Passions of a Wicked Earl (21 page)

“No, but I have.”

Sitting up, she thought she could see a well of tears in his eyes. “Is he gone then?”

He nodded.

“At least he was not alone.”

“But now I shall be.” He released a quick bitter chuckle. “I’m quite the selfish bastard, aren’t I? Would you mind giving me a few moments alone?”

“No, of course not. I shall fetch a servant to help you see to him.”

“Have him bring a shovel. I shall lay Cooper to rest here beneath the roses.”

Her throat thick with tears, she nodded, rose to her feet, and headed to the house. She wanted to do so much more, but she knew he was not ready to welcome more affection or caring from her. He thought he was now alone, and she realized she needed to try so much harder to make him realize how much she’d come to care for him.

She needed to show him, make him understand, that he wasn’t alone. That a collie named Cooper wasn’t the only being to love him.

L
ord Greenwood has the most astounding sense of humor,” Beth said, as their carriage journeyed along Regent Street.

They’d visited a milliner and a dressmaker. Of a sudden Beth was in want of a new gown to wear to the Countess of Claybourne’s ball next week. And she required a new hat for her walks in the park with Lord Greenwood.

Both items purchased contained something that no other item in her wardrobe did: a shade of blue, which was Lord Greenwood’s favorite color. Claire found herself wondering what Westcliffe’s favorite color was. She’d thought it brown, but she was no longer certain. Quite honestly, she couldn’t envision him taking up any thought with something so trivial.

“He constantly makes me laugh,” Beth continued.

From the moment they’d left the residence that morning, she’d been lauding Greenwood’s attributes.

“Do you think it wise to settle on one man so early in the Season?” Claire asked.

Beth gave her a look that conveyed she thought they should make a stop by Bedlam to drop off her sister. “When he is perfection, of course.”

“No man is perfection, Beth.”

“What are you saying?”

“That perhaps you should strive to discern his imperfections.”

“There you are again, always looking for the worst. If you seek it, you shall find it.”

“I simply think that a man’s flaws determine whether or not he is easy to live with.”

“And what are Westcliffe’s flaws?”

“He is passionate in all things.”

“And that makes him difficult to live with?”

“When his anger is sparked, but it does not make him intolerable. Our father, on the other hand, when he is angry—”

“Oh, God, please do not liken Greenwood to our father. He does not compare.”

“It is only that while he is courting you, he is showing you only his better side. Were you to marry him, you would see all sides of him. I think it better to see all sides before you marry him.”

“If you’d seen all sides to Westcliffe, would you have married him?”

Claire glanced out the window at the shops and busy walkways as the driver directed the carriage onto one street and then another. “I think I would have—yes.”

And she would not have feared him at all.

“Have you come to love him then?” Beth asked.

“I have come to discover that he is very different from what I thought.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“It’s all I’m willing to provide at the moment.”

“I find it amazing that Westcliffe is so much darker in temperament than Ainsley, and yet they are brothers. I should expect them to be more alike.”

They had stopped to visit with Ainsley before going to the dressmaker. He had a way of making them feel welcomed. Claire had a question for him, and to her delight, he knew the answer. “They have different fathers, and their inheritances were very different, which in essence gave them different lives.”

“Greenwood will inherit his father’s title; he’ll be a marquess.”

“Very commendable.”

“I do not think he is after me simply for my dowry.”

As Westcliffe had been. He’d have not married her without the dowry, which he’d made plain enough. But that did not mean that they could not be happy. “I should hope not.”

“How is a woman to know?”

“The greater question, I should think, would be: Does it make a difference?”

“In my esteem of him, no. I enjoy his company.” She glanced out the window as the carriage drew into the drive of a residence. “Who are we calling upon?”

“Lord Chesney.”

“Why ever are we calling upon him?”

Claire smiled as the carriage came to a stop. “Do you remember Ainsley mentioning that Lord Chesney had a litter of pups?”

“No.”

