She suspected nothing would have changed because absolutely nothing about her mattered except that she drew her first breath ahead of her sister. She’d not objected because marriage provided her with the means to move out of her father’s oppressive household, where his harsh hand had taught her that a lady did not question her place or her duties. But as her wedding day had progressed, fears had bubbled up to the surface. And when she’d shared them with Stephen …
“Nothing happened between Stephen and me,” she admitted now.
Westcliffe’s harsh laughter echoed around them. “How stupid do you think I am, Claire? I found him in your bed.”
“Still in his trousers when you dragged him out.”
“So I arrived before he could have his way with you. Or not. I can button and unbutton with surprising haste when the situation warrants. Even if he did not take you, it does not change the fact that you were in his arms!” He came up out of the chair with a brutal force that caused the air around him to shimmer and her to step back, unexpectedly gripped by terror. He hurled his tumbler into the empty hearth. It shattered, the amber liquid splattering. Breathing heavily, he gripped the mantel. “It does not change the fact that he was in my place, and you wanted him there.”
At the sight of his anguish, she couldn’t prevent the tears scalding her eyes. “I don’t know what I wanted. I was a child. A silly girl. He was always my friend. You I barely knew. If given a choice regarding my husband, yes, I probably would have chosen him. I don’t know. I only know that I was terrified of my wedding night, and he told me he had a plan that would allow it to be postponed.”
“I’ll come to your bed before him. I’ll hold you. Nothing more. He’ll be furious at me, no doubt, but it’ll gain you a reprieve. When you’re ready, you have but to tell him the truth. Then all will be well.”
They’d both had enough champagne and spirits to think it a brilliant plan. In the end, it had cost her a friendship and a husband. It had torn a family apart. It had destroyed all hope of happiness.
Turning his head slightly, Westcliffe slid his unforgiving gaze toward her. “You cannot have been that naïve.”
“I was five days past the celebration of my seventeenth birthday with no mother to guide me. The spinster aunt who saw to my upbringing knew little more than I did. Yes, I think I could have been that gullible. And Stephen, he has always been so charming. They say he can persuade an angel to sin. I am far removed from being an angel.”
With a heavy sigh, he shook his head. “What the devil do you want of me, Claire?”
“I want you to give me a chance to truly be your wife, not the caretaker of your estate.”
He turned to fully face her, his features hard and callous. A shiver skittered along her spine as his gaze slowly, leisurely roamed over her. She quite imagined he was envisioning her without her clothing. Perhaps she deserved his unkind regard, but she wouldn’t back down. For her sister’s sake, she would suffer whatever punishment he deemed necessary in order to get beyond this insufferable state of their marriage. To a point. She’d not let him force himself on—
“So you’re now willing to welcome me into your bed?” he asked, mockingly.
She should have come during the day, when such a possibility wouldn’t be an option because she knew bedding took place only at night, but she’d thought it would be easier to face him within the shadows. Her mouth was suddenly dry, and she could find no way to dampen it, so her voice was scratchy when she said, “I’m willing to be your wife in more than name.”
He studied her a moment longer before demanding silkily, “Unbutton your bodice.”
Her hand flew to her throat, her fingers skimming over the buttoned collar of her serge traveling dress. She glanced hastily around. “Here?”
“We’re alone. Well, except for the dog, but Cooper is not one to interfere or gossip. If you truly know of my reputation as you claim, then you know I don’t limit my bedding to bedchambers.” He jerked his chin toward her. “The buttons, Claire.”
At that moment, she despised him almost as much as she had when he’d exiled her to his ancestral estate. “I hate you!” she’d yelled, as he’d departed the manor after informing her that she would stay in residence there while he returned to London. His dark laughter had echoed along the hallways and followed him into the stormy night.
Now, she wanted to turn on her heel and march from the room. She wanted to tell him to rot in hell. Instead, she tilted her head defiantly, met his cold stare with one of her own, commanded her fingers not to tremble, and forced them to loosen one blasted pearl button after another. Strange how she’d not noticed the chill in the air until the material parted. It seemed to take hours before her fingers finally reached the last button at her waist.
She thought so much distance separated them, but he reached her in five long strides, bringing with him the scent of lilac. He’d come here not from his club but from another woman’s bed. Tears once again burned the back of her eyes, but she blinked them away. She’d not let him see how much he could devastate her without even trying. For the first time, she thought she might finally know what he’d experienced on that long-ago night. It shamed her that she’d been so young and self-centered not to have realized it immediately.
He did deserve his revenge, however he meant to exact it. She would do anything to put the past behind them.
His gaze still on hers, he placed one finger on the hollow at her throat. A challenge. A dare. So be it. She’d not retreat. He would see she was not the ninny she’d once been. She’d had three years of managing his household at the estate. It thrived beneath her watchful eye, and he’d never even had the decency to thank her—the ingrate.
He dipped his gaze and trailed his finger down, his hand slipping beneath the cloth, further parting it to expose the swell of one breast above her chemise. She barely breathed as his other fingers joined the first to skim over the exposed flesh. She was only grateful that he’d lowered his gaze, so he couldn’t see the anticipation mixed with fear that was no doubt clouding hers. How could he stir these unwanted sensations with something as simple as a touch?
