The Sins of Viscount Sutherland

by Samantha James

  “Redecorate anything you want. Have the bills sent to me in London. Now, if you have finished, I would like to be on my way.”

  Claire blinked. “On your way?” she repeated.

  “I’m returning to London.”

  “What . . . now?”

  “Yes.” He turned and walked away.

  She was too shocked to say a word. Fury began to mount. Why, the bastard! Good riddance to the man, then!

  One month later, Gray sat in the Duke of Braddock’s study. On the corner of the desk was a half-empty, finely etched crystal decanter.

  Two lazy curls of smoke drifted to the ceiling. Gray had long ago tugged off his cravat. Both had just had several glasses of Irish whiskey.

  Clive guided the rim of the decanter into both glasses. Leather creaked as he leaned back.

  “Well, Gray, I do not envy you your predicament.”

  Gray flicked the ash from his cigar. “An annulment is not an alternative.”

  “No,” agreed his friend. “There’s no question about it.” Clive shook his head. “I still can’t believe this has happened.”

  Gray’s mouth twisted. “I thought she was—how shall I say this?—quite experienced, given her marital status.” Well, that wasn’t quite true. A voice in his head intruded. You recall thinking she’d not been wed for long. The other voice argued, Who would have expected a widow to be a virgin?

  “She deceived me, Clive. All that time she deceived me.”

  “You killed her brother,” Clive pointed out.

  “That wasn’t meant to happen. You were there, for pity’s sake.”

  “Nonetheless, it did.” Clive studied him. “Have you told her that her brother was the first to fire?”

  Self-loathing swelled. Claire had called him a murderer. And he was. He was all that and more. His hands were stained with blood.

  Gray gave a tired shake of his head. “For what reason? Would that make it any easier for her? He’s dead. That doesn’t change what happened.”

  “And it doesn’t change that she’s expecting your child, Gray. Man, whatever came over you?”

  He grimaced. What, indeed. If he’d known she was a virgin, he wouldn’t have . . . He let loose a self-deprecating curse. Controlled himself? It was a lie. Even if he’d known, he wouldn’t have been able to stop. No power on earth could have stopped him.

  His mouth tightened. He was a man of utmost discipline. Even in bed. He didn’t like being out of control.

  He clenched his teeth. Out of control . . . That was how he’d felt with Claire in his arms. He’d been driven by the blood rushing hot and thick in his veins, desire scalding every part of him. Burned in his memory was the feel of her body beneath him—memories afresh—her belly rubbing against his as he plied her legs wider. He relived the mind-shattering instant he seated himself inside her—as far as he could go—the way her breath dammed in her throat. Christ, he could still feel her!

  Clive leaned back in his chair. “You surprised me, Gray, when you said you took her to Brightwood instead of returning to London.”

  “I won’t subject her to ridicule. For me, it doesn’t matter.”

  “How long has it been since you had been at Brightwood?”

  Pale blue eyes glinted. He didn’t appreciate the reminder. “Three years,” he said tersely. Three years since he’d vowed never to return—except in his coffin. “What can I say, except . . . things change.”

  Clive watched him closely. “Yes. You can hide her away at Brightwood and resume your life here in London.”

  A self-derisive scorn filled his chest. Claire had called him a murderer. And he was. He was all that and more.

  That was exactly what he had planned. He would return to his life in London. Yet in this past month, scarcely a moment had passed that Claire hadn’t been on his mind. Lady Hastings had let him know she wasn’t averse to sharing a bed with him again. She, too, was a widow. But her curves and smiles left him cold. He hadn’t lain with a woman since Claire.

  And most unexpectedly, his conscience prodded him. He’d thought he lost it long ago.

  “What about the babe, my friend? Is there any question the child isn’t yours?”

  “No,” he said tersely.

  Clive studied him. “I can only imagine how difficult it must have been to return home after so long. After Lily and—well, I don’t think I need say it.”

