Passions of a Wicked Earl (29 page)

“Morgan—”

“No, Stephen,” she commanded, holding up her free hand. “It’ll be all right. He won’t hurt me.”

But neither would he release his hold as he pulled her from the conservatory. She nearly tripped, but his grip was so strong that he held her up.

“I don’t blame you for being angry,” she said.

“I wouldn’t care if you did. We’re going home.”

“You’re not going through the ballroom in this fit of temper, are you?”

“No, we’ll go around to the front.”

“What about Beth?”

“Damnation!” He staggered to a stop, waited a heartbeat, then continued on. “I’ll deliver you to the carriage and go retrieve her.”

“You must let me explain.”

“Later.”

She knew he was too lost in fury to truly hear what she had to say, so she merely allowed him to escort her to the carriage.

Claire watched as he strode back and forth in her bedchamber, grabbing armfuls of her clothes and stuffing them in the trunk, a duty normally reserved for a servant, but she assumed he thought a servant would take too long and too much care with her things.

“I want you out of this house and on your way back to Lyons Place tonight,” he said.

“What about my Season?” Beth asked, standing horrified in the doorway, at the sight of Westcliffe.

“It’s over,” he declared.

“But a month still remains.”

Westcliffe slammed a drawer.

“You are a tyrant!” Beth yelled.

He swung around and faced her. “And you are a spoiled miss who, like your sister, is not content with one man’s devotion but must have more!”

Claire stepped in front of him. “Do not dare talk to my sister in that tone of voice.”

“Do not push me tonight, Countess.”

Claire glanced over her shoulder. “Beth, go pack your belongings.”

“But Claire—”

Claire marched over to her and grabbed her arms, her own temper flaring at this abominable situation. “I will find a way to get you back to London for the Season, but for now it is best that you do as you are told.”

Releasing a heartfelt sob, Beth ran down the hallway.

Claire pivoted around to face the wrath of her husband, who was closing the trunks. She took two steps toward Westcliffe and came to an abrupt stop when he swung around to face her.

The devastation, the look of betrayal on his face tore into her heart. But that he could believe this of her, after all they’d shared, pushed the knife that much deeper.

“You must listen to me!” she beseeched him. “Lady Anne Cavill arranged the entire meeting in the conservatory.”

“You believe her to be that conniving?”

“Why will you think the worst of me and not of her?”

“Because you’ve betrayed me once, and she hasn’t. You were the one who insisted we attend this damned ball!”

“I didn’t even know Stephen was in London. You must believe that.”

“I saw you in his arms.”

“He mistook me for someone else.”

“And did you mistake him as well, to allow him such liberties? We have not the same height, the same build, nor the same complexion so explain to me how you mistook him for me.”

“I didn’t.”

“So you were in his arms knowing he was not me.”

“Please, you must give me a chance to explain. We must sit down and talk calmly.”

“I want you out of my sight tonight.”

She took a bold step toward him. “If you persist in judging me without truly listening to what I have to say and send me back to Lyons Place when I wish to remain here, I shall never forgive you.”

“Then we share that in common, for I shall never forgive you. Not again.”

I
swear to God, when I first took her in my arms, I did not know it was Claire.”

Ainsley sat in his library, sipping his nightly brandy, studying his brother who had arrived with an unbelievable tale. “If I’d known there was going to be so much excitement, I’d have gone to the ball, but they’ve been so dreadfully dull all Season that I could not bear the thought of attending another.”

Stephen lifted his gaze from his knotted hands. “You don’t believe me.”

“Sorry, puppy. You’re rather like the boy who cried wolf.”

“I was supposed to meet Lady Anne there, but Claire arrived first. Then Westcliffe appeared.” He shrugged. “I suppose they were going to have a tryst as well.”

“Rather bad timing there, but explain to me why you would want Westcliffe’s cast-off?”

“She’s beautiful.”

Ainsley laughed, then settled back in his chair. “Give him a day or two for his temper to ease.”

“I’m worried about Claire.”

“He won’t strike her. That’s not his way.”

