Passions of a Wicked Earl (20 page)

Westcliffe had excused himself to see to matters that required his attention. Business. Business always came first. It was his father’s edict. Even at five, Westcliffe had taken his father’s words to heart, determined to live up to his expectations. Only now did he realize that even then he’d longed for his father’s approval, had searched for some evidence that he was as worthy as the babe who then received all of their mother’s devotion.

And continued to do so. From Ainsley he’d learned that their mother had arranged for Stephen not to leave England’s shores, although jolly good for him, he had an alibi for the night that Westcliffe was shot. In the two days since, he and Ainsley had both made several inquiries, but nothing had come of them. As far as Westcliffe knew, he had not a single enemy. If a cousin were after the title, he’d have to kill Westcliffe and Stephen. That seemed improbable.

They’d spoken with an inspector at Scotland Yard—Sir James Swindler. Based on the information they had to share, he could only advise them to keep a watchful eye. Nothing indicated that there was anyone who would wish Westcliffe dead. It could have been an accident. Some young buck showing off with a pistol. Without further evidence, the inspector was stymied, and as he had a reputation for being the best, if he could not help, Westcliffe certainly had no plans to behave as though his life were in danger.

Although he was having a difficult time believing he’d walked out on Claire when she’d been so willing to come to his bed, but making love to her would have been very unfair to her when he still wanted out of the marriage. A strange stance for him when he was not opposed to enjoying the delights of any willing woman. But Claire deserved more than to be treated with so little regard. While she might have indicated she’d changed her mind, he hadn’t. She wanted to avoid scandal. He wanted a wife he could trust. With her, he would always doubt.

Claire was holding her mallet, shaking her head. From this distance, he could still see her indulgent smile. Apparently Beth was having difficulty holding her own mallet properly, as Lord Greenwood was standing behind her, manipulating her hands. Croquet was an opportunity for innocent flirtation, and it seemed Greenwood was a man who took advantage of opportunities.

As Beth clumsily tapped the ball, sending it away from where it should go, Claire’s laughter rang out, and Westcliffe shifted his attention back to her. He wondered exactly where that ticklish spot was.

She was modestly dressed, her skirt swaying as she walked over to take her turn at bumping the ball. He imagined cornering her behind a trellis, skimming his hand along her calf, wiggling his fingers over the backs of her knees. Yes, that was where she’d be ticklish. Or was the sensitive spot higher up, on the inside of her thigh.

How did she even know she had a ticklish spot? Who’d first made her aware of it? Stephen perhaps? Fury roiled through him with the thought, shoving aside the pleasantness that had begun to work its way through him.

He didn’t even realize he had stridden to the door and opened it until he was standing on the terrace. Claire had moved aside, giving the couple a moment to discuss strategy—although Westcliffe doubted whatever they were discussing had anything to do with the game. Based on Beth’s smile and blush, Greenwood was no doubt whispering sweet words to charm her.

Claire glanced over her shoulder at Westcliffe, issuing an invitation with her eyes. He would have simply given her a nod and returned to his office if the invitation hadn’t suddenly turned into a challenge. He needed a bit of fresh air anyway, so he strolled over as though nothing about his actions were of any consequence.

But as he neared, he wondered if touching the underside of her breast—her left one, the one nearest her heart—would cause her to giggle. But he didn’t want her giggling—he wanted her laughing. Full, rich, and vibrant.

“What do you know of Lord Greenwood?” she asked, when he was near enough that she could speak quietly in order not to be overheard.

“He sits a horse well.”

She laughed, the sound that had delighted him only minutes ago now irritating him because it came at his expense—and he wasn’t even certain what he’d done.

“I’ve been on a fox hunt with him,” he said brusquely. “It’s important to sit a horse well.”

Her laughter subsided, but her smile only grew until her blue eyes were twinkling. If it were night, they’d be competing with the stars.

“It doesn’t tell me how he might treat my sister.”

“It does,” he argued, “more than you realize. A man who sits himself well in the saddle will no doubt …” He let his voice trail off before he completed the inappropriate thought:
ride a lady as well.

