Passions of a Wicked Earl

by Heath Lorraine

  It had nearly broken her heart to realize that her second son, the one born of her heart, had grown into a man lacking in character. He’d refused to discuss his reasons for cuckolding his brother. He’d simply sat in the library, downed brandy, and acted as though his actions were of no consequence—when Tessa knew they’d very nearly destroyed Westcliffe. While she’d never felt as close to him as she’d felt to the others, by God, he was still her son, and she understood as only a mother could.

  Leo walked over to the bed and tugged on the sheet, exposing her hip a little more. “It can’t have been easy for her to come here.”

  Tessa sighed with feigned annoyance. Something about Leo prevented any woman from growing angry with him. “You’re going to fall out of my good graces if you continue this path.”

  “At least determine what she wants.”

  She jerked on the sheet, wrapped it around her body, and slithered off the bed, tossing her hair back over her shoulder. “Why do you care?”

  “Because I know you’re unhappy with the way things are between you and your sons. Perhaps her visit can alter the situation.”

  “You are such a dreamer, Leo.”

  He approached her and bussed a quick kiss across her lips. “Visit with her. What harm can come of it?”

  Her relationship with Morgan was estranged, but then it had always been difficult. She’d despised his father, and God help her, she’d had a difficult time separating her feelings for the father from those for his son. She’d been so young, barely seventeen when he was born. Then Stephen, whom she had adored from birth, had come into the world, and she’d showered him with her affections, ignoring Morgan in the process. She felt so uncomfortable with him now, out of her element. She didn’t enjoy feeling like a failure, but she knew she’d been a miserable mother—at least where her older son was concerned. She pressed her body against Leo’s. “Make me happy again before I greet her.”

  He grinned. “With pleasure.”

  Claire sat in the parlor, her hands clasped in her lap. It was strange to be in London. She’d spent most of her youth in the country, most of her marriage there as well. When she had come to Town, she’d visited with Charity and her friends, but she’d never truly developed any friendships of her own, so it was quite unsettling to determine upon whom to call next. She might not have to make any calls at all if she could garner the support of the Duchess of Ainsley. She might be scandalous, but with two sons bearing titles, she held quite a bit of power in her little finger.

  But alas, Claire had been waiting for nearly an hour. It had obviously been a mistake to come here. The woman was sending a message. Claire would have to send one of her own. She’d not be treated so shabbily. She’d taken two steps toward the door when the duchess swept into the room, her cheeks aglow and her brown eyes alight with mischief.

  “Countess. What an unexpected surprise to have you visit.”

  Claire detected a slight chill in her voice. She curtsied. “Duchess.”

  The duchess went to a table and poured amber liquid into two glasses. She extended one toward Claire. “I’d offer you tea, but I gave up the dreadful drink long ago.”

  “Oh.” Claire took the offering.

  “Please sit.” The duchess indicated a settee while she, herself, lounged on a fainting couch and gazed out the window. A small smile played on her lips as a young man walked by the window. “You interrupted as I was having my portrait done.”

  “My apologies. I do hope you’ll forgive me. I didn’t think I should wait much longer before coming to see you,” Claire said as she sat on the settee.

  The duchess waved her bejeweled hand as though Claire’s words were of no consequence. “I’m certain I can take up the pose again with little bother. When did you arrive in London?”

  “Last night. Too late to call,” she added hastily before the duchess could find fault with that.

  Sipping from her glass, she peered over the rim at Claire as though she were measuring her and finding her sadly lacking in every regard. “So. Why have you come to call?”

  “First, I wish to apologize for what happened on my wedding night.”

  “It is not me to whom you need to apologize, girl.”

  “I’ve already expressed my regrets to Westcliffe.”

  The duchess sat up, her interest obviously piqued. “Have you? You’ve seen him then?”

  “Yes. I’m staying at his—our—residence in St. James.” She took a swallow of the burning brew. “He does not seem prone to forgive, but he has granted me leave to remain in London.”

