The Sins of Viscount Sutherland

by Samantha James

  “I would tell you it’s not a test of strength, but a test of the strength of my desire.”

  She was stunned at the fervor burning in his low declaration.

  But far more thrilling was the hunger in his expression.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Little by little Claire resumed a limited number of duties. Either Mrs. Henderson’s or some of what had been her usual activities; planning the meals and so forth. Though she still chafed at having to remain in her room, Gray soberly reminded her that a fall could kill both her and the baby.

  She loved Gray’s evening visits. They ate dinner at the small table before the fireplace. There was no need to have it lit, for the weather was warm.

  She sat at the dressing table one night, brushing her hair. The day had been hot, and she’d already changed into her nightgown. Gray usually watched from a chair while enjoying his nightly brandy. Several times his intense regard made her heart trip.

  Claire was daydreaming, lost in thought. She tugged her hair over her shoulder and began to absently pull her brush the length of her tresses. She tilted her head, unaware that it revealed the long arched sweep of her neck. A warm kiss on her nape gave her a start.

  “Expecting someone else?”

  Claire wrinkled her nose at him. Sensation still rippled across her skin. Almost nervously she separated her hair into three long ropes and began to braid it.

  “Leave it,” he said quietly.

  A tremor of reaction went through her. In the mirror on the dressing table, their reflection gazed back at her. Wide golden eyes met hazy blue.

  He gave a half smile. “Your hair is beautiful, Claire. Too beautiful to hide.”

  Beautiful. She felt the most absurd desire to cry. Indeed, the heat in his eyes made her feel beautiful.

  “How are you today?” he asked.

  “Very well, thank you.” The reply was automatic.

  “Mrs. Henderson said you did not feel well this afternoon.”

  Claire made a face. “Mrs. Henderson exaggerates. I chanced to mention that there was a wee bit of an ache in my back.”

  “Where?” Long brown fingers slid down her spine. “There?”

  “No—”

  Gray changed his position a little. “There?”

  “Not quite. No, wait! Almost . . .”

  “Let me help.” To her shock, he pulled her back onto the adjacent bed so they both lay stretched out on their sides, Gray’s chest to her back. It was almost as if the length of her lay tucked into him.

  Her throat grew dry. He touched a spot at the small of her back and rubbed.

  She sighed. “Yes, Gray, there . . . Yes, the very spot.”

  He gently massaged until she released a long breath.

  “Better?” he whispered.

  “Yes. Much. Thank you.”

  His hand was still anchored on her hip. “You need only call me, Claire, and I am yours to command.”

  He was teasing, surely . . . The thought was cut short as he brushed her hair aside, revealing her nape again. His mouth replaced his fingers, his tongue touching that very sensitive spot he’d kissed a few seconds earlier, a lazy rhythm that made fiery shivers ripple across her skin.

  One hand came around to guide her bottom quite cozily into the notch between his thighs and lower belly.

  Claire sucked in a breath. She could feel not only his thighs, but a rather telling ridge that seemed to grow with every breath.

  She made a low, choked sound.

  “Do I frighten you? I don’t mean to, Claire. Tell me if I do.”

  “I . . . no.”

  “Then why are you trembling?”

  With desire, she thought. With uncertainty. Not fear. Never fear.

  “Gray, what Dr. Kennedy said about refraining from . . . conjugation . . .” Suddenly everything seemed to spill forth. She couldn’t stop it. “Do you mean to say that men and women . . . and with a child on the way . . . Do you mean to say they want to?”

  Gray chuckled. He couldn’t help it. “I presume you mean—oh, what was it I said?—marital relations.”

  “Yes . . . yes!” Claire was aghast at herself.

  “Yes, they can—and they do—make love.”

  Make love. How could the two of them make love when there was no love between them? Passion, yes. God, yes. But love? Her heart twisted. Was love this yearning—burning—to the depth of her soul and beyond? The thought sprang forth and she couldn’t stop it.

