Page 88 of Passions of a Wicked Earl
What a selfish bastard he was! For a few short weeks he’d learned what it was to love. She’d come to love him, but whatever she felt was nothing compared with what she must feel for Stephen. How could he deny her that?
He stormed into the hallway. The butler stood there as though he knew he would be needed.
“Have a horse readied for me,” Westcliffe barked.
“Yes, my lord.”
Westcliffe went into his bedchamber and stripped off the clothes he’d been wearing when the missive arrived. They were damp with his sweat and the rain that had beaten down on him as he’d neared the estate. Quickly, he drew on dry britches and a shirt. He grabbed the greatcoat from the wardrobe and swung it onto his shoulders. He snatched up a wide-brimmed hat and hurried back out into the night.
The horse was waiting. He hoisted himself onto the saddle.
“M’lord—” the groomsman began, but Westcliffe didn’t wait to hear any warnings or advice. He tore down the cobbled drive as though Claire’s very life depended on it. Everything inside him screamed that it did.
He changed horses five times before he arrived at his London residence just past midnight the following night. Soaked to the bone, he barked out orders as he strode toward the library, “See to the horse and have my carriage readied.”
In the library, he downed a tumbler of whiskey in an attempt to stop the shivers that had begun rippling through him. Whether from the chill of his wet clothes or exhaustion, he didn’t know. He just knew he needed them to stop. A second tumbler followed, before he hurried to his bedchamber and changed into dry clothes. A more formal attire this time, including a waistcoat and jacket.
Once outside he gave directions to his driver and climbed inside the carriage. As the wheels began to whir with the rapid movement of the vehicle, Westcliffe leaned back, rubbed his brow, and prayed he’d not be too late.
Stephen loved experienced women. Jocelyn worked nicely in that regard. A very naughty daughter of a viscount, she had consented to visiting him in his rooms. He knew she hoped to trick some poor sod into marriage, but it wouldn’t be him. He took too many precautions. Still he intended to enjoy her and to make damned sure she enjoyed him. As he rode her, and her screams reached a never-before-heard pitch, he couldn’t help but swell with pride. Tonight, he’d exceeded his own expectations regarding the pleasure they’d share. Tomorrow, the legend of his prowess would grow to unheralded proportions. What a reputation he was obtaining. He suspected when he finally left England’s shores, a thousand women would weep, a thousand—
The door crashed open. He barely had time to turn and acknowledge the intruder before he was being dragged from the bed.
“What the bloody hell!” he yelled. “I’m involved here.”
“Get your clothes on,” Westcliffe commanded in that irritating I-shall-be-obeyed tone that he had as he began gathering up Stephen’s clothes and tossing them at him.
“Not bloody likely,” Stephen said, as he let his trousers hit him and land on the floor. “I’m not with your wife, so you’ll leave—”
“My wife is dying.”
Everything in Stephen stilled. “What the devil are you talking about?”
“She took a tumble from her horse, lost the babe—”
“She was with child?”
“Just get dressed. I’ll explain on the way.” Stephen had heard of men swallowing their pride, but he’d never actually seen it, not until that very moment when every ounce of arrogance Westcliffe possessed drained out of him. “She’s calling for you. Please.”
Stephen nodded and quickly drew on his clothes, not bothering to button every button or ensure that all was straight. He’d have time for that later.
He returned to the bed and gave Jocelyn a hard kiss on the mouth. “Sorry, love. I owe you.”
“Damned right you do. Get back to me as soon as you can.”
He gave her a cocky grin before turning to his brother. “Lead the way.”
Finding Stephen had taken Westcliffe two stops. He’d gone to Ainsley first. He wasn’t sure how the whelp managed it, but he knew everything that happened in the darker corners of London as well as in the brightest salons. His knowledge was uncanny. Ainsley had known where to find Stephen.
Only now, with his goal of finding Stephen achieved, did Westcliffe give himself leave to wonder what their future might hold. If only he hadn’t taken Claire, if only he’d allowed his marriage to remain unconsummated, but she’d glided effortlessly into his heart. Then she’d begun her flirtations, her taunting, her teasing until he’d thought he’d go mad with the wanting.
He cursed his soul to perdition. What price would she now pay for his lack of control, his inability to trust, to love?
With dawn easing through the windows, Stephen awoke, stiff and sore, lounging on the bench of the coach. His brother remained exactly as he’d been when Stephen had finally closed his eyes: staring out the window.
“It wasn’t my babe, you know,” Stephen said quietly.
He thought he detected his brother’s grimacing. “I know.”
