Page 87 of Passions of a Wicked Earl
He bowed. “Yes, m’lady.”
After he left, she retrieved the stunning bracelet, called for her maid, and went upstairs to change into her riding habit. Half an hour later, she was cantering over the moors, the wind whipping around her, ushering in the dark clouds in the distance. The groomsman followed along behind her, keeping a respectful distance. She hadn’t wanted him to come along, but they all watched out for her since it was obvious her husband would not.
She would go to London. She would confront him. She would make him understand, because the more she thought about that horrid night, the more convinced she was that being caught in the conservatory with Stephen had been Lady Anne’s plan all along. Issuing the invitation personally. Being so accommodating, so understanding that Westcliffe loved Claire. So many guests that the likelihood of spotting Stephen—
If he’d even gone into the residence. Perhaps he was only ever to meet her in the conservatory. She needed to speak with Stephen, to ask him why he’d been there. She should have done it before, but she’d thought it would only exacerbate the situation. Now she realized he might have vital information that could help her get Westcliffe back.
She couldn’t deny her love for him, and this child was a chance for a new beginning. They did not have to remain estranged. If she could only make him see that they’d all been part of Lady Anne’s elaborate scheme to get Westcliffe back.
With a renewed determination to face her husband and set matters to rights, she kicked her horse into a gallop. Was he with Lady Anne now? Was he back in her bed?
She couldn’t tolerate the thought. The possibility brought tears to her eyes, blurred the countryside around her. The horse picked up speed, but Claire was paying little attention as the salty droplets rolled down her cheeks.
She was aware of the horse’s sleek strides suddenly changing, the muscles bunching—
And then they were in the air, sailing over a hedgerow that Claire had not even noticed. Her hold on the reins was loose, her seating precarious. She’d not prepared for the arching movement. The mare landed hard and ungraceful, screaming as though in pain. Claire lost her balance, lost her seat. The rough, uneven terrain absorbed her impact as she landed in an ungainly sprawl. Blackness hovered, and she was aware of a single raindrop landing on the curve of her cheek, just before the agony ripped through her and dragged her into the darkened abyss.
Chapter 24
Where the bloody hell is she?” Westcliffe yelled as he burst through the door of the manor.
“In her bedchamber, my lord,” Blyton answered.
Westcliffe couldn’t recall ever seeing the butler so drawn and pale. He’d no doubt been up all night awaiting his master’s arrival. The missive had arrived the day before in the late afternoon, delivered by Bly, and Westcliffe had been riding like a madman since. But it had still taken him longer than he wanted to get here. It was almost midnight.
Now he was rushing up the stairs, taking them two at a time. The house was so damned quiet. He couldn’t recall it ever being so damned quiet.
At the top of the stairs, he saw a young maid coming out of the bedchamber carrying an armload of bloody linens. It was all he could do not to lean against the wall for support.
“How is she?” he barked.
Tears rolled down her cheeks. “She lost the babe, m’lord.”
He slammed his eyes closed, the force of the grief hitting him hard. Not only the loss of the babe, but Claire suffering through it alone, when she had always been with him through the worst nights. He should have been here. Opening his eyes, he croaked, “Was it a boy?”
“We couldn’t tell, m’lord.”
“And my lady? How is she?”
“Fevered, m’lord. Not at all well.”
“I must see her.” It was a silly thing to say. He was the master. He needed no one’s permission, and yet he worried over what he might find or what further ills his presence might cause.
The maid—he couldn’t recall her name and at the moment he didn’t care what it was—nodded.
Taking a deep breath, he opened the door she’d just closed and strode into the room. The sickly sweet smell of blood, death, and sweat battered him. He dreaded what he might see upon closer inspection, but he forced his legs to move forward.
Claire lay there, appearing so vulnerable, her hair damp, her face sprinkled with the sweat of fever. Another maid was carefully dabbing a cloth along her forehead. Claire looked as though all blood had been drained from her. This was his doing. His pride, his jealousy, his anger. He shouldn’t have sent her here. He should have listened. He should have been a better man than he was. She was the only woman who had ever said she loved him—and he’d cast her aside because of his pride.
He reached out to touch her, hesitated, and finally dared to lay his fingertips over hers, just the barest of touches.
“Stephen?” she croaked through cracked lips, her eyes opening only a fraction before closing again.
“My lord, she’s delirious,” the maid said quickly. “She knows not what she says.”
Ignoring the woman, he bowed his head in anguish, shame, and regret. She’d loved his brother all along. He’d been willing to get a divorce so he could have Anne, a woman he cared for but did not love, but he’d been unwilling to get one so Claire could have Stephen, so Stephen could have her. If they weren’t allowed to marry in England, they could always go to America.
The truth slammed into him. He’d not wanted Stephen to have Claire. He’d been jealous of the fact that Stephen had always had the lion’s share of their mother’s love—and he’d not been able to bring himself to allow his brother to have Claire’s as well. No man deserved that much love when Westcliffe had none at all.
