mother who loved him and who he loved in return. He was a cold, heartless killer! Had he cared about Oliver? Had he cared that Oliver had a family who loved him? That he was forever lost to his family?
There was a touch on her arm. “Shall we return to the box?”
“I hated to see it end!”
Claire sighed and settled into the sumptuous cushions of Gray’s carriage with genuine regret. It rumbled through the cobbled streets, a carriage lamp casting a golden haze into the velvet interior of Gray’s coach, while a warm cocoon surrounded her. The champagne? Probably, she decided. Oddly, she didn’t care.
Gray watched her, a lazy smile flitting at one corner of his mouth. “Did you enjoy yourself tonight?”
She tipped her head to the side, hugging the silk of her cloak closer around her shoulders.
“Yes, I quite enjoyed myself, my lord.”
He made a tsking sound. “Gray.”
“Very well, then. I quite enjoyed myself . . . Gray.”
“And the company, Claire? Did you enjoy that as well? I must say, I found myself ever more entranced.”
He watched her laugh nervously. She had yet to learn when he mocked. “You can be quite the charming gentleman, can’t you?”
Gentleman? He was darkly amused. The last thing anyone would call him was a gentleman. Bastard. Scoundrel. But never a gentleman. Not anymore.
He turned toward her. “The evening need not yet end. The hour is still early. Permit me to play the host.”
Claire felt her heart begin to clamor. “The host?”
“Yes. I’ve taken the liberty of having a small supper prepared at my home. Will you join me?”
He was certainly direct. This, too, was uncharted territory, but her very purpose in coming to London. “It sounds just the thing.”
“Excellent,” he murmured. He leaned forward and rapped twice on the window. Briefly he spoke to his driver.
It wasn’t long before they drew up to a house on Sheffield Square fronted by Georgian brick and a shiny red door.
Gray helped her down. In the foyer, he slipped off her cloak. She was acutely aware of the brush of his fingertips across the bare skin of her shoulders. Her heart began to pound as he led her into the drawing room. The sweet scent from a small vase of pink roses perfumed the air. Soft candlelight flickered across the walls. There was fruit and a small array of cold meats and cheese set on a side table.
Claire steadied her breath. Her mind tripped forward. She had asked herself how she would handle an advance from him, should he make one. Should he make one? She chided herself. Ah, but that was the whole point, wasn’t it? Despite the fact they’d spent most of the day together, she hadn’t expected it quite so soon . . . And he’d created the setting perfectly. Ah, but she must gather herself. She was a widow, she reminded herself staunchly. He had already called her young. She mustn’t act the virginal miss to be put to the blush.
Which, of course, she was.
“Come sit,” Gray invited. He seated her in a velvety divan before the fire, then filled a small plate for her and poured a generous portion of wine into a crystal glass. Claire ate from the plate and drank deeply of the ruby liquid in the glass.
“How do you find the wine?” he asked.
“It’s excellent.”
She realized that he’d planned to bring her here all along. She would be fine, she told herself, as long as she kept her head.
But her tongue was loosened by the champagne—and now the wine. She ran a finger around the rim of her glass. She could feel the quick hard pounding of her heart throughout her body.
“Did you bring me here to seduce me?” she heard herself say.
He leaned back. “What do you think?”
Claire raised a brow. The half smile that creased his lips widened ever so slightly.
“I wonder how you would go about it.” She marveled at her audacity.
He pretended to consider. “Hmmm. Flowers, I think. Wine. I would flatter you. Whisper endearments in your ear. I would tell you your lips are the same blushing pink of the roses. I would tell you I long to sip the wine from your lips, run my tongue along your lips and taste it.”
His tongue? Claire was shocked. She had never imagined such a thing, but she must maintain her charade.
“Is that why you brought me here?”
“My dear Claire, at the risk of sounding boorish, I need not resort to seduction. There is no need.”
“Yet you’ve created the set
ting.”
“Yet you are here.”
A rush of heat stung her cheeks. The insufferable wretch.
“You are audacious.”
“I am honest.”
“That is your intent, then?” she asked. “To seduce me?”
He said nothing. That wicked smile merely widened.
“Are you as roguish as everyone says?” A voice inside was screaming a warning. Grayson Sutherland was far beyond her experience.
He pretended to consider. “There is roguish. And there is . . . charmingly roguish.”
“Charming? An insipid term for you, I suspect.” A part of her was aghast at her bravado, for that’s what it was. Sheer bravado.
He threw back his head and laughed. “I agree. ‘Charming’ is not a word one usually associates with me. I daresay, my mother would agree. But tell me, what kind of man do you think I am?”
Oh, but he would not want to know . . .
‘Ere the thought went through her mind, he shook his head. “Faith, don’t answer that.”
“I believe we both know the answer to that. From your own lips, you’re a rogue. Are you a jaded rogue?”
He was amused. “Is there any other kind?”
Claire caught her breath, trying hard not to tremble. Faith, when he laughed, he was breathtakingly handsome.
“The question has been posed,” she said almost primly.
“Good Lord, if you knew my reputation, you would scarcely ask.”
“Sometimes we are not always what we seem.” Even as she spoke, a little sliver of guilt needled her.
“Perhaps you’re a woman of mystery, then.”
“And perhaps you are a man of mystery.”
Thus they continued to parry.
“Come. Sit with me.” He extended a hand and saw her seated on the divan in front of the fireplace. It was hot, so no fire burned on the grate.
But Claire felt as if it did. And her entire body seemed to burn. Shadows flickered on the walls; she hoped Gray couldn’t see her face.
But she felt as if he did. He sat so near, their knees were nearly touching.
She watched as he poured another glass of wine for both of them. She sipped it nervously, aware of his eyes on her profile. He did not speak.
The Sins of Viscount Sutherland Page 4