The Sins of Viscount Sutherland (2 page)

“Indeed.”

He advanced. Halfway across the room, he felt a hand on his arm. Glancing down, he saw that it was his mother who waylaid him.

He stopped and gave a low bow. “Mama.”

Despite her fragile demeanor, her pale-perfect complexion, Charlotte Sutherland could be an intimidating presence. Still strikingly attractive, her hair was dark as her son’s, shot through with only a smattering of gray.

Vivid blue eyes the color of his flashed. “I know your intention, Gray. I saw you and Clive eyeing that young woman.” She waved a hand toward where the lady stood.

His mother was nothing if not direct.

She pulled him to an outside wall. “She is young, Gray, too young for you.”

“What,” he drawled, “have I joined the realm of the ancients at the age of three-and-thirty?”

“I will not countenance your ruination of that woman.”

One black brow climbed high. “I but admire a woman who has been blessed with nature’s beauty. And you don’t seem to have noticed, Mama, but that woman is a widow. She wears her ring on her right hand, but I would wager she’s broken many a man’s heart before she ever wed.”

“Where are the rest of your profligate friends?”

“Ah. I assume you mean the duke?”

“You know very well of whom I speak. Yes, the duke. And of course the earl and the marquess.” Her mouth compressed. “Where has the duke gone?”

Her gaze swung wide before coming to rest again on her son. “Is he finding his entertainment for the night? Every young miss in London should be on guard. I’m well aware of his so-called ‘extraordinary’ prowess in the bedroom. He is as heartless as he is handsome!” Charlotte’s mouth turned down. “And let us not forget the earl and the marquess. I daresay the ball is too tame for their tastes?”

She referred to Bramwell Leighton, Earl of Greystone, and Lucian Tremaine, Marquess of Blackthorne. They were not present this night—

Indeed, they
had
proclaimed tonight’s ball . . . insipid.

“Mama, I’m sure I have no idea of their whereabouts tonight. Why do you dislike them so?”

“I’m well aware the duke is known for his so-called performance in the boudoir.” Charlotte rapped her fan sharply on his hand. “I do not deny the earl is a man of remarkable good looks, but the knave considers himself quite irresistible, doesn’t he? As for the marquess, I’m quite aware of the last affair hosted by the man—an orgy!” She sniffed her disapproval.

“Mama! I am shocked that you know of such a thing. And here I feared your tender ears.”

Charlotte’s lips were pinched in disapproval. “I am not ignorant of all that goes on in the
ton.
I know of your scandalous reputations, Gray, the four of you. The Lords of Sheffield Square—bah! You are the rogues of Sheffield Square.”

“I shall be sure to tell them when next I see them.”

“Are you so proud of it, then? Perhaps your efforts would be better put to good use if you sought to save your good name. You haven’t been to Brightwood in months. Why, perhaps years!”

“Two,” he said coolly. “It’s been two years. And I have done my duty with regard to the family estates.”

“Have you? There is dignity inherent in our name and your title, Gray. But now, all the world knows of your . . . liaisons.”

“Mama, I do not set out to seduce and discard.”

“Gray! I know it’s in you to love again. Why do you disdain it?”

He stiffened.

“Tell me, Gray. Have you had any kind of lasting relationship since Li—”

“Pray do not speak to me of Lily.” His jaw might have been hewn in stone. What his mother said was true. He offered his heart to no one, nor would he. God knew, he had nothing left to give. And what he wouldn’t give to forget!

But ever present was the guilt he knew would haunt him forever.

“I do not want a lasting relationship, Mama. I will never marry again. Any woman with whom I am involved expects no more of me than I of her. If you wish me to be blunt, Mama, all we share is a mutual passion—”

“Passion!” Charlotte snapped her fan shut. “Is that what you tell yourself, Gray? Is that how you excuse yourself? You leave her bed and you feel nothing. You sate your lust—”

“Ah, forgive me, Mama. But you are right. I misspoke. ‘Lust’ is indeed the better word. I merely thought you might find ‘passion’ more palatable.”

“By heaven, if we were alone, I would box your ears!”

“Mama,” he drawled, “I assure you, my women, as you call them, are well-satisfied.”

“Do not mock me, Grayson Sutherland.”

“Do I distress you, Mama? It was you who began this conversation.”

Something passed over Charlotte Sutherland’s face. “What has happened to you? How can you be so cold? You have changed so much!”

She was right, Gray acknowledged. He had changed. He’d closed off a part of himself tight against the world. Against himself. Once, his life had been so very different. But now he was empty inside. There were too many shadows. Too many memories. Too much heartache.

That life was gone. He could never reclaim it.

How could he have been so blind?

