Page 17 of Passions of a Wicked Earl
“So you wish to acquire her good graces?”
“Precisely.”
They posed for several minutes, neither moving nor speaking. He was acutely aware of her scent infiltrating his room, her warmth penetrating his fingers, her profile bathed in sunlight. He’d never noticed before, but she had three small freckles—two high, one low—on the curve of her cheek. He wondered if the sun had caught her without a bonnet. He wondered how often she’d walked over his land.
“My lord, there are some stray strands of her hair falling over her cheek,” Leo said. “Would you be so kind as to tuck them up behind her ear?”
Three strands at the most. How the devil had Leo spotted them from his distance?
“You’re an artist. Pretend they’re not there.”
“I fear I lack imagination. I paint what I see.”
“But you are not yet painting.”
“No, I’m outlining, but they are a distraction.”
With a sigh, knowing his cooperation would help speed things along, Westcliffe reached out and moved the strands aside, his fingers glancing over her cheek. She shivered beneath his touch. Against his will, his gaze darted to the bed, and he imagined her shivering there. Unlike the artist, he had a keen imagination. He could imagine his mouth trailing over her skin—
With more force than needed, he tucked the stray strands back into place. As he did so, he noticed the faintest of scars intersecting her right brow. “How much longer?” he snapped.
“Not much. You’re free to speak,” Leo said.
“It actually assists me with my painting, to get a clearer idea of your character. For example, what is your favorite color, my lady?”
“Blue.”
That explained the color of her gown, which even from the disadvantage of his angle he could see enhanced the shade of her eyes.
“My lord?”
Westcliffe tore his gaze from his wife and glowered at the artist, arching an eyebrow.
“Your favorite color, my lord,” he said smugly.
“I see no reason to encourage your inquiries.”
“Brown,” Claire said softly. “His favorite color. It’s everywhere in his residence. Dull and dreary. Is that how you see your life, my lord?”
“My life is seldom dull and never dreary. I simply find brown … peaceful.” In truth, he’d never given it any thought. But his mood was often flat. He couldn’t remember the last time he laughed. Anne brought him moments of pleasure, but he seemed incapable of holding true joy.
“How did you get the scar?” he asked quietly.
Her hand came up quickly, and before Leo could chastise her for moving, she’d returned it to her lap. “When I was eight, I took a tumble off my horse.”
Then she’d had the scar for years. The scar, the freckles. What else had escaped his notice? He realized he was falling into his mother’s trap—taking an interest in Claire he’d not meant to take.
“What are your intentions regarding my mother?” he asked bluntly of the artist, deciding turnabout was fair play. Besides, he had no desire to delve into his own mannerisms.
Claire seemed almost as surprised as Leo. She swung her head around to look at Westcliffe, her blue eyes wide, her luscious lips parted. They were the red of a rose.
“Did he kiss you?” he suddenly demanded, not certain what had provoked the question. Maybe it was simply that her mouth appeared so damned kissable.
She appeared even more flummoxed, her brow pleating.
“Stephen. Did he kiss you?”
“No. Never.” She squeezed her eyes closed. “Yes, once. I was ten. I was curious. I asked him to kiss me. He did. It was … disappointing.”
