Passions of a Wicked Earl

by Heath Lorraine

  Chapter 23

  Iswear to God, when I first took her in my arms, I did not know it was Claire.”

  Ainsley sat in his library, sipping his nightly brandy, studying his brother who had arrived with an unbelievable tale. “If I’d known there was going to be so much excitement, I’d have gone to the ball, but they’ve been so dreadfully dull all Season that I could not bear the thought of attending another.”

  Stephen lifted his gaze from his knotted hands. “You don’t believe me.”

  “Sorry, puppy. You’re rather like the boy who cried wolf.”

  “I was supposed to meet Lady Anne there, but Claire arrived first. Then Westcliffe appeared.” He shrugged. “I suppose they were going to have a tryst as well.”

  “Rather bad timing there, but explain to me why you would want Westcliffe’s cast-off?”

  “She’s beautiful.”

  Ainsley laughed, then settled back in his chair. “Give him a day or two for his temper to ease.”

  “I’m worried about Claire.”

  “He won’t strike her. That’s not his way.”

  “But there are other ways to hurt her.”

  “In all likelihood, he’ll do what he did before and send her back to his estate. He has never mastered dealing with unpleasant situations that involve women.”

  “What man has?”

  Ainsley swirled the brandy in his snifter. “You know, running errands for the War Office is not exactly what we had in mind when we purchased your commission.”

  Stephen shrugged. “I knew Mother wouldn’t let me leave England’s shores.”

  “Perhaps you should consider cutting the apron strings, before you become a very unlikable fellow.”

  “I have a better idea. Let’s trade places.”

  Ainsley knew that Stephen was being facetious on several levels. Stephen was well aware that even if they had shared the same father, they couldn’t trade their positions simply because one of them wished to do so. Besides, even in the world of fantasy, something larger was at stake. As much as Ainsley had always loved his brother, he’d also been constantly disappointed that Stephen thought of little except his own pleasures. He found it difficult to admire him.

  “You’ve never understood that possessing a title doesn’t mean that one lounges about. As much as your offer appeals to me, and as much as I would love to shed my mantle of responsibilities—unfortunately I cannot leave the fate of all those who depend upon me in your hands. Sad to say, puppy, but you’ll simply have to continue to resent me.”

  “It doesn’t help that you call me that.”

  “Then by all means, waste not a moment more, put away your childish things, and grow up.”

  Beth was inconsolable, alternating between weeping and railing about Westcliffe, wishing he would rot.

  Under normal circumstances, Claire would have been irritated beyond all enduring, but she was barely bothered by Beth’s outbursts. She was immersed in her own grief. For Westcliffe to have refused to listen to her side of the story, for him to have jumped to his conclusions and clung to them so tenaciously meant he did not trust her, and without trust, he couldn’t possibly love her as she had begun to believe he might.

  She’d been physically ill on the journey back to Lyons Place. Several times she’d had to ask the driver to stop so she could empty her stomach on the side of the road. She’d grown so pale and weak by the time they reached their destination that even Beth had finally stopped bemoaning her unfair situation and begun to take notice of Claire’s pallor.

  In the days that followed, while she did not feel nearly as bad as she had on the journey, she seemed unable to shake off this cloud of nausea. It was always worse first thing in the morning, when she awoke to the realization that Westcliffe was not in bed with her. She’d spent a week staring out the window waiting for his arrival and his forgiveness. If he forgave her, in spite of her harsh words to him, she would forgive him as well.

  By the second week, she’d regained her senses. She was not going to wallow in pity. She was going to get on with her life.

  If only she didn’t wake up every morning feeling so weakened and ill.

  The missive delivered to Westcliffe, no fewer than ten minutes ago, by a servant of his estate was succinct.

  I am with child. I hope it pleases you.

