Page 67 of Passions of a Wicked Earl
“I shall be too occupied dancing with you to care who is giving attention to her.”
“Well, unfortunately, as her chaperone, I will be paying attention to her.”
“Not if I have my way.” There was a wicked glint in his eye that caused her breath to catch.
“You’re not thinking of doing something naughty while we’re there.”
“I wasn’t until you put the thought in my head.”
“We’re going to behave.”
“We’ll see.”
“I’m ready,” Beth announced, and Claire spun around, hoping her cheeks were not as flushed with desire as she feared.
Beth twirled, showing off her pale blue gown, edged with dark velvet. “What do you think?”
Before Claire could respond, Willoughby strode quietly into the room carrying a silver salver with an envelope resting on it. “I’m sorry, my lord, but a missive has arrived. I was told it is quite urgent.”
Claire watched with dread as her husband opened it, read it, and quickly tucked it into his jacket.
“I’m sorry,” he said, his voice calm, absent of emotion. “You’ll have to attend the ball without me.”
“Whatever’s wrong?”
“Nothing to worry over. Simply a situation with which I must deal.” He put his hands on her arms, drew her in, and kissed her on the forehead. “I’ll join you at the ball as soon as I’m able. Save me a dance.”
Before she could question him further, he was striding from the room.
“That’s a bit of a bother,” Beth said. “I wonder what was so urgent.”
Claire shook her head, wondering if a time would ever come when her husband trusted her completely, shared everything with her.
Claire would have been impressed with the Claybourne ball—if she hadn’t been preoccupied with thoughts of Westcliffe. She didn’t want to admit to herself that she feared he’d gone to the rescue of Lady Anne Cavill.
Jealousy was not an emotion she relished, but worrying that something was amiss with him was worse. She’d not wanted to come to the ball. She’d wanted simply to wait for his return, but Beth had told her she could pace at the Claybournes’ as easily as she could pace at home.
Only she wasn’t pacing. She was talking with people, trying to give the impression that she cared about the weather or which gentleman had taken an interest in which lady. While Beth’s dance card had not filled up as quickly as before, she did not want for partners. Claire had even been asked to dance, but she’d politely refused both gentlemen. It wasn’t because she feared Westcliffe would get jealous or angry—although he might very well do both. It was simply that she had no wish to dance with anyone other than him.
“Claire?”
She recognized the soft voice so the informality didn’t surprise her. Turning, she smiled. “Lord and Lady Lynnford. How good it is to see you.”
They’d often been visiting when she visited Ainsley’s estate with her father. She’d always considered Lynnford to be one of the most handsome men she’d ever seen. Even as a child she’d recognized that he’d been blessed with perfect features. His hair was the color of wheat, his eyes the blue of the sky that overlooked the grain. It always surprised her that his wife was so unimpressive in comparison, so much shorter than he, with a roundness that reflected the five children she’d given him. But she knew no one who was kinder.
“We heard you were in London,” Lady Lynnford said as she took Claire’s hand, pulling her down gently as she reached up to kiss her cheek. “You look well.”
“I am, thank you. I didn’t see you at the first ball.”
“We were taking the waters in the south of France.”
“Is all well?”
“Oh, yes.” She laughed with a hint of self-mocking. “We’re simply growing older and more weary.”
“To me you always look the same.” Although she didn’t, now that Claire studied her a little more closely. It did seem she’d aged, and not favorably. Whereas Lynnford did appear unchanged.
“Is Westcliffe about?” he asked.
