Passions of a Wicked Earl (6 page)

Tessa Seymour, Duchess of Ainsley—mother to the eighth Earl of Westcliffe, the Honorable Stephen Lyons, and the ninth Duke of Ainsley—lounged on the bed with the silk sheet bunched at her waist and trailing over one hip and thigh, leaving the other provocatively revealed. Her black hair with only a hint of gray at the temples provided a covering for her shoulders and exposed one breast to the eye of the beholder. And the beholder had such gorgeous golden eyes. Before she’d commissioned this painter, she’d never seen anything like them. Soulful. But when passion ignited them, they flared like the sun.

“You’re thinking again about getting me in that bed with you,” he said as he stood at the window, where the light cast its brilliance over his canvas.

“How can you tell?” she asked saucily. Leo was all of fifteen years her junior. Firm and not yet gone to fat.

“Your eyes,” he said. “They darken.”

“So come join me then.”

“I want to work on your portrait while the light is still good.”

“I told you. I always come first. The painting second.”

He grinned. “Ah, but I’m working on my favorite part right now. Your long, slender legs.”

“Come over here, and I’ll wrap them around your waist.”

“Later. Right now, they’re perfect just as they are. You’re perfect as well.”

“Is there any doubt as to why I love you?” He’d created three portraits so far, and each time he convinced her to wear less. This one was the most scandalous so far. She wasn’t quite certain what she would do with it when he finished it.

“Then marry me.”

She laughed. “No. I’ve had two husbands. That is more than enough for any woman.”

“Neither was young. You deserve a young husband.”

“Who will eventually grow old.”

“But what fun we’ll have until then.”

“We have fun now. Marriage will simply ruin everything.” Although her second marriage had not been too awful. Ainsley, at least, had treated her well, and she
had
cared for him. But her heart had only ever belonged to one man. The Earl of Lynnford. They’d had a brief affair while she was married to Westcliffe. By the time Westcliffe died, Lynnford was married. He’d ended their affair when he became betrothed and had remained faithful to his wife. As much as Tessa despised him for his devotion to his countess, she couldn’t help but admire his loyalty.

“Now you’re thinking of someone else,” Leo said softly. “Who is it that always turns you melancholy?”

She brought herself back to the present. “It’s your talk of marriage that has ruined my mood. Perhaps if you were to paint without your clothes on, my fair temperament would be restored.”

Grinning, he set the palette aside. Before he’d removed his loosely fitting white shirt, a knock sounded on her door, and her lady’s maid peered in. “The Countess of Westcliffe has come to call.”

That
was a surprise although Tessa refused to show it. She’d not even known the girl was in London. Well, that could prove interesting for the Season. Still, she responded tartly, “Tell her I’m not at home.”

“No,” Leo said, moving away from the canvas. “You should see her.”

Tessa waved a hand at the maid, who promptly retreated, closing the door in her wake. “She took two sons from me. I have no wish to welcome her into my home.”

It had nearly broken her heart to realize that her second son, the one born of her heart, had grown into a man lacking in character. He’d refused to discuss his reasons for cuckolding his brother. He’d simply sat in the library, downed brandy, and acted as though his actions were of no consequence—when Tessa knew they’d very nearly destroyed Westcliffe. While she’d never felt as close to him as she’d felt to the others, by God, he was still her son, and she understood as only a mother could.

Leo walked over to the bed and tugged on the sheet, exposing her hip a little more. “It can’t have been easy for her to come here.”

Tessa sighed with feigned annoyance. Something about Leo prevented any woman from growing angry with him. “You’re going to fall out of my good graces if you continue this path.”

“At least determine what she wants.”

She jerked on the sheet, wrapped it around her body, and slithered off the bed, tossing her hair back over her shoulder. “Why do you care?”

“Because I know you’re unhappy with the way things are between you and your sons. Perhaps her visit can alter the situation.”

“You are such a dreamer, Leo.”

He approached her and bussed a quick kiss across her lips. “Visit with her. What harm can come of it?”