It was that which tormented him. His mouth twisted in self-deprecation. Whom did he fool? Not his mother. Not Clive. Always, the pain remained. It never left him, no matter how he tried to close it away. And he did try to close it off. With drink. With women. But his pain left him in bondage. It put him in bondage to the past. And no matter how hard he tried, it never left. Why couldn’t he be numb inside?

In that instant, he resented his mother—resented her fiercely!—for making him feel like this.

“Gray! Oh, dearest! Where is the man you once were? I don’t understand—”

“Precisely,” he said with lips that barely moved. “You do not understand.”

“Then help me. Help me to understand! I want you to be happy. Oh, Gray, I know you lost what was so precious to you—”

Gray’s tone was brittle. “I pray you, Mama, cease this lecture.”

Charlotte’s gaze turned as icy as his. “You use cynicism to mask your pain, Gray. That I do understand, so you do not fool me. I know better.” She drew herself up to her full height. “Now, I shall take my leave.”

Gray cupped her elbow. “May I have a footman call your coach for you?”

“You may consider me old, but I remain quite capable.”

With his mother gone, Gray’s gaze returned to the woman who had captured his attention. She was still there, standing by an ivory pillar. He found her intriguingly contrary. She was tall, but there was a delicate air about her. Slender, but he sensed a woman of fire on the inside. He found himself gripped by raw, physical desire. He imagined her naked.

Her legs, he had already noted, would be slim and long, long enough to wrap around his waist. The thought made his rod swell. And beneath the neckline of her gown, her breasts promised an enticing fullness. He imagined what they looked like, smoother porcelain flesh filling his palm. A dark stab of desire settled in his gut. The prospect of finding her beneath him, his legs parting her wide as he settled over her, made his rod tighten; he relished the idea of finding out for himself. And when he did, he would pleasure her again and then again.

Her profile was exquisite as well, small, perfect nose and long-lashed eyes. She turned his way then, and Gray sucked in a breath. Christ, she was beautiful. His reaction was immediate. Intense. Once again his eyes slid over her.

She did not shirk. She did not flinch from his scrutiny. Indeed, the chit evaluated him with an appraisal just as bold as his.

Precisely the response Claire wanted.

H
is gaze was so intense she felt scorched by it. Something burned in his eyes, something that nearly stopped the breath in her chest. She fought back a swell of panic, feeling a blush heat her cheeks. She couldn’t help it. Her heart pounded a rhythm so fast she feared she might swoon.

All around was the chatter of guests. Lights shimmered overhead. Jewels flashed. But all that faded into nothingness when he stepped up before her with a bow.

“Madame, do I know you?”

Oh, no doubt he considered himself clever. The question gave him segue to engage her in conversation. He did not swagger, but moved with effortless grace.

He wasn’t what Claire expected. He was so exceptionally tall that she had to tilt her head back to meet his regard. His nose was long and thin—and arrogant, she decided. His eyes—blue, they were, like pale frost—were a stark contrast to hair and brows as dark as a night with no moon.

She’d not anticipated a man with looks like a god. A man so striking he surely surpassed every other man present. Damn, damn, damn! How she wished he looked a troll. Indeed, she had imagined a troll.

Indeed, she had thought Oliver’s killer would look like the monster he was.

“I don’t believe so, sir.” She felt as if she were shaking inside, yet her voice was composed. She mustered her dignity, marveling that she had so readily summoned the ability to speak. “Why do you think we are acquainted?”

“Yours is a face not to be soon forgotten. On the contrary, in fact.”

“You flatter me, sir.”

“Indeed I do not. Are you certain we have never met?” He was so damnably self-assured. No doubt he thought to sweep her off her feet with that wicked half smile that grazed his lips.

“Quite certain, sir. I’ve only recently come to London.”

“Then permit me to introduce myself. I am Grayson Sutherland.”

“Charmed, I’m sure.” She extended her hand. Her fingers itched to slap him cold. “And I am Claire Westfield.”

He kissed her knuckles. “How do you do, Mrs. Westfield,” he murmured. “I could not help but notice”—he indicated her right hand—”you are a widow?”

“Y-es.” Claire was immediately impatient with herself. She mustn’t bumble or all might be lost.

“My condolences.”

A moment later the musicians had struck up a new song.

The viscount had yet to release her fingers. “Ah,” he said. “Will you dance with me, Mrs. Westfield?”

Claire had scarcely taken a breath than she found her hand clasped in his. His other arm slid around her waist.

He whirled her onto the dance floor so quickly she had to clutch at his shoulder. She sought to follow the melody. It had been years since she danced. In that instant, a memory washed over her.

Oliver had taught her to dance.

She had to stop herself from spitting on the viscount.