  “Is he well?”

  She was astounded that the duchess would inquire of her regarding her son’s health. She nodded. “He seems to be, yes.”

  “I have seen him but once since your wedding. I went to inform him that I did not approve of … his handling of himself while he was in London. Apparently he did not think I was one to cast aspersions regarding proper behavior.” She sighed, and her eyes took on a faraway look as once more she looked out the window. “Creating scandal was much more enjoyable when I was younger.”

  “I’ve never relished it,” Claire admitted. “I know the ladies are not pleased that my husband has such free rein.”

  “What do you intend to do about it?”

  “I’m not quite certain. But I know I must earn their good graces. My sister is having her coming out, and I wish to help her as much as possible. I fear I’m not quite as schooled in the fine art of the Season, never having had one myself.” She’d married the spring before she would have had a Season. Surely, in retrospect, no harm would have come from waiting a year or even six months. But her father had not seen that anything was to be gained by granting her a reprieve. In truth, she suspected he feared she might begin to have reservations about her lot in life if given too much time to contemplate it, if she had an opportunity to experience a modicum of choice, even if the choice was simply deciding with which gentleman to dance. “I thought perhaps you could advise me, Your Grace.”

  “Avoid it, at all costs.”

  Not exactly the advice she’d anticipated. “Surely you jest?”

  “I find the Season to be a bit of a bother.”

  “I fear I have no choice in the matter. You see, if my sister doesn’t find another suitor, she’ll be forced to marry Lord Hester.”

  The duchess visibly shuddered. “Good Lord, I always want to take pruning shears to his nostrils when he’s about.”

  Claire released a small laugh and covered her smile with a gloved hand.

  For the first time since she’d walked into the room, the duchess seemed to soften toward her. “I’d hoped you’d laugh like that around my son, around Westcliffe. He’s had little enough laughter in his life.”

  Claire immediately sobered. “We had a dreadful beginning. I was terrified of my wedding night. Stephen meant well—”

  “By taking his brother’s place in your bed? Stephen has always been mischievous, but that was beyond the pale. I must share some of the blame. I spoiled him, led him to believe that he should be denied nothing.”

  “It wasn’t like that between us. Truly. We’d both had too much champagne. It seemed like such a brilliant idea in our muddled minds—just a way to delay my wedding night.”

  “Being honest with Westcliffe would have probably gained you more.”

  In retrospect, she had to agree. “I didn’t know him very well. I still don’t.” She eased up on the edge of her seat. “Duchess, I would very much like to make amends with him.”

  “Then do so, girl.”

  “I hardly know where to begin. And as much as I’d like to know him better, it seems he’s done with me. I think he merely plans to tolerate my presence.”

  “Then you’ll have to use your womanly wiles to change his mind.”

  “I fear I have none.”

  “My dear girl, every woman possesses them. She simply needs to recognize the ability within herself. Men are very simple creatures really. They desire wo
men. You simply must make yourself desirable.”

  Claire refused to let her confidence diminish with the comment. She thought she looked quite smart in her dress.

  “Don’t look so offended, girl.”

  “I’m not.”

  “Your face would say otherwise. You look lovely. Truly. But a man doesn’t desire lovely. He desires daring. You must tease him, make him wonder how much of heaven he’ll find beneath that skirt.”

  She didn’t know if she could do it, but still she nodded, hoping the conversation would move on to another topic, before the heat of embarrassment caused her to burst into flames. She’d never spoken about intimate matters so candidly with another woman. It was unsettling simply because it was so intriguing. “There is still the matter of my sister.”

  “Ah, yes, the reason for your visit. I shan’t make morning calls with you as I find them tedious, and as most gossip concerns me, it limits conversation. I shall, however, send word hither and yon that Ainsley will only consider invitations to balls to which you are invited.”

  “Does he attend balls? Is he searching for a wife?” It occurred to her that if that was the case, he might consider Beth.