“You sit a horse well,” she said, the brightness in her eyes darkening with passion as though she’d known exactly where he’d intended to take his earlier musings. “I’ve watched you when you visited the estate. You have such confidence, such command of the horse. I assume you exhibit the same sort of command in all situations.”

“Your elbow,” he blurted, to change the direction of the conversation, but hardly serving to alter the road on which his attentions were traveling.

Another small burst of laughter as her eyes widened. “Pardon?”

“The inside of your elbow. Is that your ticklish spot?”

He wasn’t quite certain that he’d ever seen her exhibit such triumph. “I will never tell you, my lord. If you wish to know, you shall simply have to go exploring.”

She started to walk off. Grabbing her arm, he swung her back toward him. “Don’t tease me, Claire, unless you’re willing to accept the consequences.”

She took a step toward him, rising on her toes until she was almost in his face. Her breathing was harsh, her nostrils flaring. If there had been a trellis nearby, he’d have had her behind it in a heartbeat. “How do I convince you that I am?”

T
o Claire’s disappointment, Westcliffe had left her in the garden without giving her a chance to convince him of anything. As she lay in bed, she wondered what he’d been thinking as he’d walked back to his office. She wasn’t aware when he left the residence. She only knew he hadn’t returned for dinner.

When she was younger, she’d learned from Stephen that the most effective seduction was subtle, that it should occur without one realizing that it had taken place until it was too late. Strange how now that Westcliffe was willing to grant her freedom, she didn’t want to have it. No, that wasn’t exactly true.

She no longer saw marriage as little more than legal shackles. He was not the overbearing young man he’d once been. The years had tempered him. He’d been little more than melted ore, to be finely crafted, but within the center of whatever he might be was a flaw, a remnant of what she’d done to him, how she’d hurt him.

She could hardly blame him for doubting her now. But she didn’t want an end to their marriage. It would bring with it mortification. In that regard, nothing had changed during the intervening years.

Except her. She was no longer willing to be a wife in name only.

So many things to consider, so many plans to make. Yet she was so tired. A bit of warm milk. A good night’s rest. And in the morning she would begin anew, would plot her strategy to remain the Countess of Westcliffe.

The house had settled in, everything was so quiet that she didn’t bother to grab a wrap. She simply padded out of her room and down the hallway. She came to a quick stop outside the door that led into her husband’s bedchamber. She couldn’t recall hearing any movement coming from the room. She didn’t want to contemplate the sting to her pride that came with the realization that he was probably finding solace in another’s arms. Nor did she want to admit that she desperately wanted to be the woman in whose arms he nestled. If he did ever succumb to her charms, she would demand fidelity. Perhaps that was the reason he refused her—he knew she would take no less than total commitment.

She hurried down the stairs, wondering if she should detour by the library, see if he was there.

What did it matter? The only thing that mattered was that he wasn’t in her bed.

She made her way to the kitchen, surprised to see a lamp on the table where Cook usually went about preparing meals. She’d left a mess. Seared meat remained in the skillet. It would be rancid by morning, although at present its aroma was quite enticing.

But there was no one in the room working. Perhaps someone was expecting a late-night visitor. However, when she went to set her own lamp on the table, she became aware of a soft murmuring.

She had a quick thought—
retreat, leave now
—but her curiosity got the better of her. Bending slightly, listening intently, she identified the corner of the room from which the low sound came. Peering around the corner of the table, she saw Westcliffe sitting on the floor, a bottle of whiskey at his side.

Cooper was nestled against his thigh, a plate of meat scraps—some raw, some cooked—set before him. Westcliffe’s hand was buried in the fur along Cooper’s neck. He was the one murmuring, encouraging the dog to eat, and she realized that in all likelihood, he was the one who had prepared a meal and left the washing up to someone else.

She hadn’t meant to make a sound, but she must have because Westcliffe looked up at her, and her heart nearly broke at the sight of his red-rimmed eyes before he averted his gaze. As quietly and unobtrusively as possible, she padded over and knelt beside Westcliffe. “Is Cooper ill?”