  A dark shadow blotted Gray’s soul . . . He’d missed Brightwood. He hadn’t realized how much until he walked through the doors. The past closed in, memories he could not lock away. Damn Clive! He was reminding him of everything he sought to forget! It had taken every ounce of willpower he possessed to walk into his home. Every breath was like fire in his lungs. Even Clive didn’t know the truth—

  “It was inevitable, Gray, that you return. I know your pride in everything your family has built—”

  “You are right,” Gray bit out. “You can’t know.”

  And Gray couldn’t know that Clive hoped he would finally confront his demons.

  “Go home, Gray. Go home and tend to the business of your life. Little one on the way or no, many a man would envy your position. She’s a damned beautiful woman, my friend.”

  Gray’s mouth tightened. He raised his glass high with false heartiness. “Well, then, to wedded bliss. Wedded bliss with the woman who despises her husband above all else.”

  He drained his glass.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Claire threw herself into her new life and home with resolve. In all but the main rooms, furniture had been covered with sheets. It was as if all had been held suspended—left in a state of limbo. Her days were busily spent instructing the staff and taking charge of the household.

  It was also the holiday season. The Yule log was cut and carried in, lit on the twelfth day before Christmas. Brightwood was abrim with something the Sutherland household had not seen for many a month.

  Laughter.

  There had been too much pain this last year, so little to lift her spirits. But now it was enchanting, she decided, the house decorated with ribbons and wreaths and greenery. Fir boughs filled the air with the scent of Christmas. It lifted Claire’s spirits.

  With the presence of a husband or not, she was determined to celebrate the holidays and welcome the new year with gusto.

  And the wonder of new life.

  For with the advent of the new year would come the birth of her child. Next year she’d be cradling her babe in her arms. She placed her hand over the growing mound of her belly.

  “I’m waiting for you, little one. I’m waiting.”

  A letter arrived from Lawrence, an inquiry as to her health. Claire wrote back, a very brief note to say she had happily settled into her role as wife and prospective mother.

  She didn’t know when her husband would return to his country estate—or even if he would. Truth be told, she reiterated stoutly, she didn’t care if he ever did.

  Hah!

  There was a surprise visit one day from a physician, Dr. Kennedy, a bewhiskered man who walked with a cane.

  It grated a bit, for Gray had surely sent him. If he wanted to know how she was, then he could come see for himself!

  “Has all been well with you, my lady?” The doctor’s eyes and manner were kind.

  Claire nodded.

  He looked her up and down.

  “You appear well, m’dear. Have you felt the child move yet?”

  Claire blinked. She couldn’t imagine a life moving inside her.

  “I confess I wouldn’t know even if he did.”

  The doctor laughed. “Just so you are aware, many women say it feels like the flutter of a butterfly.”

  Claire looked doubtful.

  “It will doubtless be soon,” he said. “If this little one is like his father, he’ll be a fine, strapping lad. His mother was convinced he would be a giant—and from the look of her, it looked to be true!”

  Claire was aghast at his frankness.

  “Now
then. I fully expect your well-being, madam, but I will return in a month or so. Summon me if you feel that all is not well.”

  Later in the day, she was just coming down the grand staircase when Mrs. Henderson opened the doors. There was a sudden rush of air.

  Claire’s heart lurched. For an instant she thought her eyes deceived her.

  It was Gray. Considering that he said nothing about returning, she was surprised to see him.

  And, heaven above, seeing him made her heart catch oddly.

  He removed his hat, gloves, and overcoat and handed them to Mrs. Henderson.

  He looked up. “Claire! There you are, my love.”

  My love? She almost rolled her eyes.

  He was dressed in vest, jacket, trousers, and boots. Her breath caught as she took in his appearance. Of a sudden, the air seemed filled with his presence, vitality, and power.

  His gaze had yet to leave her face. Claire was starkly aware of it. She stood near a table of flowers to the left of the stairway. Gray stood halfway across the entrance hall.

  “It occurs to me I’ve been remiss. We’ve yet to share our first kiss as husband and wife, haven’t we?”

