Page 90 of Passions of a Wicked Earl
“What?” Stephen stood at the foot of the bed, his attention on Claire, his face almost as pale as hers.
“The next time she awakens, I want to make damned sure she knows you’re here. You’re going to hold her hand, you’re going to speak to her, you’re going—”
“I don’t see how it’ll make any difference.”
Westcliffe grabbed Stephen by the lapel of his jacket and swung him around, depositing him in the chair. “It might not, but it might. Take her hand. Talk to her.”
“But you’re her husband.”
“You’re the one she’s calling for.”
With a nod, Stephen did as he was told. Westcliffe backed away, dropped into a chair in the sitting area that gave him a view of Claire and Stephen. He was not a religious man, but he began to pray.
He remembered her as a young girl, traipsing after Stephen, often looking after Ainsley. She’d played with his brothers, climbing trees, chasing butterflies. Westcliffe had always considered their antics too childish, beneath him. He was so much older, the man of the family after his father had died. Even when his mother had married the eighth Duke of Ainsley, Westcliffe had been reluctant to relinquish his place as the one in charge.
He’d never approached life with the frivolity that Claire had. It was one of the reasons he’d anticipated marrying her. While he’d recognized that he was ridiculously somber, he’d expected her to balance out his life.
He supposed, in retrospect, he should have told her the qualities he admired in her. He should have courted her. He shouldn’t have assumed she’d be delighted to marry him. What did he offer? Nothing of any significance, yet she took it all and made it better than it was.
Perhaps he should have risked scandal and let her go when he realized he was not the brother she wished to marry. Pride had forced him to keep her. Now the price she might pay for his transgressions was too high to contemplate.
Dawn was easing in through the part in the draperies when Stephen rose from his chair with a wide yawn. “I’m going to bed. Wake me when she stirs.”
“Sit down.” His voice sounded as though a frog had taken up residence within it. It was dry and scratchy, and his body was alternately chilled and hot.
“Westcliffe—”
“Sit. You will be there when she awakens.”
With a groan, Stephen dropped back into the chair. His head fell back as he stared at the ceiling. “Nothing is to be gained by forcing me to endure these discomforts.”
“God help me, you do not deserve her love.”
“And you do?”
Westcliffe placed his elbow on the arm of the chair and began to rub his throbbing head. “No.”
“You have a care for her, though.”
Westcliffe held his tongue.
Stephen sat up straighter. “By God, you love her. Why are you not sitting here?”
“Because she called for you.” Every bone and muscle ached as he rose from the chair, crossed the room, pulled back the curtains, and opened the windows. Sunlight and fresh air. Perhaps they would help. The cool morning breeze had barely wafted into the room when he heard Claire’s faint voice.
“Stephen?”
“Hello, sweeting. You gave us quite a fright.”
Westcliffe glanced toward the bed. She was giving Stephen a soft smile while he toyed with the tufts of her hair. A fine sheen of perspiration coated her face and throat. He wondered if her fever had broken.
He was halfway across the room to fetch a maid to see to her needs when he heard her quiet voice. “Westcliffe?”
Staggering to a stop, he glanced back. She was holding out a hand to him. He didn’t know what she wanted of him, but he crossed back over to the bed. She looked so much thinner. Had she lost weight while they were separated? Or was it simply that she was diminished after surviving her ordeal?
They seemed to stare into each other’s eyes forever. Hers were as blue as he recalled, but the brightness had left them. Finally, she whispered, “The baby?”
Slowly, he shook his head. “I’m sorry.”