His fingers moved slowly up, then back down, across one way, then the other.
“Tell me, Claire, is all of you as enticing?”
Her gaze clashed with his, and to her mortification, the heat of passion consumed her. Had she ever seen so much fire in eyes so dark? Yet, beneath it all, she could see the mockery. He wanted her to desire him, so he could punish her all the more. She was certain of it. She’d created this villain—with a moment’s weakness, with a gossamer dream of a life far different from what had been unfolding before her. She’d wanted to change her path and had been stumbling along it ever since.
She deigned to ignore his smoothly delivered taunt, certain he would have his answer in short order. Her heart beat erratically, her breathing refused to settle into anything resembling normalcy. She’d heard he was skilled at seduction, a master at eliciting pleasure. Strange how her knees suddenly wobbled. It was the lack of air. She thought she might swoon.
“You said you were in London because of a promise. What promise?” He sounded as though he were on the verge of strangling.
What promise indeed? Why am I here? She shook her head slightly to clear it, to focus on his question. “My … my sister. Beth. Father has arranged for her to marry Lord Hester, despicable man, so much older than she. With Father’s blessing, she has one Season to find another prospect. I know what it is to marry a man you barely—”
“Are you saying he forced you to marry me?”
“I’m saying I had no choice. How could you think otherwise when you were fully aware of the contract, when you never courted me or asked for my hand?”
His fingers jerked over her skin, his eyes probing hers as though he sought evidence of deception. “So you will be a wife to me in order to save her? You could accomplish your goal by staying elsewhere in London.”
She considered telling him every
thing, but she didn’t think it would sit well. The ladies were not happy that her husband ran wild through the boudoirs, that he gave their own husbands the notion that a man owed no fidelity to his wife. In order to receive invitations to the balls, in order to help her sister be accepted into Society, she had to bring her own husband to heel. But instead, she said, “You have influence. I must take my place beside you in order to properly introduce her into Society.”
“Which you no doubt see as a noble sacrifice.”
Her patience snapped. “For God’s sake, Westcliffe, I’ve asked for forgiveness, which you withhold, and I’ve told you that I wish to be your wife in all matters. Why must you make this so blasted difficult?”
“Because I no longer want you for my wife.”
Her heart slammed against her ribs, her stomach dropped to the floor as he stepped away. She’d never even considered that he’d refuse her. That he’d make it difficult, that he’d make her pay for her youthful indiscretion—yes. But to not want her at all? He needed an heir. He needed a wife. He had a wife.
“It’s late. I’ll have Willoughby prepare a guest room for you,” he said, his voice flat, back in control. “We’ll discuss this situation in the morning.”
He began striding across the room.
“Where the devil are you going?” she called out after him.
But he didn’t answer, didn’t even glance back as he made his exit from the room. Sinking to the floor, she allowed the tears of humiliation to flow at last. How was it that her life had become such a frightful mess?
Chapter 3
Damnation! As his carriage clattered through the streets, Westcliffe could still feel the heat of her alabaster flesh against the tip of his finger. What had he been thinking to dare her so? She was still remarkably naïve not to realize the full extent of her betrayal and the lengths he’d go to in order to make her suffer.
He’d anticipated marriage to her as he’d anticipated nothing else in his life before or after. He’d known that at long last he’d acquire the funds that would set him free of Ainsley. But it had been more than that. In spite of how it might have all appeared, her damnable dowry was only a small part of the reason he’d honored a preposterous contract, the terms of which his solicitor could have no doubt relieved him with very little effort.
From the moment his mother had married the Duke of Ainsley, Lyons Place—Westcliffe’s ancestral home—had been relegated to a lost manor, of no consequence. Its upkeep cost more than the income it provided, so it was left to languish, while the family took up residence at the magnificent Grantwood Manor. It was there that he’d first caught sight of the girl who would one day become his wife.
He couldn’t deny the pleasure he’d felt when he’d initially glimpsed her smile. His own mouth had twitched when he’d first heard her laugh. While she’d played with the others, he’d watched from afar, and he’d known, known, in his heart and soul that she could help him bring Lyons Place back to what it was meant to be. It could become again a place where a family would gather. It would no longer be shunned and forgotten.
He would no longer be shunned or forgotten. There were times when he felt like an outsider in his own family. Perhaps because he’d always fought to keep his distance, not to readily accept another man as his father, regardless of the other man’s goodness. The eighth Duke of Ainsley could not replace what Westcliffe had lost.
He’d been convinced Claire could somehow fill the void. He’d taken such damned care in preparing himself for his wedding night, bathing again, shaving again, donning fresh trousers and a silk dressing gown. He’d planned to be gentle with her, to take such care. He’d had no intentions of rushing her.
Then he’d walked into the bedchamber and seen his brother in his place, and once again he’d been struck with the realization of being worthy of nothing—not even his own wife would remain loyal to him.
He became acutely aware of his hands aching. They were fisted so tightly—as to almost push bone through skin. He unfolded them as his carriage came to a halt. He belonged to several clubs, but Dodger’s Drawing Room was his favorite haunt. Its owner, Jack Dodger, had risen from the streets to become a powerful man. He understood a gentleman’s needs—although he had recently dispensed with his girls. Marriage no doubt was taming him.
