Page 16 of Passions of a Wicked Earl
Westcliffe almost answered no before his mother murmured her reply, and he realized the question had been directed at her. A gown. Not a dress with buttons clear to her chin. But a gown. Something that would lay bare the skin he’d touched last night. It would be pure torment—
“You are both going to a great deal of trouble needlessly,” he said. “I have no desire to sit for a portrait.”
“Don’t be petulant. Even if you dissolve this marriage, there should be a portrait.”
“Of the woman who betrayed me?”
“You can burn it in celebration afterward,” the artist said from the doorway.
Westcliffe glared, and the man merely shrugged. “I have burned a few portraits. There is satisfaction in destroying the image of one you wish to forget.”
“I see no reason to subject myself to hours of sitting—”
“Please,” his mother said quietly. “For me.”
Under his breath, he cursed her because that was all it had ever taken from her to gain what she needed or wanted from him. Watch out for your brothers—for me. Exceed in the classroom—for me. Teach Ransom to read—for me. Play with Stephen—for me. She was his mother, and in spite of her years of putting him last, he could no more deny her than not draw in a breath.
He didn’t know why he was surprised that the room chosen was his bedchamber. He was certain the artist was conspiring with his mother to accomplish something that Westcliffe did not desire.
The furniture in the seating area had been rearranged, brought nearer to the windows, where the drapes were drawn back to allow in the afternoon sunlight. In a pale blue gown with a scooped neck that revealed the upper swells of her breasts, Claire sat on the settee. At her throat was the string of pearls he’d given her on the morning of their wedding. It had once belonged to his grandmother. If his mother hadn’t put it away for safekeeping, he’d have sold it long ago. He found it difficult to be sentimental about things that might have been responsible for his previous state of poverty. He wanted to tell her that it was not a good idea to remind him of that day, yet neither could he deny that they accented her throat perfectly. Resting near her feet was Cooper.
“I thought the portrait would have more meaning for you,” Claire said quietly, “if your dog was part of it.”
It would ensure he didn’t burn it. When he was thirteen, he’d acquired the puppy. The Earl of Lynnford, who’d become their guardian after the duke had died, had given the dog to Westcliffe as though he’d recognized that the boy had little enough in his life.
She reached up and scratched her nose. Just the edge of her gloved finger moving quickly against the tip of her upturned nose. She had such tiny features. Everything about her was delicate. He remembered how awkward she’d been as a child, chasing after Stephen, for whom responsibility was a foreign word. But he’d been popular with everyone because he’d been ever so good at playing and giving everyone a good laugh.
“If you’ll stand here, my lord,” Leo said, directing him so he stood behind and slightly to the right of Claire, which gave him an unencumbered view of her bared skin as well as his bed.
Was this his mother’s perverse notion of matchmaking?
“My lord, you’re creating a bit of a shadow … if you’ll move in just a little closer to the countess?”
Westcliffe felt her stiffen as his stomach nestled against her back.
“Very good. Let’s curl your hand around her nape—”
“This isn’t going to work.”
Leo actually appeared stunned. “Pardon?”
Westcliffe glanced at his mother, who was observing near the doorway. “The proximity isn’t going to make me want her.” He felt a tiny jerk go through Claire, beneath his fingers, as though he’d slapped her. “You’re forcing me to be cruel. Claire and I have an arrangement. She is here only for the Season, then she is gone.”
“Then the portrait should be done now, while she is here,” his mother said.
He shook his head but stayed where he was.
“If you’ll look here, my lord, a bit of profile, very good,” the artist said, as though no tension resided in the room. He moved behind his easel.
“I shall be in the parlor,” his mother said, and quickly vanished.
“Was this your idea?” Westcliffe asked Claire.
“No. I want it no more than you do.”
“Then why are we here?”
“To please your mother. I need her assistance this Season to help me find a suitable husband for Beth.”
