Page 46 of Passions of a Wicked Earl
“I know,” he repeated, just before he lowered his head and licked the amber liquid that dotted her bosom.
Warmth swirled through her, its movement through her body mirroring his hot, velvety tongue as it journeyed over her flesh. Her knees grew weak, and if not for Westcliffe’s arm banded around her back at the waist, she was fairly certain she would have embarrassed herself further by ending up as a puddle on the floor. Why was he doing this, and why did she want him to continue?
His words echoed through her mind: What you had before was the kiss of a boy. That is the kiss of a man.
He’d left her with such longing after the scalding kiss he’d given her, but he’d only given her a sampling. The fire, the fury, the passion in him that she’d always feared … when released, they stirred her in ways that she’d never imagined that a body, a soul, even a heart could feel.
The first night here he’d also given her another sampling of what he could deliver with the simple touch of a finger. And here again, another sampling: the velvet caress of his tongue. Only she was growing weary of sampling. She wanted the entire meal.
He’d mocked her earlier reference to love—but could anyone experience such stirring, the giving or the receiving of it, if not even a hint of love, of caring was involved?
This was not lust—but if it was, God help her, she wanted more.
Finally, he began to lift his head, and before he was at his full height, she reached up, holding his head in place, and sampled the whiskey that clung to the bristle at his jaw. It was more flavorful, its richness enhanced by the saltiness of his skin.
His gaze held hers for the longest, searching for what—she didn’t know. When he finally released her, she dropped back into the chair, irritated that he had the uncanny ability to make her too weak to stand while he seemed to gain strength from the encounter.
“We’ll continue this discussion after the Season is over,” he stated succinctly, his armor back in place, his emotions tethered. He spun on his heel and strode from the room.
Glancing down, she realized he’d missed a drop. She almost called him back to see to it. Instead, she brought her feet up, curled in the chair, and gazed out into the darkness of the garden.
She didn’t want a divorce. He spoke of it as though it was a simple matter, but it was costly and involved, and fraught with scandal. She’d only ever heard of one couple being granted a divorce, and the woman had moved to France to escape the humiliation of it. Besides, she didn’t want an end to this marriage. Perhaps she was prideful, not wanting to be so easily thrown over for another woman.
But it was more than that. Recently, she’d begun to catch rare glimpses into the man she’d married, and she couldn’t deny that he fascinated her. She wanted to know him as fully as a woman could know her husband.
Even if it meant that the seduction would be left to her.
He did not want his wife!
Damnation, he did not. But bloody hell, he couldn’t stop thinking about her.
Westcliffe sat in a dark corner at Dodger’s, drinking fine whiskey almost as quickly as it could be poured. He’d intended to go see Anne, but he’d come here instead. The fragrance of roses wafted around him, and he had no desire to have it replaced with the scent of lilac. What an absurd thought.
But it was there all the same. Claire was uppermost in his mind, and it wasn’t fair to Anne for him to seek her out under those circumstances.
Whatever had possessed him to sip from Claire’s skin earlier?
It had been the fire in her eyes. He’d seen it often enough before they were married, when she would get in an argument with Stephen. It was the fire that intrigued him. It had been totally absent on their wedding day, as though somehow, with the taking of his name, she’d lost the very essence of herself.
Tonight Beth’s excitement over the damned ball had caused a measure of guilt to prick his conscience. Would it have been such a terrible thing to allow Claire to have a Season? He’d seen no sense in it. She’d been betrothed to him before she was born. She wasn’t in need of a suitor. Even the ever-practical Ainsley had agreed that nothing was to be gained by avoiding the inevitable. Although in hindsight, perhaps his brother had simply been ready to stop handing coins over to Westcliffe. Or more likely, not yet interested in the marriage market, he viewed balls as a waste of a man’s time.
Claire had looked so lovely this evening. He’d been glad when she’d not changed out of her attire before joining him in the library later. He’d enjoyed gazing on her—until the subject of Anne had come up. When Claire had tossed his good whiskey on him—
He gave a low chuckle. He’d reacted without thought. What gentleman tossed liquor onto a woman? What sort of gentleman retaliated at all?
He would have to apologize. Perhaps he could convince her that licking her clean had been the apology, but each sweep of his tongue had only caused his body to grow more taut. That he was able to walk out was a true testament to his determination.
He’d been surprised by her anger at the mention of a divorce. Yes, it was an act of last resort, but how many years did they have to live apart before admitting that they would never live together? He’d have thought she’d have welcomed the end to their marriage. She was young enough that by the time it finally came about, she could still marry. Surely she desired someone with whom to spend her nights.
Yes, there would be scandal. It would be impossible to avoid. But they were already the fodder for gossips with him living in London and her in the country. At least an end to the marriage would eventually bring an end to the gossip.
It wouldn’t be easy at first, but … well, it seemed nothing of late was ever easy.
Chapter 13
The flowers began arriving midmorning, during breakfast. From half a dozen gentlemen. Beth was simply beside herself with glee.
Claire gave Westcliffe a questioning look. He simply shook his head and shrugged, hoping she’d understand that he’d had nothing at all to do with them. He was well aware, of course, that when a gentleman was interested in a lady, he expressed that interest by sending her flowers. He’d sent flowers to other women, never to his wife.
