Page 10 of Passions of a Wicked Earl
“No!” she screamed. “Leave him be!”
But he didn’t. He hit him again, sending him crashing into a table. It shattered beneath Stephen’s weight. Westcliffe lifted him as though he weighed no more than a pillow and slammed his fist into him again.
She scrambled out of the bed. “No, please, you’re going to kill him!”
The door leading into the hallway banged open.
“That’s enough!” a voice of authority rang out from the doorway. Ainsley strode into the room. Fearlessly, he stormed over to the brawl and shoved away his older brother. “Enough, I said!”
She’d always been amazed that in spite of the fact he was the youngest, he wore a mantle of power. But at that moment, her attention was riveted on Westcliffe, who was breathing harshly, his large hands balled into massive fists at his side. She could see blood on his right, and her stomach lurched. Whether it was his blood or Stephen’s, she couldn’t tell, but either was too much.
“Come along,” Ainsley said, pulling Stephen to his feet, one hand clamped around his arm while he used his free one to gather up Stephen’s jacket and waistcoat, as though he thought by keeping himself near his middle brother, he could protect him from the temper of his older. “Out with you, puppy.” Ainsley shoved Stephen toward the door.
“Dammit, you’re my baby brother. I hate when you call me that.”
“Then stop behaving like such a dolt.”
She could scarcely blame Stephen for going so willingly when the devil remained in the room—although she would have found some comfort if he had just glanced back at her. But it was as though the play had come to an end, and he didn’t consider it worthy of applause. She felt abandoned and confused.
“Get dressed,” Westcliffe ordered. “We’re leaving tonight.”
And they had. He’d packed her into his carriage and taken her to Lyons Place. Exiled. Unloved. Unhappy.
The bitter truth was that she understood she deserved it all.
But surely three years was long enough for her to suffer for the foolishness of youth.
She could no longer hear any sounds coming from the bathing chamber. Was he soaking in the tub? He would smell very different the next time she was near enough to inhale his fragrance. It would be all masculine, earthy, and rich. She wondered to whom the lilac scent belonged. She didn’t know why noticing it had been like a physical blow. She’d known he’d not honored his vows, so it should have come as no surprise that he carried the scent of a woman. She’d been married all of six months when her cousin Charity had visited and wasted no time in informing Claire of her husband’s perfidy.
“It’s scandalous, Cousin. He openly flaunts these liaisons. Every week he is seen with a different lady in the park—walking, riding, driving her around in his curricle. I myself have seen him kissing a woman behind a tree! And we are not talking a kiss upon the hand or cheek, but upon the mouth. It went on so long that I could scarce believe she didn’t faint from lack of air. He’s making a fool of you, Claire.”
Because she’d made a fool of him. She’d tried to rationalize, to pretend it didn’t hurt, that she didn’t care—“It is not uncommon for a man to have an affair.”
“Within months of his marriage, and so openly? You must return to London and take him in hand.”
Only she’d stayed at Lyons Place and buried herself in all the matters that had needed tending to there. The estate was in shambles, and she’d set about righting it because she didn’t know how to do the same with her marriage. Even now, she didn’t know how to make a go of things with Westcliffe. She’d tried the direct approach, asking for forgiveness, stating that she wished to be a wife. And he’d merely mocked her, humiliated her by making her want his touch only to then withhold it. She was so damned lonely—that was the only reason he’d managed to take her breath last night.
She couldn’t—wouldn’t—seek out the companionship of a man until she’d given her husband his heir, and perhaps not even then. In spite of the abysmal start to their marriage, she’d never intended to stray or to see him cuckolded. She’d only wanted Stephen to comfort her. Why couldn’t Westcliffe understand that? Why was he so consumed by his anger? Although in truth, she knew any man would be.
A soft rap sounded on her door, then Judith entered the room. She curtsied. “M’lady. Did you sleep well?”
“I didn’t sleep at all,” Claire said as she threw back the covers and clambered out of bed.
“It’s the residence,” Judith murmured, glancing around warily. “It’s as cold as a mausoleum. It holds none of the warmth of Lyons Place.”
Claire knew she wasn’t talking about the temperature of the air. It was the character of the house. Lyons Place had been the same when she’d arrived. Cold and dreary. Somewhere to take shelter from the elements but not the storms of life. She had worked diligently to change that, to make it a place where happiness could abide.
She had begun to cherish her time there, but still she was haunted by loneliness and regrets. For a moment, she considered accepting the challenge of altering this residence, but what was the point? She would be here for one Season. If that long. She didn’t think she could stay when her husband so despised her. But neither could she stand the thought of not helping her sister avoid the lecherous hands of Hester.
Claire chose a morning dress of hunter green, which flattered her complexion. If she was going to battle Westcliffe again, she was determined to do it in full armor. It took her an inordinate amount of time to see to her toilette and she knew she was dawdling, but she couldn’t seem to help herself. Well aware of the sounds coming from next door, she knew the moment he withdrew from his room. She recognized the tread of his steps in the hallway. Half an hour later, as she made her way down the stairs, part of her hoped he’d left for the day, and another part of her wanted him to still be there, to see that she was no longer a young girl who was fearful of him.
Even if her stomach quivered at the sight of him sitting at the table in the breakfast dining room. His dark gaze homed in on her—she felt it almost like a touch—as his chair scraped across the floor, and he came to his feet.
She tilted her head slightly. “Good morning, my lord.”
“My lady. I trust you slept well.” His deep voice reverberated off the walls and shimmered through her. She cursed her knees for weakening at the alluring smoothness.
“Very well, thank you.”