“Well, he did. That day at the park.” Which was the reason she’d had them stop by Ainsley’s earlier—to garner the address. “And I’m in need of a puppy.”

He was not a man who allowed his emotions to rule, but in the three days since Cooper’s passing, Westcliffe could not deny that melancholy nipped at his heels in much the same manner as Cooper had when he was a puppy—always getting underfoot, tripping him up.

He kept telling himself that it was only a dog, but Cooper had been his friend. He knew of no one who was always as happy to see him as Cooper had been.

Although sitting in his library, he couldn’t help but think part of his doldrums were brought on by the investment report he’d just received. Damnation, one of his investments was floundering. He had to right this situation immediately because he would not—could not—hold out his hand to Ainsley again. With the pages spread over his desk, he took a blank piece of parchment from the desk drawer, dipped the pen into the inkwell, and began scrawling out solutions to his investment woes. What he might sell, where he might invest with more success.

The door opened, and he fought not to groan as his intense concentration was shattered. Now was not the time for interruptions. Unfortunately, it seemed he was the only one aware of that.

He came to his feet as his wife walked into the room, holding something behind her back. Whatever it was required both hands. She looked like a mischievous young girl as she strode toward him. Before any damage to her feelings could be done, he said, “Claire, now is not a good time for visiting.”

She gave him a gamin smile. “But I have something for you.”

She came to a stop before his desk. “Do you want to guess what it is?”

He wished it was not so, but he was not in the mood for games. “Claire—”

Then out from behind her back, she brought a tan-and-white puppy, a collie. He’d have recognized the breed anywhere. His reaction came fast and furious, with no thought, no consideration. “Why in God’s name would you get me a dog?”

Startled, she opened her mouth, closed it. Shook her head. “Well … to replace Cooper.”

“Do you think something I have loved for almost half my life is so easily replaced?”

“I thought Fenimore would help fill the hole—”

“It cannot be filled, and it is certainly not your place—”

The tapping of water on paper stilled his words as horror swept over Claire’s face. She pulled the dog back into her embrace, which only served to send an arc of dog piss over the corner of his desk.

“Did you have him drink a bloody lake before you brought him in here?” he demanded to know.

“I’m so sorry.”

He looked at the mess on his desk. Life’s sweet mockery. His life was a cesspool. “Bloody hell.”

Knowing full well that a servant would be in to clean it up, he strode past Claire.

“Where are you going?” she called after him.

“Riding.”

“But the dog?”

“I don’t want him.”

During times like this he missed not being in the country. It was damned difficult to urge his horse into a gallop when people and conveyances swarmed over the streets. Even the parks didn’t allow for the sort of hard riding he craved because people strolled hither and yon.

Good God, he was in a foul mood.

Finally, he made it to the edge of town, where there were fewer houses, buildings, and people. He gave the horse its lead and let it race down the road as though they had someplace to go and only a limited amount of time in which to arrive.

When the horse was lathered, Westcliffe took pity on him. Stopping, he dismounted and walked him over to a stream. Crouching while the horse drank, Westcliffe stared at London in the distance. He’d not ridden nearly far enough, but the truth was that it was impossible to do so.

He was trying to outrun himself.

He didn’t want his wife to show him a kindness because it would be all the more difficult to let her go. He’d set his sights on starting the proceedings for a divorce at the end of the Season, of starting his life over with Anne, but he couldn’t see Anne sitting with him on the cold ground while he waited for his beloved pet to cross over into the next life. He couldn’t imagine her delight at bringing him a puppy.

If he’d not turned to anger, he might have wept at the sweetness of the gesture.

He had fought so long to be strong, not to need anyone, especially anyone in his own family—because they always seemed to disappoint—and yet, there he was finding himself needing Claire.

And that awareness terrified him, made him more vulnerable than he desired to be.

Anne cared only about Anne. He knew where he stood with her, would always know. They shared few emotional ties. It was the physical that bound them.

With Claire, there was so much more. She was like the river flowing before him. He could study the surface all afternoon, but unless he waded into it, he’d have no idea what ran through it.

