Passions of a Wicked Earl (16 page)

“Will you honor me with this dance?” he asked.

Her eyes widened considerably. Quickly reclaiming herself, she gave him a nod.

He took her flute, setting it and his aside. He escorted her onto the dance floor, and suddenly she was in the circle of his arms. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d danced, but he didn’t recall feeling as though the lady matched him perfectly. He wondered if it might have been best to have left her playing the part of wallflower.

“I love ‘Greensleeves,’ ” she said quietly, as though the silence between them began to unsettle her.

“I know.”

Her eyes widened again. He hoped she never took it upon herself to take up cards. She’d lose a fortune.

“How do you know?” she asked.

“Whenever you visited, it was the only song I recall your playing on the pianoforte.”

She laughed lightly, and something inside him twisted. Her laughter had always had the strangest effect on him, had always comforted and made him long for things at the same time.

“It’s the only song I’ve ever mastered,” she said. “I think I was born with all thumbs and no fingers.”

He tightened his hand around hers, acutely aware of the fingers splayed on his shoulder. “I assure you, you have lovely fingers even if they do not agree with the keys of the pianoforte.”

“A compliment and a gift. I daresay this is a magical night.”

He frowned. “I’ve complimented you before.”

“Have you?” She arched a brow as though she expected him to provide an example.

Damnation, his mind had gone blank. “I’m certain I have.”

She gave him an odd smile that was either sad or chastising or perhaps a combination of both. “You seldom spoke to me before we were married and certainly not often afterward.”

If he’d been sitting, he’d have shifted uncomfortably in his chair and reached for his whiskey. “What is there to discuss?”

“The things you favor. Your hopes, your dreams, your plans for the future. I don’t know. What do couples discuss? I’ve heard enough rumors to know that I was not your first lady. What did you discuss with the others?”

“We never talked. Our mouths were busy with other things.”

He took a perverse pleasure in her blush. Leaning near, he said in a low voice, “You shouldn’t ask questions to which you truly don’t want the answers.”

She angled her chin. “Perhaps I do want the answers. Perhaps this simply isn’t the place to ask them.”

“The library at midnight would serve better.”

“Is that an invitation?” she asked, breathlessly.

“More of a dare, I should think.”

She nodded, and he wondered exactly what her answer was. He also realized they’d stopped dancing. Fortunately, the music had ceased to play as well.

They’d nearly reached her little corner of the ballroom when Greenwood intercepted them.

“My lord,” the young man said. Westcliffe felt him slipping something into his hand. “Lady Beth is an intriguing woman.” He turned to Claire. “Countess, I hope you will give me leave to call upon your sister.”

“Yes, that would be lovely.”

“Very good.” He bowed. “M’lord. M’lady.”

He walked away, and Westcliffe made a move to return the item to his pocket, but he wasn’t subtle enough. Claire grabbed his hand, unfurled two of his fingers. A flash of anger ignited her eyes. For some inexplicable reason he relished it.

“He paid you?” she whispered harshly.

“I paid him. A fiver to dance with her.”

“You paid him?”

“I paid them all. A young buck is always in need of a bit of pleasure funds. You wanted her night to be memorable didn’t you?”

Before she could respond, he walked away.

She’d been horrified by his actions. He’d originally planned to stay and talk with her, but he hadn’t wanted to get into an argument.

He watched as a couple of elderly matrons approached her. He suspected they were more interested in her since her dance with Ainsley than in her dance with him. No doubt they wanted to gain an introduction for their daughters. A bachelor duke was always highly sought after. Little wonder Ainsley had made an early exit. Westcliffe did not envy him having to fend off so much unwanted—

Anne nudged him as she came to stand beside him. “I saw you dancing with your wife. You told me you never dance at these affairs.”

With her tone of voice, she didn’t try to hide her displeasure. Her face, however, gave the appearance they were engaged in a delightful conversation. She was much more skilled at deception than Claire.

“She is my wife. It seemed appropriate.”

“I’ve never seen her before. I have to admit to being surprised by her appearance. She’s rather … unimpressive.”