Her relationship with Morgan was estranged, but then it had always been difficult. She’d despised his father, and God help her, she’d had a difficult time separating her feelings for the father from those for his son. She’d been so young, barely seventeen when he was born. Then Stephen, whom she had adored from birth, had come into the world, and she’d showered him with her affections, ignoring Morgan in the process. She felt so uncomfortable with him now, out of her element. She didn’t enjoy feeling like a failure, but she knew she’d been a miserable mother—at least where her older son was concerned. She pressed her body against Leo’s. “Make me happy again before I greet her.”

He grinned. “With pleasure.”

Claire sat in the parlor, her hands clasped in her lap. It was strange to be in London. She’d spent most of her youth in the country, most of her marriage there as well. When she had come to Town, she’d visited with Charity and her friends, but she’d never truly developed any friendships of her own, so it was quite unsettling to determine upon whom to call next. She might not have to make any calls at all if she could garner the support of the Duchess of Ainsley. She might be scandalous, but with two sons bearing titles, she held quite a bit of power in her little finger.

But alas, Claire had been waiting for nearly an hour. It had obviously been a mistake to come here. The woman was sending a message. Claire would have to send one of her own. She’d not be treated so shabbily. She’d taken two steps toward the door when the duchess swept into the room, her cheeks aglow and her brown eyes alight with mischief.

“Countess. What an unexpected surprise to have you visit.”

Claire detected a slight chill in her voice. She curtsied. “Duchess.”

The duchess went to a table and poured amber liquid into two glasses. She extended one toward Claire. “I’d offer you tea, but I gave up the dreadful drink long ago.”

“Oh.” Claire took the offering.

“Please sit.” The duchess indicated a settee while she, herself, lounged on a fainting couch and gazed out the window. A small smile played on her lips as a young man walked by the window. “You interrupted as I was having my portrait done.”

“My apologies. I do hope you’ll forgive me. I didn’t think I should wait much longer before coming to see you,” Claire said as she sat on the settee.

The duchess waved her bejeweled hand as though Claire’s words were of no consequence. “I’m certain I can take up the pose again with little bother. When did you arrive in London?”

“Last night. Too late to call,” she added hastily before the duchess could find fault with that.

Sipping from her glass, she peered over the rim at Claire as though she were measuring her and finding her sadly lacking in every regard. “So. Why have you come to call?”

“First, I wish to apologize for what happened on my wedding night.”

“It is not me to whom you need to apologize, girl.”

“I’ve already expressed my regrets to Westcliffe.”

The duchess sat up, her interest obviously piqued. “Have you? You’ve seen him then?”

“Yes. I’m staying at his—our—residence in St. James.” She took a swallow of the burning brew. “He does not seem prone to forgive, but he has granted me leave to remain in London.”

“Is he well?”

She was astounded that the duchess would inquire of her regarding her son’s health. She nodded. “He seems to be, yes.”

“I have seen him but once since your wedding. I went to inform him that I did not approve of … his handling of himself while he was in London. Apparently he did not think I was one to cast aspersions regarding proper behavior.” She sighed, and her eyes took on a faraway look as once more she looked out the window. “Creating scandal was much more enjoyable when I was younger.”

“I’ve never relished it,” Claire admitted. “I know the ladies are not pleased that my husband has such free rein.”

“What do you intend to do about it?”

“I’m not quite certain. But I know I must earn their good graces. My sister is having her coming out, and I wish to help her as much as possible. I fear I’m not quite as schooled in the fine art of the Season, never having had one myself.” She’d married the spring before she would have had a Season. Surely, in retrospect, no harm would have come from waiting a year or even six months. But her father had not seen that anything was to be gained by granting her a reprieve. In truth, she suspected he feared she might begin to have reservations about her lot in life if given too much time to contemplate it, if she had an opportunity to experience a modicum of choice, even if the choice was simply deciding with which gentleman to dance. “I thought perhaps you could advise me, Your Grace.”

“Avoid it, at all costs.”

Not exactly the advice she’d anticipated. “Surely you jest?”

“I find the Season to be a bit of a bother.”

