Page 63 of Passions of a Wicked Earl
“There are a great many more earls than dukes. We are not so special.”
“You are to me. And I’m certain you are to your family.”
He seemed to hesitate, then he said, “They have not been to Lyons Place since my father died. Lynnford would escort me there and explain my responsibilities. But my mother, my brothers, it was never home to them.”
“Perhaps we will invite them to join us there for Christmas.”
His eyes narrowed. “Have you no regrets for what happened earlier?”
“Nary a one.”
“Do you want this marriage, Claire?”
“Have I not been clear enough all Season? I am ready to be a wife. Your wife. I want children.”
“And what of Stephen?”
She rolled her eyes. “I have told you. He was a friend. You will never again find me in his arms.”
He studied her for a moment, then he said, “Well, then, let me take you back into mine.”
And with that, he lifted her into his arms and carried her to the bed.
Chapter 18
She is quite taken with Greenwood,” Claire said, as she strolled through Hyde Park, her arm linked with Westcliffe’s, a short leash tethering Fen to her as he sniffed along the unfamiliar ground. She’d awoken in Westcliffe’s arms that morning. While he’d slept, she’d done little but observe him. He’d seemed younger, more carefree, until his eyes had finally popped open. And then it had been as though the weight of the world settled on him.
She didn’t know how to lighten his load. Their relationship was fragile, and she knew she had to tread carefully; but in time, she hoped they would share more than a bed. She hoped he would share his troubles and allow her to help him carry whatever burdens he now balanced on his shoulders.
“You don’t approve,” Westcliffe said.
The couple was walking several feet ahead of them. Beth was wearing a pale pink dress and her light blue bonnet. She was constantly looking up at Greenwood with adoration, and he was gazing down on her with adulation. From time to time, their laughter would waft back toward Claire and Westcliffe.
“She wanted a Season and after only one ball, she seems to be content with one suitor. She’s given no one else an opportunity to garner her affections.”
“Do you not believe in love at first sight?”
She snapped her head around to stare at him. “I’d have not expected that question from you. To even contemplate that love can come about so easily. No. Lust perhaps. But love? No.”
“Why not?”
“Love at first sight would be love based upon only what you could see. The color of her hair, the shade of her eyes, the shape of her nose, the curve of her chin. Those are not things to love. Love must see below the surface, to a person’s soul.”
“But what if … you heard her laughter, watched the way she made the loneliest person in the room feel less lonely, saw her dance with even the most homely of men, noticed that her smile was seldom absent and always glittered in her eyes. First impressions, Countess, are not always based upon the attributes with which one is born.”
“My God, I’d never realized you had poetry in your soul.”
“Perhaps it is because I distract you with the poetry in my fingertips.”
She laughed. “Those talented fingers have yet to find my ticklish spot.”
“My desire to uncover it has lost its urgency. You’re laughing more.”
So was he, she realized. And his smiles were more forthcoming. He was not quite as formidable as he’d once appeared. Strange, how in so short a time, their relationship had changed to such a great extent. All because Beth had wanted a Season.
A dashing gentleman on a black horse brought the beast to a prancing stop in front of Beth and Greenwood. Sweeping his hat from his head, he engaged them in conversation.
“Who is that?” Claire asked.
