Page 48 of Passions of a Wicked Earl
She laughed. “I daresay, we’re off to a good start. What say we go to Cremorne Gardens this evening? It would be good for Beth to be seen about.”
He tilted his head slightly. “I suppose you mean to go early, before the less-reputable people arrive.”
“We shall absolutely go early.” She gave him an impish smile. “Although perhaps we will also stay late.”
“Not if you wish her to marry. Reputations are ruined when the hour grows late.”
“Then we must take pains not to remain longer than is prudent.”
* * *
Anne was pouting. It wasn’t the first time he’d seen her out of sorts. She’d first approached him almost two years ago, desiring him to be her lover. But she was married at the time to the younger son of an earl. Knowing what it was for a man to find his wife with another, he couldn’t bring himself to have a liaison with a married woman. Then her husband had taken ill and died. She’d been Westcliffe’s companion for the past six months—as soon as she’d come out of mourning.
“I waited half the night for your arrival,” she said caustically. “I assume you will at least be joining me for dinner tonight.”
He’d never found her so unattractive. Before, he’d tolerated her little fits of temper, assumed they were a woman’s prerogative. Lord knew he’d grown up seeing his mother display enough of them.
But today, Anne gave the appearance of pettiness. Coldness. He thought of Claire tossing the whiskey on him. Anger should be accompanied by fire. He could handle that. But cold … he’d never realized that he didn’t much like it.
“Unfortunately, I’m taking my wife and her sister to Cremorne Gardens.”
Anne lounged on the fainting couch, staring out the window with such intensity that he was surprised the glass didn’t shatter. “You’ve been to see me only once since that whore of a wife—”
“Claire is not a whore.”
“She took your brother to her bed. Don’t tell me you’ve forgiven her.”
“She is not your concern, Anne.”
“I don’t do well alone, Westcliffe.”
He tried not to compare his wife—who’d had three years of solitude—to this woman. Claire had never complained. God knew she had a right to.
“The sooner her sister is married off, the sooner things will return to normal,” he said, not willing to admit that he wasn’t certain he yearned for normal any longer.
“Normal?” She came off the couch with self-righteousness etched in every move. “Did you inform her that you want a divorce?”
Why was he angry at her for being furious? She had a right. She was his lover, but this summer was not what she’d expected or hoped for. He knew that. He knew tolerance was needed. Still.
“Yes,” he bit out.
She nearly staggered back, in surprise he assumed. “What did she say?” Her voice was once again soft, sweet.
He strode to the window and glanced out. “She worries about scandal.”
“She should have thought of that before.”
“She was a child before.” Coming to Claire’s defense so easily and without thought surprised him.
“Surely you’re not excusing her behavior.”
He turned around. “No, but until the matter with her sister is taken care of, and I can see to bringing an end to my own marriage, I think it is best that I not … pay court to you.”
“You expect me to wait with bated breath for your return?”
“I expect you to understand how difficult all of this is and that it requires my full attention to bring it to fruition.” He crossed over to her, gave her a look of longing, and gently touched her cheek. “Anne, we will be together soon, I promise.”
“I’m not certain you completely understand how badly I want you. I miss what we had together. I miss you.”
