Passions of a Wicked Earl Read Online Free Page B

wouldn’t know that at that moment he’d hated himself as well. He’d never wanted to be cruel, but she’d forced him to turn his back on her. His fury had known no bounds, and his pride had demanded that on this matter he would take no crumbs.
    Over the years, he’d had his servants send reports. He knew about her infrequent visitors—an occasional lady, her cousin, her sister. No gentlemen. She spent a considerable amount of time alone, except for servants. Little wonder she was so devoted to the estate. What else did she have to do with her time?
    “Do you remember when her family would come to the estate?” Ainsley asked, falling into his habit of arbitrarily shifting conversations around. Westcliffe, however, knew there was usually a method to his brother’s methods. “She was always such fun.”
    “And yet you always hid from her.”
    “It was part of the game.”
    Westcliffe remembered once—she couldn’t have been more than seven, while he was fifteen. He’d been sitting in a chair in the library reading when she’d barged into it, searching for his brothers. He’d given her a harsh glare, and she’d promptly retreated.
    “I knew you could make her leave!” Ainsley—all of eight—had gloated as he scampered out from beneath the desk where he’d been hiding.
    Westcliffe hadn’t been quite as happy with the results as Ainsley. He was afraid he’d frightened her. He’d been torn. He knew someday he was to marry her, but he also knew he had to look out for his brother.
    “What are you reading?” Ainsley had asked.
    “The Last of the Mohicans.
It’s about life in America.”
    “Isn’t it the same there?”
    “No.”
    “Are you going to travel there?”
    “I can’t. I have responsibilities here.”
    Responsibilities that had always weighed on him, duties that would be easier to bear with the dowry that came with marriage to Claire. He’d never questioned it, never doubted it, never wondered if she did.
    “I always liked her,” Ainsley said now. When Westcliffe glared at him, he shrugged. “Not as much as Stephen did, of course. They were inseparable until he discovered what was hidden beneath skirts and found interests elsewhere.”
    He didn’t need the reminders.
    “So what are you going to do about this situation with Claire?” Ainsley asked.
    Westcliffe answered with brutal honesty. “Haven’t a bloody clue.”
    Claire wandered through the residence. She’d not taken the time before Westcliffe’s arrival, because she hadn’t wanted to be caught snooping, so she’d waited for him in the library. But now, alone again, she wanted to get some sense of her husband. He had an eye for finely crafted furniture, but everything appeared haphazardly arranged. In the parlor, she moved a large lamp from a small table to a sturdier one. Then placed a miniature statuette on the first table. Such a small adjustment, but it balanced the room a bit. Why did she care anyway? She wasn’t going to be staying. He’d made that perfectly clear. She should leave tonight, but where the deuce would she go? Her father didn’t have a residence in London. He abhorred the city. Claire would have to give serious thought to her next plan. But not tonight. She was so weary, yet she was fairly certain she’d not be able to sleep.
    Hence the aimless wandering. What struck her the most about the residence was that there were no family portraits. She supposed they were all at the estate. The occasional painting here depicted a dog. The most poignant one showed a dog curled up beside a casket. She didn’t know why she was so troubled by it, why her husband enjoyed such gloomy images. This residence possessed a loneliness that seemed to settle over everything. She pushed a small sofa nearer the fireplace, to create a sitting area that was a little cozier, then wondered why she bothered. It was her nature she supposed. She’d done the same with the manor. She wanted each room to welcome and embrace its