Passions of a Wicked Earl (14 page)

“We?” Claire repeated.

“Yes. Westcliffe has consented to accompany us. It would be good for us to be seen out and about before the ball tomorrow night. I shall grab our hats and parasols while you have your little discussion.” Waving her fan, she fairly waltzed from the room.

“You’re going to have to keep a close watch over her,” Westcliffe said.

“Yes, I fear so.”

As though needing to put distance between them, now that they were alone, he hoisted himself up, walked around his desk, and took his chair. He lounged back in it, his dark gaze riveted on her. He arched an eyebrow. “You wished to talk?”

Whatever she’d meant to discuss with him escaped her mind as one overriding thought dominated. “The park? We’re going to the park? People will be about, will they not?”

“A good many people will be about.”

She nodded absently. Knowing the ball would be difficult, that her husband’s indiscretions were not secret, she’d been preparing herself for it. But this moment seemed too soon.

As though reading her thoughts, he said quietly, “It’ll make tomorrow night easier.”

“I had hoped all the attention would be on Beth, but I suspect there will be some speculation regarding me—us.”

“You must have anticipated that before you agreed to give her a Season.”

“She’s very difficult to say no to.”

He gave her a wry grin. “So I’ve discovered.”

Her mouth suddenly dry, her stomach a tangle of knots, she suggested, “You and Beth could go without me.”

“You’re going to have to face them all sooner or later, Claire. Would it not be better when it is not with the press of bodies, and escape is a tad more difficult?”

She realized he’d given it thought and drawn conclusions about the unconscionable position he’d placed her in. At that moment, she hated him for not being discreet. But neither could she deny the role she’d played in bringing this about with her childish behavior years before.

She bobbed her head. “Yes, of course. I can see the advantage to this.”

“If you grow too uncomfortable, we can easily leave and quickly.”

“All right, then. To the park we shall go.”

The landau was beautiful, black with red trim, pulled by two matching grays. Claire and Beth faced forward, while Westcliffe and Cooper had their backs to the driver. The dog sat on the seat more alert than she’d seen him since her arrival.

Beth could barely sit still. “You will tell me if you see anyone of consequence.”

“Everyone here is of consequence,” Westcliffe assured her.

“Do you think people are wondering who I am?”

Determined to focus on her sister and not herself, Claire squeezed her hand. “I’m sure they are, dear heart.”

“But there are so many people. What can you tell us about them, my lord?”

“I am not one for gossip, but do you see the couple in the white landau with the white horses?”

“The woman with the striking red hair?”

“Yes. That is the Duke and Duchess of Greystone. It is their home we’ll be going to tomorrow night.”

“From a distance they seem nice enough.”

“Until she married the duke, she was a bookkeeper at a gentlemen’s club.”

Beth’s eyes widened. “How scandalous!”

“They are closest to those with questionable pasts. I daresay you’ll see several of them at the ball. Neither the duke nor the duchess tolerates anyone speaking ill of someone within their residence. If it is gossip you seek, Beth, I fear I suggested the wrong ball for us to attend.”

Claire sat there, too stunned to speak. His gaze met hers for the span of a heartbeat. She saw understanding within the dark depths, perhaps even an apology, although that might have simply been her imagination. What she did know was that at the first ball they attended, she might not be the fodder for gossip and speculation that she’d feared. Afterward, certainly, but others around whom scandal stirred would serve as an initial distraction. She could scarcely signify that her husband had suggested that particular ball as a way to spare her some mortification. It was more likely that he was most comfortable with those who created scandal with the ease that he did. But whatever the reason, she was not dreading attending the ball as much as she had been an hour earlier.

A rider on a sleek brown horse approached, and the driver brought the carriage to a halt. Grinning broadly, the Duke of Ainsley swept off his top hat and bowed from the waist. “Countess, a pleasure to see you.”

“You as well, Your Grace.”

“Lady Beth, when did you grow up?” he asked.

“About the same time as you, I suspect,” Beth said, smiling brightly.

Then he turned his attention to his brother. “Westcliffe.”

“Ainsley.”

Claire couldn’t believe the formality between the brothers.

“Cooper, how are you, old boy?” Ainsley reached out and petted the dog with his gloved hand. “Heard Lord Chesney had a litter of pups recently.”

“Wonder how Chesney pulled that miracle off?” Westcliffe said laconically. “He should be studied. It’s not every day a man gives birth to dogs.”

Claire bit back her laughter. Her husband did seem to have an odd sense of humor. It didn’t often show itself, but obviously it lurked.

Ainsley narrowed his eyes at him. “Must you take everything so literally? His collie had them. Cute pups. I was thinking of getting one, but I’m leaning toward a setter.” He looked over at Beth. “Do you like dogs, Lady Beth?”

“Most certainly. Especially the setter.”

“Well, then, I shall keep that in mind when I make my choice. It was good to see you.” He tipped his hat. “Good day.”

He cantered away. Beth turned in her seat.

“Beth, don’t turn to watch him,” Claire scolded.

“Why? He is such a fine figure of a man. Do you think anyone noticed that he stopped to visit with us? It wouldn’t hurt at all if someone thought he were interested in making a match.”

“Courting is a slow ritual, Beth. You must have more patience with it.”

“But it is so hard.”

Before the landau could again be on its way, a barouche drew up beside it. Claire recognized the woman as Lucy Stuart, Lady Morrow. She was a friend of Claire’s cousin Charity. They’d played together on occasion. Last Season she’d married the Earl of Morrow and had promptly paid a visit to Claire to inform her that she didn’t approve of Westcliffe’s philandering. She was one of the ladies advocating that Claire bring her husband to heel—as though that were easily done.

