Passions of a Wicked Earl (13 page)

“Oh, no. You terrified me but not in the manner my father did. With you, it was more … an uncomfortableness regarding the intimacy we’d share. I simply wanted to know you a bit better.”

His hand came up, settling at the nape of her neck, his thumb coming around to stroke the delicate underside of her chin. Heat traveled down to her toes. The gown without sleeves might have sufficed after all.

“Tell me, Claire, if you’d had a Season, what would you have looked for in a suitor?”

She peered over at him, surprised by his interest. She wondered to what degree Beth’s arrival had put their situation into a different perspective for him. “I would have wanted someone who made me laugh, I think.”

“Strange you should say that as I always thought your laughter was your most compelling feature. Stephen was adept at making you laugh.”

“Yes, he could. His was such a fun-loving nature, although he could be a bit of a scamp.”

“A scoundrel, more like. But he has always charmed the ladies.”

“No more than you.”

“I seem to have failed in that regard when it came to you.”

“I think only because I was still on the cusp between being a girl and a lady.”

Curling his fingers, he grazed his knuckles lightly over her cheek. “Observing your sister tonight made me realize exactly how young you were when we married. But now you’re certainly no longer a girl.”

They sat there for what seemed like forever, the only motion his slow stroking of her face. They were enclosed in shadows, only a hint of distant light to outline their silhouette, and yet she could feel the intensity of his gaze—as though he were striving to understand every aspect of her, as though nothing mattered more than this moment between them. She thought she was beginning to understand how women fell so easily under his spell.

When a lady had his attention, she had all of it.

“We should probably go in,” he said quietly.

She nodded.

“The fog should roll in soon,” he continued.

She nodded again, not at all anxious to leave, wanting to explore what was happening between them without any words, as though they were communicating on a more primal level. Her heart thumped erratically, and she desperately wanted him to lean in and kiss her.

Was he nearer? Was he going—

“It’s late,” he said, abruptly standing and breaking the spell.

For an insane moment, she almost flung her arms around him, lifted up onto her toes, and kissed
him.
He’d said he no longer wanted her, even though his recent actions seemed to indicate otherwise. But if he rebuffed her, she’d die of mortification.

He gave a low whistle, and she heard the rustling of plants as the dog limped out and fell into step beside his master. She was amazed at the consideration Westcliffe gave Cooper, his steps shorter, slower.

“Why not carry him?” she asked.

“When stairs are involved I do. Otherwise, well, the old boy has some pride.”

Like you,
she thought. She’d never considered before what it had cost him to need her dowry, then to find his brother in her bed. How was it that in only a few nights, she was coming to understand him far better than she had in all the years that had come before?

D
inner was a dreadfully dull affair. He wondered why he’d never before noticed. The only noise was the occasional scraping of silver over china. He was half tempted to suggest Anne hire an orchestra for his next visit. He could hardly countenance that he missed the incessant chattering when he dined with Claire and Beth although he knew it was the laughter that most pleased him. Claire was releasing it more frequently. Sometimes it resembled the tinkling of crystal chandeliers caught in a slight breeze, and other times it sounded as though it rose from the well of her soul.

He’d not expected to miss it so much when he’d decided to join Anne for dinner this evening. He’d been neglecting her, and the guilt had begun to gnaw at him. She’d not asked for this intrusion on their plans for the Season.

“We could go to Paris,” she suddenly said, and he jerked his attention away from the wine that was almost the red of Claire’s lips, realizing with regret that although he was in attendance, he was still managing to neglect his paramour.

“We could go to Paris,” she repeated as though she understood that he’d not been paying attention. “Your wife and her sister can stay in your residence, have their Season, and we’ll return when they’re on their way back to the cows.”

“Is that your opinion regarding my estate?”

“I did not mean to insult. I’ve never been to your estate, so I have no opinion of it.” She gave him a smile. “Paris?”

“I can’t. I have matters I need to see to here.”

He watched as displeasure crossed her face. She began slathering butter on her bread. “Then stay with me in my residence while she’s in London.”

