Page 18 of Passions of a Wicked Earl
He was trying to process her disjointed answer. She’d been ten? A child? Curious? She’d gone to Stephen instead of the one to whom she’d been betrothed? Where had he been? All the times when she and Stephen had been frolicking about—he’d been riding or reading or off doing something that put distance between them. He’d been older, had no patience for their childish ways. A man needed to know very little about a woman—only that he desired her—before he bedded her. What did a woman of quality require? He’d never given it any thought. Had assumed Claire would welcome him only because he wanted her.
“That’s the only time he kissed you?” he heard himself ask.
She nodded. “Yes.”
Unblinking, she held his gaze. The only sign of her distress was the reddening of her cheeks.
And she’d found Stephen’s kiss disappointing. He took perverse satisfaction in the knowledge until he realized that Stephen would have been fourteen, on the cusp of childhood, no doubt still unschooled in the art of seduction. Westcliffe was damned tempted to take her in his arms and show her exactly what a kiss should be. Only the idiot painter was standing there.
“I’m losing the light,” Leo said calmly. “So we’re done for the day, but we shall meet at the same time tomorrow. You’re not to look at the work until it’s completed. You may leave if you like, and I’ll set matters to rights here.”
Westcliffe didn’t bother to argue. He strode from the room before he did something very foolish. He needed at least two tumblers of whiskey, perhaps three, before dinner, or he’d never survive it.
Chapter 6
Claire didn’t recall inviting the duchess to dinner, and yet there they all were, sitting at the dining table while soup, pork cutlets, and garnished brussels sprouts were served as though the guests had been anticipated. It occurred to her that the duchess had seen to matters regarding the cuisine while everyone else was in Westcliffe’s bedchamber.
It was not the room she’d have chosen. She thought the light in the salon with its floor-to-ceiling windows was better, but Leo—while she was uncomfortable referring to him so intimately, he insisted it was the only name he possessed—had assured her that the bedchamber was the only room that would do. She had stared at that massive bed, which had obviously been crafted especially for Westcliffe’s size, and wondered how many women had shared it with him.
“Your décor is rather interesting,” the duchess said to her son, breaking into Claire’s thoughts. “Paintings and statues of dogs, but no people.”
“I purchase that from which I receive enjoyment. Besides, dogs are loyal. People seldom are.”
“And by ‘people,’ I assume you mean family.”
Her husband did little more than hold his mother’s gaze.
“You might say that of Stephen, and perhaps of me,” she said quietly. “But Ainsley would give you the shirt off his back if you asked. He has always adored his oldest brother.”
Westcliffe dipped his gaze to his plate and began to concentrate on his food, and Claire wondered if he were uncomfortable with Ainsley’s adoration. She knew Stephen had sometimes felt conflicted, loving his brothers but resenting what they possessed. He was in a unique position of being the middle brother between two lords.
“I saw Ainsley last night,” Westcliffe said.
“At a gambling house no doubt,” the duchess stated, as though she knew exactly where they’d been.
Claire felt immense relief that they’d not been at a brothel although she was certain he’d been with someone. She didn’t want to contemplate that he no longer wanted her because he’d fallen in love with someone else. Through the wisdom of years, she couldn’t help but consider that his amour might be as passionate as his fury. What she’d feared as a child intrigued her now.
“I do worry about him,” the duchess said. “He gambles so much.”
“He was winning. He always wins.” Westcliffe slid his gaze over to Claire. “Fortune seems to smile on Ainsley.”
“Do you resent it?” She didn’t know from where the question had come.
His jaw working back and forth, he seemed to give it serious thought before shaking his head. “No.”
His answer made her smile inside, gave her a sense of relief. It was one of the things that had always bothered her about Stephen—that he could be angry at his brothers for things over which they had no control. They couldn’t help it if they were born to inherit titles and property while he was not.
The conversation drifted into more comfortable territory: the styles of the Season, which ladies were still unspoken for, which ones would be making their debut. While the duchess claimed to live on the fringes of society, she was quite well versed in the comings and goings of the upper crust.
It had been a long day, and Claire was quite relieved when dinner finally came to an end.
“We shall see you tomorrow afternoon,” the duchess said brightly, squeezing Claire’s hand and patting her son’s cheek before disappearing through the doorway with Leo.
“Thank God that matter’s done with,” Westcliffe muttered. Then he shouted, “Willoughby!”
“Yes, my lord.”
“Have my carriage readied immediately.”