Unimpressive? He thought she was the most fascinating woman in attendance. She was not jaded. She still held on to a certain amount of naïveté. Strong, determined. She stood out because she was unlike anyone else there.

“It is a nice night for a walk in the garden,” Anne murmured, interrupting his thoughts. She snapped her fan closed, lifted it to her mouth, and glided her tongue along its edge. He doubted his wife was familiar with the meaning of that message.

But he was. He could scarcely believe the words he was uttering. “Not tonight.”

She arched a brow at him. “Afraid we might get caught? That makes it all the more fun.”

His gaze never wavered from Claire. The matrons had left, and three other ladies had circled about her.

“Why the interest in her?” Anne snapped when he didn’t respond to her earlier words. “Trying to make sure she doesn’t slip off with someone else?”

Her derisive retort caused his gut to tighten, but strangely he didn’t think Claire would sneak away for a clandestine meeting with another man. Perhaps if Stephen were here … but he wasn’t. He was supposedly with the army somewhere in India.

Anne touched his arm gently, almost hesitantly. So unlike her. He glanced over at her. “I could make a scene,” she threatened.

“Don’t,” he ground out. He’d not have Claire’s first ball ruined.

“Then meet me in the garden. I want to thank you properly for the diamond bracelet you gave me.” She lifted her hand. “It’s beautiful.”

“This is not the place. I’ll come see you later,” he said quietly.

He could read her displeasure as though she’d taken pen and ink to her features. Finally, she gave a barely perceptible nod. “I shall be waiting in anticipation.”

C
laire couldn’t deny that she wanted Beth’s first ball to be memorable. But to pay young gentlemen—

“Tonight was the most wonderful night of my life,” Beth said as she twirled around her bedchamber as though she were reliving the moment when some swain had held her in his arms. “Who would have thought I’d be so amazingly popular? I don’t know if there is any lady who danced as much as I did.”

Claire’s chest tightened. She didn’t want to ruin the illusion, but hurt was certain to follow. Westcliffe couldn’t pay the men at every ball. “Tonight might have been an exception, Beth. The men were curious. Yours was a new face in the crowd.”

Beth flopped back on the bed the way that they’d fallen in the snow when they were children intent on creating angels. “I shall most definitely be spared from marrying Lord Hester. I have no doubt.”

“I simply don’t want you to be disappointed if your dance card isn’t filled at the next ball.”

Beth popped up and smiled at her. “You worry about things before there is a reason to worry.” She walked around the bed and yanked on the bellpull to summon her maid. “You worried that living here with Westcliffe would be awful, and it’s not,” she continued. “You worried that we’d not receive invitations, and we have an abundance of them.” As she glided by, she tweaked Claire’s nose. “You are such a worrier. But all will be well. Even between you and Westcliffe. You seem to have his attention now.”

She wished she could be so certain. But she didn’t wish to discuss her doubts with Beth, so she simply said, “Sleep well, sister,” and let herself out of the room just as the maid was entering.

She was exhausted from the night, from all the emotions running rampant through her. She’d danced twice. Strange, she’d always felt comfortable around Ainsley, and yet it was the dance with her husband that stayed uppermost in her mind. The strength she’d felt in his hold, the sureness of his steps. When she was seventeen, he’d seemed like such a bully, and now she saw him as a man. One with responsibilities he did not shirk.

He knew her favorite song. He’d given her a bracelet to commemorate her first ball. And she’d noticed him talking with the most gorgeous woman she’d ever seen. She’d made the mistake of asking one of the ladies talking with her who she was.

“Lady Anne Cavill. Until recently, she was seen about town with your husband.”

She’d almost asked, “How recently?”

She considered preparing for bed, but words needed to be said. And Westcliffe had issued a dare even though it was long past midnight.

She walked down the stairs. The only sound echoing around her was the ticking of the clock in the grand entryway. She made her way along the hallway that led to the library. She was grateful to see no footmen or other servants about.

Of course, perhaps her husband wasn’t either.

But when she opened the door and peered inside, Westcliffe was lounging in a chair, near the windows, a tumbler of whiskey in one hand and the ever-faithful Cooper curled at his feet.

