Page 11 of Passions of a Wicked Earl
Forcing a casualness to her step, she strolled over to the sideboard and began placing random delicacies on her plate, barely giving any attention to what they were. She was unsettled, the hairs on the nape of her neck prickling as she was acutely aware of him studying her. She wanted to appear sophisticated, calm. But he still had the power to rattle her.
She walked to the foot of the table and took the seat that the footman held out for her. Deliberately, with as much of a challenge as she could muster, she lifted her eyes to Westcliffe’s. He was still standing as though not quite certain what to make of her. Finally, he sat down.
He’d been reading the newspaper before she’d arrived. It rested on the table beside him. She fully expected him to return his attention to it. Her father always read while he enjoyed his breakfast. No one ever spoke during meals, so she nearly came out of her skin when Westcliffe did.
“You must love your sister very much to have risked facing my wrath.”
She made the mistake of trying to appear unaffected by lifting her teacup. The brew sloshed over the sides, revealing the truth of her nervousness. If he noticed, he didn’t react. As she set down the cup and fought to ignore the footman who was quickly replacing it with another, she supposed she could take some solace in the fact Westcliffe wasn’t gloating at her obvious discomfort.
“I love her immensely.” This time when she lifted her cup, she was pleased to discover her hand had ceased its trembling. Perhaps the trick was to concentrate on Beth, rather than Westcliffe.
“As I recall, your father does not come to London for the Season. Where did you intend for Beth to reside?”
“With me.”
Across the length of the table, she could see his jaw tighten, his eyes narrow.
“I assure you that you’ll barely be aware of her presence,” she promised.
“Can you say the same for your own?”
His question startled her. Avoiding him was not what she’d planned. But then he’d clearly stated that he no longer wanted her. She was going to have to make the ladies understand that she had no control over the man she’d married—or she was going to have to convince him to change his mind regarding her. She was certain that confessing to them would be much less humiliating than trying to seduce her husband.
“I’m sure that can be arranged,” she stated succinctly. At least until she could determine how best to handle this matter.
“Then you may stay. But I want nothing to do with you or your sister.”
“You’re a hard man, Westcliffe. Little wonder I was so terrified of you three years ago.”
“Do not blame me for your actions.”
“For my actions, no. For my fears, yes.”
His eyes narrowed. “I’m giving you leave to stay here. You should be grateful.”
“To stay in a residence my dowry no doubt purchased? Perhaps ‘tis you who should be grateful.”
He came up out of the chair so fast that she nearly tumbled backward in hers. “I am well aware of what I owe you. It’s the only reason you’re still here. Give your sister her damnable Season. Spare no expense to find her a husband as quickly as possible; and then I want you gone.”
He strode from the room with the force of a storm. If they were engaged in a war, she supposed she could claim victory over the first battle. But seeing the anger and hatred in his eyes made it ever so bittersweet.
“No one is to disturb me,” Westcliffe ordered the footman outside his library right before he closed the door behind him and locked it.
He needed to prowl, and he did just that, weaving through the library, fighting not to remember the sight of Claire taking a seat at his breakfast table, just as he’d imagined before they were married. The scene had been an idealized version of marital bliss—to have company at every meal. To look up from his paper to see her sitting there. To detect only a hint of her sweet fragrance.
He would have to find another residence for her while she was in London. He couldn’t have her in his house. She would drive him mad with her nearness.
She was nothing like any of the women he’d ever bedded. Even Anne. For as much as he enjoyed her, she was nothing at all like Claire. When she walked into the room, she brought with her an icy chill. Claire brought warmth.
It was incredible, his reaction confusing. He wanted to be rid of her. He would be rid of her. As soon as her sister was betrothed.
He marched over to his desk, took his seat, dipped pen in inkwell, and began to scrawl the name of every eligible man he knew.
Following breakfast, Claire stood at the window in her bedchamber and gazed out on the lush greenery. How often had she done the same thing at Lyons Place? He’d exiled her there, forbidden her to come to London. He was doing the same now—exiling her, banishing her from his company.
She’d have to face London without him. Sighing heavily, she wondered where Stephen was when she needed him. She’d asked Ainsley when she stopped by his residence last night looking for Westcliffe—only to learn he now had his own residence. Ainsley had told her that he had word Stephen was in India. He’d shown her on a globe in his library exactly where his brother might be. It seemed so dreadfully far away.
She was on her own here, but then she’d been that way for three years. Stephen had not come to see her before he’d embarked on his adventures, nor had he written. Whether it was fear for her safety or fear of his brother’s wrath, she didn’t know. Nor did it really matter. It could have been any of a hundred reasons. He was a soldier now, with more important matters with which to deal.