  She wasn’t aware that he’d removed his shirt until she felt the hair-roughed plane of his chest against her back. Her heart stood still. A little shock went through her when he pulled her back against him once again. His hand laid claim to the curve of her belly. His breath was heated against the side of her neck.

  “I want you, Claire. Can you feel it? I cannot hide all that fills me—all that calls to me. You make me burn inside.”

  His whispers were hot and torrid. He spoke of desire. Need. Passion.

  But he did not speak of love. Never love, and God help her, her heart cried out.

  And then he kissed her, turning her onto her back. Fingers along her jaw, he trapped her mouth beneath his. Claire had no choice. She relinquished all control, submitting to the demands of his mouth and hands. He kissed her with aching tenderness, with slow, languid thoroughness, a kiss that suddenly turned fierce. Afire with longing, she returned his kiss with a yearning that matched his.

  The neckline of her nightgown was wide and deep. Gray pulled it down to expose one ripe breast. With his thumb he circled the swollen peak, in taunting play. Claire moaned. Her head arched back. Her hands came up to tangle in the dark hair on his nape. Her eyes riveted to his, she watched his tongue circle her nipple, pulling it into his mouth and sucking hard, leaving her shining and wet. A bolt of sheer delight shot through her.

  He wasn’t finished.

  Once again his mouth covered hers in blazing conquest. His tongue traced the outline of her lips. Lean fingers slid beneath her hem, trailing up the insides of her thighs. Claire’s heart lurched. Her lips parted. Her hands came up to clutch his shoulders.

  “Gray—”

  His whisper was smothered against her cheek. “I won’t hurt you, Claire. Trust me. Just . . . trust me.”

  His mouth captured hers once more. He kissed her endlessly, until he felt her thighs give way beneath his touch, until she was breathless and dizzy. His fingertips traced along her furrowed cleft in taunting play.

  Her heart pounded and she nearly cried out. She needed his touch, there at the base of her thighs. Her hips came up, a wanton, seeking movement. Then she felt it, the tips of his fingers drawing rhythm, up and down her cleft, teasing damp, plump flesh. Everything inside her seemed to cry out. She was desperately waiting, desperately wanting to feel his pulsing shaft drive home inside her. In some far distant part of her, she acknowledged that they did not dare.

  But Gray knew another way. He was aware of just what she needed. His fingertips traced soft, weeping flesh, a taunting foray that drove her half wild. His thumb brushed there, at the pearl hidden deep within her cleft. With sheer abandon he plied her, exposing her core, swirling around and around in sweet sensation until at last everything exploded inside her.

  He rolled to his side, taking her with him. His hand at his breeches, he allowed his member to escape. Strong fingers captured hers. With unerring intent, he curled his hand around hers, slowly shaping her fingers, one by one, against his rod. She could feel every throb, every pulse-beat of desire, against her hand. Her palm was filled with the burning thickness of his shaft. His hand now moved apace with the pounding of his heart, almost wild now. His breath scraped faster and faster, in tandem with his heart. The cords in his neck stood out while he sought the tempo to end his torment.

  When it came, the cords in his neck stood taut. He buried his head in the hollow of her shoulder.

  Spent, it took a moment to recover. Gray’s laugh wasn’t entirely steady. “There, sweet Claire. You see
? There are indeed other ways to make love. Everyone safe, everyone satisfied.”

  Claire’s face was still burning, aware of what he meant—aware of who he meant. Him. Her. Their child. A boast? Reassurance?

  She spoke then, the words that would haunt them both, shearing him, branding him, scalding him inside and out.

  Her voice was barely but a breath. “Did you do such things with Lily?”

  Too late, she realized her blunder. Too late, she realized his pain. She fought to hold back tears. She stared at him with eyes that stung painfully—yet he beheld her with a blistering regard, his expression icy as the northern seas.

  “Gray!” His name came out half choked. “I am sorry! I—I don’t know why I asked such a thing. Please! Forgive me!”

  She hadn’t wanted to bring Lily into this moment. She didn’t want to bring Lily between them, and call forth the very thundering emotions that stood between them now.