His hand resting heavily on the dog’s back, he nodded. “Simply far too old. The veterinarian says things are no longer working properly. Cooper’s in pain, miserable. He’s offered to put him down, but I thought he should have a last meal. He won’t eat.”

She covered his free hand, which was resting on his thigh, surprised when he turned it over and tightly laced his fingers through hers. “Is that where you were earlier? With the veterinarian?”

He nodded. “Then I took him for a lengthy carriage ride, but even it couldn’t restore his enthusiasm.”

She wished he’d come to her. She wanted so badly for him not to feel that he had to go through moments like this alone.

“Fifteen years,” he said quietly, “he has been my companion. Loyal beyond measure. He has accepted me, faults and all. Always happy to see me.”

Tears burned her eyes and throat. This gentle, mourning soul was a side to him she’d never seen. “How did you come to name him Cooper?”

“James Fenimore Cooper. My favorite author. I always thought that if I had been born second, I’d have traveled to America and lived the adventures of a frontiersman.”

“I suspect it’s much more romantic in a book than in life.”

He gave her a half smile. “I suspect you’re right.” He released a deep breath and the hold on her fingers. “I’m going to take him outside.”

Her chest tightened. “And do what with him?”

“I should think he would like to lie in his favorite spot, beneath the roses for a bit. I’ll send for the veterinarian in the morning.”

“The ground will be cold this time of night. Wait here while I gather some blankets.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. You should go to bed.”

“I’m not going to leave you to go through this alone.” Before he could object, she hopped up and hurried off to gather blankets from a closet in the hallway. When she returned to the kitchen, Westcliffe was holding the dog in his arms, murmuring to him.

He had told her that he was incapable of love, and yet here was evidence to the contrary. He had a great capacity for love.

Grabbing a lamp and opening the door for him, she followed him out into the garden. The large rosebush to which he led her was in a distant corner, near a wall, near the bench where they had sat and talked one night. She arranged the blankets. Sitting down, she rested her back against the stone while Westcliffe made Cooper comfortable. The scent of roses wafted on the air.

“You should go in,” Westcliffe said quietly when he settled in beside her.

“I’ll be fine.”

The lamp provided enough light that she could see Cooper’s head resting on Westcliffe’s thigh as he ran his long fingers through the dog’s coat. Unexpectedly, she felt Westcliffe’s arm come around her, drawing her near.

“Come closer, you must be cold,” he said, and she wondered if his true reason had been to provide her with warmth or because he’d welcome a bit of comfort for himself. She burrowed herself against him, inside his jacket where the heat from his body had been captured.

“Your sister seems to get along quite well with Lord Greenwood,” he said quietly, and she understood his need to distract himself from sorrowful thoughts.

“And he with her. In truth, I feared she’d find the Season a disappointment. She says I’m a pessimist, always fearing the worst.”

“Yet you always persevere.”

“I must confess that I did not come to London simply for her. I came for myself as well.”

“To have the Season you never had?”

“No,” she said softly, her heart hammering with the truth, wondering how he might take it. “To truly be the wife I never was.”

She thought he would stiffen, perhaps turn away. But he held her nearer.

“I never thanked you for what you did with Lyons Place,” he murmured. “Since you’ve been seeing after it, it is a … pleasure to visit there. It is almost what I had always hoped it could be.”

“What is lacking?”

“Noise. Small footsteps echoing along the hallways. Laughter. Whispered secrets. It is too quiet there.”

“Do you not relish the quiet? I was under the assumption most men did.”

“Silence reminds me too much of sitting before my father’s casket. I was only five, but I sat there all night. I thought perhaps he would come back if I did. I know my mother did not care for him, but I never doubted his affection for me.”

“It’s difficult to lose a parent,” she said. “I was not allowed to go to my mother’s funeral. I was always afraid that she somehow knew, that it made her sad, made her doubt my love for her.”

“Children should not lose parents,” he said quietly.

“Parents should not lose children.” She squeezed his hand. “And people should not lose their dogs.”