“Not bloody likely,” Stephen said, as he let his trousers hit him and land on the floor. “I’m not with your wife, so you’ll leave—”
“My wife is dying.”
Everything in Stephen stilled. “What the devil are you talking about?”
“She took a tumble from her horse, lost the babe—”
“She was with child?”
“Just get dressed. I’ll explain on the way.” Stephen had heard of men swallowing their pride, but he’d never actually seen it, not until that very moment when every ounce of arrogance Westcliffe possessed drained out of him. “She’s calling for you. Please.”
Stephen nodded and quickly drew on his clothes, not bothering to button every button or ensure that all was straight. He’d have time for that later.
He returned to the bed and gave Jocelyn a hard kiss on the mouth. “Sorry, love. I owe you.”
“Damned right you do. Get back to me as soon as you can.”
He gave her a cocky grin before turning to his brother. “Lead the way.”
Finding Stephen had taken Westcliffe two stops. He’d gone to Ainsley first. He wasn’t sure how the whelp managed it, but he knew everything that happened in the darker corners of London as well as in the brightest salons. His knowledge was uncanny. Ainsley had known where to find Stephen.
Only now, with his goal of finding Stephen achieved, did Westcliffe give himself leave to wonder what their future might hold. If only he hadn’t taken Claire, if only he’d allowed his marriage to remain unconsummated, but she’d glided effortlessly into his heart. Then she’d begun her flirtations, her taunting, her teasing until he’d thought he’d go mad with the wanting.
He cursed his soul to perdition. What price would she now pay for his lack of control, his inability to trust, to love?
With dawn easing through the windows, Stephen awoke, stiff and sore, lounging on the bench of the coach. His brother remained exactly as he’d been when Stephen had finally closed his eyes: staring out the window.
“It wasn’t my babe, you know,” Stephen said quietly.
He thought he detected his brother’s grimacing. “I know.”
“Don’t suppose you thought to bring any liquor.”
“We’ll be stopping soon to change horses. If you’re quick about it, you should have time to get something to eat and drink.”
Stephen didn’t want to think that they might arrive too late. He might not be so concerned if Westcliffe didn’t look as though he’d ridden through hell. “About your wedding—”
“I know what you did and why you did it, but it was still idiotic. I’m not going to relieve you of any guilt you might be feeling, so save the words.”
“Rot in hell.”
“Do you not think I’m already there?”
Stephen turned his attention to the dreary countryside. For the first time, he wished his mother hadn’t managed to keep him in England. He thought facing hordes of Britain’s enemies would be preferable to facing what awaited them at Lyons Place.
“It was supposed to be Anne,” he said quietly.
“What?”
“In the conservatory.” He looked at his brother. “I was supposed to meet Anne there. Claire was the last person I expected to see. Her back was to me. In the shadows I could tell little of her hair, little about her. I thought I was kissing Anne. She’d approached me—”
“She approached you?”
“Yes. In Chelsea. How she found me, I don’t know. But she wanted us to have a tryst in her conservatory while there was a ball being held in her residence. She thought it would be wicked, fun.”
“That sounds like Anne.”
It worried him that his brother’s voice was so flat and emotionless. He leaned forward. “I’m wondering, though, do you think her plan all along was to have you find me with Claire? If she knew your temper—”
“She knew my temper.”
Stephen heard his brother’s harsh curse. “She can’t have been that conniving.”
“If she wanted you badly enough,” Stephen cautioned.
Westcliffe cursed again. “I shall never forgive myself if I am the cause for this.”
“Perhaps if Claire recovers, and we know how she came to be there, it will all make sense,” Stephen offered.
“Perhaps.”
The rain had stopped, but the mud made for slow going.
“Are you sober enough to sit a horse?” Westcliffe suddenly asked.
“I can. Can you?”
“We’ll transfer to saddles at the next stop.”
