Page 25 of Passions of a Wicked Earl
“Because it was the only one that revealed any emotion. I care little about the outer shell of those I put on canvas. I attempt to reveal the inner soul.”
Westcliffe braced his arms on either side of the man’s head where it rested against the back of the chair. “You won’t much like what you’ll find in my soul, so stop digging into it. You will paint as we are posed or not paint at all.”
Leo’s mouth formed a cunning smile. “Interesting. Yesterday you wanted me not to paint at all. Now you give me a choice. Perhaps you welcome the excuse to be so near your wife.”
Did this man not recognize a threat when it was delivered? And he didn’t wish to be near his wife. He did not desire her. He did not want her. He shoved himself back. “You know nothing.”
“As you wish, my lord. I’m merely an ignorant painter.”
The door opened, and Westcliffe moved even farther away.
“Oh, you’re here, Leo,” Claire said. Her gaze darted to Westcliffe, and he could have sworn her cheeks took on a pink hue before she turned her attention back to Leo. “Are we going to have another session?”
“I believe we are,” Leo said, coming out of the chair.
Westcliffe watched as he approached Claire and pressed a kiss to the back of her hand. He knew he shouldn’t feel any jealousy, and yet he did. He’d be rid of her come the end of the Season. What did he care who touched her, who kissed her? But for now, she was still his wife.
“Whenever you are ready, my lord,” Leo said, and escorted Claire from the room.
He followed them up the stairs, his gaze level with Claire’s provocatively swaying hips, hips he’d cupped last night, hips he’d pressed against his. What had he been thinking? He’d been frustrated following his visit to Anne’s because the distraction of his wife’s arrival had prevented him from wanting Anne. Then his wife had enticed him with her innocent request for a kiss.
She wore the same gown as yesterday, while he’d not bothered to wear the same jacket, waistcoat, and cravat. He’d assumed Leo would go skittering away. He should have known better. His mother didn’t suffer fools gladly. The fact that Leo had been her companion for some time now meant the man was no fool.
But neither did it mean that in this particular matter he was not serving as his mother’s puppet.
Claire was acutely aware of the tension in Westcliffe as he stood behind her, his hand resting heavily at her shoulder, his thumb grazing the nape of her neck. She wondered if he was even aware of the constant stroking. Leo had already moved on to using the oils. She wondered how many afternoons she’d be forced to endure this heaven and this hell. It was strange to find herself intrigued by her husband, to want to know so much more about him. In particular how he could act as though the intimacy of talking and later kissing had never happened, when it was all she could think about.
Suddenly, she felt the brush of his fingers over her cheek as he captured the errant strands that had once again worked their way free of her pins.
“They never seem to stay caught,” she said, wishing she didn’t sound so breathless.
“They say when a woman’s hair will not stay pinned that there is a wildness in her,” Leo murmured.
She’d thought she’d spoken quietly enough that only Westcliffe would hear her. “I’m not wild. I’m dreadfully dull.”
Westcliffe’s thumb stilled, and she wanted to glance back to see if he agreed.
“You never did answer my question yesterday,” he said instead.
What had she not answered?
“The one about my intentions regarding your mother?” Leo asked calmly, and she realized the question had been directed at him. “I intend to marry her, my lord.”
“That way lies heartache. She has only ever loved one man.”
Claire swung her head around and up to look at Westcliffe only to discover that his gaze was focused on her. Her heart stuttered, and she wondered if he’d been focused on her the entire time. What was he thinking when he touched her hair, when his fingers skimmed over her skin.
“I assume you’re referring to the Earl of Lynnford?” Leo inquired.
Because she was looking at Westcliffe, she saw the flash of surprise in his eyes before he concealed it behind his arrogant mask, and she was left to wonder how much of himself he hid from others. She’d have not expected him to help her move furniture around. She’d actually enjoyed sitting with him in the library last night. She’d certainly relished his kiss.
“Why would you say Lynnford?” Westcliffe asked, his voice flat, giving away nothing.
“Just before you were married, your mother commissioned me to paint your portrait. I’ve been with her for three years. Since Lynnford was named guardian of her three sons, and Ainsley has only just reached his majority, I’ve had occasion to see Tessa and Lynnford together. You’re scowling again, my lord.”
She watched as Westcliffe relaxed his facial muscles. She knew she should turn her attention back to the artist, but it was so much more fascinating to observe her husband.
“Why would you settle for a woman for whom you would always be second?” Westcliffe asked.
