Passions of a Wicked Earl

by Heath Lorraine

  He shook his head but stayed where he was.

  “If you’ll look here, my lord, a bit of profile, very good,” the artist said, as though no tension resided in the room. He moved behind his easel.

  “I shall be in the parlor,” his mother said, and quickly vanished.

  “Was this your idea?” Westcliffe asked Claire.

  “No. I want it no more than you do.”

  “Then why are we here?”

  “To please your mother. I need her assistance this Season to help me find a suitable husband for Beth.”

  “So you wish to acquire her good graces?”

  “Precisely.”

  They posed for several minutes, neither moving nor speaking. He was acutely aware of her scent infiltrating his room, her warmth penetrating his fingers, her profile bathed in sunlight. He’d never noticed before, but she had three small freckles—two high, one low—on the curve of her cheek. He wondered if the sun had caught her without a bonnet. He wondered how often she’d walked over his land.

  “My lord, there are some stray strands of her hair falling over her cheek,” Leo said. “Would you be so kind as to tuck them up behind her ear?”

  Three strands at the most. How the devil had Leo spotted them from his distance?

  “You’re an artist. Pretend they’re not there.”

  “I fear I lack imagination. I paint what I see.”

  “But you are not yet painting.”

  “No, I’m outlining, but they are a distraction.”

  With a sigh, knowing his cooperation would help speed things along, Westcliffe reached out and moved the strands aside, his fingers glancing over her cheek. She shivered beneath his touch. Against his will, his gaze darted to the bed, and he imagined her shivering there. Unlike the artist, he had a keen imagination. He could imagine his mouth trailing over her skin—

  With more force than needed, he tucked the stray strands back into place. As he did so, he noticed the faintest of scars intersecting her right brow. “How much longer?” he snapped.

  “Not much. You’re free to speak,” Leo said.

  “It actually assists me with my painting, to get a clearer idea of your character. For example, what is your favorite color, my lady?”

  “Blue.”

  That explained the color of her gown, which even from the disadvantage of his angle he could see enhanced the shade of her eyes.

  “My lord?”

  Westcliffe tore his gaze from his wife and glowered at the artist, arching an eyebrow.

  “Your favorite color, my lord,” he said smugly.

  “I see no reason to encourage your inquiries.”

  “Brown,” Claire said softly. “His favorite color. It’s everywhere in his residence. Dull and dreary. Is that how you see your life, my lord?”

  “My life is seldom dull and never dreary. I simply find brown … peaceful.” In truth, he’d never given it any thought. But his mood was often flat. He couldn’t remember the last time he laughed. Anne brought him moments of pleasure, but he seemed incapable of holding true joy.

  “How did you get the scar?” he asked quietly.

  Her hand came up quickly, and before Leo could chastise her for moving, she’d returned it to her lap. “When I was eight, I took a tumble off my horse.”

  Then she’d had the scar for years. The scar, the freckles. What else had escaped his notice? He realized he was falling into his mother’s trap—taking an interest in Claire he’d not meant to take.

  “What are your intentions regarding my mother?” he asked bluntly of the artist, deciding turnabout was fair play. Besides, he had no desire to delve into his own mannerisms.

  Claire seemed almost as surprised as Leo. She swung her head around to look at Westcliffe, her blue eyes wide, her luscious lips parted. They were the red of a rose.

  “Did he kiss you?” he suddenly demanded, not certain what had provoked the question. Maybe it was simply that her mouth appeared so damned kissable.

  She appeared even more flummoxed, her brow pleating.

  “Stephen. Did he kiss you?”

  “No. Never.” She squeezed her eyes closed. “Yes, once. I was ten. I was curious. I asked him to kiss me. He did. It was … disappointing.”