The thought unveiled, that painful memory still high in her mind, she stumbled a little. The viscount’s arm tightened ever so slightly.

They swung past Penelope. She wore a look of surprise, then gave a nod of encouragement.

Claire swallowed. She was disturbingly aware of the chest beneath her fingers, rock-hard and solid. Clearly he didn’t spend all his time in the pursuit of women and pleasure.

She was hardly a good dancer. She felt like an elephant. The viscount, startlingly light on his feet, was a far more accomplished partner. She had never been a particularly good dancer, despite Oliver’s tutelage.

His fingers curled tightly around hers. All she wanted was for this dance to end. Another whirl and she lost her footing. This time she did clutch at him.

He pulled her to the side.

“Mrs. Westfield? Are you unwell?”

“I’m . . . a bit dizzy.” And she was. His nearness truly made her feel strange. Almost light-headed. He guided her through a set of double doors open to the verandah. There was a stone bench just outside. He helped her to sit.

“A breath of air will do you good.”

The hostess had appeared; Penelope was directly behind her.

“Shall I summon a physician?” Lady Blakely looked worried.

“No, no,” Claire said. “Please return to your guests. I’m sorry to cause such a fuss. Rejoin the party. I should feel terribly guilty if you do not. Penelope, you, too, though no doubt you are weary. I shall take a hack. I shall be right as rain once I’m home.”

Her heart was pumping madly.

The viscount’s eyes slid over her. “You seem unable to catch your breath. Perhaps your stays are too tight.” One lean hand took possession of her waist. “If you will permit me—”

Claire nearly shrieked. “No,” she stammered. Why, what gentleman would speak of such an intimate thing! Her hand clamped down over his. She registered heat—and the awareness that his hand was much larger than hers.

For just a heartbeat she could have sworn she saw amusement flare in those pale blue eyes.

Oh, but she should have known . . . Silently she cursed him.

Scoundrel. Scallywag. Devil.

“I’m fine. Or at least I shall be. Please, sir, can you help me to stand?”

The wretch took the hand she extended. Flushing, Claire let him pull her up.

“Pray forgive me.” Her laugh was breathless. “I can’t imagine what came over me. I’ve never before been prone to the vapors.”

“No need to apologize. Soon I shall have you snug in your bed.”

What audacity! She could have cheerfully strangled the man.

Her hair had come down, she noticed. She pushed at it self-consciously.

“Here, allow me to pin it up again.”

Which he did quite deftly, sifting his fingers through it and pinning her tresses into a loose knot on her crown. The feeling of his hands in her hair made her stomach knot.

“There. Not as good as your maid, I vow, but passable.”

Claire was too stunned—too furious—to protest.

“I shall take you home,” he said smoothly. “Then you shall be off to bed straightaway.”

Another innocent choice of words? There was nothing innocent about this man.

She shook her head. “Sir, it is very kind of you—”

“I insist. I would brand myself the worst sort of rogue if I did not see you safely home.”

Branded. He was already branded in her eyes, she thought bitterly. He was already the worst sort of rogue. And he was already at the door, speaking to a footman.

“I must let Penelope know—”

“I will see to it she is told,” he said smoothly. “Here is your wrap.”

A footman had handed it to him, a cloak of midnight velvet. He spoke briefly to the footman, then turned. Strong hands settled it over her shoulders.

Claire felt herself tremble beneath his touch. A part of her longed to run screaming from him, as far away as she could get. But this was precisely what she wanted, wasn’t it? She had attracted his notice. Yet all at once she felt dreadfully ill-equipped to handle it.

To handle
him
.

At the rear of the house, he handed her into his carriage. Claire gave him her address.

They spoke only briefly during the ride. Outside, a drizzling rain began to fall as the coach rolled to a stop.

Claire was acutely aware of his hand on her arm as they moved up the cobbled walkway, lending her assistance if she needed it. Which she most vehemently did not, she decided crossly as she fumbled for her keys. Her maid, Rosalie, had not yet appeared when Claire opened the door and stepped across the threshold. She discovered he was smiling as she turned to face him.

“May I see you safely inside?”

“Of course.” It appeared she had little choice. Stripping off her gloves, she dropped them on the small table near the door. Rosalie had appeared to close the door, then quietly slipped away. Claire looked up to discover a ghost of a smile on the viscount’s lips.

She could not help it; she lowered her head, trying not to tremble.

“Mrs. Westfield? Are you dizzy again?”

“Yes.” She heard her own voice faintly.

And she was.

His hands came up to her shoulders. He steadied her. Claire swallowed, raising her head. She stared at the strong column of his neck, the chiseled angle of his jawline, suddenly shatteringly aware of their closeness. There was a scant hand’s width between them.

