Page 9 of Passions of a Wicked Earl
With a heavy breath, he dropped his head back and stared at his book-lined shelves. Books and boudoirs. They entertained him. “I don’t much like it when you’re right. Christ.” He downed his whiskey, then finished off Cooper’s.
Burying his fingers in the soft fur, he stroked the one creature with whom he’d shared all his secrets, his disappointments, his dreams. He wished he could overlook what he owed Claire, send her back to the country or, at the very least, to his mother’s.
But he couldn’t. Damnation, he couldn’t. Because the blasted dog was correct. He owed her.
Chapter 4
Claire awoke neither relaxed nor rested. Having just rung for her maid, who’d traveled with her from the estate, she lay in bed and listened to the occasional clanging activity taking place in the bathing room that separated her bedchamber from Westcliffe’s. She wondered if he’d anticipated that Willoughby would see her settled into a room so near his.
She wondered exactly what he was doing. Bathing, no doubt. Perhaps shaving. Getting dressed for the day.
The last time she’d heard sounds such as the ones she was hearing now had been on her wedding night. Her maid had left her alone, and she’d stood there in her night rail, listening as he prepared to come to her. Tremors of fear had rippled through her. They’d never kissed. Their skin had never touched. She couldn’t imagine him climbing into bed with her, touching her intimately. It was wrong, wrong to have something so personal happen between two people who were virtually strangers.
She started to carry the lamp to the window, to signal Stephen—
And stopped. It was equally wrong.
But he wasn’t terrifying. He was safe and comfortable. Just one night, if she could gain just one night’s reprieve—
So she took the lamp to the window, unlocked it, and scurried to the bed.
She lay there, listening to the movements of her husband. She’d waited too long to summon Stephen. She should have acted sooner. She heard a sound, then the window was opening. She came upright. “Stephen?”
“Shh.” He smiled, his sapphire eyes filled with the deviltry that made him so much fun. He tossed his jacket onto the floor.
She’d not expected that. “What are you doing?”
“Ensuring that he leaves you alone.” He quickly removed his waistcoat and nimbly unbuttoned his shirt.
“I thought you were going to talk to him. Explain—”
He winked at her. “No, sweetheart. Words will have no effect on my brother tonight.” His shoes came off next and he crawled onto the bed.
“I didn’t know this was what you had in mind. I think this is a terrible idea,” she said. She started to scramble out from beneath the covers, but he snaked an arm around her and drew her down.
“Do you want him to bed you?” he asked.
She looked up into a face she’d trusted since childhood, into eyes that had promised to hold all her secrets. She’d always been able to tell him everything. “No.”
“Then trust me. He’ll be angry at me, not at you.”
He tucked her beneath him, half his body covering hers. She could feel his breath wafting over her hair.
“What if this doesn’t work?”
“It will.”
“How do you know?”
“Because I know my brother.”
“Tell me about him, then. Help me to know—”
The door opened. Very slowly, Stephen turned his head to look over his shoulder. “West—”
Before he could even finish addressing his brother, Westcliffe grabbed him, yanked him out of the bed, and threw him to the floor.
Seeing the fury in Westcliffe’s dark eyes, she bolted upright, fearful for her own life. What had she expected? Had she thought he’d simply look at them, and say, “Oh, pardon. I’ll return later then, shall I?” He turned away from her. Before Stephen could get to his feet, Westcliffe had drawn him up and plowed his fist into his stomach, causing him to double over and drop to his knees.