  He was trying to process her disjointed answer. She’d been ten? A child? Curious? She’d gone to Stephen instead of the one to whom she’d been betrothed? Where had he been? All the times when she and Stephen had been frolicking about—he’d been riding or reading or off doing something that put distance between them. He’d been older, had no patience for their childish ways. A man needed to know very little about a woman—only that he desired her—before he bedded her. What did a woman of quality require? He’d never given it any thought. Had assumed Claire would welcome him only because he wanted her.

  “That’s the only time he kissed you?” he heard himself ask.

  She nodded. “Yes.”

  Unblinking, she held his gaze. The only sign of her distress was the reddening of her cheeks.

  And she’d found Stephen’s kiss disappointing. He took perverse satisfaction in the knowledge until he realized that Stephen would have been fourteen, on the cusp of childhood, no doubt still unschooled in the art of seduction. Westcliffe was damned tempted to take her in his arms and show her exactly what a kiss should be. Only the idiot painter was standing there.

  “I’m losing the light,” Leo said calmly. “So we’re done for the day, but we shall meet at the same time tomorrow. You’re not to look at the work until it’s completed. You may leave if you like, and I’ll set matters to rights here.”

  Westcliffe didn’t bother to argue. He strode from the room before he did something very foolish. He needed at least two tumblers of whiskey, perhaps three, before dinner, or he’d never survive it.

  Chapter 6

  Claire didn’t recall inviting the duchess to dinner, and yet there they all were, sitting at the dining table while soup, pork cutlets, and garnished brussels sprouts were served as though the guests had been anticipated. It occurred to her that the duchess had seen to matters regarding the cuisine while everyone else was in Westcliffe’s bedchamber.

  It was not the room she’d have chosen. She thought the light in the salon with its floor-to-ceiling windows was better, but Leo—while she was uncomfortable referring to him so intimately, he insisted it was the only name he possessed—had assured her that the bedchamber was the only room that would do. She had stared at that massive bed, which had obviously been crafted especially for Westcliffe’s size, and wondered how many women had shared it with him.

  “Your décor is rather interesting,” the duchess said to her son, breaking into Claire’s thoughts. “Paintings and statues of dogs, but no people.”

  “I purchase that from which I receive enjoyment. Besides, dogs are loyal. People seldom are.”

  “And by ‘people,’ I assume you mean family.”

  Her husband did little more than hold his mother’s gaze.

  “You might say that of Stephen, and perhaps of me,” she said quietly. “But Ainsley would give you the shirt off his back if you asked. He has always adored his oldest brother.”

  Westcliffe dipped his gaze to his plate and began to concentrate on his food, and Claire wondered if he were uncomfortable with Ainsley’s adoration. She knew Stephen had sometimes felt conflicted, loving his brothers but resenting what they possessed. He was in a unique position of being the middle brother between two lords.

  “I saw Ainsley last night,” Westcliffe said.

  “At a gambling house no doubt,” the duchess stated, as though she knew exactly where they’d been.

  Claire felt immense relief that they’d not been at a brothel although she was certain he’d been with someone. She didn’t want to contemplate that he no longer wanted her because he’d fallen in love with someone else. Through the wisdom of years, she couldn’t help but consider that his amour might be as passionate as his fury. What she’d feared as a child intrig
ued her now.

  “I do worry about him,” the duchess said. “He gambles so much.”

  “He was winning. He always wins.” Westcliffe slid his gaze over to Claire. “Fortune seems to smile on Ainsley.”

  “Do you resent it?” She didn’t know from where the question had come.

  His jaw working back and forth, he seemed to give it serious thought before shaking his head. “No.”

  His answer made her smile inside, gave her a sense of relief. It was one of the things that had always bothered her about Stephen—that he could be angry at his brothers for things over which they had no control. They couldn’t help it if they were born to inherit titles and property while he was not.

  The conversation drifted into more comfortable territory: the styles of the Season, which ladies were still unspoken for, which ones would be making their debut. While the duchess claimed to live on the fringes of society, she was quite well versed in the comings and goings of the upper crust.

