Passions of a Wicked Earl (10 page)

And then she heard herself say, so boldly that she couldn’t quite believe it was her voice, “I would very much like to know what your kiss is like.”

It seemed to be all the invitation he needed. Before she could react, he’d wrapped an arm around her, drawn her up flush against his body, and begun a slow, seductive plundering of her mouth. He was not forceful, but he was insistent, his tongue enticing her lips to part. He tasted wicked, of something darker than the wine she’d drunk earlier. Her body hummed, erupting with pleasure, like little bubbles in champagne, cascading through her, popping along her nerve endings. She clung to Westcliffe, because to do otherwise would see her on the floor in a pool of muslin. He took her strength while at the same time granting her energy. It was the most marvelous thing she’d ever experienced.

He released a grating growl, then his hand was cradling her cheek, his thumb beneath her chin, tilting her head back slightly, altering the angle of the kiss so that his tongue delved more deeply. Hearing a restrained whimper, she realized that it came from her. She wanted to crawl up his body, wrap her legs around him. She felt pressure building between her thighs and wanted to push herself against him. What was wrong with her? Where were all these wanton thoughts and feelings coming from?

He glided his hands over her as though intent on memorizing every dip and curve, and with each stroke her body swelled with need. Heat built, desire flourished. She’d not expected this, this rampant yearning. It was far more intense than anything she’d experienced, and the strangest thought darted through her mind: that she wished she’d had this on her wedding night. For there was no denying the powerful need to take this journey to its rightful destination.

He cupped both hands around her bottom, pressed her firmly against him, her stomach molding around the hard ridge of his desire. She thought she should have been frightened. Instead, she wanted to explore him with the same furor. Oh, he was skilled at stirring passion, and all she’d feared retreated in the wake of overpowering sensations. He was like the storm, powerful and determined, that altered everything in its path, drenching thirsts and causing leaves to dance.

There was no hope for it. Whatever he wished of her—with the penetrating stroke of his tongue, the titillating touch of his fingers—he caused her to wish for herself. She wanted to follow these sensations to their fruition. She wanted to follow him.

With an abruptness she’d not expected, he broke off the kiss. Breathing harshly, his face flushed, his brow coated with dew, his eyes burning with a terrifying passion, he ground out through clenched teeth, “What you had before was the kiss of a boy. That is the kiss of a man.”

While she, gasping for breath, sank down onto the edge of the bed, he strode to the door. “Where are you going?” she forced out, her voice as weak as her body.

He stopped and glanced back at her over his shoulder, all fires banked, nothing but icy disdain now reflected in his features. “This changes nothing between us.”

Then he disappeared, and she wondered how he could be so unaffected—when, for her, it had changed everything.

Christ! Standing in the tub in the bathing chamber, he dunked what water remained in the washbasin over his head. He told himself that it was because he’d left Anne without his needs satisfied. He’d been a tinderbox of desire ready to ignite with the smallest flame. But if he were honest, it was more than that. Claire had tasted sultry, the wine on her tongue more intoxicating than any he’d sipped from a glass. Her reaction had been instantaneous, passionate, and heated. She’d not been coy. She’d not held back.

It unsettled him to think she might have given him the first honest kiss he’d ever received.

It wasn’t possible. He had more than a dozen years of knowing various women’s mouths, yet he couldn’t recall a single one that had been more alluring, that had made him want to draw out her pleasure as well as his. He’d never wanted simply to kiss a woman over and over. He’d wanted to sit down, draw her onto his lap, and kiss her. He’d wanted to lay her down and continue playing his mouth over hers.

A kiss was a prelude, but with her it had been as satisfying as anything that might have followed.

Grabbing a towel, he scrubbed it over his hair as he walked into his bedchamber, slamming the bathing-room door behind him. He stripped out of his wet clothes, poured himself a drink, downed it, and crawled into his bed. Stuffing his hands behind his head, he stared at the canopy.

Slowly, inch by inch, his gaze followed the unwanted path until he was once again scrutinizing the etching. Leo had perfectly captured the shape of Claire’s tantalizing mouth. Even now in dark gray, it still managed to ensnare him.

