Passions of a Wicked Earl

by Heath Lorraine

  His low moan echoed around her. He slid up her body, leaving a trail of kisses as he went. When he reached her throat, he eased off her and nestled his face in the curve of her shoulder.

  She thought she felt his mouth form a smile before he drifted off to sleep. His arm and leg were draped heavily over her. She couldn’t move. But she wouldn’t have even if she’d had the ability. She simply wanted to stay curled against him.

  Blood and carnage. So many crying out for help. He struggled to reach them—

  He awoke with a start, a cry echoing around him. And she was immediately there, caressing his chest, kissing his shoulder.

  “It’s all right,” she murmured softly. “Were you there again, in your dreams? At the railway accident?”

  Not dreams, nightmares. He wondered how long before they’d dissipate. “Yes.”

  “Would you like to talk about it?”

  “No.”

  The lamp on the bedside table was burning low, creating a halo around her. His angel. He combed his fingers through her hair. Why was she so different from the others? Why was being with her so different?

  “How was the ball?” he asked.

  She shrugged.

  “Did you dance?”

  “No.”

  “Did Beth dance?”

  “Repeatedly.” She tapped her finger on his chest.

  “What is it?” he asked.

  She peered through her lashes at him. “You wish me to talk about what bothers me, but you won’t talk about anything that you’re feeling.”

  “Why don’t you teach me how to do it by demonstrating?”

  Grinning wryly, she shook her head. “After what you went through earlier, my troubles are nothing really.”

  “Troubles? What troubles?” He threaded his fingers through her hair, anchoring her head so she couldn’t prevent him from studying her face. “Did something happen at the ball?”

  “Lady Anne spoke to me.”

  He swore beneath his breath. Anne could be cutting when she wanted—and she very often wanted. “That can’t have been pleasant.”

  “She said you told her I was a gullible girl.”

  “I didn’t.” He touched her brow, trailing his finger over her scar. “She uses her tongue as a weapon. Ignore her.”

  She gnawed at her lower lip before saying, “You might want to ignore her as well. I told her you told me she was a whore.”

  “Oh, God.” He didn’t know whether to laugh or groan. His wife had turned out to be a feisty wench. He so enjoyed her. He paused in his thinking. He did enjoy her, and not just here, in his bed. It was a startling realization.

  “Do you still have feelings for her?” she asked, interrupting his musings.

  Holding her gaze, he said, “No.” He traced his finger around her face. “We never had our wedding journey.”

  She lifted a shoulder, shook her head.

  “Let’s take some time to do it.”

  She sat up, staring at him as though he’d gone insane. “What?”

  “Let’s go away for a few days.”

  “But what of Beth?”

  “My mother could serve as her chaperone.”

  “Your scandalous mother as a chaperone?”

  He dragged his finger down the center of her chest, his knuckles grazing the underside of one breast. “Please, Claire. I want to be absolutely, completely alone with you.”

  A warm and wonderful emotion he didn’t recognize but still appreciated washed over her face. “We could be ready to leave by noon.”

  He owned a small stone residence that overlooked the sea. As Claire stood on the balcony of the master’s bedchamber, inhaled the salt air, and watched the white-capped waves kick up, she couldn’t help but feel this isolated spot was simply another example regarding what she didn’t know about her husband. She wanted to sit him down and demand that he tell her everything about himself. Everything. Yet she also couldn’t deny that there was pleasure in each discovery.

  The stone cottage was maintained by a small staff. His manservant and her maid had accompanied them. But in the way of servants, they were discreet and noticeably absent. Which Claire acknowledged was the closest they’d come to being absolutely, completely alone.

  She heard a noise, glanced back, and saw Westcliffe standing in the doorway, leaning against the doorjamb, his arms crossed over his chest. He’d divested himself of his jacket and waistcoat. The sea breeze ruffled his shirt, his hair. More strands than usual had escaped her own coiffure, and she imagined he would soon approach to begin tucking them back into place.