“But there are other ways to hurt her.”

“In all likelihood, he’ll do what he did before and send her back to his estate. He has never mastered dealing with unpleasant situations that involve women.”

“What man has?”

Ainsley swirled the brandy in his snifter. “You know, running errands for the War Office is not exactly what we had in mind when we purchased your commission.”

Stephen shrugged. “I knew Mother wouldn’t let me leave England’s shores.”

“Perhaps you should consider cutting the apron strings, before you become a very unlikable fellow.”

“I have a better idea. Let’s trade places.”

Ainsley knew that Stephen was being facetious on several levels. Stephen was well aware that even if they had shared the same father, they couldn’t trade their positions simply because one of them wished to do so. Besides, even in the world of fantasy, something larger was at stake. As much as Ainsley had always loved his brother, he’d also been constantly disappointed that Stephen thought of little except his own pleasures. He found it difficult to admire him.

“You’ve never understood that possessing a title doesn’t mean that one lounges about. As much as your offer appeals to me, and as much as I would love to shed my mantle of responsibilities—unfortunately I cannot leave the fate of all those who depend upon me in your hands. Sad to say, puppy, but you’ll simply have to continue to resent me.”

“It doesn’t help that you call me that.”

“Then by all means, waste not a moment more, put away your childish things, and grow up.”

Beth was inconsolable, alternating between weeping and railing about Westcliffe, wishing he would rot.

Under normal circumstances, Claire would have been irritated beyond all enduring, but she was barely bothered by Beth’s outbursts. She was immersed in her own grief. For Westcliffe to have refused to listen to her side of the story, for him to have jumped to his conclusions and clung to them so tenaciously meant he did not trust her, and without trust, he couldn’t possibly love her as she had begun to believe he might.

She’d been physically ill on the journey back to Lyons Place. Several times she’d had to ask the driver to stop so she could empty her stomach on the side of the road. She’d grown so pale and weak by the time they reached their destination that even Beth had finally stopped bemoaning her unfair situation and begun to take notice of Claire’s pallor.

In the days that followed, while she did not feel nearly as bad as she had on the journey, she seemed unable to shake off this cloud of nausea. It was always worse first thing in the morning, when she awoke to the realization that Westcliffe was not in bed with her. She’d spent a week staring out the window waiting for his arrival and his forgiveness. If he forgave her, in spite of her harsh words to him, she would forgive him as well.

By the second week, she’d regained her senses. She was not going to wallow in pity. She was going to get on with her life.

If only she didn’t wake up every morning feeling so weakened and ill.

The missive delivered to Westcliffe, no fewer than ten minutes ago, by a servant of his estate was succinct.

I am with child. I hope it pleases you.

No signature, no affectionately yours, no nothing. Simply a few words that hit him in the gut as though they had been delivered with a battering ram. The first communication from her in a little over two months. Could she even comprehend how much the news would please him … and shame him? Regret for his behavior that night, for sending her off without even allowing her to speak, had been eating at him. Even all the whiskey he’d consumed couldn’t drown it.

Sitting behind the desk in his library, Westcliffe peered up at the young man who’d had the honor of delivering the message. He didn’t remember hiring him, but then he’d established a household allowance that Claire was to use as she pleased.

Obviously, it pleased her to hire comely young men.

“You’re to stay the night here,” Westcliffe said, as pointedly as the note. “I shall be sending a reply with you in the morning.”

The young man bowed. “Yes, m’lord.”

“What was your name again?”

“Blyton, sir. My father is the butler, although I go by Bly to avoid confusion.”

“Bly. I see.” He cleared his throat. He hated to admit that not a single hour went by that he did not think of her. “How is her ladyship?”

“Very well, I believe, sir. She is quite loved by the staff.”

Westcliffe leaned back and rubbed his finger along his chin. “Why?”

Bly looked surprised, as though someone had come up behind him and pinched his bum. “Well, m’lord, she’s fair in all matters. Manages the household with a firm but tolerant hand. I daresay, the manor is always more joyful when she’s in residence.”