They’d chopped off her hair. Westcliffe knew it was a silly thing to mourn: the loss of the glorious golden strands, but mourn them he did. The short tufts gave her the appearance of a baby chick.
“The physician said her hair was holding the fever in her brain,” the maid said.
Westcliffe had never heard of such a thing, but then what did he know about the healing arts? He wished he’d had the wherewithal to think to bring a physician from London with him. Surely a doctor in the city knew more than a doctor in the country.
“Has she awoken?” he asked.
“A couple of times, m’lord, but she is so weak—”
She was still blabbering her dire predictions when he went to the sitting area, selected a chair, and shoved it over to the bed, nearest the side where Claire lay. “Sit,” he ordered Stephen.
“What?” Stephen stood at the foot of the bed, his attention on Claire, his face almost as pale as hers.
“The next time she awakens, I want to make damned sure she knows you’re here. You’re going to hold her hand, you’re going to speak to her, you’re going—”
“I don’t see how it’ll make any difference.”
Westcliffe grabbed Stephen by the lapel of his jacket and swung him around, depositing him in the chair. “It might not, but it might. Take her hand. Talk to her.”
“But you’re her husband.”
“You’re the one she’s calling for.”
With a nod, Stephen did as he was told. Westcliffe backed away, dropped into a chair in the sitting area that gave him a view of Claire and Stephen. He was not a religious man, but he began to pray.
He remembered her as a young girl, traipsing after Stephen, often looking after Ainsley. She’d played with his brothers, climbing trees, chasing butterflies. Westcliffe had always considered their antics too childish, beneath him. He was so much older, the man of the family after his father had died. Even when his mother had married the eighth Duke of Ainsley, Westcliffe had been reluctant to relinquish his place as the one in charge.
He’d never approached life with the frivolity that Claire had. It was one of the reasons he’d anticipated marrying her. While he’d recognized that he was ridiculously somber, he’d expected her to balance out his life.
He supposed, in retrospect, he should have told her the qualities he admired in her. He should have courted her. He shouldn’t have assumed she’d be delighted to marry him. What did he offer? Nothing of any significance, yet she took it all and made it better than it was.
Perhaps he should have risked scandal and let her go when he realized he was not the brother she wished to marry. Pride had forced him to keep her. Now the price she might pay for his transgressions was too high to contemplate.
Dawn was easing in through the part in the draperies when Stephen rose from his chair with a wide yawn. “I’m going to bed. Wake me when she stirs.”
“Sit down.” His voice sounded as though a frog had taken up residence within it. It was dry and scratchy, and his body was alternately chilled and hot.
“Westcliffe—”
“Sit. You will be there when she awakens.”
With a groan, Stephen dropped back into the chair. His head fell back as he stared at the ceiling. “Nothing is to be gained by forcing me to endure these discomforts.”
“God help me, you do not deserve her love.”
“And you do?”
Westcliffe placed hi
s elbow on the arm of the chair and began to rub his throbbing head. “No.”
“You have a care for her, though.”
Westcliffe held his tongue.
Stephen sat up straighter. “By God, you love her. Why are you not sitting here?”
“Because she called for you.” Every bone and muscle ached as he rose from the chair, crossed the room, pulled back the curtains, and opened the windows. Sunlight and fresh air. Perhaps they would help. The cool morning breeze had barely wafted into the room when he heard Claire’s faint voice.
“Stephen?”
“Hello, sweeting. You gave us quite a fright.”
Westcliffe glanced toward the bed. She was giving Stephen a soft smile while he toyed with the tufts of her hair. A fine sheen of perspiration coated her face and throat. He wondered if her fever had broken.
He was halfway across the room to fetch a maid to see to her needs when he heard her quiet voice. “Westcliffe?”
Staggering to a stop, he glanced back. She was holding out a hand to him. He didn’t know what she wanted of him, but he crossed back over to the bed. She looked so much thinner. Had she lost weight while they were separated? Or was it simply that she was diminished after surviving her ordeal?