“I’ll not have her chase me out of my own house,” he said. He’d paid a high price to possess it.

“I doubt you want me to be jealous either.” She set her bread on the plate, and the knife clattered beside it. “I don’t like that she’s here. Already, our time together has been diminished.” She heaved a sigh. “Perhaps I should have her to dinner.”

For some inexplicable reason, Westcliffe’s gut tightened. “I have no desire to flaunt what we have in front of her.”

“You worry about hurting her?” He said nothing, and Anne laughed. “You could only hurt her if she cared for you, which she does not.”

He ignored her biting words. The one thing he could say about Anne was that she was not demure. She was the most carnal creature he’d ever known, up for trying anything. Her sexuality always shimmered just below the surface, and it took very little to spark it to life. She credited his skills in the bedchamber, but he suspected it had more to do with her adventuresome spirit and the fact that she possessed no inhibitions at all.

She picked up her wineglass and swirled the red contents. “You will stay the night, won’t you?”

“Not tonight, no.”

“Then you’d best send me a very nice trinket tomorrow.” She rose and, with a swish of angry skirts, began to walk from the room.

Reaching out, he grabbed her arm. “Anne—”

She looked down on him with the damned tears wallowing and threatening to spill over. He slipped his free hand into his jacket pocket, removed a velvet box, and set it on the table. “I will make everything up to you. I promise.”

Capitulating quickly, she snatched up the box and opened it to reveal a diamond choker. “You do have such good taste.” She slid her gaze to him. “You will understand if I must mope for a bit.”

She glided from the room, and he was left to wonder why it was suddenly so difficult to appease two women: one he wished to be with, the other he did not. It should have been simple.

Instead, it seemed remarkably complicated.

During the fourth afternoon following Beth’s arrival, she was presented at court—their father’s rank having guaranteed her a presentation. The following days included a whirlwind of activity. In spite of the fact that she’d brought three trunks, Beth had bemoaned her lack of a truly exquisite gown for the first ball she’d attend. It had taken little to cajole Westcliffe into agreeing to purchase one for her—on the condition that Claire had one sewn as well. She’d not bothered to argue against it because on further reflection, following the night in the garden, she’d determined the gowns she did possess were sadly out of style. She’d also become determined to garner her husband’s attention, and for that she required an arsenal of flattering clothing. The dressmaker and her ladies were working diligently to ensure that all the items purchased were finished as quickly as possible. So she and Beth spent a portion of their days involved in fittings. Then they shopped for hats and gloves and shoes.

Claire couldn’t deny the joy it brought her to see Beth so hopeful and happy. But the first ball would be the true indication regarding her likelihood of finding a suitor.

Having only just awakened from a short nap, she had Judith assist her with her dress and hair. She was grateful for how busy she was helping Beth prepare for her Season. Westcliffe was often off seeing to business during the day. The evenings were a strange mixture. With rare exception, he joined them for dinner. What most surprised her was his tolerance of Beth’s company. On occasion, he would play chess with her. More often she entertained them with the pianoforte. On the few evenings when he did leave the residence, it was always late—after Beth was abed. Claire would lie in her bed listening for his return. Some nights, he was as quiet as … the grave. And others he was as loud as an ox. On those nights she suspected him of being three sheets to the wind.

They’d settled into a comfortable tolerance. But since the night in the garden, she never found herself alone with him. Not for want of trying on her part. Strange to think that in such a short time, she had no desire at all to avoid his company. He still scowled too often, was far more serious than she thought any person should be, but she couldn’t deny that he intrigued her.

After Judith finished arranging her hair, Claire walked down to Beth’s bedchamber, only to discover it empty. Beth had obviously awoken from her nap sometime earlier. With a few discreet inquiries to servants she passed in the hallways, she picked up her pace and headed toward the library. As many times as she’d told Beth not to bother Westcliffe when he was there, her sister seemed intent upon not listening. She didn’t seem to comprehend that if she fell out of his favor, her Season would come to an abrupt end.