  “You’re right,” he said through lips that barely moved. “You shouldn’t have.”

  Claire had never heard him so cold. And now, through her own folly, she feared that Lily would be forever between them.

  “I want no harm to come to you or this child, Claire. Yet it seems we are ever at odds. Therefore, I will remove myself from your presence.”

  He gave a stiff bow and grabbed up his shirt.

  Shock flitted across her features. Claire was stunned. She pushed herself to a sitting position. “Gray! What are you doing?”

  He thrust his arms through the sleeves of his shirt. “I would have no harm come to you or this child. I thought we could make this marriage work, Claire. But all we do is hurt each other.”

  It was like a stake, his speech, driving deeper with every word. All the tension was thrown up between them once more.

  “There are things that must be settled between us, but now is not the time. There have been too many angry words.”

  Claire stared at him. It was like one of her nightmares. An icy shroud surrounded her. The tumult inside her was almost unbearable.

  Gray shook his head. “All this”—he waved a hand—“is not good for you and the child. You need peace and quiet. Rest. I can grant you that, Claire. I will grant you that. The child must come first. I’m sure we are in agreement on that score.”

  Claire stared at him in shock. The tentative peace they had built was crumbling all around her. The urge to cry was overwhelming. Her lungs burned with the effort it took not to break down.

  “Gray,” she whispered, “what are you saying?”

  “I think we are better apart, Claire. At least for the moment.” His lips twisted bitterly. “Can you deny it?”

  “I can and do!” she cried.

  “Can you?” He picked up a tear glistening on the end of a fingertip, which he now gently rubbed, and held it high. It sparkled in the light. “I think not,” he said. In her mind he was almost being deliberately cruel. “It seems all I do is hurt you.”

  Tears scalded her throat. But Claire had her pride, too, and she would guard it as closely as he. “Go then! Run away, Gray. Turn your back and run away the way you have done these past few years. Go and leave me be!”

  Something flitted across his features. A spasm of pain? “I will be in London should you need anything. Stay well.” He dropped a hand on her hair, a kiss on her cheek.

  Once he was gone, sitting amidst the covers, heartbroken, Claire began to sob. It was all a lie. His tenderness. His concern. Foolishly—so very foolishly!—she had blinded herself. She had feared her heart was in peril.

  Heaven help her, it was.

  A fortnight later Gray was on his way to his town house during a light spring rain. The night was half over when he’d made his excuses and left the Dudley ball. He had stood idly on the sidelines, there in presence if not in spirit. And while Clive went home with a lovely French widow, Bram and Lucian with their own lovelies, he went home with only his thoughts for company.

  In his study, he lit a candle. Another drink and perhaps his head would be buzzing enough to sleep.

  A figure rose from the chair across the room. “I grow tired of making excuses for you,” came a voice from the shadows.

  “Mother! What are you doing here? I thought you were in Bath.”

  Charlotte Sutherland arched a brow. “I received a letter from your wife. She told me you were in London. She assured me all was well, but I sensed something was wrong. I might add, my son, that your presence here embarrasses me.”

  Gray dropped his hat atop his desk, then sat. “You needn’t make excuses for me, Mother. If one needs to be made, I will do it.”

  Charlotte’s regal chin came up. “It’s not for you that I make them. It’s for your wife. It appears to be up to me to salvage the family name.”

  Gray sighed. “You exaggerate, Mother.”

  “Perhaps. Perhaps not.”

  “Mother, I assure you it’s better this way—”

  “Better . . . better! How can it be better for anyone with you in London and your wife at Brightwood alone, waiting to birth your child? How long since you’ve seen her, Gray?”

  Gray stiffened. “This is not your affair, Mother. However, to reassure you, I make certain I have word from Dr. Kennedy every day. And I just received a letter from Claire yesterday. She tells me she is well.”

  Charlotte’s blue eyes flashed. “You are a fool, Gray. Don’t you know your own wife? What Claire said was one thing. I daresay her well-being is another.”