  “Good God, no,” the duchess said. “I won’t say he’ll attend, only that he’ll consider them. He’s one-and-twenty. Still sowing his wild oats. I’m fairly certain marriage is the very last thing on his mind. Which is to our advantage, as it allows me to concentrate on yours.”

  “Mine?”

  “It’s time Westcliffe was settled, and after watching your face turn as red as an apple, I can see you need some help with the matter.”

  Chapter 5

  I cannot believe in all these years you have not invited me to visit your London residence.”

  It was midafternoon. Westcliffe had been studying reports in his office when his butler had announced that the Duchess of Ainsley had arrived. He didn’t trust her visit any more than he trusted his wife, who was sitting in a chair beside his mother and preparing tea.

  “You’re my mother,” Westcliffe stated succinctly, standing by the fireplace, refusing to be drawn into the unfamiliar tableau. He’d had few visitors to his residence. It was a place to sleep, eat, and work. Nothing more. “Surely an invitation is not required.”

  “Of course it is. How is one to know that one is welcomed?”

  Westcliffe darted his gaze to the man lounging casually on the sofa. He suspected Leo was his mother’s latest lover. He was tall and slender, with graceful hands and the face of an Adonis. He seemed much too angelic for his mother. Turning his attention back to her, he said, “You are always welcome in my residences.”

  “I shall keep that in mind.” Winking at Claire, she took the offered cup of tea. That didn’t bode well. His mother had a tendency to be conniving, and Claire’s reaction more than his mother’s alerted him that some sort of conspiracy was afoot. “I’m here on a rather urgent matter. You’ve been married all of three years, and you have yet to have your wedding portrait made.”

  He ground his back teeth. “I didn’t see the point in having it done.”

  “Of course there is a point, dear boy. It is family tradition to have a portrait of every earl and countess made shortly after they are married. For posterity’s sake.”

  “I don’t recall your ever caring about the earl. What do you care of his posterity?”

  “The previous earl, no. The present earl, yes. Why would you ever think otherwise?”

  Before he could respond, his mother turned to Claire. “Perhaps you would be so kind as to take Leo on a tour of the rooms, so he can determine where the best lighting can be found.”

  Claire appeared startled before rising to her feet. “Yes, of course.”

  Westcliffe watched the young man follow his wife from the room. He was tempted to go after them, but what did he care if Claire was alone with a man? He didn’t. The time for such caring was past. Instead, he glared at his mother. “What are you about?”

  “I told you. You need to have your portrait done.”

  “And I told you there is no point. I intend to have this farce of a marriage brought to a legal end.”

  “My God. Do you have any idea of the scandal—”

  “Don’t be a hypocrite, Mother. If our family is known for nothing else, it is known for its unconventional flouting of societal rules. Your own scandals make mine seem paltry in comparison.”

  He knew she couldn’t deny the charges, and she didn’t even try. Rather she arched a dark brow. “And what of Claire? Is she aware of this plan of yours that will bring shame and humiliation to your doorstep?”

  “No.”

  “I see. So it’s true then. Lady Anne Cavil has won your heart.”

  He considered lying, considered claiming to be madly in love with Anne, but the truth was that he felt nothing for anyone. “I have no heart to be won, and well you know it. But Anne suits me.”

  “Well, then, what more is there?”

  But the icy tone of her voice set his teeth on edge. He watched warily as his mother rose, graceful as ever. She approached him, then proceeded to brush some lint from the shoulder of his jacket. Finally, she lifted her eyes to his. They were dark—brown—but his were darker still, his had come from the man who’d sired him.

  “I gave you so little love growing up. I couldn’t separate you from your father, and I despised him. For whatever pain I caused you, I’m sorry. But it is not like you to be hurtful. Surely you can give Claire another chance to be your wife.”

  “Is that the reason you’re here? To speak on her behalf? If so, you’re wasting your breath, and I would beg you not to interfere.”