Claire’s flirtations were innocent, naïve, and touching. She did not possess the sophistication of other women with whom he’d been intimately involved, and yet he had a sense that she would be far more satisfying. The thought of taking the steps to learn the truth terrified him. Yet he had to admit that the more time he spent in her company, the more he yearned to have her. But everything would change.

Shoving himself to his feet, he grabbed the reins. “Come on, old boy. Back to town we must go.”

“Oh, Fen, please go to sleep.”

It was after two o’clock in the morning, and the puppy was whining and yelping as though his heart were breaking. Claire had placed him on a mound of blankets in a box in her bedchamber because somehow the little rascal had already managed to steal her heart, and she couldn’t stand the thought of handing him over to a servant, who might ignore him.

It was obvious Westcliffe didn’t want him. He’d not arrived home until long after supper, and based upon the cigar smell emanating from his clothes and the languid look in his eyes, he’d been enjoying himself at the club. They’d passed in the hallway, and he’d said little more than good night.

At least he’d said something. She took comfort in that.

But now, sitting on the floor in her nightgown, petting the puppy, trying to comfort it, she was exhausted and desperate for sleep. She’d managed to catch a few snatches, perhaps half an hour in all.

A rap sounded on her door. Probably Beth again, asking her to silence the dog. “Yes?”

The door opened, and Westcliffe came in. Barefoot, he wore only trousers and a shirt that was half-buttoned. It wasn’t even properly tucked in. The hem just flowed around his lean hips. His hair was disheveled, sticking up at the back on one side. He was all rumpled, and she thought he’d never looked more delicious.

“Oh, I’m so sorry. Is he keeping you awake as well? I’ve tried everything. Warm milk, taking him for a walk. I’m at my wit’s end.”

His feet made not a sound as he walked over the carpet, which surprised her as his feet were so large, long, yet lean. He sat on the floor beside her, bent one knee, draped his wrist over it, and unfolded his fingers to reveal his pocket watch.

“What?” she asked caustically. “I just need to make him aware of the time?”

He gave her a self-mocking smile that tugged at her heart. Then he slipped the watch beneath the blankets in the box. The puppy went quiet and curled around it.

“Oh,” she whispered in amazement. “Wherever did you learn that trick?”

“The servant who looked after the hounds at Ainsley’s estate. When I first acquired Cooper, he was just as unhappy as this little fellow, and Mother, bless her, banished him to the stables. Of course, I’d not leave him to sleep alone, so I was there as well.”

He reached toward the box, and she grabbed his wrist. “Don’t wake him.”

“Did I hear you say earlier that you’d named him Fenimore?”

She nodded. “After James Fenimore Cooper. It didn’t seem right to name him Cooper, but as he’s you’re favorite author, I thought using another of his names would serve just as well.”

With her fingers still wrapped around his wrist, he skimmed his knuckles over her cheek. “I owe you an apology for earlier. I’d received some unfortunate news—”

“Worse than your dog dying?”

“No, not worse than that actually. But I did not take well to the news. Some of my investments have taken a turn I’d have rather them not. It put me in a foul temper.”

“They’ll turn back around.”

“I thought you were the pessimist.”

“Only when everyone else is being an optimist. I like to be different.”

“You’ve always been that.”

She’d not seen him move, but he was suddenly nearer, close enough that his breath caused the strands that had worked free of her braid to lift slightly and tickle her temple. She’d left only one lamp burning low, but it was enough to see the seriousness in his gaze.

“It wasn’t only your dowry,” he said softly.

She furrowed her brow, and immediately his thumb was pressing out the creases. “Pardon?” she asked.

“I didn’t marry you only for your dowry or because of an archaic contract that was signed by our fathers. I wanted laughter in my life.”

“And you’ve had little enough of it.” She closed the distance between them, taking his mouth with a boldness that stunned her.

But she was tired of waiting for him to forgive her, tired of waiting for something monumental to happen between them, tired of waiting for him to come to her bed. Coming to her bedchamber was close enough.