Passions of a Wicked Earl (28 page)

The residence was lavish. Claire could think of no other way to describe it.

So many people were attending that almost every room was swarming with guests. The footman directed them to the parlor, where the ladies left their wraps and the gentlemen divested themselves of their hats and capes. Then they were escorted to the drawing room, where refreshments were served before guests were to enter the ballroom.

“Have you ever seen anything like this?” Beth asked, clearly in awe of her surroundings.

“No,” Claire admitted, wanting to answer quickly before Westcliffe had the opportunity to announce that he had seen it all. Probably many times over. She was already regretting that they’d come. Why had she felt a need to prove that he was now hers in every way? She feared her need to prove it meant it wasn’t true. She wasn’t nearly as secure about his feelings for her as she’d thought. Strange to suddenly realize that she did need him to say the words.

“Would you care for any refreshments?” Westcliffe asked near her ear, and she inhaled his familiar scent, drawing strength from it.

She had believed, still believed with all her heart, that Lady Anne was trying to make a statement, issuing a challenge by hand-delivering the invitation. Claire was determined to make a statement of her own:
He is mine. You cannot have him.

“I don’t believe I can eat a thing,” Claire admitted.

“I would like some champagne,” Beth said.

“Will this suffice?” a deep voice asked, and Beth turned in amazement to find Lord Greenwood extending a flute of the golden liquid toward her.

“Lord Greenwood, what a pleasure,” she gushed.

“Lord and Lady Westcliffe. Good evening.”

Pleasantries were made all the way around, then Lord Greenwood said, “Lady Beth, I’ve been watching for you. Knowing how quickly your dance card becomes full, I wanted to be certain I reserved my two dances.”

“Were there any in particular you wanted?”

“The first and the last.”

Beth beamed up at him. “You shall have them.”

With a bow, he took his leave.

Beth took a sip of champagne before grinning at Claire. “He is the one, sister.”

“The one what?” Westcliffe asked.

Beth rolled her eyes. “The one I shall marry.”

Claire squeezed her hand. “He must ask first, dear.”

“He will. I’ve told him Westcliffe speaks for my father.”

“Maybe you should have asked your father first,” Westcliffe said.

“He doesn’t care,” Beth insisted. “Come along. It’s time to dance.”

They wended their way through the crowd until they reached the stairs. As they were announced, and Claire squeezed her hand on her husband’s arm, she couldn’t help but feel a sense of ownership, of pride. This man was hers until death did them part.

“Good God,” Westcliffe muttered, as they were descending the stairs. “Is that my mother?”

Claire looked in the direction he was gazing and saw the duchess talking with Lord and Lady Lynnford. Leo stood solicitously beside her. “Yes, I believe it is. And there’s Leo. I suppose we should try to find time to finish the portrait.”

“After the Season. We should have more time then—when your sister isn’t bouncing from ball to ball.”

There it was. Confirmation that they would be together after the Season.

Then they were approaching their hostess. She was stunningly gorgeous in a pale green gown. She took Claire’s hands as though they were dear friends. “I’m so glad you could come.”

“We’re very happy to be here,” Claire said. “It’s so lovely.”

“And you, Westcliffe,” Lady Anne said. “You’re looking well.”

“I have much for which to be grateful.”

Claire couldn’t prevent a surge of gladness because she knew he was speaking of her.

“You are such a handsome couple,” Lady Anne said. “She complements you, Westcliffe. I wish you every happiness.”

With that, she turned to the next couple she needed to greet.

As they walked away, Claire said, “That wasn’t so awful. I could almost see why you were drawn to her.”

“Strange,” he responded quietly. “I couldn’t.”

Now and then, stopping to speak to an acquaintance or two, they made their way to a group of chairs. Just as they did so, the music began, and Greenwood was immediately at Beth’s side, whisking her onto the dance floor.

“I don’t think she will be condemned to a life with Hester,” Claire murmured.

“I would say not. I wonder if anyone has bothered to tell him so he can begin looking for other prospects.”

“Perhaps we should wait until everything is official.”

