Page 37 of Passions of a Wicked Earl
“Well, then, I shall keep that in mind when I make my choice. It was good to see you.” He tipped his hat. “Good day.”
He cantered away. Beth turned in her seat.
“Beth, don’t turn to watch him,” Claire scolded.
“Why? He is such a fine figure of a man. Do you think anyone noticed that he stopped to visit with us? It wouldn’t hurt at all if someone thought he were interested in making a match.”
“Courting is a slow ritual, Beth. You must have more patience with it.”
“But it is so hard.”
Before the landau could again be on its way, a barouche drew up beside it. Claire recognized the woman as Lucy Stuart, Lady Morrow. She was a friend of Claire’s cousin Charity. They’d played together on occasion. Last Season she’d married the Earl of Morrow and had promptly paid a visit to Claire to inform her that she didn’t approve of Westcliffe’s philandering. She was one of the ladies advocating that Claire bring her husband to heel—as though that were easily done.
“Countess, what a pleasure it is to see you in London … with your husband.” She blinked her brown eyes repeatedly as though she had a speck of dust in them. Her black hair was tucked up neatly beneath a hat with a brim so wide that her husband was forced to sit leaning to the side to avoid it. He greeted everyone, then turned his attention to their surroundings as though he were merely an ornament to his wife.
“Lady Morrow, how good it is to see you. You remember my sister, Lady Beth.”
“Yes, of course. The family resemblance is uncanny. I’d not heard you’d arrived for the Season,” Lady Morrow said.
“I was not aware my wife was required to inform you of her business,” Westcliffe said smoothly.
Beth gasped, Lucy’s eyes turned round as saucers, Morrow continued to look elsewhere, and Claire’s stomach dropped through the floor of the carriage. Still, she felt compelled to force out, “Beth and I have been extremely busy.” She hated herself for it, but she knew that, unlike the Duchess of Greystone, Lucy would spread rumors, and she needed her to at least think she and her husband were on their way to making amends. “Westcliffe and I are having our portrait made—and that’s terribly tedious and time-consuming.”
“Yes. Quite.” She looked at Westcliffe, then back at Claire. “I’m glad all seems to be well. You must come to call.” She bid her adieu, and they were racing away.
“I never much liked her,” Beth muttered.
“She can influence your Season, Beth.”
“Ainsley can influence it more.”
Claire was aware of a frisson of tension radiating from her husband. If she’d learned one thing of any consequence in the short time she’d been in London, it was that he didn’t like being beholden to his youngest brother. “I believe Westcliffe is providing all the influence you need. After all, he is the reason we have a ball to attend.”
His voice had a more relaxed edge to it when he ordered the driver to continue on. The drive through the park was more pleasant than she’d expected. No one else stopped to speak with them, but there were the occasional nods and acknowledgments directed at Westcliffe. Because he was with them, she had little doubt that some would assume all was well with their marriage. Others might see it as a tentative beginning. And a few might see it for what it truly was: an act.
Although for the life of her, try as she might, she was having a difficult time seeing it as an act. For her, it did feel more like a tentative beginning.
Chapter 11
Sitting in the library, drinking his whiskey, waiting on the ladies to finish preparing themselves for the ball, Westcliffe became lost in thought. He’d never considered what effect his carousing would have on Claire if she ever returned to London. Out of sight, out of mind. But he’d seen the distress quickly cross over her face when Beth had mentioned going to the park. And he’d recognized his responsibility in causing it. In hindsight, stupid of him not to realize his actions would have an impact on her.
Three years ago, like her, he’d been young, lacking judgment, and controlled by fears, but unlike her, he’d also been controlled by ambitions. His fear was that he was lacking in what was required to hold on to a woman. His manhood had been threatened, his very sense of himself. He’d strived to become so deeply buried in pleasure in all its forms that he’d forget the betrayal, that he’d no longer think of the wife he’d left at his estate. That whatever faults might reside in him would become insignificant.
Instead, they’d only been magnified.
His pride would never allow him to set it aside for another’s happiness. Yet Claire had done exactly that. He’d seen it when she’d agreed to the jaunt in the park, and he expected to see it on display again this evening. She knew of his wicked reputation, and yet tonight she would stand beside him—no doubt with her head held high—so her sister might avoid marriage to a man she had not chosen.
His wife was remarkable. Tonight would not be easy for her. While those who gossiped were not favored at the Duchess of Greystone’s affairs, it would still flourish in darkened corners and balconies. He didn’t envy his wife what she would endure for her sister’s sake. It humbled him to wonder if he’d ever do the same for his brothers.
Knowing that the ladies would soon be joining him, he’d dispensed with his usual ritual of closing the door, so their light laughter, tittering, and footsteps traveled to him shortly before they entered. Setting his whiskey aside and rising to his feet to welcome them, he found himself without words at the sight of them.
Beth was lovely in a white gown with a spray of white roses adorning her upswept hair. But Claire was stunning in a lavender silk gown with a décolletage baring her shoulders and allowing the merest hint of her breasts. A pearl comb and loops of pearls adorned her hair.
“You don’t like them,” Beth blurted.
He worked to regain his faculties. “Pardon?”
“Our gowns. Do you hate them? Do they make us look so awful?”