But as she neared the open library door, she was as annoyed as she was surprised by the laughter, deep and masculine, floating out through it. Annoyed because it was not a sound he shared freely with her. Surprised because it was rich with the enjoyment of life.

Entering the library, she came up short at the sight of her sister waving her fan in front of her face, opening it, closing it, touching it to Westcliffe’s shoulder.

“Please,” she pleaded.

His eyes crinkling, he smiled and shook his head. Had she ever seen him so relaxed, so obviously enjoying himself? “The ones I know are not ones with which you need to become familiar.” His gaze suddenly shot past her to land on Claire, and her heart began a strange gallop. “Ask your sister.”

Beth glanced back at her, rolled her eyes, and released an impatient sigh. “She’ll be of no help. She didn’t have a Season. She knows nothing of flirtation.”

She grew uncomfortable under his formidable gaze. He studied her as though he’d just discovered something profound.

“So what are you two about?” Claire finally asked, anything to break the tension that was mounting.

“I’m trying to learn the language of the fan, and your husband won’t help. Claims he doesn’t know anything that a respectable woman would use.”

“I suspect that’s true.” She forced a lightheartedness into her voice, and, based upon the sudden twitch of his mouth, she suspected he appreciated what she wasn’t saying. That respectable women were not his forte. “But you are in luck, dear sister, because I do know various messages that the position of a fan can convey.”

“Truly. That surprises me.” But even as she spoke, Beth extended her closed fan.

“Just because I didn’t have a Season doesn’t mean I wasn’t prepared.” What she wasn’t prepared for, however, was her husband hitching up one hip and settling on the corner of his desk, as though anticipating a show. “Come, Beth. I’m certain my husband is busy. We should adjourn to the parlor where—”

“Stay. Present your lesson here. Perhaps I’ll learn something,” he said laconically.

“I find it difficult to believe that you don’t already know everything you need to know about the fan.”

“As I confessed to Beth, nothing I know about it would be used in polite society.” His eyes held a challenge and a glint of amusement.

With a flick of her wrist, she opened the fan and quickly closed it. “You are cruel.”

His expression darkened. “Am I?”

She’d thought him so in the beginning, because he’d seemed so hard and unforgiving, but he’d done nothing to make Beth’s stay unpleasant. Even her own was no longer as difficult as she’d anticipated. He possessed a kindness she’d not envisioned. She swallowed hard. “That’s what the gesture conveys.”

“Why would I ever use that?” Beth asked.

“Because some men are cruel. They take advantage and hurt you.”

“I should think that if they took advantage or

hurt me, that waving a fan at them would be the very last thing I’d want to do,” Beth said. “I believe I’d very much prefer to punch them.”

Westcliffe chuckled. “No need. Simply inform me, and I shall see to the matter, for both of you.”

She knew firsthand what sort of beating an unfortunate fellow would take if Westcliffe was displeased, yet she couldn’t deny the warmth that spread through her because he’d see to her honor. She touched the fan to her right cheek. “Yes.” To her left. “No.”

“What are the questions?” Beth asked.

“Across the room, a man might catch your attention, then tilt his head toward the terrace, perhaps wanting an assignation.”

“Oh, I see.”

“The answer should always be no,” Westcliffe fairly growled. “If you wish to retain your reputation, which I highly recommend if your intention is to find a suitable husband.”

“If I said yes, I suppose you would deal with him for inviting me to sin in the first place,” Beth said.

“Most certainly,” he assured her.

Claire was amazed that her sister could be so at ease with this man. How was it that she had failed to recognize the truth about him when she was that age? She snapped the fan closed. “I wish to speak with you.” She extended it toward her sister. “Closing the fan does signal that you wish to speak with someone. And I do wish to speak with my husband now—privately. We’ll continue the lessons later.”

“But—”

“Later, Beth. I’ll meet you in the parlor.”

“I can’t imagine that anything you have to say—”

“Beth.”

She gave a little pout. “Oh, all right. But we’ll have to continue
much
later, as we’re going to the park. We were simply waiting for you to awaken from your nap.”