Page 54 of Passions of a Wicked Earl
Ainsley nodded.
“Are things well between her and Westcliffe then?”
“Not quite, but they’re not so awful either. He could scarcely take his eyes off her at the ball the other night.”
He couldn’t stop the smile from forming. “Well, then, perhaps all will turn out well.”
“You’re to stay clear of her, puppy.”
“Absolutely. I want her to be happy. That’s all I’ve ever wanted.” He furrowed his brow. “So, who do you think shot him? Or perhaps more importantly, why?”
“Haven’t a bloody clue.”
The laughter echoing beyond the windows interrupted Westcliffe’s concentration. Normally he would have been irritated with the distraction, but instead he was intrigued. It seemed to bring a lightness with it that made his office less gloomy. It flittered away, leaving behind a silence that wasn’t quite as oppressive as before.
Only when he heard the trilling again did he realize that he’d paused in his work and leaned back in his chair, waiting in anticipation for the merry sound to enter his domain once more. He’d never brought ladies, not even Anne, to his residence. It had merely served as a place to study his accounts, consider his investments, discuss business with those who saw after his affairs. A place to sleep, to drink, to reflect.
It felt very different with Claire in residence. And even though hers wasn’t the only laughter filtering in, he was fairly certain that he had accurately identified which belonged to her. It struck a chord deep within him that he didn’t particularly want plucked.
Rising from his chair, he strolled to the window and looked out on the gardens. Lord Greenwood had arrived earlier. After a rather boring ten minutes of sitting in the parlor, doing little more than listening to the ticking of the clock on the mantel and addressing the occasional question about literature preferences, Claire had suggested they retire to the garden in order to appreciate the lovely sunshine. He’d not been surprised she’d prefer the light of the sun.
Westcliffe had excused himself to see to matters that required his attention. Business. Business always came first. It was his father’s edict. Even at five, Westcliffe had taken his father’s words to heart, determined to live up to his expectations. Only now did he realize that even then he’d longed for his father’s approval, had searched for some evidence that he was as worthy as the babe who then received all of their mother’s devotion.
And continued to do so. From Ainsley he’d learned that their mother had arranged for Stephen not to leave England’s shores, although jolly good for him, he had an alibi for the night that Westcliffe was shot. In the two days since, he and Ainsley had both made several inquiries, but nothing had come of them. As far as Westcliffe knew, he had not a single enemy. If a cousin were after the title, he’d have to kill Westcliffe and Stephen. That seemed improbable.
They’d spoken with an inspector at Scotland Yard—Sir James Swindler. Based on the information they had to share, he could only advise them to keep a watchful eye. Nothing indicated that there was anyone who would wish Westcliffe dead. It could have been an accident. Some young buck showing off with a pistol. Without further evidence, the inspector was stymied, and as he had a reputation for being the best, if he could not help, Westcliffe certainly had no plans to behave as though his life were in danger.
Although he was having a difficult time believing he’d walked out on Claire when she’d been so willing to come to his bed, but making love to her would have been very unfair to her when he still wanted out of the marriage. A strange stance for him when he was not opposed to enjoying the delights of any willing woman. But Claire deserved more than to be treated with so little regard. While she might have indicated she’d changed her mind, he hadn’t. She wanted to avoid scandal. He wanted a wife he could trust. With her, he would always doubt.
Claire was holding her mallet, shaking her head. From this distance, he could still see her indulgent smile. Apparently Beth was having difficulty holding her own mallet properly, as Lord Greenwood was standing behind her, manipulating her hands. Croquet was an opportunity for innocent flirtation, and it seemed Greenwood was a man who took advantage of opportunities.
As Beth clumsily tapped the ball, sending it away from where it should go, Claire’s laughter rang out, and Westcliffe shifted his attention back to her. He wondered exactly where that ticklish spot was.
She was modestly dressed, her skirt swaying as she walked over to take her turn at bumping the ball. He imagined cornering her behind a trellis, skimming his hand along her calf, wiggling his fingers over the backs of her knees. Yes, that was where she’d be ticklish. Or was the sensitive spot higher up, on the inside of her thigh.
How did she even know she had a ticklish spot? Who’d first made her aware of it? Stephen perhaps? Fury roiled through him with the thought, shoving aside the pleasantness that had begun to work its way through him.
He didn’t even realize he had stridden to the door and opened it until he was standing on the terrace. Claire had moved aside, giving the couple a moment to discuss strategy—although Westcliffe doubted whatever they were discussing had anything to do with the game. Based on Beth’s smile and blush, Greenwood was no doubt whispering sweet words to charm her.
Claire glanced over her shoulder at Westcliffe, issuing an invitation with her eyes. He would have simply given her a nod and returned to his office if the invitation hadn’t suddenly turned into a challenge. He needed a bit of fresh air anyway, so he strolled over as though nothing about his actions were of any consequence.
But as he neared, he wondered if touching the underside of her breast—her left one, the one nearest her heart—would cause her to giggle. But he didn’t want her giggling—he wanted her laughing. Full, rich, and vibrant.
“What do you know of Lord Greenwood?” she asked, when he was near enough that she could speak quietly in order not to be overheard.
“He sits a horse well.”
She laughed, the sound that had delighted him only minutes ago now irritating him because it came at his expense—and he wasn’t even certain what he’d done.
“I’ve been on a fox hunt with him,” he said brusquely. “It’s important to sit a horse well.”
Her laughter subsided, but her smile only grew until her blue eyes were twinkling. If it were night, they’d be competing with the stars.
“It doesn’t tell me how he might treat my sister.”
“It does,” he argued, “more than you realize. A man who sits himself well in the saddle will no doubt …” He let his voice trail off before he completed the inappropriate thought: ride a lady as well.
“You sit a horse well,” she said, the brightness in her eyes darkening with passion as though she’d known exactly where he’d intended to take his earlier musings. “I’ve watched you when you visited the estate. You have such confidence, such command of the horse. I assume you exhibit the same sort of command in all situations.”