  Claire’s chin came up. “Do not mock me.”

  “I do not mock you. Now come. Kiss your husband.”

  Her lips pressed into a straight line. She remained where she was.

  “I’ll count to ten, Claire.”

  Her stomach clenched. Doubt crowded her mind. What was this devil about?

  Gray crossed to where she stood. “Time’s up,” he said softly.

  Her lashes closed. Their lips touched. Did she lean forward? Or did he?

  His mouth was warm. Not demanding, but persuasive. Oh, so persuasive!

  She pulled back. Her breath came in soft pants.

  His gaze settled on her lips. “You’ve also not yet welcomed me home, Claire.”

  “Oh, stop!”

  His hands had settled on her waist. Claire flushed. Her waist had thickened since they’d last seen each other.

  His mouth closed over hers anew. This kiss was longer. It deepened until his tongue traced her lips. Her senses hummed.

  Once again she was the one who pulled back.

  His gaze had yet to leave her face. “Another,” he said softly.

  Her lips parted. “What? Again?”

  He gestured toward the ceiling. Claire looked up.

  They stood beneath a sprig of mistletoe. It flitted through her mind that she must have it removed.

  And then every thought fled as sparks showered through her. It felt so good, this kiss . . . his kiss.

  She was acutely aware of the quickening rise and fall of her breast. His mouth still claimed hers. This was the longest, the best, the sweetest kiss of all. There was a spinning sensation; Claire instinctively clutched at his jacket.

  “Careful.” His voice was husky in her ear.

  Her throat was bone dry.

  “Why are you here, Gray?”

  “This is my home.”

  “Oh, bother!” she said. “You gave me no indication when you would be back, if ever.”

  “I apologize.” Those intensely blue eyes seemed to scour her features. “No more episodes?”

  “Episodes?”

  “Have you been well?”

  “Yes.” She paused. “And what if I had not?” Stupid woman, why had she said that?

  “I would have come straightaway.”

  Liar. Her gaze slid to his. He lifted a brow, as if in remonstrance. Beyond that, his expression gave nothing away. How could he be so composed?

  “I confess, Claire, I thought you would have let me know how you fared.”

  “And I thought you would let me know if you ever intended to return.”

  “Touché. It seems I’ve not married a quiet little sparrow, have I?”

  She trembled, still flooded with the taste of him, the woodsy smell of him. Oh, but it made no sense! All at once he made her feel safe and protected, in a way that had never happened before. She wasn’t in need of protection, dammit!

  She mustn’t allow herself to be thus swayed. Only a fool would do so.

  “The servants said you hadn’t been home in several years. I understand that’s when your wife died. I know such things can be difficult.”

  Gray’s jaw went tight. He wasn’t ready to discuss Lily yet. And how dare she pretend to know what was inside him. How dare she pretend to know what he’d endured.

  Claire had noticed his withdrawal. She sensed him closing her out.

  “Today is Christmas Eve, Gray. I arranged for the servants to leave early, so they can spend it with their families.”

  “That’s generous of you.”

  “It was a tradition we upheld at ho—” She caught herself. “My family upheld every year.”

  “You needn’t be defensive.” He smiled slightly. “We’ve always done much the same.”

  She needn’t be defensive, he said. But she couldn’t help it. One month they had been wed. And she knew no more of him than she had the day they married.

  Not surprising, considering the circumstances of their marriage. Claire ignored the nagging little voice in her mind.

  His gaze scanned her features. Claire felt herself flush.

  “You look tired,” he said softly. “Why don’t you rest for a while?”

  “Oh, no,” she protested, “I couldn’t. That would be rude.”

  He had already taken her arm and turned toward the staircase. “You forget, I’m not a guest. You hardly need entertain the master in his house. In fact, if you don’t go, Claire, I vow I’ll put you to bed myself. Yes. Why, perhaps I should carry you—”

  Put her to bed!? Claire’s eyes widened. She stepped out of reach. “There’s no need,” she said quickly. “I am on my way.”

