Passions of a Wicked Earl (17 page)

But you could be,
she wanted to say. Instead, she held her tongue on that matter and addressed a more pressing issue. “If we get a divorce, I’ll be completely ruined. No man will have me. I’ll never have children.”

“I no longer give a damn. I’m weary of this life, of the loneliness, of—”

She didn’t know what possessed her, but she tossed what remained in her tumbler on him. Anger erupted on his face. Three years ago, she would have cowered, now she wanted to reach for the bottle and smash it over his head. He was weary? He was lonely? He was in the midst of people while she was surrounded by naught but land. Her life—

She shrieked and came out of the chair as his whiskey splashed over her. “You cur! You call yourself a gentleman?”

“You call yourself a lady?”

“Damn you! May you rot in hell!”

She wasn’t certain where she’d planned to strike him or even if she’d really intended to. She only knew that she raised her hand—

He rose in magnificent ferocity and grabbed her wrist, twisting her arm behind her back, bringing her up flush against him. “To borrow your words, do you think I’m not already there?” he demanded.

She was breathing harshly, the fury emanating from the core of her being. She realized it wasn’t that he’d tossed his liquor on her—it was that he was going to cast her aside … after everything. In such a short time, she’d begun to have hope that there was a chance for them. They’d talked, they’d moved furniture, they’d worked to give Beth a night she would remember. He’d been kind to Claire. Generous. He’d made her want him.

“I hate you,” she rasped.

“I know.”

Then he did the strangest thing. He touched the curl of her hair, the one that would never stay pinned, the one that always played with her irritating scar, and he tucked it gently behind her ear.

“I know,” he repeated, just before he lowered his head and licked the amber liquid that dotted her bosom.

Warmth swirled through her, its movement through her body mirroring his hot, velvety tongue as it journeyed over her flesh. Her knees grew weak, and if not for Westcliffe’s arm banded around her back at the waist, she was fairly certain she would have embarrassed herself further by ending up as a puddle on the floor. Why was he doing this, and why did she want him to continue?

His words echoed through her mind:
What you had before was the kiss of a boy. That is the kiss of a man.

He’d left her with such longing after the scalding kiss he’d given her, but he’d only given her a sampling. The fire, the fury, the passion in him that she’d always feared … when released, they stirred her in ways that she’d never imagined that a body, a soul, even a heart could feel.

The first night here he’d also given her another sampling of what he could deliver with the simple touch of a finger. And here again, another sampling: the velvet caress of his tongue. Only she was growing weary of sampling. She wanted the entire meal.

He’d mocked her earlier reference to love—but could anyone experience such stirring, the giving or the receiving of it, if not even a hint of love, of caring was involved?

This was not lust—but if it was, God help her, she wanted more.

Finally, he began to lift his head, and before he was at his full height, she reached up, holding his head in place, and sampled the whiskey that clung to the bristle at his jaw. It was more flavorful, its richness enhanced by the saltiness of his skin.

His gaze held hers for the longest, searching for what—she didn’t know. When he finally released her, she dropped back into the chair, irritated that he had the uncanny ability to make her too weak to stand while he seemed to gain strength from the encounter.

“We’ll continue this discussion after the Season is over,” he stated succinctly, his armor back in place, his emotions tethered. He spun on his heel and strode from the room.

Glancing down, she realized he’d missed a drop. She almost called him back to see to it. Instead, she brought her feet up, curled in the chair, and gazed out into the darkness of the garden.

She didn’t want a divorce. He spoke of it as though it was a simple matter, but it was costly and involved, and fraught with scandal. She’d only ever heard of one couple being granted a divorce, and the woman had moved to France to escape the humiliation of it. Besides, she didn’t want an end to this marriage. Perhaps she was prideful, not wanting to be so easily thrown over for another woman.

But it was more than that. Recently, she’d begun to catch rare glimpses into the man she’d married, and she couldn’t deny that he fascinated her. She wanted to know him as fully as a woman could know her husband.

Even if it meant that the seduction would be left to her.

He did not want his wife!

Damnation, he did not. But bloody hell, he couldn’t stop thinking about her.

Westcliffe sat in a dark corner at Dodger’s, drinking fine whiskey almost as quickly as it could be poured. He’d intended to go see Anne, but he’d come here instead. The fragrance of roses wafted around him, and he had no desire to have it replaced with the scent of lilac. What an absurd thought.

But it was there all the same. Claire was uppermost in his mind, and it wasn’t fair to Anne for him to seek her out under those circumstances.

Whatever had possessed him to sip from Claire’s skin earlier?

It had been the fire in her eyes. He’d seen it often enough before they were married, when she would get in an argument with Stephen. It was the fire that intrigued him. It had been totally absent on their wedding day, as though somehow, with the taking of his name, she’d lost the very essence of herself.

Tonight Beth’s excitement over the damned ball had caused a measure of guilt to prick his conscience. Would it have been such a terrible thing to allow Claire to have a Season? He’d seen no sense in it. She’d been betrothed to him before she was born. She wasn’t in need of a suitor. Even the ever-practical Ainsley had agreed that nothing was to be gained by avoiding the inevitable. Although in hindsight, perhaps his brother had simply been ready to stop handing coins over to Westcliffe. Or more likely, not yet interested in the marriage market, he viewed balls as a waste of a man’s time.

Claire had looked so lovely this evening. He’d been glad when she’d not changed out of her attire before joining him in the library later. He’d enjoyed gazing on her—until the subject of Anne had come up. When Claire had tossed his good whiskey on him—

He gave a low chuckle. He’d reacted without thought. What gentleman tossed liquor onto a woman? What sort of gentleman retaliated at all?