But no matter. There were brothels aplenty if a man was in need of a warm body. At the moment, Westcliffe simply needed to be away from his residence. He strode through the gambling room and went into the recently renovated tobacco room, where men enjoyed a cigar or pipe along with their liquor. He took a chair in a corner sitting area.
At Dodger’s, customer preferences were memorized by liveried youths whom the owner had pulled from the streets and given employment. No one was left to wait for more than three minutes. Westcliffe didn’t even look up when his favorite brand of whiskey and a cigar were quietly set on the table beside him.
He did look up when a gentleman sat in the chair next to his. He glared, but his brother paid him no heed.
“Thought I’d see you here tonight,” Ainsley said. “So how did you find Claire?”
Westcliffe arched a brow at him, and his brother merely shrugged. “She came to my residence earlier, thinking that you still lived there. She was quite surprised to discover that you had purchased a residence of your own. Do you not communicate with your wife?”
“No.” Westcliffe reached for his glass, relished the slow burn as he swallowed the caramel-shaded smoky-flavored brew. He set the glass down, right side up, a signal that it was to be refilled. Promptly, it was.
Ainsley grabbed his own drink and leaned forward. “Why is she here?”
He’d always wanted to dislike Ainsley—simply on principle. He’d been born with everything: wealth, a powerful title, his mother’s love, and his father’s adoration. But he couldn’t help but admire him because he’d always been such an affable fellow, willing to help when needed, never keeping accounts on what was owed. Sometimes it irked knowing that his youngest brother was the best of them. “Apparently her sister has one Season in which to find a suitor, or their father will force her to marry Hester.”
“What has the man got against his own daughter?”
Westcliffe gave his brother a wry grin. “If you’re so appalled by the notion, why don’t you offer for her?”
“Good God, no! I’ve only just reached my majority, taken my seat in the House of Lords. That’s ample accomplishment for one year. I do not need to add taking a wife to my list of achievements.”
Westcliffe hardly blamed him. He’d have not married so young if he’d not been desperate for funds. But no matter when he’d married, he’d have honored the right to marry Claire that his father had reserved for him.
Ainsley sipped his brandy, tapped his snifter. “I thought Claire looked well. Hale and hearty actually. I’d say she spent a good deal of time roaming over your estate.”
“I didn’t notice.” The lie rolled easily off his tongue. He’d noticed every detail about her. Her upswept blond hair. The gentle slope of her throat. The fire in her sunset blue eyes when he’d ordered her to unbutton her bodice. She’d wanted to tell him to go to the devil. Three years ago, she’d run from him. Tonight, she’d stood up to him. What had happened to strengthen that backbone?
But he’d noticed more. So much more. The heat of her skin against his finger. The quiver of her muscles as his touch lingered. Her rose scent wafting enticingly around her.
He’d spoken true. He no longer wanted her as his wife, but that didn’t mean he didn’t want her beneath him. Traitorous wench. How could he desire her? Because she was a woman, and he was a man. It was as simple as that. It had nothing to do with the blue of her eyes or the fine figure she presented. Or the defiance. Women desired him, granted his every wish in an effort to please and tame him. But in the end, they bored him with solicitousness. Claire infuriated him.
He reached for his glass, having lost track of how many he’d emptied while he and
Ainsley sat there. The liquor swirled through him, as did the memories, the past and the present nudging up against each other. Only now, having seen her tonight, looking back did he realize how very young she had been on the day they’d married.
More sixteen than seventeen. Why had he and her father thought that a single day, the celebration of her birth, would change her from a girl into a woman? She’d been thinner then, but now she possessed more womanly curves. Then she’d not been so far removed from the swing.
“I know the situation with your wife is none of my business—” Ainsley began.
“No, it’s not.”
Ainsley sighed. “Is that why you avoid me? Because you don’t want to know my opinion on the matter?”
“Our paths seldom cross because I have matters that require my attention.”
“Based upon the rumors, most of those matters involve women.”
Westcliffe clenched his jaw. “Are you judging me?”
Ainsley shook his head. “No. Can’t say I wouldn’t do the same under similar circumstances. Only I’d be more discreet.”
“Not if you care nothing for the woman.”
“She’s still your wife. That should garner her at least some consideration.”
He had no plans to get into a debate regarding his indiscretions. Claire was the one who’d initially set the terms of their marriage. He’d accepted that it was unlikely he’d ever hold her love, but he’d been convinced he’d have her loyalty. And then he’d walked into her bedchamber and realized even that would be denied him.
He remembered so clearly the words he’d spoken when he’d delivered her to Lyons Place. “You’ve made it abundantly clear that you hold no affection for me. So be it. Ours shall be a marriage in name only until I decide otherwise. You shall reside here and I in Town. Until you give me an heir, I expect you to keep your knees tightly clamped together. Find yourself with a child that is not of my loins, and I shall destroy your reputation, and while the law may force me to accept it as mine, rest assured that society will not.”
Passions of a Wicked Earl Page 2