  “What do you think of it?” he asked.

  “I like it very much.”

  He stepped forward to stand beside her and put his arm around her waist, drawing her near, tucking her beneath his arm. “I like to come out here and simply watch the ships sailing in the distance. I imagine where they are going, what adventures those on board might experience.”

  “You would like to travel the world.”

  “I would indeed. I very much might when I have an heir who can see to managing my affairs.”

  Her stomach dipped as though a wave had taken it under. Speaking of an heir gave a permanence to matters.

  Turning her slightly, he tucked strands of hair behind her ear—only to have the wind set them loose again. His lips curved up in a self-mocking grin. “You said you didn’t wish an end to our marriage, and we have taken matters too far for its end to come about easily or simply. I believe our course is set, and we must make the best of it.”

  They were not the sweet words of undying devotion, but they were sweet nonetheless. He was not a man who gave easily of his heart. She was beginning to understand that. But he was the man with whom she wished to spend the remainder of her life. She had little doubt that in time he would say the words she longed to hear.

  “I will not be able to stand it if you ever take another woman to your bed,” she stated honestly.

  “Since I discovered you were in London, I’ve desired no one else.”

  A burst of joy went through her. Even sweeter words.

  “You should also know,” he continued, “that I’ve never shared this place with anyone else. But I wanted to share it with you because you are not like the others.” He shook his head. “I can’t explain it, but you are simply not like the others.”

  It was enough. For now, it was enough. In time, she had little doubt, he would give her more. He would give her all of himself. She was partially to blame for his unwillingness to reveal everything within his heart, but she had seen enough of his small kindnesses, his love, his strength, to know that she loved him. She would do what she must to have him love her.

  Rising, she wound her arms around his neck and kissed him.

  “Is it here?” he asked.

  He drew his tongue along the center of her sole until her toes curled.

  “No,” she answered, peering down at his dark head, rubbing her hand along his calf. He was stretched out beside her, but in the opposite direction. The windows had been left open, and the breeze fluttered the curtains. She could hear the ocean thrashing at the shore. As darkness had descended, they’d spotted the pale lights of a distant ship. She did find something calming about this place.

  “Here,” he said, twirling his tongue over her ankle.

  “No.”

  “Can you not at least give me a hint?”

  She gave him a seductive smile. “I’d rather you explore.”

  She couldn’t believe her boldness, lying completely bare before him. His smoldering gaze traveled over her, causing her breathing to quicken.

  “It must be someplace I’ve not touched, but I swear I’ve touched all of you.” He studied her intently and she fought not to squirm. He sat up and skimmed his long, talented fingers along her leg, past her knee, along the sensitive flesh of her inner thigh. He teased the juncture between thigh and hip. She jumped but only smiled. His eyes narrowed.

  “I’ve been very thorough,” he m
urmured seductively, “along your front, along your back. Have I neglected your side?”

  She shivered as he made his way up her body, like some predatory beast, until his face was directly over hers. “Which side, Claire?”

  Shaking her head, she instinctively pressed her left arm closer to her body, and his beautiful, naughty mouth spread into a victorious smile. He released a low chuckle before moving to the side as though to leave her. The second she relaxed, he pounced, grabbing both her wrists, and carrying them over her head, holding them in place with one hand, his leg pinning her hips against the bed.

  “Westcliffe—”

  His laughter was both dark and teasing, just before his fingers lightly taunted her skin, near the swell of her breast. Beth had tickled her when they were girls, her fingers probing and jabbing—still she’d been powerless not to laugh. But his touch—

  “Oh, God, don’t!” She tried to buck him off, but he was too large, too strong, too powerful—except for the touch at her side that was more devastating, that made her squirm until a bubble of laughter erupted. “Don’t!”

  He stopped abruptly. As her laugh died, he cradled her face. “I love your laughter.” Then he was kissing her deeply as though he wanted to explore for the sound.

