Passions of a Wicked Earl (30 page)

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.

W
here 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.

“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.