  It had been a long day, and Claire was quite relieved when dinner finally came to an end.

  “We shall see you tomorrow afternoon,” the duchess said brightly, squeezing Claire’s hand and patting her son’s cheek before disappearing through the doorway with Leo.

  “Thank God that matter’s done with,” Westcliffe muttered. Then he shouted, “Willoughby!”

  “Yes, my lord.”

  “Have my carriage readied immediately.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Claire desperately wanted to ask him where he was going, wanted to ask him to stay. She didn’t want to be alone. She was so tired of being alone, but she’d promised not to make a nuisance of herself, so instead she said, “I’m sorry.”

  He turned and looked at her as though only just remembering she was there.

  “Your mother. I’m sorry. The portrait, the dinner, they weren’t my idea. I went to her hoping that she could assist me in being invited to balls, in introducing Beth to society. And she is going to help. She will let it be known that Ainsley will only attend balls if we’re invited—”

  “I don’t need Ainsley to garner invitations.”

  Without another word, he strode down the hallway toward his library, leaving her standing there, feeling foolish. What was she to do now? She’d thought he’d be pleased not to be bothered with courting invitations. She was about to ascend the stairs when he returned to the entryway and held out a handful of invitations to her.

  “Are these to upcoming balls?” she asked, amazed.

  “And dinners. And various other functions.”

  Taking the offering, she stared at the half dozen envelopes. “I’m not sure why, but I assumed you weren’t invited to balls.”

  “There is not a woman in London who doesn’t want to be seen dancing with me.”

  Her joy over finding herself with entry into the finest houses diminished. “Of course.”

  She heard his harsh curse, then his hand was beneath her chin, lifting her gaze to his. “Claire, I’m sorry. That was uncalled for. I’m invited because I’m a curiosity. I seldom accept.”

  She nodded, licking her lips. Why was her mouth always so dry when he was near? “Perhaps you would consider altering your stance for this Season.”

  He narrowed his eyes, and she rushed on to explain, “I should think it would go a long way to guaranteeing my sister is welcomed into society if you were to accompany us to the first ball. Of course, the sooner she is accepted, the sooner she is likely to find a match, and the sooner I may return to the country.”

  If at all possible, he seemed almost bemused by her explanation. “I shall consider it.”

  She offered him what she hoped was an appreciative smile. His gaze dipped to her mouth before returning to her eyes. She could think of nothing else to say except to ask him to stay, and she didn’t think he’d be pleased with that path of conversation, so she held her silence, acutely aware of his chiseled features, his dark eyes locked on hers. She inhaled his rich, masculine scent, could almost feel the heat from his nearness.

  His hand still rested beneath her chin, and his thumb slid up to stroke her lower lip. She wondered if he was thinking about their earlier conversation regarding kisses. It seemed she was able to think of little else. She imagined his kiss would be vastly different from the innocent one Stephen had given her so long ago. His mouth appeared as though it had been shaped to deliver pleasure. It was an odd thought coming from her, when her experience was so lacking.

  His head dipped a fraction, her heart thundered, his eyes heated—

  “Sir, your carriage is ready,” the butler suddenly announced.

  Westcliffe stepped back easily as though he’d been meaning to go in that direction all along. He nodded slightly. “Good night.”

  Then he was gone, out into the night, and she was alone.

  He possessed a key, so he didn’t bother to knock. He simply entered Anne’s residence. No servants were about. A single lamp waited on the entryway table. He knew where he’d find her this late. He grabbed the lamp and took the steps two at a time. At the landing he set the lamp on another table and extinguished the flame. Opening the door, he entered Anne’s bedchamber.

  Lounging on a chaise, she was reading a book. He’d expected her to be miffed with his tardiness. But they had no set hours, no formal arrangement. He came and went as he pleased, and she welcomed him as it suited her. On occasion they attended the theater or an opera. They had planned to meet each other at various balls this Season, perhaps even to arrive together. They made no secret of their liaison.

