Passions of a Wicked Earl (12 page)

They were sitting at the dining table with Westcliffe at one end, Claire at the other, and her sister between them. He was astounded that she managed to eat with her incessant prattling. He wasn’t particularly irritated; simply amazed that she could speak for so long about absolutely nothing of any consequence. He was growing weary simply from listening. He couldn’t imagine trying to carry on a conversation with her.

“Oh, I do hope that I have good fortune in finding a suitor. I don’t suppose you know which of the lords are available.”

He was taking a healthy swallow of wine when her attention came to bear on him. Setting his glass aside, he reached into his jacket pocket. “Yes, as a matter of fact, I’ve compiled a list.”

His gaze darted to Claire, and he saw a flash of gratitude in her eyes. He wondered, if like him, she was already longing for a quieter dinner.

“Oh, this is absolutely marvelous. Claire, look.” Beth set the paper on the table between her and her sister. “There are so many. Surely, surely I shall find one who suits.” Tears glistened in her eyes when she glanced back at him. “I cannot thank you enough.”

He wasn’t quite comfortable with her appreciation. “I cannot vouch for their willingness to marry.”

“I want someone who is pleasing to the eye,” Beth said. “Do you consider all of these men handsome?”

He fought not to scowl. “I take little notice of their appearance.”

“Do you know them, Claire?” she asked.

“I fear I do not, so we shall discover together if they are men of character.”

“I prefer that they be men of wealth. Westcliffe, do you know of their financial situations?”

“No.”

“You have a nice dowry, Beth,” Claire said. “You do not need to concern yourself with their finances.”

“Of course I do. I do not want a man to marry me for my money. If he has wealth, then I shall know for certain that he is marrying me for
me.”

“Whether he be rich or poor, Beth, he shall want to marry you for you.”

“Father doesn’t share your confidence.”

“Don’t be so melodramatic. He’d have not given you a Season otherwise.”

The ladies settled into silent eating for all of fifteen seconds—he knew because he counted. He’d made a wager with himself that they’d not reach a minute of quiet before dinner was over.

Then Beth announced, “I can think of nothing worse than being married to Lord Hester.”

“He’s quite well-off as I recall,” Westcliffe said. “And I believe he’s only forty.”

Beth glared at him. “My life will be ruined.”

Such drama. Perhaps he would move to a hotel for the Season.

“I notice that Ainsley is not listed,” Claire said, her eyes dancing with amusement. Was she teasing him? Or was she sensing his impatience with the banality of the situation? Granted, Hester was not particularly charming, but neither was the man an ogre.

“I can vouch for his unwillingness to marry,” Westcliffe informed her.

“That is unfortunate,” Beth said. “What fun we’d have if we were all in the same family!”

“I can scarcely imagine it.” He heard a cough designed to cover a laugh coming from the other end of the table. He glanced at his wife. She was far too amused, and he found himself wishing that she’d released the laughter.

“Beth, dear heart,” Claire began, “I believe you must curb your enthusiasm somewhat lest you frighten the young men away.”

“Oh, I shall behave with the utmost decorum in public. But we’re family. Surely a bit more levity is allowed.”

“As long as we are not upsetting Westcliffe’s digestion. I daresay he’s not accustomed to the flightiness of young ladies.”

“I daresay he is if the rumors I’ve heard from Cousin are to be believed.”

He watched as Claire took great interest in the food remaining on her plate while her cheeks burned a bright red.

“I assure you, Beth,” he said quietly, but firmly, “there is no truth in the rumors regarding me and young ladies.”
Older ladies, mature ladies certainly. But young ones? No, not for some time now.

Beth took the paper he’d given her earlier, folded it up, and tucked it beneath the sash at the waist of her dress. “I’m so grateful to hear it. I didn’t believe them. Not really.” She gave him a pointed look. “Truly, why would you seek out the company of another when you have Claire?”

Why indeed? And he realized that while she’d heard rumors of his indiscretions, she wasn’t aware of her sister’s. Not unusual. As those who knew about it—the members of his family—were not prone to gossip.

“When Claire showed me around the residence, I noticed that you had a pianoforte. To show my appreciation for all you’ve done for me thus far, may I play it for you this evening?”

Surely she couldn’t speak while she played. “I would like that very much.”

Within five minutes, Westcliffe realized that he shouldn’t make assumptions about young women. Beth could indeed play and speak at the same time, and she seemed intent on revealing the history of each tune that tripped lightly from her fingers.

“Did you think she would be silent while playing?” Claire asked quietly as she handed him a snifter of brandy.

“The thought had occurred.”

She smiled with obvious amusement and something inside him shifted, teetered, made him feel as though his world were tilting. He’d always liked her smiles, but he felt as though this was the first truly genuine one she’d given him since she’d arrived. He didn’t know what to make of it or his feelings about it. He held tightly to the snifter, knowing he was in danger of crushing the glass, but he needed something to anchor him. Her eyes were soft, as though they were friends sharing an intimate secret, and he wondered if they’d appear the same if they were sharing darker intimacies. He felt an absurd desire to take her mouth, to—

“Claire, please come turn the sheets of music for me. It ruins my playing to have to do it myself. You could even sing while you’re over here. Have you heard her sing, my lord? She has the voice of a nightingale.”

Claire’s luscious mouth twisted as she rolled her eyes. Was she embarrassed by the praise? Or was she simply unaccustomed to receiving it? He’d certainly never complimented her. Anne could barely stand to go five minutes without hearing words of adoration, and if he wasn’t extolling her virtues, she was—constantly reminding him of her worth.

