Page 92 of Passions of a Wicked Earl
“I messed things up for you, Claire. The best thing I could do was stay away.” He touched her cheek. “I’m going to go even farther away.”
She stared at him uncomprehending.
“I’m going to be leaving England, Claire.” He bestowed on her the devilish grin she’d always loved, but there was a touch of self-mockery in it. “I’ve been told that I’m a man without character. I’ve finally come to believe it. My brothers bought me a commission, and like everything else in my life, I’ve not made the most of it. They’ve both wagered that in battle the enemy will see only my back. Can’t have them win that wager, now can I?”
“But you could get hurt or worse.”
His smile was familiar, cocky, daring. “Not to worry. I have the luck of the devil.”
* * *
Claire found her husband in the library, behind his desk, scrawling some letter, some bit of business. He immediately rose to his feet as she neared his desk and came to a stop.
“How are you feeling?” he asked.
She was acutely aware of his gaze roaming over her. She touched the cropped strands of her hair. “Light-headed.”
He flashed her a quick smile. “It’ll grow back.”
“I should hope so. I understand you were ill.”
“Exhausted, I think.” He shifted his stance. “I’m sorry … for a good many things regarding you. I … you deserve better.” Looking down, he touched the paper on his desk. “I’ve been working on wording a petition to go to Parliament for our divorce.”
Her heart very nearly stopped in her chest. “You told me that you didn’t love Lady Anne Cavill, that she doesn’t love you. You deserve someone who loves you.”
The disbelief, mingled with the sadness in his eyes, told her that he thought she was simply giving him trite declarations—to avoid scandal perhaps, to evade the shame of an unsuccessful marriage.
“Claire—” he began.
And she cut him off, taking a step nearer, desperate to make him understand. “If I called out for Stephen in my delirium, it was only because before I fell I was thinking that I needed to speak with him about our meeting in the conservatory. I was there because a servant had told me you were waiting for me. Stephen was there because Lady Anne had told him that she’d be waiting for him.”
“Yes, so Stephen told me. She wanted to separate us, and it worked. Some good can come of this. It made me realize that you love Stephen. We can find a way—”
“No!” She stepped forward. “Yes, I do love him, but it is the love of a friend or even a sister for a brother. It is not that of a wife for a husband.”
Taking another step, she staggered, grabbed the back of a chair. Westcliffe was immediately out from behind his desk, his arm about her steadying her. Releasing her hold on the chair, she wrapped her arm around his neck and lifted her gaze to his. “You own my heart,” she whispered, as tears welled. “I can’t tell you the exact moment you took possession of it. I only know that I long to hear your laughter, that I constantly listen for the tread of your boots because even if you are not in the room with me, knowing you are near eases my loneliness.
“I am willing to withstand any public ridicule or scandal so that you might find happiness. If indeed you do love her and cannot love me—”
“Claire,” he rasped, his large hand cradling the back of her head, holding her tightly. “How can I not love you?”
Her heart swelled.
“You are all that is good and sweet and innocent,” he continued. “To consider that you could truly love me—”
“Do not consider it, Westcliffe. Be certain of it.”
He knelt, but held her hands tightly, giving her the strength to remain standing. “I never asked you to marry me, and for that I apologize. But I will ask you this: Will you honor me by remaining my wife?”
“Oh, you silly man, the honor is mine.”
She thought she would forever remember the adulation in his eyes at that moment as the walls he’d built to protect his heart crumbled. How could he have lived his life with only one assurance: that he had the love of a collie?
He was so strong, so good, so noble. She wasn’t certain her heart could contain all the love she felt for him. How could she have ever doubted that he was the perfect husband for her?
He swept her into his arms and carried her from the room. On the terrace, where her tea was growing cold, Stephen was waiting to say good-bye, but she didn’t care. He would have to wait. The man in whose arms she was now cradled would always come first from this moment on. She’d never give him reason to doubt her affections.
In his bedchamber, they curled together on the bed. She was still recovering, too weak to do anything but lie in his arms, but it was enough, to be held by him.
