Page 86 of Passions of a Wicked Earl
“Very well, I believe, sir. She is quite loved by the staff.”
Westcliffe leaned back and rubbed his finger along his chin. “Why?”
Bly looked surprised, as though someone had come up behind him and pinched his bum. “Well, m’lord, she’s fair in all matters. Manages the household with a firm but tolerant hand. I daresay, the manor is always more joyful when she’s in residence.”
So was his home in London. It had returned to its somber bleakness with her departure. She’d even taken the dog with her. Her scent had stayed behind, on her pillow. He’d forbidden the maid to wash it. He stared at it every night, remembering the way she’d looked, lying there, dreaming.
“I shall endeavor to work a visit into my busy schedule,” he told the young man now, not certain why he felt a need to tell the man anything.
Bly bowed. “Very good, sir.”
“Go see Cook about having a meal prepared for you.”
“Thank you, sir.”
After the young man left, Westcliffe got up and walked to the window. His heir could very well be on his way. He’d not expected that. He’d always taken such care not to get a woman with child, but then he’d taken none at all where his wife was concerned. But then why should he? After all, it was her responsibility to provide him with an heir.
If a son was born, he could grant Claire complete freedom.
A week after the ball, he’d gone to see Anne. She had been the one to send him the missive about the conservatory. She’d seen Stephen and Claire disappear inside.
“I thought you should know,” she’d said.
“Why not tell me in person?”
“Because I knew you’d come to love her, and I could not bear to see the pain in your eyes when you discovered the truth.”
Since then they’d attended one opera together, and he’d dined with her once. But he was not pleasant company these days because he could not seem to stop thinking about Claire. And now that she was with child—
He wanted to see her, to hold her, to place his hand against where his child now grew. But they had parted with harsh words and vows of never forgiving. He suspected she’d hold firm to her vows of not forgiving him.
He was having a damned hard time forgiving himself.
The three-inch-wide gold bracelet encrusted with diamonds was the most beautiful Claire had ever seen, the most extravagant gift she’d ever received. Only two words accompanied it: Thank you. Scrawled in script as bold as the one who’d held the pen.
Disappointment smashed into her. She’d wanted more. His arrival, his presence.
Standing in the parlor, she flung the gift across the room. It was nothing. It made a mockery of their relationship. Sparkles to hide the truth of their unhappiness. She despised living alone here. Even Beth had abandoned her, returned to London. With the possibility of a betrothal to a titled gentleman not in need of a dowry, she’d been able to convince her father to let her and the aunt who had raised them hire rooms in a hotel.
Claire couldn’t be happier for her sister. If only she could find her own happiness. Although for those wondrous weeks in London with Westcliffe, joy had abounded.
She glanced over at Bly, who was standing as erect as when he’d first entered bearing the gift. She gave him a tremulous smile. “Thank you. You’re dismissed.”
“Yes, m’lady. If there’s anything—”
“Nothing.”
He turned to go.
“Wait.”
He looked back at her, and she could see that he did indeed wish to do something to make this entire horrid situation better. The servants cared for her. Why couldn’t her husband? Why couldn’t he trust her? Why wouldn’t he listen?
“Please have the groomsman ready my horse.”
Bly seemed surprised by her request. “Are you certain it’s wise—”
“Do not question me.”
