Page 59 of Passions of a Wicked Earl
“I’m so sorry.”
He looked at the mess on his desk. Life’s sweet mockery. His life was a cesspool. “Bloody hell.”
Knowing full well that a servant would be in to clean it up, he strode past Claire.
“Where are you going?” she called after him.
“Riding.”
“But the dog?”
“I don’t want him.”
During times like this he missed not being in the country. It was damned difficult to urge his horse into a gallop when people and conveyances swarmed over the streets. Even the parks didn’t allow for the sort of hard riding he craved because people strolled hither and yon.
Good God, he was in a foul mood.
Finally, he made it to the edge of town, where there were fewer houses, buildings, and people. He gave the horse its lead and let it race down the road as though they had someplace to go and only a limited amount of time in which to arrive.
When the horse was lathered, Westcliffe took pity on him. Stopping, he dismounted and walked him over to a stream. Crouching while the horse drank, Westcliffe stared at London in the distance. He’d not ridden nearly far enough, but the truth was that it was impossible to do so.
He was trying to outrun himself.
He didn’t want his wife to show him a kindness because it would be all the more difficult to let her go. He’d set his sights on starting the proceedings for a divorce at the end of the Season, of starting his life over with Anne, but he couldn’t see Anne sitting with him on the cold ground while he waited for his beloved pet to cross over into the next life. He couldn’t imagine her delight at bringing him a puppy.
If he’d not turned to anger, he might have wept at the sweetness of the gesture.
He had fought so long to be strong, not to need anyone, especially anyone in his own family—because they always seemed to disappoint—and yet, there he was finding himself needing Claire.
And that awareness terrified him, made him more vulnerable than he desired to be.
Anne cared only about Anne. He knew where he stood with her, would always know. They shared few emotional ties. It was the physical that bound them.
With Claire, there was so much more. She was like the river flowing before him. He could study the surface all afternoon, but unless he waded into it, he’d have no idea what ran through it.
Claire’s flirtations were innocent, naïve, and touching. She did not possess the sophistication of other women with whom he’d been intimately involved, and yet he had a sense that she would be far more satisfying. The thought of taking the steps to learn the truth terrified him. Yet he had to admit that the more time he spent in her company, the more he yearned to have her. But everything would change.
Shoving himself to his feet, he grabbed the reins. “Come on, old boy. Back to town we must go.”
“Oh, Fen, please go to sleep.”
It was after two o’clock in the morning, and the puppy was whining and yelping as though his heart were breaking. Claire had placed him on a mound of blankets in a box in her bedchamber because somehow the little rascal had already managed to steal her heart, and she couldn’t stand the thought of handing him over to a servant, who might ignore him.
It was obvious Westcliffe didn’t want him. He’d not arrived home until long after supper, and based upon the cigar smell emanating from his clothes and the languid look in his eyes, he’d been enjoying himself at the club. They’d passed in the hallway, and he’d said little more than good night.
At least he’d said something. She took comfort in that.
But now, sitting on the floor in her nightgown, petting the puppy, trying to comfort it, she was exhausted and desperate for sleep. She’d managed to catch a few snatches, perhaps half an hour in all.
A rap sounded on her door. Probably Beth again, asking her to silence the dog. “Yes?”
The door opened, and Westcliffe came in. Barefoot, he wore only trousers and a shirt that was half-buttoned. It wasn’t even properly tucked in. The hem just flowed around his lean hips. His hair was disheveled, sticking up at the back on one side. He was all rumpled, and she thought he’d never looked more delicious.
“Oh, I’m so sorry. Is he keeping you awake as well? I’ve tried everything. Warm milk, taking him for a walk. I’m at my wit’s end.”
His feet made not a sound as he walked over the carpet, which surprised her as his feet were so large, long, yet lean. He sat on the floor beside her, bent one knee, draped his wrist over it, and unfolded his fingers to reveal his pocket watch.
“What?” she asked caustically. “I just need to make him aware of the time?”