They seemed to stare into each other’s eyes forever. Hers were as blue as he recalled, but the brightness had left them. Finally, she whispered, “The baby?”
Slowly, he shook his head. “I’m sorry.”
She started to weep. Without thinking, he crawled onto the bed and folded her into his arms as sobs shook her body. He’d never known such pain, to see her shattering like this. His usually bold and determined wife, her heart breaking. He covered the back of her head with his hand, held her close, murmured reassurances. He was barely aware of Stephen slipping from the room.
He almost called him back, almost told him that it was Stephen she needed—but she’d called to him, had held out her hand to him. He could no more let her go now than he could cease to breathe.
Eventually, she fell asleep in his arms, exhaustion and weakness from her ordeal claiming her. He was awash in regret as he found a maid to see to his wife’s needs and sent another servant to fetch the physician.
Once he was assured that his wife would recover, he collapsed on his bed.
It had been two days since Claire had wept in Westcliffe’s arms. Since then, he came into her bedchamber every morning to ask after her health, but other than that, she hadn’t seen him. They were back to being strangers, and she was once again exiled from his heart.
Now sitting at a small table enjoying the light breeze of the afternoon, Claire sipped her tea. It seemed she had another ticklish spot. Her scalp, as the wind fluttered the short strands. She touched them self-consciously. She would need some new hats.
She was thinking of such silly things so she didn’t have to contemplate the loss of the baby. She’d already come to love him, already missed him.
She glanced up and smiled as Stephen sat beside her.
“I think Westcliffe has recovered sufficiently that we can begin our journey back to London today,” he said.
“Westcliffe—recovered? From what?” she repeated.
“I don’t think he slept from the moment he received the missive that you’d taken a tumble. Made himself ill.”
“I didn’t know. I didn’t think he cared any longer.”
Stephen twisted in his chair and took her hand. “Sweetheart, why do you think I’m here? He forced me to come. In your delirium, you were calling for me, and he feared only my presence would save you.”
“I don’t remember. I remember thinking … before I fell from the horse … that I needed to speak with you. Why were you in the conservatory that night at Lady Anne’s?”
“She’d come to see me a few days before and issued an invitation for a private party in her conservatory. Said she thought it would be fun to have an intimate party with me while another party was going on in her residence.”
“I think she arranged for you to meet with me instead. I’d been dancing with Lord Lynnford. When the dance ended, before we could leave the floor, a servant said he had a message for me. So I followed him. He told me Lord Westcliffe had bid me to meet him in the conservatory.”
“Did you tell Westcliffe?”
“No, I didn’t think he’d believe me. I had no proof. I’m fairly certain she arranged everything to ruin things for us.”
“She succeeded.”
She nodded. “I don’t know where we’ll go from here.” She glanced back at the house.
“He loves you, Claire.”
She laughed bitterly, trying not to think about the tenderness with which he’d held her while she cried after learning she’d lost the child. “No, I think not.”
“He rode to London to find me—in the storm. He looked like bloody hell. When we got here, he wouldn’t let me leave that chair. He didn’t see to his own needs until he was certain you were all right. He does care for you, Claire.”
“He doesn’t trust me. He wouldn’t even listen that night at Lady Anne’s.”
“God, Claire, what was he to think? He found us together on his wedding night. And then to see us together again? I can’t blame him for what he thought.” He took a deep breath. “I can’t believe what we did on your wedding night. I knew your reputation would be safe because his pride would prevent him from telling anyone, but I hadn’t anticipated that he’d fill his nights with other women. That was incredibly unfair to you.”
She was torn between laughing and crying. “Perhaps deserved. We were so stupid.”
“You trusted me, and I—”
She gave him a wry smile. “Your plan worked.”
“A little too well I think.”
Reaching out, she held his hand. “I’ve missed you. Why didn’t you let me know you were in London?”