“I fear I have no choice in the matter. You see, if my sister doesn’t find another suitor, she’ll be forced to marry Lord Hester.”

The duchess visibly shuddered. “Good Lord, I always want to take pruning shears to his nostrils when he’s about.”

Claire released a small laugh and covered her smile with a gloved hand.

For the first time since she’d walked into the room, the duchess seemed to soften toward her. “I’d hoped you’d laugh like that around my son, around Westcliffe. He’s had little enough laughter in his life.”

Claire immediately sobered. “We had a dreadful beginning. I was terrified of my wedding night. Stephen meant well—”

“By taking his brother’s place in your bed? Stephen has always been mischievous, but that was beyond the pale. I must share some of the blame. I spoiled him, led him to believe that he should be denied nothing.”

“It wasn’t like that between us. Truly. We’d both had too much champagne. It seemed like such a brilliant idea in our muddled minds—just a way to delay my wedding night.”

“Being honest with Westcliffe would have probably gained you more.”

In retrospect, she had to agree. “I didn’t know him very well. I still don’t.” She eased up on the edge of her seat. “Duchess, I would very much like to make amends with him.”

“Then do so, girl.”

“I hardly know where to begin. And as much as I’d like to know him better, it seems he’s done with me. I think he merely plans to tolerate my presence.”

“Then you’ll have to use your womanly wiles to change his mind.”

“I fear I have none.”

“My dear girl, every woman possesses them. She simply needs to recognize the ability within herself. Men are very simple creatures really. They desire women. You simply must make yourself desirable.”

Claire refused to let her confidence diminish with the comment. She thought she looked quite smart in her dress.

“Don’t look so offended, girl.”

“I’m not.”

“Your face would say otherwise. You look lovely. Truly. But a man doesn’t desire lovely. He desires daring. You must tease him, make him wonder how much of heaven he’ll find beneath that skirt.”

She didn’t know if she could do it, but still she nodded, hoping the conversation would move on to another topic, before the heat of embarrassment caused her to burst into flames. She’d never spoken about intimate matters so candidly with another woman. It was unsettling simply because it was so intriguing. “There is still the matter of my sister.”

“Ah, yes, the reason for your visit. I shan’t make morning calls with you as I find them tedious, and as most gossip concerns me, it limits conversation. I shall, however, send word hither and yon that Ainsley will only consider invitations to balls to which you are invited.”

“Does he attend balls? Is he searching for a wife?” It occurred to her that if that was the case, he might consider Beth.

“Good God, no,” the duchess said. “I won’t say he’ll attend, only that he’ll consider them. He’s one-and-twenty. Still sowing his wild oats. I’m fairly certain marriage is the very last thing on his mind. Which is to our advantage, as it allows me to concentrate on yours.”

“Mine?”

“It’s time Westcliffe was settled, and after watching your face turn as red as an apple, I can see you need some help with the matter.”

I
cannot believe in all these years you have not invited me to visit your London residence.”

It was midafternoon. Westcliffe had been studying reports in his office when his butler had announced that the Duchess of Ainsley had arrived. He didn’t trust her visit any more than he trusted his wife, who was sitting in a chair beside his mother and preparing tea.

“You’re my mother,” Westcliffe stated succinctly, standing by the fireplace, refusing to be drawn into the unfamiliar tableau. He’d had few visitors to his residence. It was a place to sleep, eat, and work. Nothing more. “Surely an invitation is not required.”

“Of course it is. How is one to know that one is welcomed?”

Westcliffe darted his gaze to the man lounging casually on the sofa. He suspected Leo was his mother’s latest lover. He was tall and slender, with graceful hands and the face of an Adonis. He seemed much too angelic for his mother. Turning his attention back to her, he said, “You are always welcome in my residences.”

“I shall keep that in mind.” Winking at Claire, she took the offered cup of tea.
That
didn’t bode well. His mother had a tendency to be conniving, and Claire’s reaction more than his mother’s alerted him that some sort of conspiracy was afoot. “I’m here on a rather urgent matter. You’ve been married all of three years, and you have yet to have your wedding portrait made.”