Page 50 of Passions of a Wicked Earl
Westcliffe studied Claire in the shadowy darkness as the first burst of fireworks filled the sky. Anyone else watching might have thought she had the joy of a child, but there was nothing childish about her. She had matured since the day he’d taken her as his wife.
In her expression, he saw pleasure, a woman’s pleasure, and he couldn’t help but wonder if the same satisfaction would fill her face when she lay replete after lovemaking. He remembered the way she’d looked when he’d kissed her the night when he’d discovered her rearranging furniture. Ravished and ravishing, like a woman who’d had her senses awakened. The hardest thing he’d ever done was walk out of that room.
He would not take her to his bed, dammit. He wouldn’t search for that ticklish spot. He would not.
She made him feel things he didn’t wish to feel. A gentle stirring in his heart that could destroy him if it wasn’t returned. Anne was a much better choice. Her eyes never welled up over silly gifts. She didn’t smile because of something he’d done for another. Her flirtations carried no innocence. Her fury was brittle. It didn’t heat him with desire. She didn’t have a damned ticklish spot. She was safe. If she left him, if he found her with another man …
He’d be angry. He might even punch the fellow. But he could easily walk away and never look back. He’d invested none of his heart and none of his soul.
From the moment he’d left Claire at Lyons Place, he’d continually looked back. That was the reason he’d taken numerous lovers. To forget her, to replace the memories of her, the hope for happiness he’d placed in her.
Now here she was, enticing him with her smiles, laughter, and flirtation. Even her anger lured him. He’d be within his rights to lay her down on a bed and have his way with her. She was still his wife. But once he did that, she’d be soiled goods. What man would want her? Three years ago, he wouldn’t have cared. Hell, a month ago, he wouldn’t have cared. He’d have thought she deserved to suffer.
But now he found himself wanting to protect her from gossip, scandal, and himself—a man without the ability to love.
As though suddenly aware that her sister was spellbound by the spectacular display of colors dotting the sky, she eased away until she was beside him. Placing her hand on his arm, she urged him away from the crowd until they stood alone in the shadows.
“Thank you for bringing us. I know Beth was disappointed that Greenwood didn’t call today. I think this outing was the perfect remedy to her melancholy.”
Rising on her toes, she brushed a kiss near the corner of his mouth. It took every ounce of willpower he possessed to hold himself perfectly still and not turn into her movement, not capture her mouth and give her the blistering kiss his body demanded of him.
“Did you enjoy the evening?” she asked.
Strangely, he had. He’d never been to the Gardens when decent folk were about. It was much more entertaining later—or at least in his youth he’d found it so. God, he was getting old when he took as much pleasure in the modest gowns as he did in the indecent ones.
Or perhaps it wasn’t the gown so much as the woman inside it. The dress wasn’t cut nearly as low as the ball gown she’d worn the night before, yet it was just as enticing, if not more so. Perhaps because his tongue knew exactly how silky smooth her skin was.
No, she was no longer a girl. That was evident in the way she stood there, challenging him—to do exactly what he wasn’t sure. Kiss her perhaps. Or take her farther into the shadows. He wasn’t half-tempted.
A hundred white lights burst through the sky, and in their reflection, he saw the errant strands of her hair that always seemed to work their way loose of any pins or combs. He reached for them, to tuck them back into place—
Another burst of fireworks, followed by the accompanying boom—
Fiery pain ignited through his upper arm. “Damnation!”
Grabbing his arm, he felt the warmth pooling through his fingers.
“What? What happened?” she asked.
“Good God, I think I’ve been shot.”
He’d been shot.
His assumption wasn’t confirmed until they returned home because the obstinate man wouldn’t let Claire look at his arm. He had allowed her to tie his handkerchief around it, for what little good that did.
After giving the crowd a cursory glance, he’d decided it was too dark and the crowd too immense to begin a search to determine who might have fired a pistol. He’d ordered the ladies to stay near him as they made their way to the carriage, then decided his proximity put them in danger and told them to hurry ahead.
Beth had complained incessantly because they were leaving before the fireworks extravaganza was over, but Claire hadn’t told her the reason for their hasty departure because she hadn’t wanted to worry her. As for herself, she was petrified. How she managed to keep her legs moving was beyond her. She kept looking back at Westcliffe, urging him on—torn between shielding her sister and dropping back to protect him.
It wasn’t until they were safe in the residence that Claire told Beth what had transpired—and only then because she needed Beth to go to her room while Claire saw to her husband. Beth had nearly swooned until Claire had shaken her and told her to get control of herself. She had no time to deal with theatrics. She had to see how Westcliffe was.
He’d immediately called for his manservant and retreated to his bedchamber. By the time she’d finished dealing with Beth and joined him there, he was sitting bare-chested in a chair while Mathers was dabbing at the crimson furrow in Westcliffe’s upper arm.
Westcliffe glanced over at her as though she were to be given no more consideration than a fly that had entered his domain. “It’s just a gash. Nothing to worry over. Go on to bed.”
“Nothing to worry over? Someone tries to kill you—”
“We don’t know that he was trying to kill me.”
