Page 55 of Passions of a Wicked Earl
“Your elbow,” he blurted, to change the direction of the conversation, but hardly serving to alter the road on which his attentions were traveling.
Another small burst of laughter as her eyes widened. “Pardon?”
“The inside of your elbow. Is that your ticklish spot?”
He wasn’t quite certain that he’d ever seen her exhibit such triumph. “I will never tell you, my lord. If you wish to know, you shall simply have to go exploring.”
She started to walk off. Grabbing her arm, he swung her back toward him. “Don’t tease me, Claire, unless you’re willing to accept the consequences.”
She took a step toward him, rising on her toes until she was almost in his face. Her breathing was harsh, her nostrils flaring. If there had been a trellis nearby, he’d have had her behind it in a heartbeat. “How do I convince you that I am?”
Chapter 16
To Claire’s disappointment, Westcliffe had left her in the garden without giving her a chance to convince him of anything. As she lay in bed, she wondered what he’d been thinking as he’d walked back to his office. She wasn’t aware when he left the residence. She only knew he hadn’t returned for dinner.
When she was younger, she’d learned from Stephen that the most effective seduction was subtle, that it should occur without one realizing that it had taken place until it was too late. Strange how now that Westcliffe was willing to grant her freedom, she didn’t want to have it. No, that wasn’t exactly true.
She no longer saw marriage as little more than legal shackles. He was not the overbearing young man he’d once been. The years had tempered him. He’d been little more than melted ore, to be finely crafted, but within the center of whatever he might be was a flaw, a remnant of what she’d done to him, how she’d hurt him.
She could hardly blame him for doubting her now. But she didn’t want an end to their marriage. It would bring with it mortification. In that regard, nothing had changed during the intervening years.
Except her. She was no longer willing to be a wife in name only.
So many things to consider, so many plans to make. Yet she was so tired. A bit of warm milk. A good night’s rest. And in the morning she would begin anew, would plot her strategy to remain the Countess of Westcliffe.
The house had settled in, everything was so quiet that she didn’t bother to grab a wrap. She simply padded out of her room and down the hallway. She came to a quick stop outside the door that led into her husband’s bedchamber. She couldn’t recall hearing any movement coming from the room. She didn’t want to contemplate the sting to her pride that came with the realization that he was probably finding solace in another’s arms. Nor did she want to admit that she desperately wanted to be the woman in whose arms he nestled. If he did ever succumb to her charms, she would demand fidelity. Perhaps that was the reason he refused her—he knew she would take no less than total commitment.
She hurried down the stairs, wondering if she should detour by the library, see if he was there.
What did it matter? The only thing that mattered was that he wasn’t in her bed.
She made her way to the kitchen, surprised to see a lamp on the table where Cook usually went about preparing meals. She’d left a mess. Seared meat remained in the skillet. It would be rancid by morning, although at present its aroma was quite enticing.
But there was no one in the room working. Perhaps someone was expecting a late-night visitor. However, when she went to set her own lamp on the table, she became aware of a soft murmuring.
She had a quick thought—retreat, leave now—but her curiosity got the better of her. Bending slightly, listening intently, she identified the corner of the room from which the low sound came. Peering around the corner of the table, she saw Westcliffe sitting on the floor, a bottle of whiskey at his side.
Cooper was nestled against his thigh, a plate of meat scraps—some raw, some cooked—set before him. Westcliffe’s hand was buried in the fur along Cooper’s neck. He was the one murmuring, encouraging the dog to eat, and she realized that in all likelihood, he was the one who had prepared a meal and left the washing up to someone else.
She hadn’t meant to make a sound, but she must have because Westcliffe looked up at her, and her heart nearly broke at the sight of his red-rimmed eyes before he averted his gaze. As quietly and unobtrusively as possible, she padded over and knelt beside Westcliffe. “Is Cooper ill?”
His hand resting heavily on the dog’s back, he nodded. “Simply far too old. The veterinarian says things are no longer working properly. Cooper’s in pain, miserable. He’s offered to put him down, but I thought he should have a last meal. He won’t eat.”
She covered his free hand, which was resting on his thigh, surprised when he turned it over and tightly laced his fingers through hers. “Is that where you were earlier? With the veterinarian?”
He nodded. “Then I took him for a lengthy carriage ride, but even it couldn’t restore his enthusiasm.”
She wished he’d come to her. She wanted so badly for him not to feel that he had to go through moments like this alone.
“Fifteen years,” he said quietly, “he has been my companion. Loyal beyond measure. He has accepted me, faults and all. Always happy to see me.”
Tears burned her eyes and throat. This gentle, mourning soul was a side to him she’d never seen. “How did you come to name him Cooper?”
“James Fenimore Cooper. My favorite author. I always thought that if I had been born second, I’d have traveled to America and lived the adventures of a frontiersman.”
“I suspect it’s much more romantic in a book than in life.”
He gave her a half smile. “I suspect you’re right.” He released a deep breath and the hold on her fingers. “I’m going to take him outside.”
