Page 2 of Passions of a Wicked Earl
She blew him a kiss. She was so easily mollified. He was weary of growing bored, but ennui hovered nearby, waiting impatiently—
He would not succumb. Not this time. She deserved better.
He hurried down the stairs and out the front door into the lightly falling rain, where his carriage waited, illuminated by the distant gas streetlamps. The footman leaped forward and opened the door.
“St. James,” Westcliffe ordered as he climbed inside and settled back against the plush bench for the journey to his residence. Not a home. Simply a place where he resided, where he would wallow in his whiskey and contemplate why he refused to stay the night with Anne. Such a small request, but conceding to it would give her too much control over him. And he was a man who relished his freedom. He’d gone too much of his life without possessing either control or independence.
His father, damn him, had left behind little except debt, two sons, and a widow who understood the ramifications of her dire circumstances well enough that, without delay, she’d chosen as her second husband a man with a more powerful title and a good deal more wealth—the Duke of Ainsley. She’d blessed him with an heir, and five years later, he’d left her a widow—one who no longer relied on anyone for anything.
It was years before the same could be said of Westcliffe.
He’d been dependent on the kindness and generosity of his youngest brother, Ransom Seymour, the present Duke of Ainsley. He may have been the last born, but he acted as though he were the first—irritatingly responsible, obsessed with duty. He comported himself with the mien of someone three times his age. Their mother had often remarked that even from the cradle, he’d given the impression that he could handle the greatest of matters. Westcliffe had found it exceedingly difficult to usurp his brother’s rightful place in the sibling hierarchy when the next moment could very well involve holding out a hand, asking for favors. It was one of the reasons that Westcliffe had spent as little time as possible with his family—to avoid the reminders of the failures he’d inherited from his father, which had weighed heavily on his shoulders as he’d grown into manhood. He’d been more than willing to take whatever actions necessary to shed them.
It had been damned mortifying to go to the whelp whenever he needed anything: assistance in managing his estate, clothes, food, coins to purchase a trinket for his occasional lovers. So he’d welcomed the opportunity to be rid of his pauper’s realm—only to discover that the ultimate price was a battering of his pride far worse than anything he’d previously suffered.
The wheels whirred, splashing the rainwater against the sides of the carriage. He sought comfort from the calm, constant swishing, allowing it to seep into his soul. Perhaps tonight, he would fall into a deep, untroubled sleep. Perhaps tonight, for a brief time, he could escape the blight of Claire’s betrayal.
Yet the memory of it rose as bitter as bile in his throat while his carriage drew to a stop in front of his residence. He’d not set eyes on Claire since that fateful night when she’d taken his younger brother Stephen to her bed. During the intervening years, he’d received but one missive from her.
Forgive me.
To which his drunken youthful self had cleverly responded, When you’re rotting in hell.
The man he was now would not have responded at all. He’d have forced her to wallow in guilt and self-recriminations without a hint as to his true sentiments. The absence of knowledge was its own punishment, and she deserved to suffer.
He leaped from the carriage, only to discover that another waited in the drive, one he recognized as belonging to him. If he hadn’t known, the liveried men standing about would have served as a clue. What the devil?
Taking the wide steps two at a time, he rushed up the stairs. The door opened just as he arrived. His butler’s pale face told him all he needed to know.
“Where the hell is she?” he demanded.
“The library, my lord.”
His gut tightened. His sanctuary. He allowed no one in there. Least of all her.
Tossing back his hat, cloak, and gloves, not caring if they landed in Willoughby’s arms or on the floor, he strode down the hallway. He became abruptly aware that he smelled of another woman. Lilac. He considered, for a heartbeat, racing up the stairs to take a quick wash, then decided against it. He still remembered the sandalwood stench of his brother emanating from her when he’d discovered them—
The footman opened the door to the library as he approached, and he wished she’d had no warning that he was about to barge in on her. Three long years, and the silly chit dared to intrude on the life he’d created in her absence.
With fury emanating from him, he stormed into the room. He was halfway across it, having passed two seating areas, when she turned from her perusal of the books aligned neatly on his shelves.
He came to a staggering halt as though he’d taken a powerful blow to the chest. He’d fought so damned hard to forget her, to forget everything about her.
And here she was in the flesh. Slightly older yet undeniably more lovely.
Claire.
His traitorous wife.
Chapter 2
She’d not known what to expect—of him or herself—when the moment was finally upon her. A slight shiver of dread, certainly. A tightening of her stomach. But this wild pounding of her heart, this gladness at seeing him. It took her off guard.
If only she’d felt it three years ago, on the day they’d married. If only he hadn’t terrified her then. He still did. Not only his size—so tall and broad—but the authority and determination that emanated from him. He’d always given the impression that once power was in his hands, he could wield it with uncompromising ability. She’d never known quite what to make of him. Still, she was older now. Not only in years, but in maturity.
But even so, she was unprepared for the sight of him.
His arresting face carved in disgust, framed by thick, black hair that was noticeably unstyled as though he’d only just awoken when surely he’d been up and about for most of the day and evening. She’d heard that he’d turned to cold marble, had heard a great deal about him during the intervening years. But it hurt now to know his implacable façade might be her doing.