  Love. A word she was certain didn’t come easily for him. But could he love her laughter without loving more of her? Perhaps eventually all of her?

  He released her wrists. The game changed. It was no longer about tickling and making her laugh. It was about touching intimately, making her moan. And she did. She never could have imagined there were so many different ways to touch. Light and hard, soft and firm. A slow stroke, a tantalizing circle. A cool breath stirring the fine hairs on her nape. A warm breath heating her throat. There was nothing he would not do. There was nothing she’d not allow him to try.

  She trusted him completely—in her bed and out of it. She believed he trusted her implicitly in his bed. She hoped that he was tentatively beginning to trust her beyond the bed. He’d brought her here, shared with her a place he’d shared with no one. They talked on the balcony about his dreams of travel. He wanted children with her. He wanted a legacy that was not a crumbling estate and a need to marry for coin. He’d even told her how very well-off they were now—he’d never be content with it, would always want more. He knew what it was to be dependent on another’s good graces. He didn’t want that for his children. He’d work to obtain what he desired, when most nobles wouldn’t.

  He was a man she respected, admired, and had come to love.

  The passion between them flared as it always did. He entered her with one sure thrust, and she received him gladly, welcoming the thickness of him. They moved together in rhythm. Holding his gaze, she watched the contours of his face strain against the escalating pleasure. Beneath her hands, the muscles of his back bunched and undulated. Within her, the sensual sensations rippled and grew—until they could no longer be contained. When they burst through her, he was there with her, his body jerking, his hoarse calling of her name echoing and mingling with her unrestrained cry.

  They came down from the pinnacle together, their arms wrapped around each other, their bodies slick and heated. Outside the waves crashed, but within, she knew a contented peace.

  Stretched out on the sand, raised up on an elbow, he watched her wading out into the water wearing only a light cotton shift. This was an isolated stretch of coastline. There was little chance that anyone would come across them. He should join her, but the desperation with which he wanted to do so troubled him.

  He’d never before felt anything beyond the physical with any woman—but with her he felt far too much. Always, he could hold his own satisfaction at bay, prolong it to draw out the pleasure, but when he made love with her, the emotional satisfaction of watching her climax heightened his pleasure to such a degree that he lost all control. His body shuddered with its intense release as hers did or so very near that he barely had time to draw in a breath.

  With other women, he’d always felt something was missing. With Claire, he feared he might have found it. Her. He wanted her as he’d never wanted anyone. He needed her—and he had no desire to need anyone. He enjoyed her company. He appreciated all aspects of her.

  He would awaken next to her, and his chest would tighten with such gladness—

  He didn’t like being dependent on her in this manner. He’d been dependent before. It made a man feel closed in, uncertain, less than a man. He felt none of those things with her, yet he knew she had far too much power. She could hurt him as she had once before.

  She knelt in the water, then rose like some sort of nymph and began walking toward him. Devil take her! He laughed at the sight of her shift clinging to her, the stark white revealing the darkened shadows of her body. When she reached him, he grabbed her hand, pulled her down, and tucked her beneath him.

  Smiling up at him, she issued her invitation. Bending down, he kissed her deeply, with longing. It had been only a few hours since he’d last taken her, but he intended to have her here while the sun and clouds watched, and the tide lapped at them.

  She wanted him to trust her with everything. He wondered when she might recognize that he already did. That against all odds, he trusted her with his heart.

  Chapter 21

  Claire sat on the ground in the garden, pulling a red stick on a string, chuckling as Fen jumped on it and attacked it with such vigor. A week had passed since she and Westcliffe had returned from the seaside. Beth had survived her time with the duchess remarkably well. Leo had begun painting a portrait of her. Another suitor, the third son of an earl, had begun calling on Beth, although she still favored Greenwood above all others.