Westcliffe watched her approach. He’d told Anne to expect him, but he’d also issued an invitation to his wife and, for some unknown reason, curiosity had harkened him to remain a bit longer, to see if she would appear. She sat in the chair beside him. He reached for the extra tumbler of whiskey he’d poured earlier in anticipation of her arrival and handed it to her. She took it and sipped gingerly.

“Beth … she”—Claire released a heavy sigh—”she thinks every night will be like tonight.”

“No reason it can’t be.”

She arched a brow with a look of annoyance. “You intend to pay gentlemen at every ball to dance with her?”

“I can well afford it.”

“That’s not the point. She thinks they see something in her—”

“Perhaps they do. Greenwood wasn’t the only one to return the fiver.”

Sitting up straighter, she leaned toward him. “Truly?”

With only two lamps lit, she was mostly in shadow, and yet there were so many things about her to notice at that moment. The brightness in her eyes that outdid the glow of the lamps, the hint of her bosom, the creamy smoothness of her skin, the flush of her cheeks. But what caught his attention the most was the wayward curl that had fallen over her forehead and tapped against the small scar that bisected that delicate eyebrow. Without any thought at all, he captured it between his fingers and tucked it behind her ear, allowing his bare knuckles the luxury of skimming over the silky curve of her cheek.

Her breath caught, but she didn’t jerk back. He wondered if she’d remain as still, as brave, if he moved his mouth toward hers. She was nothing at all like Anne, and at that particular moment he was glad. Every moment spent with Anne was a game of enticing her, of keeping her satisfied. She grew easily bored. They shared no quiet moments. Everything was innuendo. Each conversation was wrought with naughtiness and conjecture.

He realized that he’d stayed here, hoping for Claire because she would expect nothing of him.

“How many admirers does she require?” he asked, trailing his finger over the slope of her throat, lingering for two rapid beats of her pulse, before retreating, not wanting to admit the pleasure he’d found in so simple and so brief an exploration.

He watched her throat work as she swallowed, and as though finding her mouth dried, she turned to the tumbler, gulping a bit more than usual, swallowing again. Had he ever been so enticed by a woman’s throat?

“One, I suppose,” she rasped, “if he’s the right one.”

“How will she determine he’s the right one?”

“She’ll fall in love with him.”

He couldn’t help himself. He laughed. Apparently, her innocence knew no bounds. “Love is an emotion dreamed up by women. Men lust. They need. They desire. Women make men want them. Women call it love.”

“You’re quite cynical.”

He touched his glass to hers. “Quite.”

Claire hated hearing that. There was something in him that called to her, even without his trying. “I noticed tonight that you seemed to give an inordinate amount of attention to Lady Anne Cavill.”

He studied her for a moment before saying quietly and without emotion, “You should know that I intend to ask her to marry me.”

She’d obviously swallowed too much whiskey too quickly. His words made no sense, and neither did those coming out of her mouth. “You intend to ask her? To extend a courtesy to her that you never extended to me?”

He said nothing.

“I suppose it’s moot as you’re already married,” she felt compelled to point out.

“Yes, we’ll need to discuss that at some point after the Season is over.”

“We can discuss it now.”

He shifted in the chair to better face her. “Very well. I propose we seek a divorce.”

She stared at him in shock. The bracelet, the dance, the kiss, the way he looked at her of late—they all meant nothing. An elaborate ruse. A game. “Do you love her then?”

“I have a care for her, yes.”

“That’s not what I asked. Do you
love
her?”

He reached back, grabbed the bottle, and splashed more whiskey into his tumbler. “I’m incapable of love.”

“Why?”

He released a harsh bitter-sounding laugh. “It’s enough that I am. And before you ask, no, she doesn’t love me either.”

“How can she not?”

With a quick shake of his head, he downed the whiskey and refilled his glass. “Surely you can determine the answer to that easily enough.”

Only she couldn’t. The man she’d married had been harsh, hard, but she’d have not described him as bitter. She’d done this to him. Made him callous.

“I’m not easy to love,” he finally answered for her, each word delivered with a biting edge to it.