  No signature, no affectionately yours, no nothing. Simply a few words that hit him in the gut as though they had been delivered with a battering ram. The first communication from her in a little over two months. Could she even comprehend how much the news would please him … and shame him? Regret for his behavior that night, for sending her off without even allowing her to speak, had been eating at him. Even all the whiskey he’d consumed couldn’t drown it.

  Sitting behind the desk in his library, Westcliffe peered up at the young man who’d had the honor of delivering the message. He didn’t remember hiring him, but then he’d established a household allowance that Claire was to use as she pleased.

  Obviously, it pleased her to hire comely young men.

  “You’re to stay the night here,” Westcliffe said, as pointedly as the note. “I shall be sending a reply with you in the morning.”

  The young man bowed. “Yes, m’lord.”

  “What was your name again?”

  “Blyton, sir. My father is the butler, although I go by Bly to avoid confusion.”

  “Bly. I see.” He cleared his throat. He hated to admit that not a single hour went by that he did not think of her. “How is her ladyship?”

  “Very well, I believe, sir. She is quite loved by the staff.”

  Westcliffe leaned back and rubbed his finger along his chin. “Why?”

  Bly looked surprised, as though someone had come up behind him and pinched his bum. “Well, m’lord, she’s fair in all matters. Manages the household with a firm but tolerant hand. I daresay, the manor is always more joyful when she’s in residence.”

  So was his home in London. It had returned to its somber bleakness with her departure. She’d even taken the dog with her. Her scent had stayed behind, on her pillow. He’d forbidden the maid to wash it. He stared at it every night, remembering the way she’d looked, lying there, dreaming.

  “I shall endeavor to work a visit into my busy schedule,” he told the young man now, not certain why he felt a need to tell the man anything.

  Bly bowed. “Very good, sir.”

  “Go see Cook about having a meal prepared for you.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  After the young man left, Westcliffe got up and walked to the window. His heir could very well be on his way. He’d not expected that. He’d always taken such care not to get a woman with child, but then he’d taken none at all where his wife was concerned. But then why should he? After all, it was her responsibility to provide him with an heir.

  If a son was born, he could grant Claire complete freedom.

  A week after the ball, he’d gone to see Anne. She had been the one to send him the missive about the conservatory. She’d seen Stephen and Claire disappear inside.

  “I thought you should know,” she’d said.

  “Why not tell me in person?”

  “Because I knew you’d come to love her, and I could not bear to see the pain in your eyes when you discovered the truth.”

  Since then they’d attended one opera together, and he’d dined with her once. But he was not pleasant company these days because he could not seem to stop thinking about Claire. And now that she was with child—

  He wanted to see her, to hold her, to place his hand against where his child now grew. But they had parted with harsh words and vows of never forgiving. He suspected she’d hold firm to her vows of not forgiving him.

  He was having a damned hard time forgiving himself.

  The three-inch-wide gold bracelet encrusted with diamonds was the most beautiful Claire had ever seen, the most extravagant gift she’d ever received. Only two words accompanied it: Thank you. Scrawled in s
cript as bold as the one who’d held the pen.

  Disappointment smashed into her. She’d wanted more. His arrival, his presence.

  Standing in the parlor, she flung the gift across the room. It was nothing. It made a mockery of their relationship. Sparkles to hide the truth of their unhappiness. She despised living alone here. Even Beth had abandoned her, returned to London. With the possibility of a betrothal to a titled gentleman not in need of a dowry, she’d been able to convince her father to let her and the aunt who had raised them hire rooms in a hotel.

  Claire couldn’t be happier for her sister. If only she could find her own happiness. Although for those wondrous weeks in London with Westcliffe, joy had abounded.

  She glanced over at Bly, who was standing as erect as when he’d first entered bearing the gift. She gave him a tremulous smile. “Thank you. You’re dismissed.”

  “Yes, m’lady. If there’s anything—”

  “Nothing.”

  He turned to go.

  “Wait.”

  He looked back at her, and she could see that he did indeed wish to do something to make this entire horrid situation better. The servants cared for her. Why couldn’t her husband? Why couldn’t he trust her? Why wouldn’t he listen?