Claire took her place, standing near enough to where Beth sat so she could easily follow along with the music and turn the pages aside. Observing the sisters so closely together, he noted that Beth possessed a youthfulness that had long since left Claire. He thought of the manor and how much more efficiently things were managed there now. No leaking roofs. No dirty windows. No overgrown gardens. She’d even purchased a couple of mares. According to the groomsman, she loved to ride. He’d never gone riding with her. Had done nothing of any consequence with her actually.

His musings were interrupted as the sweetest voice filled the room. Claire was singing. He’d never thought anything would be more beautiful than her laughter. He’d been wrong. Of late, he was discovering that he’d been wrong about a great many things. Her broad smile was almost a perfect match of Beth’s, and yet Claire’s seemed brighter. There was a joy, an easiness about her that he’d never seen. She was still wary of him.

He’d never played with her, he’d barely spoken to her. She’d always seemed like a child. Last night, when she’d spoken of the years separating them, she was correct.

He’d only recently begun to recognize her as a woman. Even on the day they’d married, he’d considered her a young girl, barely a woman.

Swallowing his brandy, he found himself wondering if he was as responsible for the debacle of their marriage as she.

Unbelievably weary, Claire walked through the garden in the moonlight, with the occasional gaslight illuminating her way. She’d forgotten how Beth could wear her down. For a while, she’d feared her sister’s excitement would not calm enough for her to fall asleep. But eventually she’d closed her eyes, and soon after she’d ceased her prattling. Growing up, they’d shared a bed, and it had always amazed Claire that Beth would fall asleep talking and immediately upon awaking, begin speaking again. Sometimes even completing a sentence or thought from the night before.

She’d also forgotten how delightful it was to sing. With no audience, she’d stopped lifting her voice in song. Only tonight had she realized that she was audience enough. She came to a startled halt at the sight of the shadowy figure sitting on a bench near the roses. “Westcliffe. I thought you’d left.”

When she returned downstairs after seeing Beth to bed, she’d not seen him in the library, a bit perturbed with herself because she’d actually been seeking his company. She’d assumed that he’d gone to spend the remainder of his evening with Lilac—or whatever the deuce her name was. It had astounded her that he’d stayed in residence the night before. She’d warned herself not to grow accustomed to his presence, and yet she couldn’t deny the spark of gladness at the sight of him.

“No, just out for a walk with Cooper. This is as far as he can get these days.”

She’d taken her turn about the garden going in the opposite direction. She wondered how long he’d been sitting on that bench. “Where is he?”

“Lying beneath the rosebush over there. Not certain why he favors it, but he does.”

“Perhaps he has a bone buried in the vicinity.”

“I suppose that’s as good an explanation as any.” To her immense surprise, he slid over and said, “You’re welcome to join me.”

She considered excusing herself and going on, but it was such a lovely night. And they seemed to have reached some sort of truce. She sat, but the bench was narrower than she realized. He lifted his arm and set it along the back, the action seeming to free up a little more space for her. “I’m sorry about Beth,” she said softly. “She’s simply so excited about London and her Season. She won’t talk quite so much once she settles in.”

Feeling his fingers stroking the sleeve of her dress, she wondered if he always felt a need to touch a woman when she was near. She wished it was she he desired, wished she knew how to bring that result about.

“She seems so remarkably young. How old is she?” he asked.

“She’ll be eighteen come November.”

“Considerably older than you when you married.”

He seemed mystified by the knowledge. “Not so much. Half a year or so.”

“Still, you did not appear so young. Perhaps because I was as well.”

“And now we are so terribly old.”

His smile, so white, flashed in the shadows. She wished it had stayed longer so she might have had a chance to commit it to memory.

His fingers continued to thrum over her arm, and she wished she were wearing the gown that had no sleeves. Oh, it did seem to be a night for wishing. But the evening air was cool, and she’d have been shivering by now.

“Willoughby informs me you arrived with only one trunk,” he stated as though she’d been involved in something untoward.

She was taken aback. “Why ever would he discuss my trunk with you?”

“Because I inquired. Your sister requires three trunks for the Season, and you do not?”

She laughed lightly. “She is in the market for a husband. I am not. I have a gown to wear to the balls, one for dinner. It’s enough.”

“Have another made. Have half a dozen. My wife doesn’t need to wear the same gown to every affair.”

“I don’t need them. No one will be paying any attention to me.”

“I care not. I can well afford it.”

She fought back her disappointment because she’d secretly hoped that he’d confess that
he
would pay attention to her. She saw no point in arguing further. She’d simply not go to the dressmaker’s. “At the estate, I can see the stars so clearly. The same cannot be said here. When the fog is not in the way, the lights seem to be.”

Silence eased in around them. She found comfort in it. She could scarcely remember what it was about him that she’d feared.

“I can’t recall if I ever told you how much I appreciated how you managed the estate,” he said.

“I didn’t think you’d noticed.”

“I noticed.”

She sensed true gratitude in his voice, but he also seemed uncomfortable offering the praise, so she sought to put him at ease. “I enjoy it. It fills my days, gives me purpose.”

“Perhaps the next time I visit, you’ll not go into hiding.”

She fought back her smile. “Perhaps I’ll give you a tour. I suspect there are things you overlooked.”

“I doubt it. What I noticed most was the … warmth.” He shook his head. “I can’t explain it, but I can feel it happening here. Must be the heat from the friction generated by you moving all that furniture around.”

Was he teasing her? She was startled by the pleasure she took in it. Releasing a light laugh, she admitted, “I don’t know why I do that so much. But I always have. I think perhaps it’s because the placement of furniture is something I can control. I could never control my father’s temper or the force of his hand when he struck me—”

“He struck you?”

She felt the heat of shame burn her cheeks. “When he was not pleased with me, yes.”

“Did you think I’d strike you? Is that why you feared me?”