Page 3 of Passions of a Wicked Earl
He changed his direction, turning away from her, striding toward a corner table where various decanters were artfully arranged. She wondered what he’d intended with his original path. It would have brought him directly to her. Surely not an embrace or a kiss.
A fist more likely. At his side, as it was now. Not that he would ever raise it to her. He’d beaten his brother nearly senseless, but he’d never touched her with anything except gentleness—even when his hold on her was firm as he’d guided her to the carriage, she’d felt no pain. And somehow that had made everything all the worse.
With his wide shoulders and back to her, she couldn’t see his actions, but she heard the tinkling of glass, loud and soft, erratic, and she wondered if his unfisted hands were shaking as they poured him something to drink. Then silence. While she watched, he tossed back his head. Then the tinkling began again. When next it stopped, he faced her, one large hand wrapped around a tumbler filled nearly to the brim when she had no doubt he’d have preferred to wrap those long slender fingers around her slender neck.
“You’re not welcome here,” he said, his voice low, controlled, yet seething beneath the surface. “We had an understanding, an arrangement, you and I. Go back to the country estate, Claire.”
“Would that I could, but I have made a promise that requires I stay in London.”
“You broke the promise you made to me within hours of making it. Break this other one as well. Should be easy enough for you.”
She flinched at his harsh tone. Silly of her to think that hours, days, months, years would lessen his anger with her. Tentatively, she stepped toward him, stopping when his dark eyes narrowed.
“Westcliffe, I need you to forgive me.”
“I’ve told you the condition under which that will happen.”
“When I’m rotting in hell?” She released a bitter laugh. “Do you not think I’m already there? Do you have any idea how many ladies have come to visit me, to inform me of your lovers? You are hardly the soul of discretion. If you thought to shame and humiliate me, you’ve accomplished your goal remarkably well.”
“I take pleasure where I find it because it pleases me to do so. You are never a consideration. Quite honestly, Claire, from the moment I delivered you to Lyons Place, I’ve not given a single thought to you.”
“That’s always been quite obvious.”
He walked over to a chair before the fireplace and dropped down into it, stretching his long legs out before him. Suddenly, from beneath his desk crept a dog, a collie. It slowly limped to the chair, then curled beside it. Westcliffe reached down and began rubbing the dog’s head. It appeared he’d done it without even thinking, a habit, a ritual, and she wondered how many nights he’d sat there in that position with only a glass of spirits and an aging dog for company.
Not many if the rumors that continually landed on her doorstep were to be believed.
She took several steps nearer, until she could see his eyes more clearly. They were dark, almost as black as his hair, not blue or as kind as Stephen’s. How could two brothers be so vastly different?
Westcliffe’s features were carved by an unartistic hand: his nose a little too large, his chin a little too square, his brows a little too heavy. The wickedness he’d embraced had etched his face into a rugged handsomeness that she couldn’t deny. The years had been kind, his features even more darkly appealing.
Whereas Stephen was much fairer, his hair a golden brown with streaks of blond woven through it, almost as though they played hide-and-seek, as though his hair couldn’t quite determine what shade it should be. Nothing about him had ever been frightening. He’d been Claire’s friend for as long as she could remember, while she’d barely known Westcliffe. She had no knowledge of his smile, no memory of his laughter. Few memories of him at all really. But then he was eight years older, and it seemed when they were younger that his attentions had always been elsewhere. He’d been off at school or spending time with his friends or chasing skirts. Or seeing to the details of his estate.
His father had perished when Westcliffe was five, and Stephen had only just turned one. Westcliffe’s inheritance had been a crumbling estate and a marriage contract with Claire’s father binding him to the Earl of Crestmont’s firstborn daughter. She had never questioned it, but on her wedding day it had suddenly struck her as rather archaic, absolutely medieval, especially as the firstborn daughter had yet to make her appearance in the world when the papers were signed. What if she’d had the appearance of a toad?
She suspected nothing would have changed because absolutely nothing about her mattered except that she drew her first breath ahead of her sister. She’d not objected because marriage provided her with the means to move out of her father’s oppressive household, where his harsh hand had taught her that a lady did not question her place or her duties. But as her wedding day had progressed, fears had bubbled up to the surface. And when she’d shared them with Stephen …
“Nothing happened between Stephen and me,” she admitted now.
Westcliffe’s harsh laughter echoed around them. “How stupid do you think I am, Claire? I found him in your bed.”
“Still in his trousers when you dragged him out.”
“So I arrived before he could have his way with you. Or not. I can button and unbutton with surprising haste when the situation warrants. Even if he did not take you, it does not change the fact that you were in his arms!” He came up out of the chair with a brutal force that caused the air around him to shimmer and her to step back, unexpectedly gripped by terror. He hurled his tumbler into the empty hearth. It shattered, the amber liquid splattering. Breathing heavily, he gripped the mantel. “It does not change the fact that he was in my place, and you wanted him there.”
At the sight of his anguish, she couldn’t prevent the tears scalding her eyes. “I don’t know what I wanted. I was a child. A silly girl. He was always my friend. You I barely knew. If given a choice regarding my husband, yes, I probably would have chosen him. I don’t know. I only know that I was terrified of my wedding night, and he told me he had a plan that would allow it to be postponed.”
“I’ll come to your bed before him. I’ll hold you. Nothing more. He’ll be furious at me, no doubt, but it’ll gain you a reprieve. When you’re ready, you have but to tell him the truth. Then all will be well.”
They’d both had enough champagne and spirits to think it a brilliant plan. In the end, it had cost her a friendship and a husband. It had torn a family apart. It had destroyed all hope of happiness.
Turning his head slightly, Westcliffe slid his unforgiving gaze toward her. “You cannot have been that naïve.”
“I was five days past the celebration of my seventeenth birthday with no mother to guide me. The spinster aunt who saw to my upbringing knew little more than I did. Yes, I think I could have been that gullible. And Stephen, he has always been so charming. They say he can persuade an angel to sin. I am far removed from being an angel.”
With a heavy sigh, he shook his head. “What the devil do you want of me, Claire?”
“I want you to give me a chance to truly be your wife, not the caretaker of your estate.”
