Page 44 of Passions of a Wicked Earl
“I simply don’t want you to be disappointed if your dance card isn’t filled at the next ball.”
Beth popped up and smiled at her. “You worry about things before there is a reason to worry.” She walked around the bed and yanked on the bellpull to summon her maid. “You worried that living here with Westcliffe would be awful, and it’s not,” she continued. “You worried that we’d not receive invitations, and we have an abundance of them.” As she glided by, she tweaked Claire’s nose. “You are such a worrier. But all will be well. Even between you and Westcliffe. You seem to have his attention now.”
She wished she could be so certain. But she didn’t wish to discuss her doubts with Beth, so she simply said, “Sleep well, sister,” and let herself out of the room just as the maid was entering.
She was exhausted from the night, from all the emotions running rampant through her. She’d danced twice. Strange, she’d always felt comfortable around Ainsley, and yet it was the dance with her husband that stayed uppermost in her mind. The strength she’d felt in his hold, the sureness of his steps. When she was seventeen, he’d seemed like such a bully, and now she saw him as a man. One with responsibilities he did not shirk.
He knew her favorite song. He’d given her a bracelet to commemorate her first ball. And she’d noticed him talking with the most gorgeous woman she’d ever seen. She’d made the mistake of asking one of the ladies talking with her who she was.
“Lady Anne Cavill. Until recently, she was seen about town with your husband.”
She’d almost asked, “How recently?”
She considered preparing for bed, but words needed to be said. And Westcliffe had issued a dare even though it was long past midnight.
She walked down the stairs. The only sound echoing around her was the ticking of the clock in the grand entryway. She made her way along the hallway that led to the library. She was grateful to see no footmen or other servants about.
Of course, perhaps her husband wasn’t either.
But when she opened the door and peered inside, Westcliffe was lounging in a chair, near the windows, a tumbler of whiskey in one hand and the ever-faithful Cooper curled at his feet.
Westcliffe watched her approach. He’d told Anne to expect him, but he’d also issued an invitation to his wife and, for some unknown reason, curiosity had harkened him to remain a bit longer, to see if she would appear. She sat in the chair beside him. He reached for the extra tumbler of whiskey he’d poured earlier in anticipation of her arrival and handed it to her. She took it and sipped gingerly.
“Beth … she”—Claire released a heavy sigh—”she thinks every night will be like tonight.”
“No reason it can’t be.”
She arched a brow with a look of annoyance. “You intend to pay gentlemen at every ball to dance with her?”
“I can well afford it.”
“That’s not the point. She thinks they see something in her—”
“Perhaps they do. Greenwood wasn’t the only one to return the fiver.”
Sitting up straighter, she leaned toward him. “Truly?”
With only two lamps lit, she was mostly in shadow, and yet there were so many things about her to notice at that moment. The brightness in her eyes that outdid the glow of the lamps, the hint of her bosom, the creamy smoothness of her skin, the flush of her cheeks. But what caught his attention the most was the wayward curl that had fallen over her forehead and tapped against the small scar that bisected that delicate eyebrow. Without any thought at all, he captured it between his fingers and tucked it behind her ear, allowing his bare knuckles the luxury of skimming over the silky curve of her cheek.
Her breath caught, but she didn’t jerk back. He wondered if she’d remain as still, as brave, if he moved his mouth toward hers. She was nothing at all like Anne, and at that particular moment he was glad. Every moment spent with Anne was a game of enticing her, of keeping her satisfied. She grew easily bored. They shared no quiet moments. Everything was innuendo. Each conversation was wrought with naughtiness and conjecture.
He realized that he’d stayed here, hoping for Claire because she would expect nothing of him.
“How many admirers does she require?” he asked, trailing his finger over the slope of her throat, lingering for two rapid beats of her pulse, before retreating, not wanting to admit the pleasure he’d found in so simple and so brief an exploration.
He watched her throat work as she swallowed, and as though finding her mouth dried, she turned to the tumbler, gulping a bit more than usual, swallowing again. Had he ever been so enticed by a woman’s throat?
“One, I suppose,” she rasped, “if he’s the right one.”
“How will she determine he’s the right one?”
“She’ll fall in love with him.”
He couldn’t help himself. He laughed. Apparently, her innocence knew no bounds. “Love is an emotion dreamed up by women. Men lust. They need. They desire. Women make men want them. Women call it love.”
“You’re quite cynical.”
He touched his glass to hers. “Quite.”