“I messed things up for you, Claire. The best thing I could do was stay away.” He touched her cheek. “I’m going to go even farther away.”
She stared at him uncomprehending.
“I’m going to be leaving England, Claire.” He bestowed on her the devilish grin she’d always loved, but there was a touch of self-mockery in it. “I’ve been told that I’m a man without character. I’ve finally come to believe it. My brothers bought me a commission, and like everything else in my life, I’ve not made the most of it. They’ve both wagered that in battle the enemy will see only my back. Can’t have them win that wager, now can I?”
“But you could get hurt or worse.”
His smile was familiar, cocky, daring. “Not to worry. I have the luck of the devil.”
Claire found her husband in the library, behind his desk, scrawling some letter, some bit of business. He immediately rose to his feet as she neared his desk and came to a stop.
“How are you feeling?” he asked.
She was acutely aware of his gaze roaming over her. She touched the cropped strands of her hair. “Light-headed.”
He flashed her a quick smile. “It’ll grow back.”
“I should hope so. I understand you were ill.”
“Exhausted, I think.” He shifted his stance. “I’m sorry … for a good many things regarding you. I … you deserve better.” Looking down, he touched the paper on his desk. “I’ve been working on wording a petition to go to Parliament for our divorce.”
Her heart very nearly stopped in her chest. “You told me that you didn’t love Lady Anne Cavill, that she doesn’t love you. You deserve someone who loves you.”
The disbelief, mingled with the sadness in his eyes, told her that he thought she was simply giving him trite declarations—to avoid scandal perhaps, to evade the shame of an unsuccessful marriage.
“Claire—” he began.
And she cut him off, taking a step nearer, desperate to make him understand. “If I called out for Stephen in my delirium, it was only because before I fell I was thinking that I needed to speak with him about our meeting in the conservatory. I was
there because a servant had told me you were waiting for me. Stephen was there because Lady Anne had told him that she’d be waiting for him.”
“Yes, so Stephen told me. She wanted to separate us, and it worked. Some good can come of this. It made me realize that you love Stephen. We can find a way—”
“No!” She stepped forward. “Yes, I do love him, but it is the love of a friend or even a sister for a brother. It is not that of a wife for a husband.”
Taking another step, she staggered, grabbed the back of a chair. Westcliffe was immediately out from behind his desk, his arm about her steadying her. Releasing her hold on the chair, she wrapped her arm around his neck and lifted her gaze to his. “You own my heart,” she whispered, as tears welled. “I can’t tell you the exact moment you took possession of it. I only know that I long to hear your laughter, that I constantly listen for the tread of your boots because even if you are not in the room with me, knowing you are near eases my loneliness.
“I am willing to withstand any public ridicule or scandal so that you might find happiness. If indeed you do love her and cannot love me—”
“Claire,” he rasped, his large hand cradling the back of her head, holding her tightly. “How can I not love you?”
Her heart swelled.
“You are all that is good and sweet and innocent,” he continued. “To consider that you could truly love me—”
“Do not consider it, Westcliffe. Be certain of it.”
He knelt, but held her hands tightly, giving her the strength to remain standing. “I never asked you to marry me, and for that I apologize. But I will ask you this: Will you honor me by remaining my wife?”
“Oh, you silly man, the honor is mine.”
She thought she would forever remember the adulation in his eyes at that moment as the walls he’d built to protect his heart crumbled. How could he have lived his life with only one assurance: that he had the love of a collie?
He was so strong, so good, so noble. She wasn’t certain her heart could contain all the love she felt for him. How could she have ever doubted that he was the perfect husband for her?
He swept her into his arms and carried her from the room. On the terrace, where her tea was growing cold, Stephen was waiting to say good-bye, but she didn’t care. He would have to wait. The man in whose arms she was now cradled would always come first from this moment on. She’d never give him reason to doubt her affections.
Passions of a Wicked Earl Page 24