  She glanced up as Beth flounced down beside her. “You seem so remarkably happy,” Beth said. “Are you glad you came to London?”

  Claire bit her lower lip, then nodded. “I should have come long ago. I should not have accepted exile so docilely.”

  “What choice did you have? A woman is supposed to obey her husband.”

  Reaching over, she squeezed Beth’s hand. “Which is the reason that it is important for you to consider all suitors. You wanted a choice, and you seem to have very quickly settled on one.”

  “But he’s perfect. Why do you have such a difficult time believing that?”

  Claire sighed. “Perhaps because I thought if I’d been given a choice, I’d have chosen another, and now I realize that marrying Westcliffe was the correct thing to do.”

  “What happened with you isn’t going to happen with me.”

  “But sometimes what we think is right, isn’t. I just want you to be cautious.”

  “I would rather listen to my heart.”

  Claire rolled her eyes. “Oh, you are quite the romantic.”

  Beth smiled. “Because I’m being courted by a very romantic man. When we take our daily walks through Hyde Park, he recites poetry. A different poem each day. Does Westcliffe read you poetry?”

  Claire laughed softly. “No. Lately, we’ve been discussing how to ensure that Fenimore learns not to do his business in the house.”

  Beth groaned. “That is not something to be discussed.”

  “At least he is finally warming up to Fen. I had not considered that he would need time to mourn his loss. It made me like him all the more for it, though.”

  “At least he finally gave you flowers.”

  He had. That morning a dozen red roses had arrived for her, with a note. Simply because.

  Because what? she’d wondered. Because he cared for her? Because things were right between them? She could think of a hundred things—and perhaps they all applied.

  “Can you believe how many have arrived for me?” Beth said. “I think if Greenwood does ask for my hand in marriage that I might delay giving him an answer until next Season.”

  Claire worried that her sister might be becoming infatuated with the wrong things. “You risk losing him altogether. What if he decides you’re not worth waiting for?�
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  “Then he doesn’t deserve me.”

  “Wherever do you get your confidence?”

  “I don’t know. But I do know that I’m not marrying old Hester.”

  Claire looked up as the butler approached. Bending down, he presented a card on a silver salver. Everything within her went cold as marble when she saw the name: Lady Anne Cavill.

  “Oh, my word!” Beth exclaimed, snatching up the card. “Do you suppose she’s come to invite us to her ball?”

  Claire was hit with a sense of dread. Nothing good could come of this meeting. Westcliffe wasn’t here. He had matters concerning the railway to deal with. He’d been gone since early that morning. Perhaps that was the reason for the flowers—just to let her know he was thinking of her. She turned her attention back to Beth. “I don’t know why she’s here.”

  “We must welcome her immediately.”

  Beth made a move to get to her feet, and Claire grabbed her arm, stilling her actions. “I shall see her. Alone.”

  “But, Claire, why? To be accepted by her—”

  “Willoughby, on whom is she calling?” Claire asked the butler, hoping to put a swift end to further argument with Beth.

  “You, my lady.”

  Claire handed Beth the string. “Keep Fen occupied, please.”

  Beth pouted, then shrugged. “Very well.”

  With the butler’s assistance, Claire rose to her feet. She did hope Lady Anne was gone before Westcliffe returned. She couldn’t imagine what the woman wanted. Or perhaps she could imagine only too clearly because her stomach was knotting. Ridiculous really.

  If Westcliffe held no affection for Claire, surely he’d not continue to come to her bed and to remain there all night so he awoke to her each morning. He wouldn’t hold her near. He wouldn’t murmur in her ear. He wouldn’t make her feel cherished. While he’d never proclaimed undying love, she couldn’t help but feel that they were growing closer.

  Inside the residence, she removed her bonnet and gloves, tidied her hair, and pinched her cheeks, not that they really needed any more color. She strolled as casually and calmly as she could to the parlor, taking pride in how welcoming it felt. She had truly begun to make the house into a home.