Passions of a Wicked Earl (2 page)

And here she was in the flesh. Slightly older yet undeniably more lovely.

Claire.

His traitorous wife.

S
he’d not known what to expect—of him or herself—when the moment was finally upon her. A slight shiver of dread, certainly. A tightening of her stomach. But this wild pounding of her heart, this
gladness
at seeing him. It took her off guard.

If only she’d felt it three years ago, on the day they’d married. If only he hadn’t terrified her then. He still did. Not only his size—so tall and broad—but the authority and determination that emanated from him. He’d always given the impression that once power was in his hands, he could wield it with uncompromising ability. She’d never known quite what to make of him. Still, she was older now. Not only in years, but in maturity.

But even so, she was unprepared for the sight of him.

His arresting face carved in disgust, framed by thick, black hair that was noticeably unstyled as though he’d only just awoken when surely he’d been up and about for most of the day and evening. She’d heard that he’d turned to cold marble, had heard a great deal about him during the intervening years. But it hurt now to know his implacable façade might be her doing.

He changed his direction, turning away from her, striding toward a corner table where various decanters were artfully arranged. She wondered what he’d intended with his original path. It would have brought him directly to her. Surely not an embrace or a kiss.

A fist more likely. At his side, as it was now. Not that he would ever raise it to her. He’d beaten his brother nearly senseless, but he’d never touched her with anything except gentleness—even when his hold on her was firm as he’d guided her to the carriage, she’d felt no pain. And somehow that had made everything all the worse.

With his wide shoulders and back to her, she couldn’t see his actions, but she heard the tinkling of glass, loud and soft, erratic, and she wondered if his unfisted hands were shaking as they poured him something to drink. Then silence. While she watched, he tossed back his head. Then the tinkling began again. When next it stopped, he faced her, one large hand wrapped around a tumbler filled nearly to the brim when she had no doubt he’d have preferred to wrap those long slender fingers around her slender neck.

“You’re not welcome here,” he said, his voice low, controlled, yet seething beneath the surface. “We had an understanding, an arrangement, you and I. Go back to the country estate, Claire.”

“Would that I could, but I have made a promise that requires I stay in London.”

“You broke the promise you made to me within hours of making it. Break this other one as well. Should be easy enough for you.”

She flinched at his harsh tone. Silly of her to think that hours, days, months, years would lessen his anger with her. Tentatively, she stepped toward him, stopping when his dark eyes narrowed.

“Westcliffe, I need you to forgive me.”

“I’ve told you the condition under which that will happen.”

“When I’m rotting in hell?” She released a bitter laugh. “Do you not think I’m already there? Do you have any idea how many ladies have come to visit me, to inform me of your lovers? You are hardly the soul of discretion. If you thought to shame and humiliate me, you’ve accomplished your goal remarkably well.”

“I take pleasure where I find it because it pleases me to do so. You are never a consideration. Quite honestly, Claire, from the moment I delivered you to Lyons Place, I’ve not given a single thought to you.”

“That’s always been quite obvious.”

He walked over to a chair before the fireplace and dropped down into it, stretching his long legs out before him. Suddenly, from beneath his desk crept a dog, a collie. It slowly limped to the chair, then curled beside it. Westcliffe reached down and began rubbing the dog’s head. It appeared he’d done it without even thinking, a habit, a ritual, and she wondered how many nights he’d sat there in that position with only a glass of spirits and an aging dog for company.

Not many if the rumors that continually landed on her doorstep were to be believed.

She took several steps nearer, until she could see his eyes more clearly. They were dark, almost as black as his hair, not blue or as kind as Stephen’s. How could two brothers be so vastly different?

Westcliffe’s features were carved by an unartistic hand: his nose a little too large, his chin a little too square, his brows a little too heavy. The wickedness he’d embraced had etched his face into a rugged handsomeness that she couldn’t deny. The years had been kind, his features even more darkly appealing.