So was his home in London. It had returned to its somber bleakness with her departure. She’d even taken the dog with her. Her scent had stayed behind, on her pillow. He’d forbidden the maid to wash it. He stared at it every night, remembering the way she’d looked, lying there, dreaming.

“I shall endeavor to work a visit into my busy schedule,” he told the young man now, not certain why he felt a need to tell the man anything.

Bly bowed. “Very good, sir.”

“Go see Cook about having a meal prepared for you.”

“Thank you, sir.”

After the young man left, Westcliffe got up and walked to the window. His heir could very well be on his way. He’d not expected that. He’d always taken such care not to get a woman with child, but then he’d taken none at all where his wife was concerned. But then why should he? After all, it was her responsibility to provide him with an heir.

If a son was born, he could grant Claire complete freedom.

A week after the ball, he’d gone to see Anne. She had been the one to send him the missive about the conservatory. She’d seen Stephen and Claire disappear inside.

“I thought you should know,” she’d said.

“Why not tell me in person?”

“Because I knew you’d come to love her, and I could not bear to see the pain in your eyes when you discovered the truth.”

Since then they’d attended one opera together, and he’d dined with her once. But he was not pleasant company these days because he could not seem to stop thinking about Claire. And now that she was with child—

He wanted to see her, to hold her, to place his hand against where his child now grew. But they had parted with harsh words and vows of never forgiving. He suspected she’d hold firm to her vows of not forgiving him.

He was having a damned hard time forgiving himself.

The three-inch-wide gold bracelet encrusted with diamonds was the most beautiful Claire had ever seen, the most extravagant gift she’d ever received. Only two words accompanied it:
Thank you.
Scrawled in script as bold as the one who’d held the pen.

Disappointment smashed into her. She’d wanted more. His arrival, his presence.

Standing in the parlor, she flung the gift across the room. It was nothing. It made a mockery of their relationship. Sparkles to hide the truth of their unhappiness. She despised living alone here. Even Beth had abandoned her, returned to London. With the possibility of a betrothal to a titled gentleman not in need of a dowry, she’d been able to convince her father to let her and the aunt who had raised them hire rooms in a hotel.

Claire couldn’t be happier for her sister. If only she could find her own happiness. Although for those wondrous weeks in London with Westcliffe, joy had abounded.

She glanced over at Bly, who was standing as erect as when he’d first entered bearing the gift. She gave him a tremulous smile. “Thank you. You’re dismissed.”

“Yes, m’lady. If there’s anything—”

“Nothing.”

He turned to go.

“Wait.”

He looked back at her, and she could see that he did indeed wish to do something to make this entire horrid situation better. The servants cared for her. Why couldn’t her husband? Why couldn’t he trust her? Why wouldn’t he listen?

“Please have the groomsman ready my horse.”

Bly seemed surprised by her request. “Are you certain it’s wise—”

“Do not question me.”

He bowed. “Yes, m’lady.”

After he left, she retrieved the stunning bracelet, called for her maid, and went upstairs to change into her riding habit. Half an hour later, she was cantering over the moors, the wind whipping around her, ushering in the dark clouds in the distance. The groomsman followed along behind her, keeping a respectful distance. She hadn’t wanted him to come along, but they all watched out for her since it was obvious her husband would not.

She would go to London. She would confront him. She would make him understand, because the more she thought about that horrid night, the more convinced she was that being caught in the conservatory with Stephen had been Lady Anne’s plan all along. Issuing the invitation personally. Being so accommodating, so understanding that Westcliffe loved Claire. So many guests that the likelihood of spotting Stephen—

If he’d even gone into the residence. Perhaps he was only ever to meet her in the conservatory. She needed to speak with Stephen, to ask him why he’d been there. She should have done it before, but she’d thought it would only exacerbate the situation. Now she realized he might have vital information that could help her get Westcliffe back.

She couldn’t deny her love for him, and this child was a chance for a new beginning. They did not have to remain estranged. If she could only make him see that they’d all been part of Lady Anne’s elaborate scheme to get Westcliffe back.