He would have to apologize. Perhaps he could convince her that licking her clean had been the apology, but each sweep of his tongue had only caused his body to grow more taut. That he was able to walk out was a true testament to his determination.

He’d been surprised by her anger at the mention of a divorce. Yes, it was an act of last resort, but how many years did they have to live apart before admitting that they would never live together? He’d have thought she’d have welcomed the end to their marriage. She was young enough that by the time it finally came about, she could still marry. Surely she desired someone with whom to spend her nights.

Yes, there would be scandal. It would be impossible to avoid. But they were already the fodder for gossips with him living in London and her in the country. At least an end to the marriage would eventually bring an end to the gossip.

It wouldn’t be easy at first, but … well, it seemed nothing of late was ever easy.

T
he flowers began arriving midmorning, during breakfast. From half a dozen gentlemen. Beth was simply beside herself with glee.

Claire gave Westcliffe a questioning look. He simply shook his head and shrugged, hoping she’d understand that he’d had nothing at all to do with them. He was well aware, of course, that when a gentleman was interested in a lady, he expressed that interest by sending her flowers. He’d sent flowers to other women, never to his wife.

As Beth popped up from the breakfast table to welcome each bouquet’s arrival, Westcliffe shifted uncomfortably in his chair. His haste to marry Claire had denied her this excitement, this reassurance that she was sought after.

He’d not meant to be cruel, but it was another nail hammered into his coffin of guilt.

She seemed to take as much delight in the flowers as her sister, but when she reached up and touched Beth’s hair, drawing her in for a quick hug, he realized that what pleased her was the evidence that her sister had caught the attention of several gentlemen.

She was happy for Beth because Beth was ecstatic.

It was a somber realization to recognize that he’d never felt the same about his brothers’ successes, had never basked in their accomplishments. Rather, he’d resented Stephen’s freedoms—no responsibilities to hold him down—and Ainsley’s position and wealth that had come to him through no effort of his own.

Claire truly loved her sister, wanted her to have whatever would bring her the most joy. And at that moment it was an assortment of roses. Only a beast would not know that a gentleman sent roses to a woman as a sign of his affections.

Westcliffe felt rather like a beast.

“Beth, do come finish your breakfast,” Claire said.

“I’m not hungry any longer. Can you believe all the flowers we’ve been sent? My word, where shall we put them all?”

“We’ll have no trouble finding suitable places for them. But you must eat.”

“I’m going to go make a list of who sent me flowers and write down all I can remember about him.”

With that, she quit the room. Westcliffe didn’t think she even saw the indulgent smile her sister bestowed upon her.

“Are you certain you’re not responsible for this avalanche of blossoms?” she asked.

“Absolutely not. I could never afford all this.” He cleared his throat, and began stirring his tea, which was a pointless activity as he used neither

sugar nor milk. “At least not three or four years ago.”

Her gaze found and captured his, and in them he read the query. In spite of how much it galled him, he heard himself confessing, “Every shilling I had to spend came from Ainsley.”

She glanced down quickly, but not before he saw the understanding, the sympathy. It was the reason he’d never said anything. He wasn’t certain which he detested more.

When she looked back up at him, she had control of her facial features.
Yes, sweetheart, I shall always know what you think,
he thought.

“That’s the reason my dowry was so important, the reason you didn’t annul the marriage immediately after …” She shook her head as though the words were too painful to say. “I’m beginning to have a clearer understanding of how you must have felt. I can barely stand the thought that last night, you went to her—”

“I didn’t.”

Her mouth opened slightly.

“I went to the club,” he said. “I got foxed. In all honesty, I’ve gone to see her only once since the night you and I sat on the floor in the library. And then it was only for dinner.”

“Why?”

He shook his head. “I don’t bloody well know. Your apology, your sincerity—it just seemed wrong to continue as though you weren’t here.” It was harder to carry on with her here—her presence a constant reminder that he did indeed have a wife. He’d always planned to honor his vows. He knew his father hadn’t, knew his mother had suffered because of it.

“Thank you,” she said quietly.

“For what?”

“For taking a care with my feelings. It will make it easier to be here, to go forward.”

“Do not misunderstand, Claire. I still desire a divorce.”

“But not until after the Season ends. And the fewer rumors surrounding us, the better Beth’s chances of finding a suitable suitor.”

“Good God! Rumors about us could flourish, and she’d find a suitor. Did you not see the flowers?”

She laughed. “I daresay, we’re off to a good start. What say we go to Cremorne Gardens this evening? It would be good for Beth to be seen about.”

He tilted his head slightly. “I suppose you mean to go early, before the less-reputable people arrive.”

“We shall absolutely go early.” She gave him an impish smile. “Although perhaps we will also stay late.”

“Not if you wish her to marry. Reputations are ruined when the hour grows late.”

“Then we must take pains not to remain longer than is prudent.”

Anne was pouting. It wasn’t the first time he’d seen her out of sorts. She’d first approached him almost two years ago, desiring him to be her lover. But she was married at the time to the younger son of an earl. Knowing what it was for a man to find his wife with another, he couldn’t bring himself to have a liaison with a married woman. Then her husband had taken ill and died. She’d been Westcliffe’s companion for the past six months—as soon as she’d come out of mourning.

“I waited half the night for your arrival,” she said caustically. “I assume you will at least be joining me for dinner tonight.”

He’d never found her so unattractive. Before, he’d tolerated her little fits of temper, assumed they were a woman’s prerogative. Lord knew he’d grown up seeing his mother display enough of them.