“After spending her Season flirting with Greenwood, even if he does not ask for her hand, do you really think she would even consider Hester?”

“It would all depend upon our father’s wishes.”

They’d been raised that their father’s wishes came above their own.

“Now that you have experienced your sister’s Season, do you regret that you didn’t have one?”

“Not really, no. I don’t think I would have found anyone I would have been happier with.”

“But you will never know.”

She was getting tired of this conversation. “Do you wish you’d been wealthy so you’d have not had to marry me for my dowry?”

“Unfortunately, yes. For your sake.”

“You can make it up to me, you know.”

“Can I?”

She smiled. “Ask me to dance.”

She should have had a Season. It was all Westcliffe could think as he watched her dancing with the Earl of Lynnford. Their own dances had made him want to take her home. Her eyes had glittered more brightly than the chandeliers, and she’d never taken her gaze from him. He supposed he couldn’t keep her all to himself when they were at an affair such as this, but he’d certainly wanted to.

He’d been surprised by Anne’s warm welcome. Perhaps she had forgiven him. Knowing her, she’d probably already found another lover.

“Ignoring your mother?”

He swallowed his groan. He’d not seen her approach. Leaning down, he placed a kiss on her upturned cheek. “How could anyone ever ignore you? I simply didn’t want to intrude when you were entertaining your admirers.”

She tapped her closed fan against his arm. “Shame on you—lying to your mother that way. I know good and well when I am being ignored. You don’t approve of my being here?”

“I’m
surprised
you’re here.”

“How could I miss such an event? The papers will be full of it tomorrow. Lady Anne has outdone herself this year. Do you still warm her bed?”

“Do you still warm the painter’s?”

“He is an artist, and what I warm of his is none of your business.”

“He is young enough to be your son.”

“Only if I’d given birth to him when I was a child. Why do you dislike him so?”

“I dislike the gossip that surrounds you.”

“I have survived far worse gossip than this. It has made me stronger, and at my age I do not care what others think. You, however …” She angled her head and looked him over with a discerning eye. He’d always hated it because she could tell when he was lying. “You’re making a go of your marriage. Jolly good for you.”

“How do you know?”

“The way you watch her. She is safe in Lynnford’s arms. I’m glad for you. I know you’ve always loved her.”

He closed his eyes, clenched his jaw, before glaring at her. “I do believe you are the most irritating mother in the world.”

She smiled. “How lucky you are then that I am yours.” She rose up and kissed his chin, the highest point on him that she could reach without his bending, and he was annoyed with her not to accommodate her and allow her access to his cheek.

“I shall see you later,” she said, turning to go.

“Mother?”

She glanced back at him.

“Do you love him? The artist.”

“I would be unwise to do so. He
is
young enough to be my son, and one day he will decide I have one wrinkle too many and off he will go to firmer pastures. But until then, I do intend to enjoy the devil out of his company. Besides, he makes me laugh.”

He watched as she strolled through the throng as though she were a queen, granting an audience with one person, then another. He wondered how different she might have been if his father had made her laugh instead of cry.

He was distracted from his musings as a servant discreetly handed him a note.

“One of the guests asked that I deliver this to you, my lord.”

Westcliffe waited until the man had walked off, then unfolded the paper.

The conservatory. Now.

No signature, but none was needed. They’d discussed the possibility of meeting there. He glanced around the room and spied Lynnford dancing with his countess, Angela. When had one dance ended and the next begun? He realized the music was different now than what had been playing when Claire was on the floor. How many songs had passed? How many rounds of dance?

He studied the note again. Oh, she was a wicked girl his wife. It was part of the reason he loved her.

The realization nearly doubled him over. His mother had spoken correctly. He had always loved Claire, but it had been a quiet fluttering in his heart, an untried man feeling a need to protect, to harbor. What he felt now was a deep need, an acknowledgment that she had become the center of his world. What he was experiencing terrified him, and yet at the same time it brought him an immense satisfaction and sense of well-being.

