Page 85 of Passions of a Wicked Earl
Ainsley laughed, then settled back in his chair. “Give him a day or two for his temper to ease.”
“I’m worried about Claire.”
“He won’t strike her. That’s not his way.”
“But there are other ways to hurt her.”
“In all likelihood, he’ll do what he did before and send her back to his estate. He has never mastered dealing with unpleasant situations that involve women.”
“What man has?”
Ainsley swirled the brandy in his snifter. “You know, running errands for the War Office is not exactly what we had in mind when we purchased your commission.”
Stephen shrugged. “I knew Mother wouldn’t let me leave England’s shores.”
“Perhaps you should consider cutting the apron strings, before you become a very unlikable fellow.”
“I have a better idea. Let’s trade places.”
Ainsley knew that Stephen was being facetious on several levels. Stephen was well aware that even if they had shared the same father, they couldn’t trade their positions simply because one of them wished to do so. Besides, even in the world of fantasy, something larger was at stake. As much as Ainsley had always loved his brother, he’d also been constantly disappointed that Stephen thought of little except his own pleasures. He found it difficult to admire him.
“You’ve never understood that possessing a title doesn’t mean that one lounges about. As much as your offer appeals to me, and as much as I would love to shed my mantle of responsibilities—unfortunately I cannot leave the fate of all those who depend upon me in your hands. Sad to say, puppy, but you’ll simply have to continue to resent me.”
“It doesn’t help that you call me that.”
“Then by all means, waste not a moment more, put away your childish things, and grow up.”
Beth was inconsolable, alternating between weeping and railing about Westcliffe, wishing he would rot.
Under normal circumstances, Claire would have been irritated beyond all enduring, but she was barely bothered by Beth’s outbursts. She was immersed in her own grief. For Westcliffe to have refused to listen to her side of the story, for him to have jumped to his conclusions and clung to them so tenaciously meant he did not trust her, and without trust, he couldn’t possibly love her as she had begun to believe he might.
She’d been physically ill on the journey back to Lyons Place. Several times she’d had to ask the driver to stop so she could empty her stomach on the side of the road. She’d grown so pale and weak by the time they reached their destination that even Beth had finally stopped bemoaning her unfair situation and begun to take notice of Claire’s pallor.
In the days that followed, while she did not feel nearly as bad as she had on the journey, she seemed unable to shake off this cloud of nausea. It was always worse first thing in the morning, when she awoke to the realization that Westcliffe was not in bed with her. She’d spent a week staring out the window waiting for his arrival and his forgiveness. If he forgave her, in spite of her harsh words to him, she would forgive him as well.
By the second week, she’d regained her senses. She was not going to wallow in pity. She was going to get on with her life.
If only she didn’t wake up every morning feeling so weakened and ill.
The missive delivered to Westcliffe, no fewer than ten minutes ago, by a servant of his estate was succinct.
I am with child. I hope it pleases you.
No signature, no affectionately yours, no nothing. Simply a few words that hit him in the gut as though they had been delivered with a battering ram. The first communication from her in a little over two months. Could she even comprehend how much the news would please him … and shame him? Regret for his behavior that night, for sending her off without even allowing her to speak, had been eating at him. Even all the whiskey he’d consumed couldn’t drown it.
Sitting behind the desk in his library, Westcliffe peered up at the young man who’d had the honor of delivering the message. He didn’t remember hiring him, but then he’d established a household allowance that Claire was to use as she pleased.
Obviously, it pleased her to hire comely young men.
“You’re to stay the night here,” Westcliffe said, as pointedly as the note. “I shall be sending a reply with you in the morning.”
The young man bowed. “Yes, m’lord.”
“What was your name again?”
“Blyton, sir. My father is the butler, although I go by Bly to avoid confusion.”
“Bly. I see.” He cleared his throat. He hated to admit that not a single hour went by that he did not think of her. “How is her ladyship?”