  “I’m here to see about having your portrait done.” She tilted her head slightly. “And because Claire invited us for dinner.”

  He narrowed his eyes. “You’re meddling.”

  “I’ve ignored you for a good part of your life. Don’t you think it’s time?”

  Before he could answer, the painter walked back into the room. “I found the perfect lighting. I’m going to gather my materials from the carriage. Will you help the countess select an appropriate gown?”

  Westcliffe almost answered no before his mother murmured her reply, and he realized the question had been directed at her. A gown. Not a dress with buttons clear to her chin. But a gown. Something that would lay bare the skin he’d touched last night. It would be pure torment—

  “You are both going to a great deal of trouble needlessly,” he said. “I have no desire to sit for a portrait.”

  “Don’t be petulant. Even if you dissolve this marriage, there should be a portrait.”

  “Of the woman who betrayed me?”

  “You can burn it in celebration afterward,” the artist said from the doorway.

  Westcliffe glared, and the man merely shrugged. “I have burned a few portraits. There is satisfaction in destroying the image of one you wish to forget.”

  “I see no reason to subject myself to hours of sitting—”

  “Please,” his mother said quietly. “For me.”

  Under his breath, he cursed her because that was all it had ever taken from her to gain what she needed or wanted from him. Watch out for your brothers—for me. Exceed in the classroom—for me. Teach Ransom to read—for me. Play with Stephen—for me. She was his mother, and in spite of her years of putting him last, he could no more deny her than not draw in a breath.

  He didn’t know why he was surprised that the room chosen was his bedchamber. He was certain the artist was conspiring with his mother to accomplish something that Westcliffe did not desire.

  The furniture in the seating area had been rearranged, brought nearer to the windows, where the drapes were drawn back to allow in the afternoon sunlight. In a pale blue gown with a scooped neck that revealed the upper swells of her breasts, Claire sat on the settee. At her throat was the string of pearls he’d given her on the morning of their wedding. It had once belonged to his grandmother. If his mother hadn’t put it away
for safekeeping, he’d have sold it long ago. He found it difficult to be sentimental about things that might have been responsible for his previous state of poverty. He wanted to tell her that it was not a good idea to remind him of that day, yet neither could he deny that they accented her throat perfectly. Resting near her feet was Cooper.

  “I thought the portrait would have more meaning for you,” Claire said quietly, “if your dog was part of it.”

  It would ensure he didn’t burn it. When he was thirteen, he’d acquired the puppy. The Earl of Lynnford, who’d become their guardian after the duke had died, had given the dog to Westcliffe as though he’d recognized that the boy had little enough in his life.

  She reached up and scratched her nose. Just the edge of her gloved finger moving quickly against the tip of her upturned nose. She had such tiny features. Everything about her was delicate. He remembered how awkward she’d been as a child, chasing after Stephen, for whom responsibility was a foreign word. But he’d been popular with everyone because he’d been ever so good at playing and giving everyone a good laugh.

  “If you’ll stand here, my lord,” Leo said, directing him so he stood behind and slightly to the right of Claire, which gave him an unencumbered view of her bared skin as well as his bed.

  Was this his mother’s perverse notion of matchmaking?

  “My lord, you’re creating a bit of a shadow … if you’ll move in just a little closer to the countess?”

  Westcliffe felt her stiffen as his stomach nestled against her back.

  “Very good. Let’s curl your hand around her nape—”

  “This isn’t going to work.”

  Leo actually appeared stunned. “Pardon?”

  Westcliffe glanced at his mother, who was observing near the doorway. “The proximity isn’t going to make me want her.” He felt a tiny jerk go through Claire, beneath his fingers, as though he’d slapped her. “You’re forcing me to be cruel. Claire and I have an arrangement. She is here only for the Season, then she is gone.”

  “Then the portrait should be done now, while she is here,” his mother said.