Page 45 of Passions of a Wicked Earl
Claire hated hearing that. There was something in him that called to her, even without his trying. “I noticed tonight that you seemed to give an inordinate amount of attention to Lady Anne Cavill.”
He studied her for a moment before saying quietly and without emotion, “You should know that I intend to ask her to marry me.”
She’d obviously swallowed too much whiskey too quickly. His words made no sense, and neither did those coming out of her mouth. “You intend to ask her? To extend a courtesy to her that you never extended to me?”
He said nothing.
“I suppose it’s moot as you’re already married,” she felt compelled to point out.
“Yes, we’ll need to discuss that at some point after the Season is over.”
“We can discuss it now.”
He shifted in the chair to better face her. “Very well. I propose we seek a divorce.”
She stared at him in shock. The bracelet, the dance, the kiss, the way he looked at her of late—they all meant nothing. An elaborate ruse. A game. “Do you love her then?”
“I have a care for her, yes.”
“That’s not what I asked. Do you love her?”
He reached back, grabbed the bottle, and splashed more whiskey into his tumbler. “I’m incapable of love.”
“Why?”
He released a harsh bitter-sounding laugh. “It’s enough that I am. And before you ask, no, she doesn’t love me either.”
“How can she not?”
With a quick shake of his head, he downed the whiskey and refilled his glass. “Surely you can determine the answer to that easily enough.”
Only she couldn’t. The man she’d married had been harsh, hard, but she’d have not described him as bitter. She’d done this to him. Made him callous.
“I’m not easy to love,” he finally answered for her, each word delivered with a biting edge to it.
But you could be, she wanted to say. Instead, she held her tongue on that matter and addressed a more pressing issue. “If we get a divorce, I’ll be completely ruined. No man will have me. I’ll never have children.”
“I no longer give a damn. I’m weary of this life, of the loneliness, of—”
She didn’t know what possessed her, but she tossed what remained in her tumbler on him. Anger erupted on his face. Three years ago, she would have cowered, now she wanted to reach for the bottle and smash it over his head. He was weary? He was lonely? He was in the midst of people while she was surrounded by naught but land. Her life—
She shrieked and came out of the chair as his whiskey splashed over her. “You cur! You call yourself a gentleman?”
“You call yourself a lady?”
“Damn you! May you rot in hell!”
She wasn’t certain where she’d planned to strike him or even if she’d really intended to. She only knew that she raised her hand—
He rose in magnificent ferocity and grabbed her wrist, twisting her arm behind her back, bringing her up flush against him. “To borrow your words, do you think I’m not already there?” he demanded.
She was breathing harshly, the fury emanating from the core of her being. She realized it wasn’t that he’d tossed his liquor on her—it was that he was going to cast her aside … after everything. In such a short time, she’d begun to have hope that there was a chance for them. They’d talked, they’d moved furniture, they’d worked to give Beth a night she would remember. He’d been kind to Claire. Generous. He’d made her want him.
“I hate you,” she rasped.
“I know.”
Then he did the strangest thing. He touched the curl of her hair, the one that would never stay pinned, the one that always played with her irritating scar, and he tucked it gently behind her ear.
