Page 12 of Passions of a Wicked Earl
The Season would go so much better for Beth if Westcliffe was at Claire’s side. And Claire had to admit it would be much easier for her as well. Only then would she have any hope of putting rumors about her husband’s romantic escapades to rest. Besides, she didn’t want him with other women while she was here. She no longer wanted it when she was in Lyons Place either.
She’d spoken true last night. She wanted to be his wife. She wanted children. She wanted respectability. She didn’t want people snickering about her and her inability to hold her husband’s interest. She’d kept her knees clamped together as he’d ordered. She was damned well ready to unclamp them.
She thought.
She still yearned for what she had three years ago—to know him before he came to her bed. Was that too much to ask? She knew so little about him, and he no doubt knew even less about her. Why couldn’t they have a courtship?
But a more nagging question was: If he didn’t want her, who did he want? And could Claire offer any sort of competition? Where did she even begin?
The only person in London who could possibly counsel her was Westcliffe’s mother, and she wasn’t happy with Claire either.
She marched across the room and yanked on the bellpull. Her life was in a sad state of affairs because she’d chosen retreat over confrontation. She wasn’t going to make that mistake again.
In spite of the queasiness in her stomach, she was determined to call on the Duchess of Ainsley.
Tessa Seymour, Duchess of Ainsley—mother to the eighth Earl of Westcliffe, the Honorable Stephen Lyons, and the ninth Duke of Ainsley—lounged on the bed with the silk sheet bunched at her waist and trailing over one hip and thigh, leaving the other provocatively revealed. Her black hair with only a hint of gray at the temples provided a covering for her shoulders and exposed one breast to the eye of the beholder. And the beholder had such gorgeous golden eyes. Before she’d commissioned this painter, she’d never seen anything like them. Soulful. But when passion ignited them, they flared like the sun.
“You’re thinking again about getting me in that bed with you,” he said as he stood at the window, where the light cast its brilliance over his canvas.
“How can you tell?” she asked saucily. Leo was all of fifteen years her junior. Firm and not yet gone to fat.
“Your eyes,” he said. “They darken.”
“So come join me then.”
“I want to work on your portrait while the light is still good.”
“I told you. I always come first. The painting second.”
He grinned. “Ah, but I’m working on my favorite part right now. Your long, slender legs.”
“Come over here, and I’ll wrap them around your waist.”
“Later. Right now, they’re perfect just as they are. You’re perfect as well.”
“Is there any doubt as to why I love you?” He’d created three portraits so far, and each time he convinced her to wear less. This one was the most scandalous so far. She wasn’t quite certain what she would do with it when he finished it.
“Then marry me.”
She laughed. “No. I’ve had two husbands. That is more than enough for any woman.”
“Neither was young. You deserve a young husband.”
“Who will eventually grow old.”
“But what fun we’ll have until then.”
“We have fun now. Marriage will simply ruin everything.” Although her second marriage had not been too awful. Ainsley, at least, had treated her well, and she had cared for him. But her heart had only ever belonged to one man. The Earl of Lynnford. They’d had a brief affair while she was married to Westcliffe. By the time Westcliffe died, Lynnford was married. He’d ended their affair when he became betrothed and had remained faithful to his wife. As much as Tessa despised him for his devotion to his countess, she couldn’t help but admire his loyalty.
“Now you’re thinking of someone else,” Leo said softly. “Who is it that always turns you melancholy?”
She brought herself back to the present. “It’s your talk of marriage that has ruined my mood. Perhaps if you were to paint without your clothes on, my fair temperament would be restored.”
Grinning, he set the palette aside. Before he’d removed his loosely fitting white shirt, a knock sounded on her door, and her lady’s maid peered in. “The Countess of Westcliffe has come to call.”
That was a surprise although Tessa refused to show it. She’d not even known the girl was in London. Well, that could prove interesting for the Season. Still, she responded tartly, “Tell her I’m not at home.”
“No,” Leo said, moving away from the canvas. “You should see her.”
