Page 31 of Passions of a Wicked Earl
“The thought had occurred.”
She smiled with obvious amusement and something inside him shifted, teetered, made him feel as though his world were tilting. He’d always liked her smiles, but he felt as though this was the first truly genuine one she’d given him since she’d arrived. He didn’t know what to make of it or his feelings about it. He held tightly to the snifter, knowing he was in danger of crushing the glass, but he needed something to anchor him. Her eyes were soft, as though they were friends sharing an intimate secret, and he wondered if they’d appear the same if they were sharing darker intimacies. He felt an absurd desire to take her mouth, to—
“Claire, please come turn the sheets of music for me. It ruins my playing to have to do it myself. You could even sing while you’re over here. Have you heard her sing, my lord? She has the voice of a nightingale.”
Claire’s luscious mouth twisted as she rolled her eyes. Was she embarrassed by the praise? Or was she simply unaccustomed to receiving it? He’d certainly never complimented her. Anne could barely stand to go five minutes without hearing words of adoration, and if he wasn’t extolling her virtues, she was—constantly reminding him of her worth.
Claire took her place, standing near enough to where Beth sat so she could easily follow along with the music and turn the pages aside. Observing the sisters so closely together, he noted that Beth possessed a youthfulness that had long since left Claire. He thought of the manor and how much more efficiently things were managed there now. No leaking roofs. No dirty windows. No overgrown gardens. She’d even purchased a couple of mares. According to the groomsman, she loved to ride. He’d never gone riding with her. Had done nothing of any consequence with her actually.
His musings were interrupted as the sweetest voice filled the room. Claire was singing. He’d never thought anything would be more beautiful than her laughter. He’d been wrong. Of late, he was discovering that he’d been wrong about a great many things. Her broad smile was almost a perfect match of Beth’s, and yet Claire’s seemed brighter. There was a joy, an easiness about her that he’d never seen. She was still wary of him.
He’d never played with her, he’d barely spoken to her. She’d always seemed like a child. Last night, when she’d spoken of the years separating them, she was correct.
He’d only recently begun to recognize her as a woman. Even on the day they’d married, he’d considered her a young girl, barely a woman.
Swallowing his brandy, he found himself wondering if he was as responsible for the debacle of their marriage as she.
* * *
Unbelievably weary, Claire walked through the garden in the moonlight, with the occasional gaslight illuminating her way. She’d forgotten how Beth could wear her down. For a while, she’d feared her sister’s excitement would not calm enough for her to fall asleep. But eventually she’d closed her eyes, and soon after she’d ceased her prattling. Growing up, they’d shared a bed, and it had always amazed Claire that Beth would fall asleep talking and immediately upon awaking, begin speaking again. Sometimes even completing a sentence or thought from the night before.
She’d also forgotten how delightful it was to sing. With no audience, she’d stopped lifting her voice in song. Only tonight had she realized that she was audience enough. She came to a startled halt at the sight of the shadowy figure sitting on a bench near the roses. “Westcliffe. I thought you’d left.”
When she returned downstairs after seeing Beth to bed, she’d not seen him in the library, a bit perturbed with herself because she’d actually been seeking his company. She’d assumed that he’d gone to spend the remainder of his evening with Lilac—or whatever the deuce her name was. It had astounded her that he’d stayed in residence the night before. She’d warned herself not to grow accustomed to his presence, and yet she couldn’t deny the spark of gladness at the sight of him.
“No, just out for a walk with Cooper. This is as far as he can get these days.”
She’d taken her turn about the garden going in the opposite direction. She wondered how long he’d been sitting on that bench. “Where is he?”
“Lying beneath the rosebush over there. Not certain why he favors it, but he does.”
“Perhaps he has a bone buried in the vicinity.”
“I suppose that’s as good an explanation as any.” To her immense surprise, he slid over and said, “You’re welcome to join me.”
She considered excusing herself and going on, but it was such a lovely night. And they seemed to have reached some sort of truce. She sat, but the bench was narrower than she realized. He lifted his arm and set it along the back, the action seeming to free up a little more space for her. “I’m sorry about Beth,” she said softly. “She’s simply so excited about London and her Season. She won’t talk quite so much once she settles in.”
Feeling his fingers stroking the sleeve of her dress, she wondered if he always felt a need to touch a woman when she was near. She wished it was she he desired, wished she knew how to bring that result about.
“She seems so remarkably young. How old is she?” he asked.
“She’ll be eighteen come November.”
“Considerably older than you when you married.”
He seemed mystified by the knowledge. “Not so much. Half a year or so.”
“Still, you did not appear so young. Perhaps because I was as well.”
“And now we are so terribly old.”
His smile, so white, flashed in the shadows. She wished it had stayed longer so she might have had a chance to commit it to memory.
His fingers continued to thrum over her arm, and she wished she were wearing the gown that had no sleeves. Oh, it did seem to be a night for wishing. But the evening air was cool, and she’d have been shivering by now.
“Willoughby informs me you arrived with only one trunk,” he stated as though she’d been involved in something untoward.
She was taken aback. “Why ever would he discuss my trunk with you?”