Whereas Stephen was much fairer, his hair a golden brown with streaks of blond woven through it, almost as though they played hide-and-seek, as though his hair couldn’t quite determine what shade it should be. Nothing about him had ever been frightening. He’d been Claire’s friend for as long as she could remember, while she’d barely known Westcliffe. She had no knowledge of his smile, no memory of his laughter. Few memories of him at all really. But then he was eight years older, and it seemed when they were younger that his attentions had always been elsewhere. He’d been off at school or spending time with his friends or chasing skirts. Or seeing to the details of his estate.

His father had perished when Westcliffe was five, and Stephen had only just turned one. Westcliffe’s inheritance had been a crumbling estate and a marriage contract with Claire’s father binding him to the Earl of Crestmont’s firstborn daughter. She had never questioned it, but on her wedding day it had suddenly struck her as rather archaic, absolutely medieval, especially as the firstborn daughter had yet to make her appearance in the world when the papers were signed. What if she’d had the appearance of a toad?

She suspected nothing would have changed because absolutely nothing about her mattered except that she drew her first breath ahead of her sister. She’d not objected because marriage provided her with the means to move out of her father’s oppressive household, where his harsh hand had taught her that a lady did not question her place or her duties. But as her wedding day had progressed, fears had bubbled up to the surface. And when she’d shared them with Stephen …

“Nothing happened between Stephen and me,” she admitted now.

Westcliffe’s harsh laughter echoed around them. “How stupid do you think I am, Claire? I found him in your bed.”

“Still in his trousers when you dragged him out.”

“So I arrived before he could have his way with you. Or not. I can button and unbutton with surprising haste when the situation warrants. Even if he did not take you, it does not change the fact that you were in his arms!” He came up out of the chair with a brutal force that caused the air around him to shimmer and her to step back, unexpectedly gripped by terror. He hurled his tumbler into the empty hearth. It shattered, the amber liquid splattering. Breathing heavily, he gripped the mantel. “It does not change the fact that he was in my place, and you wanted him there.”

At the sight of his anguish, she couldn’t prevent the tears scalding her eyes. “I don’t know what I wanted. I was a child. A silly girl. He was always my friend. You I barely knew. If given a choice regarding my husband, yes, I probably would have chosen him. I don’t know. I only know that I was terrified of my wedding night, and he told me he had a plan that would allow it to be postponed.”

“I’ll come to your bed before him. I’ll hold you. Nothing more. He’ll be furious at me, no doubt, but it’ll gain you a reprieve. When you’re ready, you have but to tell him the truth. Then all will be well.”

They’d both had enough champagne and spirits to think it a brilliant plan. In the end, it had cost her a friendship and a husband. It had torn a family apart. It had destroyed all hope of happiness.

Turning his head slightly, Westcliffe slid his unforgiving gaze toward her. “You cannot have been that naïve.”

“I was five days past the celebration of my seventeenth birthday with no mother to guide me. The spinster aunt who saw to my upbringing knew little more than I did. Yes, I think I could have been that gullible. And Stephen, he has always been so charming. They say he can persuade an angel to sin. I am far removed from being an angel.”

With a heavy sigh, he shook his head. “What the devil do you want of me, Claire?”

“I want you to give me a chance to truly be your wife, not the caretaker of your estate.”

He turned to fully face her, his features hard and callous. A shiver skittered along her spine as his gaze slowly, leisurely roamed over her. She quite imagined he was envisioning her without her clothing. Perhaps she deserved his unkind regard, but she wouldn’t back down. For her sister’s sake, she would suffer whatever punishment he deemed necessary in order to get beyond this insufferable state of their marriage. To a point. She’d not let him force himself on—

“So you’re now willing to welcome
me
into your bed?” he asked, mockingly.

She should have come during the day, when such a possibility wouldn’t be an option because she knew bedding took place only at night, but she’d thought it would be easier to face him within the shadows. Her mouth was suddenly dry, and she could find no way to dampen it, so her voice was scratchy when she said, “I’m willing to be your wife in more than name.”

He studied her a moment longer before demanding silkily, “Unbutton your bodice.”