“Countess, what a pleasure it is to see you in London … with your husband.” She blinked her brown eyes repeatedly as though she had a speck of dust in them. Her black hair was tucked up neatly beneath a hat with a brim so wide that her husband was forced to sit leaning to the side to avoid it. He greeted everyone, then turned his attention to their surroundings as though he were merely an ornament to his wife.

“Lady Morrow, how good it is to see you. You remember my sister, Lady Beth.”

“Yes, of course. The family resemblance is uncanny. I’d not heard you’d arrived for the Season,” Lady Morrow said.

“I was not aware my wife was required to inform you of her business,” Westcliffe said smoothly.

Beth gasped, Lucy’s eyes turned round as saucers, Morrow continued to look elsewhere, and Claire’s stomach dropped through the floor of the carriage. Still, she felt compelled to force out, “Beth and I have been extremely busy.” She hated herself for it, but she knew that, unlike the Duchess of Greystone, Lucy would spread rumors, and she needed her to at least think she and her husband were on their way to making amends. “Westcliffe and I are having our portrait made—and that’s terribly tedious and time-consuming.”

“Yes. Quite.” She looked at Westcliffe, then back at Claire. “I’m glad all seems to be well. You must come to call.” She bid her adieu, and they were racing away.

“I never much liked her,” Beth muttered.

“She can influence your Season, Beth.”

“Ainsley can influence it more.”

Claire was aware of a frisson of tension radiating from her husband. If she’d learned one thing of any consequence in the short time she’d been in London, it was that he didn’t like being beholden to his youngest brother. “I believe Westcliffe is providing all the influence you need. After all, he is the reason we have a ball to attend.”

His voice had a more relaxed edge to it when he ordered the driver to continue on. The drive through the park was more pleasant than she’d expected. No one else stopped to speak with them, but there were the occasional nods and acknowledgments directed at Westcliffe. Because he was with them, she had little doubt that some would assume all was well with their marriage. Others might see it as a tentative beginning. And a few might see it for what it truly was: an act.

Although for the life of her, try as she might, she was having a difficult time seeing it as an act. For her, it
did
feel more like a tentative beginning.

S
itting in the library, drinking his whiskey, waiting on the ladies to finish preparing themselves for the ball, Westcliffe became lost in thought. He’d never considered what effect his carousing would have on Claire if she ever returned to London. Out of sight, out of mind. But he’d seen the distress quickly cross over her face when Beth had mentioned going to the park. And he’d recognized his responsibility in causing it. In hindsight, stupid of him not to realize his actions would have an impact on her.

Three years ago, like her, he’d been young, lacking judgment, and controlled by fears, but unlike her, he’d also been controlled by ambitions. His fear was that he was lacking in what was required to hold on to a woman. His manhood had been threatened, his very sense of himself. He’d strived to become so deeply buried in pleasure in all its forms that he’d forget the betrayal, that he’d no longer think of the wife he’d left at his estate. That whatever faults might reside in him would become insignificant.

Instead, they’d only been magnified.

His pride would never allow him to set it aside for another’s happiness. Yet Claire had done exactly that. He’d seen it when she’d agreed to the jaunt in the park, and he expected to see it on display again this evening. She knew of his wicked reputation, and yet tonight she would stand beside him—no doubt with her head held high—so her sister might avoid marriage to a man she had not chosen.

His wife was remarkable. Tonight would not be easy for her. While those who gossiped were not favored at the Duchess of Greystone’s affairs, it would still flourish in darkened corners and balconies. He didn’t envy his wife what she would endure for her sister’s sake. It humbled him to wonder if he’d ever do the same for his brothers.

Knowing that the ladies would soon be joining him, he’d dispensed with his usual ritual of closing the door, so their light laughter, tittering, and footsteps traveled to him shortly before they entered. Setting his whiskey aside and rising to his feet to welcome them, he found himself without words at the sight of them.

Beth was lovely in a white gown with a spray of white roses adorning her upswept hair. But Claire was stunning in a lavender silk gown with a décolletage baring her shoulders and allowing the merest hint of her breasts. A pearl comb and loops of pearls adorned her hair.

“You don’t like them,” Beth blurted.

He worked to regain his faculties. “Pardon?”

“Our gowns. Do you hate them? Do they make us look so awful?”

“Quite the contrary. You’re both exceedingly lovely.”

“Then we must be off, or we’ll be late.”

“I’ve told you, Beth, that it’s fashionable to be late,” Claire said, giving her sister an indulgent smile.

“That’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard. Why issue an invitation with a time on it if you don’t want people to be there
on time?”

“I fear we will be a tad late,” Westcliffe said, “as I have a matter to which I must attend.”

“Oh, Lord,” Beth whined rolling her eyes.

No matter how young Claire had been when they married, he couldn’t imagine her throwing such tantrums at the smallest of inconveniences. He couldn’t imagine her throwing a tantrum at all. He walked to his desk, opened a drawer, and withdrew a black velvet box. “I thought a lady about to embark on her first ball of her first Season should have something by which to remember it.”

He extended it toward Beth.

Her eyes widened, and she smiled brightly. “Oh! For me! Oh! Thank you.” She hurried across the short distance separating them and eagerly snatched the box from him. Opening it, she gasped. “Oh, it’s lovely! Oh, Claire, look. A pearl bracelet. Help me put it on, will you, please?”

She smiled at him softly, and in her blue eyes, he saw the gratitude for what he considered a small gesture—and what she obviously considered so much more. It gave him a sense of accomplishment such as he’d never before experienced.

“Of course, I’ll assist you,” she said, coming to stand between him and Beth, near enough that her rose fragrance wafted toward him. He could see the pearl loops in her hair swaying gently with her movements as she bent her head to see to her sister’s needs. What of her own?