  Gray went pale. “She assures me she is in good health, Mother. If Claire were in any danger, Dr. Kennedy would have—”

  “Kennedy! I never did like the man. You should know, Gray, the man is quite terrified of you. I imagine he’s loath to report her true state. But I wonder, Gray, does that allow you to live with your conscience?”

  Indeed, guilt arrowed through him. But he resented his mother’s presence here. If it were anyone but her, he would have tossed her out on her ear.

  “Are you trying to shame me into returning to Brightwood?”

  “No woman should go through this alone. Lily did not. Is Claire any less your wife than Lily?”

  “Do not tell me how to live my life, Mother.”

  “Well, perhaps someone should! You don’t seem to be doing a very good job of it! Now, I’m going to Brightwood to see to your wife’s well-being. She should have a shoulder to lean upon, and it appears mine is the only one willing to do so!”

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  With every sunset, Claire sent a prayer of thanks heavenward. The bleeding was gone—it had been since before Gray left. Thank heaven her child remained safely sheltered in her womb.

  But time seemed never-ending.

  More than ever, she feared what the future would bring. Her spirit dragged. Conflict raged in her breast. Confusion warred in her heart. Charlotte came to visit, went off to London for a few days, then returned. Indeed, if not for her presence, Claire was not sure what she would have done.

  She was careful to hide her melancholy—or so she thought. During the day she was ever ready to summon a smile. But the nights . . . oh, the nights! She was afraid of the storm of feelings she felt for her husband—

  The nights were never-ending.

  Everything inside her was bruised. He had hurt her immeasurably, and that pain was still ripe within her breast. Yet her heart was in peril—filled with feelings she could not banish. He had run when Lily and William died, afraid—unable—to confront his pain. It haunted him still. Claire was certain of it. And now he chose to run once more, to turn his back—

  If only he would run back to her!

  When Charlotte returned to Brightwood again, Claire didn’t delude herself. Charlotte had doubtlessly seen her son. Claire asked her point-blank if she had.

  Charlotte didn’t lie. “I did,” she said quietly. “I will not make excuses for Gray. He is a fool, and so I told him.” She touched Claire’s shoulder. “I’m sorry, Claire. I realize now I was wrong to see him.”<
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  “I think he still loves Lily.” Claire’s voice was half choked.

  “She was his wife, Claire. William was his son. Is that wrong?” Charlotte chided her gently.

  “You don’t understand. There’s no room for me and my baby.”

  “I think you’re wrong, dear.”

  “He can’t forget her. He will never forget her. His bitterness holds him hostage.”

  Claire wondered fleetingly if Charlotte knew the truth, that Lily had killed little William. But no. Somehow she knew Charlotte didn’t know. Gray had shared that with her . . .

  And no one else.

  If only he could share his heart! She was desperately afraid he could never forget his heartache.

  “I was wrong to come here,” Charlotte said. “If you wish me to leave, I will.”

  “No! Please stay and see your grandchild!”

  They tearfully embraced.

  Indeed, the very next day after Charlotte’s return, the master walked through the door.

  Claire was at the top of the stairs. Gray looked up at her.

  “Hello, Claire,” he said.

  Her knees went weak. Her pulse gave an odd little leap. The very sight of him did that to her. A part of her ached for him to touch her. To kiss her into oblivion until nothing else mattered. But the very next instant, raw pain splintered through her breast.

  “Why are you here?” she asked.

  “This is my home.” There was an edge to his tone.

  All at once Claire was reminded of what he’d said . . . I thought we could make this work. But all we do is hurt each other.

  Almost wildly she wondered . . . Was it shame that had brought him back? The thought made her ache bitterly. Was it shame that would bind them, then? She wanted none of it.

  She wanted his heart.

  But her own had been wounded. He had hurt her, hurt her immeasurably. It would take time to heal—

  Time and love.

  And she was tired. Tired of hiding her feelings. She didn’t know if she could find it in her to forgive him.

  He began walking up the stairs. His gaze never strayed from hers.