He could very possibly go bloody well mad before this Season saw its final ball.

W
estcliffe had left word with Willoughby that he was to be notified the moment the duchess’s carriage pulled to a stop in front of his residence. Therefore, he was nearly to the front door as Leo walked through it.

“My lo—”

Westcliffe abruptly halted his greeting by grabbing him by the scruff of the collar and hauling him to the parlor. The man was only a few inches shorter, but the way Westcliffe was feeling at that moment, he doubted even a man who towered over him could have dissuaded him from his purpose.

He was in a foul mood. He’d gone to bed aching with need. He’d intended merely to play his lips over Claire’s, give her a sampling of his kiss, but somewhere along the way his intentions had wandered off course. It had been too late to go to Anne or any other woman. So his frustration over what had happened with Claire was still harping at him, and he needed to unload it somewhere. Unfortunately for Leo, he was about to be the unlikely recipient. Westcliffe slung the young man into the room and closed the door behind them before advancing on him.

That Leo merely straightened his attire while standing his ground spoke well of him, but it did nothing to lessen Westcliffe’s temper.

“What the devil do you think you’re attempting to convey with that portrait?” Westcliffe demanded.

Leo merely smirked and sank into the nearest chair. “I told you not to look at it.”

“You knew damned well that I would.”

Leo shrugged as though he couldn’t be bothered to care what Westcliffe thought or felt.

“That scowl does not flatter me.”

“Then I suggest you not scowl.”

Before he planted his fist in the young man’s fair face, Westcliffe strode away, then swung back around. “Why that moment? Why did you choose to outline that particular moment?”

“Because it was the only one that revealed any emotion. I care little about the outer shell of those I put on canvas. I attempt to reveal the inner soul.”

Westcliffe braced his arms on either side of the man’s head where it rested against the back of the chair. “You won’t much like what you’ll find in my soul, so stop digging into it. You will paint as we are posed or not paint at all.”

Leo’s mouth formed a cunning smile. “Interesting. Yesterday you wanted me not to paint at all. Now you give me a choice. Perhaps you welcome the excuse to be so near your wife.”

Did this man not recognize a threat when it was delivered? And he didn’t wish to be near his wife. He did not desire her. He did not want her. He shoved himself back. “You know nothing.”

“As you wish, my lord. I’m merely an ignorant painter.”

The door opened, and Westcliffe moved even farther away.

“Oh, you’re here, Leo,” Claire said. Her gaze darted to Westcliffe, and he could have sworn her cheeks took on a pink hue before she turned her attention back to Leo. “Are we going to have another session?”

“I believe we are,” Leo said, coming out of the chair.

Westcliffe watched as he approached Claire and pressed a kiss to the back of her hand. He knew he shouldn’t feel any jealousy, and yet he did. He’d be rid of her come the end of the Season. What did he care who touched her, who kissed her? But for now, she was still his wife.

“Whenever you are ready, my lord,” Leo said, and escorted Claire from the room.

He followed them up the stairs, his gaze level with Claire’s provocatively swaying hips, hips he’d cupped last night, hips he’d pressed against his. What had he been thinking? He’d been frustrated following his visit to Anne’s because the distraction of his wife’s arrival had prevented him from wanting Anne. Then his wife had enticed him with her innocent request for a kiss.

She wore the same gown as yesterday, while he’d not bothered to wear the same jacket, waistcoat, and cravat. He’d assumed Leo would go skittering away. He should have known better. His mother didn’t suffer fools gladly. The fact that Leo had been her companion for some time now meant the man was no fool.

But neither did it mean that in this particular matter he was not serving as his mother’s puppet.

Claire was acutely aware of the tension in Westcliffe as he stood behind her, his hand resting heavily at her shoulder, his thumb grazing the nape of her neck. She wondered if he was even aware of the constant stroking. Leo had already moved on to using the oils. She wondered how many afternoons she’d be forced to endure this heaven and this hell. It was strange to find herself intrigued by her husband, to want to know so much more about him. In particular how he could act as though the intimacy of talking and later kissing had never happened, when it was all she could think about.