She’d wanted, needed, to come here tonight because he’d failed to reveal to her the true extent of his feelings. He attempted to show her with his body, with his gifts, but she needed the words. And those were so terribly difficult for him to give to her.

But she deserved them and so much more.

Tonight, now, in the conservatory was the perfect time for him to offer the last part of himself to her. He would wash away all her doubts, make her understand that the past hurts were completely forgiven and behind them.

Across the room, Anne, speaking with the Duchess of Greystone, caught his gaze, a brief flicker of farewell. No tantrums from her this evening. She’d welcomed them into her home and made them feel at ease. He would send her a gift tomorrow, to wish her happiness. All was over between them. They could each move on.

But for now, this night, this moment, belonged to his wife.

The conservatory was not at all difficult to find. Claire saw it in the corner away from the gaslights that lined the garden path. It was all glass but difficult to see into because of the abundance of plants, leaves, and fronds that filled it.

She wasn’t exactly sure where he was going to meet her. The servant had simply said that her husband would be there, waiting. Coming to this ball had been the right thing to do. She and Westcliffe had danced four times, gone for refreshments, smiled, laughed, and conversed about nothing at all. Lady Anne had been warm, generous, and solicitous. And Westcliffe’s attentions had been all Claire could have hoped for from a husband, friend, lover.

Their relationship had progressed to the point that she felt nothing could tear it asunder. They’d grown stronger over the summer, individually and as a couple. They’d shared intimacies and sorrow. They were learning to rebuild.

Glancing quickly around, seeing no sign of anyone, she slipped into the conservatory. It smelled lovely inside. Rich dirt and scented blossoms. She’d like to see it during the day, see all the varieties that were being grown. No doubt the reason the ballroom was overflowing with flowers.

Carefully, she walked through to the back of the building. She was alone it seemed. She’d arrived first.

Small tremors of anticipation rippled through her. She wondered if such assignations happened often, if they were part of the Season. Briefly she wondered if she needed to keep a closer eye on Beth, to ensure that she didn’t engage in any of these midnight trysts.

She heard the door open, close softly, and her heart began to gallop. She didn’t turn to greet him, instead she looked out through the glass into the night. She could imagine him coming up behind her—

She heard his footsteps. Such large feet. The tread softer than usual, cautious, as though he wasn’t exactly certain what he’d find. She imagined him lifting her skirts, envisioned her unbuttoning his trousers. She’d become so comfortable with the intimacy between them.

She barely moved as his arms came around her, and he pressed his hot mouth to her nape. She tilted her head to the side, granting him easier access to the slope of her neck. He found the sensitive spot behind her right ear and swirled his tongue along it. Hunching a shoulder, she released a small laugh.

“Mmm. I’ve wanted this for so long.”

Her insides froze, and she felt as though ice filled her veins. That voice—

He turned her around and planted his mouth on hers. The taste … no … it wasn’t that of the man she craved. She pushed on his chest but his hold was like a vise, and the best she could manage was to bend her back like a bow to put as much distance between his mouth and hers. Although he was indistinct in the shadows, there was such a familiarity to him—

“Stephen?”

She felt his surprise in the jumping of his muscles. “Claire?”

She didn’t know what possessed her to reach up and touch his cheek. She’d been so worried about him, and here he was. However had this come about? Before she could ask anything else of him, another familiar voice reverberated off the glass surrounding them.

“Well, now, isn’t this cozy?”

Her husband was furious. Thank the Lord he’d not gotten into fisticuffs with Stephen although she was fairly certain that he desperately wanted to. But Stephen, perhaps knowing his brother’s temper, had managed this time to quickly sidestep.

“Morgan, I can explain this,” Stephen said.

“Of course you can.”

“It wasn’t supposed to be her.”

Westcliffe merely laughed and grabbed her arm in a punishing hold. “Let’s go.”

He began dragging her—

“Do not handle her roughly,” Stephen ordered, emerging from the darkest shadows.

“She is my wife, and I’ll do with her what I bloody well want to!”

“Westcliffe—” she began.

“Don’t talk, for God’s sake, don’t talk.”