Page 20 of Passions of a Wicked Earl
He knew the reasons didn’t matter. He walked back over to her. “I know it’ll be difficult, but her being here has nothing to do with me. She wishes to give her sister a Season.”
“And you will play the role of dutiful husband?”
“I will do what I can to help her. I owe her that.”
He’d never seen her with tears in her eyes. It was like a blow to his chest.
“I want to be more to you than I am,” she said.
“You are everything.” Reaching inside his jacket, he removed a slender black box and extended it toward her. He held his breath while she glared at the object as though it were vile. Finally, she snatched it from him and opened it. Inside was nestled a necklace of emeralds. “It’s gorgeous.”
She looked up at him then, more tears welling. “But it’s not enough.”
Pressing her body against his, she cradled his jaw. In a low, provocative voice, she said, “I will do anything to have you. Will you say the same of me?”
“Anne—”
“Be rid of her.”
“An annulment is not possible. A divorce will create a scandal that—” The words lodged in his throat as she cupped him intimately and began a slow, seductive massage that he knew from experience concluded with her talented mouth doing wicked things no wife would do.
“Surely, you must admit that I’m worth scandal.”
Oh, yes, she was worth scandal … and a good deal more.
Chapter 7
Sipping a Bordeaux, Claire sat on the floor in the library and listened to the residence settling in for the night. A creak here, a moan there. She’d done the same a thousands times at Lyons Place. She’d drawn comfort from the noises, had felt she was absorbing some part of her husband’s history. But here—he had very little history here.
Cooper made a small snuffling sound. He was asleep, his head resting on her lap. She wore her nightgown and wrap, her hair braided and draped over one shoulder. Having prepared for bed, she’d been unable to sleep, so she’d come in search of something to help her relax. It seemed her husband had quite the collection of spirits. The wine slid down her throat smoothly, warming her almost as much as the fire. With her back against the chair, she wiggled her bare toes and tried not to wonder what Westcliffe might be doing. It was past midnight, and Claire was fairly certain he was engaged in some sort of errant behavior. She was going to demand his fidelity while she was in London. She had dealt with overbearing estate managers and surly staff whose loyalty had been to the master of the manor rather than the mistress. She’d won them all over with a firm but fair hand. She’d dealt with unhappy tenants and villagers who attempted to cheat her.
What was one irascible husband compared to that?
She heard the snick of the door opening, followed by a heavy tread—
Her heart barely sped up. The wine she supposed. She was almost finished with her second glass, and her pours were generous.
“Claire? What the deuce are you doing here?”
She glanced up at him. From this angle he appeared to be a foreboding giant. It might not be the best time to lay out her rules, especially as her mouth had begun to tingle. She wondered if his kisses made a lady’s mouth tingle. When Stephen had kissed her, he’d simply pushed his mouth into hers, bruising her lips against her teeth. What had either of them known of kissing then? What did she know of it now?
“Don’t you remember?” she asked, striving to concentrate on the question. “I came here to give my sister a Season.”
He crouched, his elbows resting on his thighs, his large hands clasped together. She couldn’t help but recall the feel of those hands, his fingers especially, against her skin. He hadn’t even been trying to seduce her, and yet she’d been seduced. Little wonder he’d developed a reputation in that regard.
His brow furrowed, his eyes narrowed. “Are you foxed?”
“Absolutely … not.”
He released a dark chuckle. She didn’t like the way it shimmered through her, as though they were sharing a private moment. His knees popped as he straightened and moved beyond her sight. Peering around the chair, she could see him at the table. When he turned, he was holding a glass and the bottle of wine. She moved quickly out of his sight.
“Playing hide-and-seek, Claire?” he asked as he dropped to the floor, pressing his back against the chair opposite hers, stretching out his long legs until his feet reached past her hips. “You were much better at it when you were younger.”
She realized she was indeed foxed because he sounded almost amused, amiable. It could only be the influence of the wine making her think so. “How would you know? You never played with us.”
Leaning forward, he filled the bowl of her goblet. “That didn’t mean I wasn’t aware of what you were doing.”
He poured wine for himself, then settled in against the seat of his chair. She couldn’t help but notice how his long fingers held the bowl of the glass—in the same manner that he might clasp a breast. These intimate thoughts had never haunted her before. They were no doubt a result of the mortification he’d put her through last night.
