Passions of a Wicked Earl by Lorraine Heath Page A

knew who he was, knew his place. It was more intoxicating than the wine. She was weary of dissecting the past. He’d said he no longer wanted her, and yet his presence, his interest in her feet seemed to indicate otherwise.
    “It was very kind of you to consent to allowing Beth and me to reside here for the summer,” she said.
    “You make me sound as though I’m a tyrant.”
    She peered up at him again, only this time she met his gaze fully and gave him the smallest of smiles. “I always thought of you as one. Quite often I model my villains after you.”
    He arched a brow. “Your villains?”
    “For my own amusement, I often write stories.”
    “Do I gobble up little children in your stories?”
    She laughed self-mockingly, and blamed the wine for the words that escaped. “You drag the heroine away to your castle. She’s not very bright. She always falls madly in love with you.”
    “I’m not quite certain if I should take that as a compliment or an insult.”
    “Don’t give it much credence either way. They’re just the musings of a silly girl.”
    “You’re not a girl any longer, Claire. Last night was proof enough of that.”
    She’d had far too much wine because she thought the heat from the fire had jumped into his eyes. But surely that wasn’t possible. “I’ve heard that you’ve taken a hundred lovers since we were married.”
    His dark laughter reverberated around them. “I assure you the numbers are vastly exaggerated.”
    She pulled her feet free of his grasp. Cooper stirred and rolled away from her. She missed the comfort of any touch. Still she plowed ahead. “But you have taken lovers.”
    “Our marriage was not consummated. I was a husband in name only. You assured that when you allowed my brother into your bed. If you truly knew my reputation, you could not have expected celibacy of me.”
    Shaking her head, she finished her wine in one large gulp that nearly choked her. She waited as the warmth diffused through her. She met his gaze. “Who is she? The lady who smells of lilac.”
    “None of your concern.”
    “You were with her earlier.”
    He finished off his own wine. “I didn’t want her to hear from the gossips that my wife was in London.”
    “But you have no qualms about your wife hearing from the gossips that you have lovers? Do you care for her?”
    “I’d not spend time with her if I didn’t.”
    “Do you intend to flaunt her in front of me?” She felt the tears burn her eyes and forced them back.
    He studied her for the longest before saying, “If you knew me at all, you’d know the answer to that.”
    “But I don’t know you, Westcliffe, any more than you know me. That is the very reason behind the debacle of our marriage.” His gaze was hard, almost unforgiving, but she didn’t sense that he was angry with her. Rather he was striving to come to terms with something.
    Quite abruptly, he was standing over her. “No, Claire, I do not intend to flaunt her.” Bending down, he lifted Cooper into his arms with all the gentleness that one would cradle a child.
    Then he was striding from the room, and it was all Claire could do not to call him back.
    After settling Cooper into his favorite chair for the night, Westcliffe began removing his clothes, paused, and grinned. His wife, who had feared her wedding night, had watched him undress. He remembered that first night back at Lyons Place and the sense he’d had of being watched. Little voyeur. Perhaps he should have offered to disrobe in closer proximity.
    He heard the door to her bedchamber close. He should have assisted her up the stairs. She might not have thought she was foxed, but she was. Otherwise, she’d have not spoken so candidly. Or perhaps she would have. She was correct. He didn’t know her. Everything he knew about her had come from a distance.
    He had known that she was the one he’d marry, and he’d assumed she’d fawn over him as all women did. Christ, he’d been an arrogant bastard in his