“Are you a woman of delicate constitution?”

“Certainly not!”

“Then is it possible there is another reason?”

Claire frowned. “I beg your pardon?”

A pause. “You said you’d never been prone to the vapors.”

“I am not.”

His eyes met hers. “There is no delicate way to broach this most delicate of female conditions. But if your husband has recently passed, Mrs. Westfield, is it not possible that you . . . that he—”

He was asking if she was with child.

She was of a mind to slap him for daring to speak of such a thing.

“No. That is impossible.” She couldn’t quite keep the ice from her tone.

“I’ve offended you. I humbly beg your forgiveness.”

Humbly? There wasn’t a humble bone in the man’s body. He gripped both of her hands now. It struck her that he doubtless wanted her to ask him in. Her head was spinning. Fate had aided her, for the night was going exactly as she’d hoped. But it was happening so fast.

“No need, my lord. I’m quite recovered.” She took a deep breath. “I insist you come in for tea. Or brandy? My—My husband savored one in particular you might enjoy.”

Even as she spoke, hatred spilled inside her. It was Oliver who favored brandy.

“I confess, Mrs. Westfield, brandy sounds just the thing.”

Claire stopped herself from looking at him sharply. For some strange reason, she’d neither examined nor pondered why, until now—indeed had told herself no liquor cabinet was complete without it—she’d made certain when she came to London that brandy numbered among the spirits.

Not whiskey, but brandy.

In the drawing room, she moved to a table near the sofa. There, she poured two glasses of brandy. She handed one to him.

“Cheers,” he said.

Crystal clinked. Claire took a small sip.

The viscount held it to the light. The brandy was clear and golden. He took another sip.

“Aged in wooden casks,” he murmured. “Very fine indeed, Mrs. Westfield.”

It raced through Claire’s mind that she’d known it would be to the viscount’s taste . . . which was ridiculous. She disdained the possibility.

“I commend your husband’s taste.”

The viscount held the glass so the brew warmed in his palm.

His nearness was discomfiting. There was a scant foot between them. Claire took a sip.

Nay, not just a sip. Her rather generous swallow burned her throat. Her eyes watered. She began to cough.

The viscount took her glass, lest it spill. He patted her on the back. Oh, but he was amused, the wretch!

“No more brandy for you, I think,” he said. “Perhaps wine. Do you enjoy wine, Mrs. Westfield?”

She’d recovered the ability to breathe. “I like a glass of wine or two, yes.”

“And champagne? Do you enjoy champagne?”

“Actually, I’ve never had it.” Claire was annoyed with herself. She felt like a green young girl.

“That should be remedied, then.” He still looked amused, the lout. “I shall see to it.”

The viscount studied her for a moment. “You’re nervous,” he said softly. “Am I the first man you’ve received since your husband died?”

Claire focused on the knot in his cravat. She hadn’t expected such straightforwardness.

“Yes,” she said quietly. “You are the first man in my home.”

She sought to validate the statement. It wasn’t a lie. It was true. Oh, on so many levels!

“Do I embarrass you? Make you uncomfortable?”

She swallowed, rendered immobile by his words. By the very man himself. He had that power over her, she decided vaguely, and she must be wary.

And yet she admitted, “You do.” It stunned her to realize her voice was shaking.

He took the glass from her hand. “Thank you for your honesty. I shall be just as frank.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“I am not a man of pretense.”

Pretense? She was reminded of her charade. What would he say if he knew?

She didn’t care. She didn’t care in the least what he would say . . . what he would do when he discovered the truth.

“And let us be direct, if you please.”

“Certainly.” Her pulse began to pick up.

“I confess, Mrs. Westfield, I wonder why I’ve never seen you before this.”

Claire took a breath. “I’ve not spent much time in London. The year I was to come out, my mother fell ill.” That, too, was the truth. “Upon her death, my father fell victim to malaise as well. Then my husband—“ She broke off.

There was a pause. “I’m sorry,” he said finally. “About your parents. Your husband.”

But was he sorry about Oliver?

“You’ve borne a great deal, haven’t you?”

And so she had. She felt the onset of a sudden, scalding rush of tears. She blinked it back, casting an embittered gaze on him beneath her lashes. He did not notice.

He set his snifter aside and rose to his feet. “You should retire, Mrs. Westfield.” He took her hands.

Claire didn’t want him to touch her. Indeed, she longed to spit on him.

He brought one of her hands to his lips. She longed to snatch her hands away, but the possession of strong male fingers seemed to tighten around hers. Damn the rogue! Yet somehow she was shocked at the strange current that went through her as he brushed his lips over her knuckles. “I wish you pleasant dreams.”