Page 47 of Passions of a Wicked Earl
As Beth popped up from the breakfast table to welcome each bouquet’s arrival, Westcliffe shifted uncomfortably in his chair. His haste to marry Claire had denied her this excitement, this reassurance that she was sought after.
He’d not meant to be cruel, but it was another nail hammered into his coffin of guilt.
She seemed to take as much delight in the flowers as her sister, but when she reached up and touched Beth’s hair, drawing her in for a quick hug, he realized that what pleased her was the evidence that her sister had caught the attention of several gentlemen.
She was happy for Beth because Beth was ecstatic.
It was a somber realization to recognize that he’d never felt the same about his brothers’ successes, had never basked in their accomplishments. Rather, he’d resented Stephen’s freedoms—no responsibilities to hold him down—and Ainsley’s position and wealth that had come to him through no effort of his own.
Claire truly loved her sister, wanted her to have whatever would bring her the most joy. And at that moment it was an assortment of roses. Only a beast would not know that a gentleman sent roses to a woman as a sign of his affections.
Westcliffe felt rather like a beast.
“Beth, do come finish your breakfast,” Claire said.
“I’m not hungry any longer. Can you believe all the flowers we’ve been sent? My word, where shall we put them all?”
“We’ll have no trouble finding suitable places for them. But you must eat.”
“I’m going to go make a list of who sent me flowers and write down all I can remember about him.”
With that, she quit the room. Westcliffe didn’t think she even saw the indulgent smile her sister bestowed upon her.
“Are you certain you’re not responsible for this avalanche of blossoms?” she asked.
“Absolutely not. I could never afford all this.” He cleared his throat, and began stirring his tea, which was a pointless activity as he used neither
sugar nor milk. “At least not three or four years ago.”
Her gaze found and captured his, and in them he read the query. In spite of how much it galled him, he heard himself confessing, “Every shilling I had to spend came from Ainsley.”
She glanced down quickly, but not before he saw the understanding, the sympathy. It was the reason he’d never said anything. He wasn’t certain which he detested more.
When she looked back up at him, she had control of her facial features. Yes, sweetheart, I shall always know what you think, he thought.
“That’s the reason my dowry was so important, the reason you didn’t annul the marriage immediately after …” She shook her head as though the words were too painful to say. “I’m beginning to have a clearer understanding of how you must have felt. I can barely stand the thought that last night, you went to her—”
“I didn’t.”
Her mouth opened slightly.
“I went to the club,” he said. “I got foxed. In all honesty, I’ve gone to see her only once since the night you and I sat on the floor in the library. And then it was only for dinner.”
“Why?”
He shook his head. “I don’t bloody well know. Your apology, your sincerity—it just seemed wrong to continue as though you weren’t here.” It was harder to carry on with her here—her presence a constant reminder that he did indeed have a wife. He’d always planned to honor his vows. He knew his father hadn’t, knew his mother had suffered because of it.
“Thank you,” she said quietly.
“For what?”
“For taking a care with my feelings. It will make it easier to be here, to go forward.”
“Do not misunderstand, Claire. I still desire a divorce.”
“But not until after the Season ends. And the fewer rumors surrounding us, the better Beth’s chances of finding a suitable suitor.”
“Good God! Rumors about us could flourish, and she’d find a suitor. Did you not see the flowers?”