Suddenly, she felt the brush of his fingers over her cheek as he captured the errant strands that had once again worked their way free of her pins.

“They never seem to stay caught,” she said, wishing she didn’t sound so breathless.

“They say when a woman’s hair will not stay pinned that there is a wildness in her,” Leo murmured.

She’d thought she’d spoken quietly enough that only Westcliffe would hear her. “I’m not wild. I’m dreadfully dull.”

Westcliffe’s thumb stilled, and she wanted to glance back to see if he agreed.

“You never did answer my question yesterday,” he said instead.

What had she not answered?

“The one about my intentions regarding your mother?” Leo asked calmly, and she realized the question had been directed at him. “I intend to marry her, my lord.”

“That way lies heartache. She has only ever loved one man.”

Claire swung her head around and up to look at Westcliffe only to discover that his gaze was focused on her. Her heart stuttered, and she wondered if he’d been focused on her the entire time. What was he thinking when he touched her hair, when his fingers skimmed over her skin.

“I assume you’re referring to the Earl of Lynnford?” Leo inquired.

Because she was looking at Westcliffe, she saw the flash of surprise in his eyes before he concealed it behind his arrogant mask, and she was left to wonder how much of himself he hid from others. She’d have not expected him to help her move furniture around. She’d actually enjoyed sitting with him in the library last night. She’d certainly relished his kiss.

“Why would you say Lynnford?” Westcliffe asked, his voice flat, giving away nothing.

“Just before you were married, your mother commissioned me to paint your portrait. I’ve been with her for three years. Since Lynnford was named guardian of her three sons, and Ainsley has only just reached his majority, I’ve had occasion to see Tessa and Lynnford together. You’re scowling again, my lord.”

She watched as Westcliffe relaxed his facial muscles. She knew she should turn her attention back to the artist, but it was so much more fascinating to observe her husband.

“Why would you settle for a woman for whom you would always be second?” Westcliffe asked.

“I would not even be second, my lord. Her sons would come before me. But you see, what matters to me is that in my heart, she would always come first. I can imagine no happier life than to always hold near what I love most.”

“Then I wish you your happiness, painter. But I suspect you’ll not find it with my mother.”

Claire was aware of the friction in the air, hovering between the two men. She wanted it to go away. “Westcliffe, I’ve been looking over the invitations you gave me. Were there any in particular you wished to accept?”

His gaze came again to rest on her. “Whichever suits you.”

“I don’t know these people. I never had a Season. Even at our wedding, I walked among strangers. I cannot discern which balls would be the most favorable to attend.”

He seemed to give the matter considerable thought before saying, “The Duke and Duchess of Greystone. I believe theirs is next week. It will no doubt be the most well attended.”

She gave him a tremulous smile. “Then we shall start there.”

He furrowed his brow. “Did you attend no balls?”

She shook her head. “No. When would I have? I was married before what would have been my first Season.”

His thumb began stroking her nape again, and her eyes almost drifted closed in wonder at the sweet sensation. “Sometimes I overlook how very young you were when we married. So this will be your first Season as well. I assume you dance.”

“Yes. Father hired a teacher. I’m not sure why. I suppose to prepare me to take my place—”
Beside you.
Not where she wanted to lead the conversation now. “I’m grateful. Do you dance?”

“On occasion.”

She could not help but notice that his gaze continually drifted down to her lips, which caused them to tingle in anticipation, as though he’d lowered his head to once again take her mouth. She seemed unable to stop her tongue from slipping out to soothe them, and she could see the smoldering passion in his eyes when she did. Did it take so little to arouse him? Only she wanted so much more: love, respect, trust. She wanted him to want her to be his wife again, only she had no idea how to gain that.

But at least they were talking. Late into the night. And he had kissed her. Surely, if he found her repulsive, he’d have not lingered.

“I received word from Beth this morning,” she said. “She will arrive on the morrow.”

“I’ll not be available until sometime in the afternoon. I have an investor’s meeting.”