  His gaze followed her all the way to the landing. Claire stopped there, unable to resist glancing back.

  He was staring up at her with penetrating eyes. No sign of a smile broke his lips; it was somehow disturbing, that expression. She fled down the hall to her room.

  She lay down on the chaise lounge near the window. She hadn’t thought to sleep at all, but drifted off almost as soon as she closed her eyes.

  She woke much later to the sound of her name. “Wake up, Claire, or it will soon be morning.”

  It was Gray. Her thoughts still murky with sleep, it gave her a start to find him sitting on the edge of the chaise.

  There was a light coverlet over her.

  Who had put it there? Gray? Rosalie? No. It was Gray. She wasn’t sure how she knew, but she did.

  The thought of him watching her sleep was disconcerting.

  She sat up quickly. Wisps of hair had slipped from her chignon. She tried to tuck them back with her fingers. No success. They escaped once more.

  Gray reached out. He pulled out several pins and inserted them again, taming the unruly strands with brisk efficiency.

  “Thank you,” she said breathlessly.

  One corner of his mouth turned up. “Perhaps I should hire on as your maid.”

  Claire felt herself color, unsure of what to say.

  Taking her hand, he pulled her to her feet. Memory flooded her, a scorching revival of the way Gray had touched her that night—and where he had touched her. There had been so much promise. But then came that rending invasion. She wondered if she would ever be able to face him without remembering.

  Nor was she the only one who thought of that night with scorching intensity. Gray was all at once reminded how tight and small she was in that instant he planted himself deep inside her.

  “Supper is awaiting us in the dining room.” He offered his arm.

  A light supper was laid out on the sideboard. When both were finished, the dishes were removed. Gray summoned the servants, then dismissed them. They left, all but Mrs. Henderson, who had been granted the next few days off instead.

  They moved to the drawing room. Claire poured tea for herself, while Gray had port. After
stirring the fire, he set aside the poker and his glass, then moved to the sofa where she sat. He pulled a small, beribboned box from his breast pocket.

  “Happy Christmas,” he said.

  Claire blinked.

  “Open it.”

  She didn’t want to. Something bitter washed over her; she couldn’t help it. A gift? Was this his way of making up for Oliver’s death? Theirs was certainly no ordinary marriage.

  With a fingertip, she opened the catch.

  Nestled on a bed of red velvet was a diamond necklace. It was breathtaking, flashing and gleaming as it caught the lamplight in myriad colors.

  “Do you like it?”

  She touched the dazzling stones. Beautiful as they were, they felt . . . cold. Just as her smile felt . . . cold.

  She couldn’t explain why—or perhaps she could. Throughout the day, she’d been keenly aware that this was her first holiday without her father and Oliver, now more so than ever.

  “I have no gift for you,” she said.

  “I expected none.” His eyes came up to catch hers. “Do you like it?”

  “Oh, yes. Yes, of course. It’s quite the most striking piece of jewelry I’ve ever seen.”

  “Let me put it on.” He reached for it.

  Her hand touched her throat. “Oh, no, no. I fear I’m not dressed for it.”

  For the life of her, she didn’t know why she said that. All at once her eyes were so dry they almost hurt. No doubt Gray would probably mistake her reluctance for disdain.

  Claire touched it. “I . . . Thank you. I did not expect such a beautiful gift.” The mood had turned awkward. But all at once there was a commotion at the front doorway. She rose and followed Gray to the entrance hall.

  A small, petite woman whisked through the door. “There you are, my darling!” she sang out. “Happy Christmas!”

  “Mother.” Gray took her hand and kissed it. “I wasn’t expecting you.”

  “Where else would I be? It’s Christmas. And I’ve yet to greet my new daughter-in-law.” She reached for Claire and kissed her on her cheek. “I do hope you’ll forgive me, child. I’d have been here much sooner, except I picked up the most wretched illness when I arrived back in London. But now I am here, and . . . welcome to the family, my dear!”