Page 7 of Passions of a Wicked Earl
She went to move a chair and stopped herself. “Leave it,” she muttered. “Once you truly begin, you’ll be here all night, and you have no idea when Westcliffe will return.”
Or if he even would. She’d handled everything so poorly. It was time to consider another plan. But there were so few options. She’d considered them all when Beth had first approached her about providing her with a Season. Their mother had died, no other woman would tolerate their father’s ill temper.
Claire had suggested their cousin Chastity, who had married in December.
“She’s with child and won’t be in London,” Beth had informed her.
“You might ask Westcliffe’s mother, the Duchess of Ainsley.”
“She’s scandalous. Word is that she’s taken up with an artist. She won’t have time for me.”
Who remained? Certainly not the aunt who had raised them. Seeing no other choice, Claire had consented to giving her sister a Season.
Beth had hugged her tightly. “Oh, thank you, thank you. You have saved me from a fate worse than death.”
But now Claire couldn’t help but wonder at what cost to herself.
She was embarking on this endeavor with as much trepidation as she had her marriage.
The ceremony had taken place at Ainsley’s country estate. In the small chapel just down the road from the manor. A gathering of Great Britain’s most illustrious families had been in attendance.
The exchanging of their vows and all that followed had been a haze until Westcliffe escorted her from the small church and settled her into the white open carriage to journey back to the residence for a celebratory breakfast. The fog had lifted and reality had set in when he’d muttered, “Damned glad that’s done with.”
Her heart had sunk clear through the floor of the carriage, to be left behind on the road, trampled by horses and carriage wheels. Her husband desired this arrangement no more than she did.
What an unfortunate state of affairs, she thought hours later, as she walked through the elaborate gardens, having finally escaped the festivities that had continued throughout the day. While traditionally, the groom and bride would have left by then on their wedding trip, she and her husband were staying the night at Grantwood Manor because it was far nicer than his ancestral estate. At least for now—until her dowry allowed him to put matters to right.
Soon she would have to retire to the bedchamber to await him. Her husband.
She’d barely recognized the tall man who’d stood beside her at the altar. The last time she’d seen him, paid any notice to him, he’d been gangly, almost scrawny. But now at five-and-twenty, he had achieved a height that added grace to his slender physique. Humor, lightheartedness, joviality, however, continued to elude him.
When her cousin Chastity had arrived in London the previous spring to experience her first Season, she had wasted no time in informing Claire of the latest gossip concerning her betrothed. Apparently, he had developed quite the reputation in the bedchamber. She tried to draw comfort from knowing he wouldn’t be a bungling fool when he came to her bed, but all she seemed capable of realizing was that he would bring far more experience with him than she wished him to have. How could it not be intimidating to know that he had lain with women far lovelier, and perhaps far more adventuresome, than she?
Anytime she imagined lying on the bed while he raised the hem of her nightdress—as her spinster aunt, Mary, had warned her that he would—her heart fluttered madly like the bird with the broken wing that she and Stephen had nursed to health and sent back to the sky. It had been frightened. She’d felt it trembling against her palms, had known it simply wanted to be released. She felt that way now—if only she were free.
“Claire?”
She spun around, her heart filling with gladness. “Stephen.”
He was so incredibly handsome standing there in his dark jacket, waistcoat, and gray trousers, his cravat perfectly shaped. His blond hair was a trifle disheveled as though he’d recently plowed his fingers through it, but then it always gave that appearance. Even when he was outfitted in his finest, he did not appear nearly as put together as Westcliffe. With Stephen, there was always a bit of a tousled look as though he’d only just risen from bed, as though he didn’t take his role in life as seriously as his brothers did. Three men who shared the same mother but little else.
He cradled her jaw with one hand, pressed his forehead to hers, and chuckled, his whiskey-scented breath wafting over her cheek. “What are you doing out here, sweetheart?”
“Trying to gather my courage.”
Swaying slightly, he reared back. “For what?”
She felt the heat suffuse her face, but he was her friend. Had been forever. She could tell him anything. “My wedding night,” she whispered.
“Ah, yes, consummation.”
“Westcliffe terrifies me.”
“He terrifies everyone. It’s that perpetual scowl he wears as though he’s not happy with anything. But not to worry.” He leaned in as though to impart a secret. “He’s very skilled when it comes to the bedchamber. Not as skilled as I, of course, but then no one is.”
She saw no humor in his remarks. “Stephen, you make it sound as trifling as a game of cards.”
He seemed momentarily taken aback, then his blue eyes widened. “Are you crying? Good God, sweetheart, don’t cry. You know I can’t deny a weeping woman anything.”