  She set the book aside and came to her feet. “I was afraid you weren’t going to come tonight.”

  “I need you.” He crossed the room in half a dozen strides, took her into his arms, and plundered her mouth. He skimmed his hands up and down her back, her sides, her bottom, acutely aware that she wore nothing beneath the silk. She moaned low. He threaded his fingers through her hair, holding her head, angling it so he could taste her more fully.

  The entire day had been hell, nearly every moment of it spent in Claire’s company. There was still an innocence to her, a sweetness, and yet there was also a strength. And her favorite color was blue. He’d had no idea. He knew Anne’s favorite color. It was whatever was the most expensive. She loved her trinkets and her baubles. Because of Claire’s dowry, he could shower Anne with them.

  Claire. Claire. Claire. He didn’t want to think about her anymore. But he seemed incapable of catapulting her from his mind. She was there even now. With Anne’s lithe body pressed up against his. Tearing his mouth from hers, he swung away from her.

  “Whatever’s wrong?” she asked. He heard the confusion, her panting.

  He was breathing just as heavily, his heart racing. She deserved the truth. Better to hear it from him than the gossips. He faced her, regretting any hurt his words might cause her. “My wife is in London for the Season.”

  He watched as displeasure crossed Anne’s face. Her features were all defined lines and sharp angles, but they came together in a mosaic of beauty. “After all this time, why now?”

  He knew the reasons didn’t matter. He walked back over to her. “I know it’ll be difficult, but her being here has nothing to do with me. She wishes to give her sister a Season.”

  “And you will play the role of dutiful husband?”

  “I will do what I can to help her. I owe her that.”

  He’d never seen her with tears in her eyes. It was like a blow to his chest.

  “I want to be more to you than I am,” she said.

  “You are everything.” Reaching inside his jacket, he removed a slender black box and extended it toward her. He held his breath while she glared at the object as though it were vile. Finally, she snatched it from him and opened it. Inside was nestled a necklace of emeralds. “It’s gorgeous.”

  She looked up at him then, more tears welling. “But it’s not enough.”

  Pressing her body against his, she cradled his jaw. In a low, pr
ovocative voice, she said, “I will do anything to have you. Will you say the same of me?”

  “Anne—”

  “Be rid of her.”

  “An annulment is not possible. A divorce will create a scandal that—” The words lodged in his throat as she cupped him intimately and began a slow, seductive massage that he knew from experience concluded with her talented mouth doing wicked things no wife would do.

  “Surely, you must admit that I’m worth scandal.”

  Oh, yes, she was worth scandal … and a good deal more.

  Chapter 7

  Sipping a Bordeaux, Claire sat on the floor in the library and listened to the residence settling in for the night. A creak here, a moan there. She’d done the same a thousands times at Lyons Place. She’d drawn comfort from the noises, had felt she was absorbing some part of her husband’s history. But here—he had very little history here.

  Cooper made a small snuffling sound. He was asleep, his head resting on her lap. She wore her nightgown and wrap, her hair braided and draped over one shoulder. Having prepared for bed, she’d been unable to sleep, so she’d come in search of something to help her relax. It seemed her husband had quite the collection of spirits. The wine slid down her throat smoothly, warming her almost as much as the fire. With her back against the chair, she wiggled her bare toes and tried not to wonder what Westcliffe might be doing. It was past midnight, and Claire was fairly certain he was engaged in some sort of errant behavior. She was going to demand his fidelity while she was in London. She had dealt with overbearing estate managers and surly staff whose loyalty had been to the master of the manor rather than the mistress. She’d won them all over with a firm but fair hand. She’d dealt with unhappy tenants and villagers who attempted to cheat her.

  What was one irascible husband compared to that?

  She heard the snick of the door opening, followed by a heavy tread—

  Her heart barely sped up. The wine she supposed. She was almost finished with her second glass, and her pours were generous.

  “Claire? What the deuce are you doing here?”