Her hand flew to her throat, her fingers skimming over the buttoned collar of her serge traveling dress. She glanced hastily around. “Here?”

“We’re alone. Well, except for the dog, but Cooper is not one to interfere or gossip. If you truly know of my reputation as you claim, then you know I don’t limit my bedding to bedchambers.” He jerked his chin toward her. “The buttons, Claire.”

At that moment, she despised him almost as much as she had when he’d exiled her to his ancestral estate. “I hate you!” she’d yelled, as he’d departed the manor after informing her that she would stay in residence there while he returned to London. His dark laughter had echoed along the hallways and followed him into the stormy night.

Now, she wanted to turn on her heel and march from the room. She wanted to tell him to rot in hell. Instead, she tilted her head defiantly, met his cold stare with one of her own, commanded her fingers not to tremble, and forced them to loosen one blasted pearl button after another. Strange how she’d not noticed the chill in the air until the material parted. It seemed to take hours before her fingers finally reached the last button at her waist.

She thought so much distance separated them, but he reached her in five long strides, bringing with him the scent of lilac. He’d come here not from his club but from another woman’s bed. Tears once again burned the back of her eyes, but she blinked them away. She’d not let him see how much he could devastate her without even trying. For the first time, she thought she might finally know what he’d experienced on that long-ago night. It shamed her that she’d been so young and self-centered not to have realized it immediately.

He did deserve his revenge, however he meant to exact it. She would do anything to put the past behind them.

His gaze still on hers, he placed one finger on the hollow at her throat. A challenge. A dare. So be it. She’d not retreat. He would see she was not the ninny she’d once been. She’d had three years of managing his household at the estate. It thrived beneath her watchful eye, and he’d never even had the decency to thank her—the ingrate.

He dipped his gaze and trailed his finger down, his hand slipping beneath the cloth, further parting it to expose the swell of one breast above her chemise. She barely breathed as his other fingers joined the first to skim over the exposed flesh. She was only grateful that he’d lowered his gaze, so he couldn’t see the anticipation mixed with fear that was no doubt clouding hers. How could he stir these unwanted sensations with something as simple as a touch?

His fingers moved slowly up, then back down, across one way, then the other.

“Tell me, Claire, is all of you as enticing?”

Her gaze clashed with his, and to her mortification, the heat of passion consumed her. Had she ever seen so much fire in eyes so dark? Yet, beneath it all, she could see the mockery. He wanted her to desire him, so he could punish her all the more. She was certain of it. She’d created this villain—with a moment’s weakness, with a gossamer dream of a life far different from what had been unfolding before her. She’d wanted to change her path and had been stumbling along it ever since.

She deigned to ignore his smoothly delivered taunt, certain he would have his answer in short order. Her heart beat erratically, her breathing refused to settle into anything resembling normalcy. She’d heard he was skilled at seduction, a master at eliciting pleasure. Strange how her knees suddenly wobbled. It was the lack of air. She thought she might swoon.

“You said you were in London because of a promise. What promise?” He sounded as though he were on the verge of strangling.

What promise indeed? Why am I here?
She shook her head slightly to clear it, to focus on his question. “My … my sister. Beth. Father has arranged for her to marry Lord Hester, despicable man, so much older than she. With Father’s blessing, she has one Season to find another prospect. I know what it is to marry a man you barely—”

“Are you saying he forced you to marry me?”

“I’m saying I had no choice. How could you think otherwise when you were fully aware of the contract, when you never courted me or asked for my hand?”

His fingers jerked over her skin, his eyes probing hers as though he sought evidence of deception. “So you will be a wife to me in order to save her? You could accomplish your goal by staying elsewhere in London.”

She considered telling him everything, but she didn’t think it would sit well. The ladies were not happy that her husband ran wild through the boudoirs, that he gave their own husbands the notion that a man owed no fidelity to his wife. In order to receive invitations to the balls, in order to help her sister be accepted into Society, she had to bring her own husband to heel. But instead, she said, “You have influence. I must take my place beside you in order to properly introduce her into Society.”