  “Please have the groomsman ready my horse.”

  Bly seemed surprised by her request. “Are you certain it’s wise—”

  “Do not question me.”

  He bowed. “Yes, m’lady.”

  After he left, she retrieved the stunning bracelet, called for her maid, and went upstairs to change into her riding habit. Half an hour later, she was cantering over the moors, the wind whipping around her, ushering in the dark clouds in the distance. The groomsman followed along behind her, keeping a respectful distance. She hadn’t wanted him to come along, but they all watched out for her since it was obvious her husband would not.

  She would go to London. She would confront him. She would make him understand, because the more she thought about that horrid night, the more convinced she was that being caught in the conservatory with Stephen had been Lady Anne’s plan all along. Issuing the invitation personally. Being so accommodating, so understanding that Westcliffe loved Claire. So many guests that the likelihood of spotting Stephen—

  If he’d even gone into the residence. Perhaps he was only ever to meet her in the conservatory. She needed to speak with Stephen, to ask him why he’d been there. She should have done it before, but she’d thought it would only exacerbate the situation. Now she realized he might have vital information that could help her get Westcliffe back.

  She couldn’t deny her love for him, and this child was a chance for a new beginning. They did not have to remain estranged. If she could only make him see that they’d all been part of Lady Anne’s elaborate scheme to get Westcliffe back.

  With a renewed determination to face her husband and set matters to rights, she kicked her horse into a gallop. Was he with Lady Anne now? Was he back in her bed?

  She couldn’t tolerate the thought. The possibility brought tears to her eyes, blurred the countryside around her. The horse picked up speed, but Claire was paying little attention as the salty droplets rolled down her cheeks.

  She was aware of the horse’s sleek strides suddenly changing, the muscles bunching—

  And then they were in the air, sailing over a hedgerow that Claire had not even noticed. Her hold on the reins was loose, her seating precarious. She’d not prepared for the arching movement. The mare landed hard and ungraceful, screaming as though in pain. Claire lost her balance, lost her seat. The rough, uneven terrain absorbed her impact as she landed in an ungainly sprawl. Blackness hovered, and she was aware of a single raindrop landing on the curve of her cheek, just before the agony ripped through her and dragged her into the darkened abyss.

  Chapter 24

  Where the bloody hell is she?” Westcliffe yelled as he burst through the door of the manor.

  “In her bedchamber, my lord,” Blyton answered.

  Westcliffe couldn’t recall ever seeing the butler so drawn and pale. He’d no doubt been up all night awaiting his master’s arrival. The missive had arrived the day before in the late afternoon, delivered by Bly, and Westcliffe had been riding like a madman since. But it had still taken him longer than he wanted to get here. It was almost midnight.

  Now he was rushing up the stairs, taking them two at a time. The house was so damned quiet. He couldn’t recall it ever being so damned quiet.

  At the top of the stairs, he saw a young maid coming out of the bedchamber carrying an armload of bloody linens. It was all he could do not to lean against the wall for support.

  “How is she?” he barked.

  Tears rolled down her cheeks. “She lost the babe, m’lord.”

  He slammed his eyes closed, the force of the grief hitting him hard. Not only the loss of the babe, but Claire suffering through it alone, when she had always been with him through the worst nights. He should have been here. Opening his eyes, he croaked, “Was it a boy?”

  “We couldn’t tell, m’lord.”

  “And my lady? How is she?”

  “Fevered, m’lord. Not at all well.”

  “I must see her.” It was a silly thing to say. He was the master. He needed no one’s permission, and yet he worried over what he might find or what further ills his presence might cause.

  The maid—he couldn’t recall her name and at the moment he didn’t care what it was—nodded.

  Taking a deep breath, he opened the door she’d just closed and strode into the room. The sickly sweet smell of blood, death, and sweat battered him. He dreaded what he might see upon closer inspection, but he forced his legs to move forward.

  Claire lay there, appearing so vulnerable, her hair damp, her face sprinkled with the sweat of fever. Another maid was carefully dabbing a cloth along her forehead. Claire looked as though all blood had been drained from her. This was his doing. His pride, his jealousy, his anger. He shouldn’t have sent her here. He should have listened. He should have been a better man than he was. She was the only woman who had ever said she loved him—and he’d cast her aside because of his pride.

  He reached out to touch her, hesitated, and finally dared to lay his fingertips over hers, just the barest of touches.

  “Stephen?” she croaked through cracked lips, her eyes opening only a fraction before closing again.

  “My lord, she’s delirious,” the maid said quickly. “She knows not what she says.”

  Ignoring the woman, he bowed his head in anguish, shame, and regret. She’d loved his brother all along. He’d been willing to get a divorce so he could have Anne, a woman he cared for but did not love, but he’d been unwilling to get one so Claire could have Stephen, so Stephen could have her. If they weren’t allowed to marry in England, they could always go to America.

  The truth slammed into him. He’d not wanted Stephen to have Claire. He’d been jealous of the fact that Stephen had always had the lion’s share of their mother’s love—and he’d not been able to bring himself to allow his brother to have Claire’s as well. No man deserved that much love when Westcliffe had none at all.

  What a selfish bastard he was! For a few short weeks he’d learned what it was to love. She’d come to love him, but whatever she felt was nothing compared with what she must feel for Stephen. How could he deny her that?

  He stormed into the hallway. The butler stood there as though he knew he would be needed.

  “Have a horse readied for me,” Westcliffe barked.

  “Yes, my lord.”

  Westcliffe went into his bedchamber and stripped off the clothes he’d been wearing when the missive arrived. They were damp with his sweat and the rain that had beaten down on him as he’d neared the estate. Quickly, he drew on dry britches and a shirt. He grabbed the greatcoat from the wardrobe and swung it onto his shoulders. He snatched up a wide-brimmed hat and hurried back out into the night.

  The horse was waiting. He hoisted himself onto
the saddle.

  “M’lord—” the groomsman began, but Westcliffe didn’t wait to hear any warnings or advice. He tore down the cobbled drive as though Claire’s very life depended on it. Everything inside him screamed that it did.

  He changed horses five times before he arrived at his London residence just past midnight the following night. Soaked to the bone, he barked out orders as he strode toward the library, “See to the horse and have my carriage readied.”

  In the library, he downed a tumbler of whiskey in an attempt to stop the shivers that had begun rippling through him. Whether from the chill of his wet clothes or exhaustion, he didn’t know. He just knew he needed them to stop. A second tumbler followed, before he hurried to his bedchamber and changed into dry clothes. A more formal attire this time, including a waistcoat and jacket.

  Once outside he gave directions to his driver and climbed inside the carriage. As the wheels began to whir with the rapid movement of the vehicle, Westcliffe leaned back, rubbed his brow, and prayed he’d not be too late.

  Stephen loved experienced women. Jocelyn worked nicely in that regard. A very naughty daughter of a viscount, she had consented to visiting him in his rooms. He knew she hoped to trick some poor sod into marriage, but it wouldn’t be him. He took too many precautions. Still he intended to enjoy her and to make damned sure she enjoyed him. As he rode her, and her screams reached a never-before-heard pitch, he couldn’t help but swell with pride. Tonight, he’d exceeded his own expectations regarding the pleasure they’d share. Tomorrow, the legend of his prowess would grow to unheralded proportions. What a reputation he was obtaining. He suspected when he finally left England’s shores, a thousand women would weep, a thousand—

  The door crashed open. He barely had time to turn and acknowledge the intruder before he was being dragged from the bed.

  “What the bloody hell!” he yelled. “I’m involved here.”

  “Get your clothes on,” Westcliffe commanded in that irritating I-shall-be-obeyed tone that he had as he began gathering up Stephen’s clothes and tossing them at him.