Dinner was a dreadfully dull affair. He wondered why he’d never before noticed. The only noise was the occasional scraping of silver over china. He was half tempted to suggest Anne hire an orchestra for his next visit. He could hardly countenance that he missed the incessant chattering when he dined with Claire and Beth although he knew it was the laughter that most pleased him. Claire was releasing it more frequently. Sometimes it resembled the tinkling of crystal chandeliers caught in a slight breeze, and other times it sounded as though it rose from the well of her soul.

He’d not expected to miss it so much when he’d decided to join Anne for dinner this evening. He’d been neglecting her, and the guilt had begun to gnaw at him. She’d not asked for this intrusion on their plans for the Season.

“We could go to Paris,” she suddenly said, and he jerked his attention away from the wine that was almost the red of Claire’s lips, realizing with regret that although he was in attendance, he was still managing to neglect his paramour.

“We could go to Paris,” she repeated as though she understood that he’d not been paying attention. “Your wife and her sister can stay in your residence, have their Season, and we’ll return when they’re on their way back to the cows.”

“Is that your opinion regarding my estate?”

“I did not mean to insult. I’ve never been to your estate, so I have no opinion of it.” She gave him a smile. “Paris?”

“I can’t. I have matters I need to see to here.”

He watched as displeasure crossed her face. She began slathering butter on her bread. “Then stay with me in my residence while she’s in London.”

“I’ll not have her chase me out of my own house,” he said. He’d paid a high price to possess it.

“I doubt you want me to be jealous either.” She set her bread on the plate, and the knife clattered beside it. “I don’t like that she’s here. Already, our time together has been diminished.” She heaved a sigh. “Perhaps I should have her to dinner.”

For some inexplicable reason, Westcliffe’s gut tightened. “I have no desire to flaunt what we have in front of her.”

“You worry about hurting her?” He said nothing, and Anne laughed. “You could only hurt her if she cared for you, which she does not.”

He ignored her biting words. The one thing he could say about Anne was that she was not demure. She was the most carnal creature he’d ever known, up for trying anything. Her sexuality always shimmered just below the surface, and it took very little to spark it to life. She credited his skills in the bedchamber, but he suspected it had more to do with her adventuresome spirit and the fact that she possessed no inhibitions at all.

She picked up her wineglass and swirled the red contents. “You will stay the night, won’t you?”

“Not tonight, no.”

“Then you’d best send me a very nice trinket tomorrow.” She rose and, with a swish of angry skirts, began to walk from the room.

Reaching out, he grabbed her arm. “Anne—”

She looked down on him with the damned tears wallowing and threatening to spill over. He slipped his free hand into his jacket pocket, removed a velvet box, and set it on the table. “I will make everything up to you. I promise.”

Capitulating quickly, she snatched up the box and opened it to reveal a diamond choker. “You do have such good taste.” She slid her gaze to him. “You will understand if I must mope for a bit.”

She glided from the room, and he was left to wonder why it was suddenly so difficult to appease two women: one he wished to be with, the other he did not. It should have been simple.

Instead, it seemed remarkably complicated.

During the fourth afternoon following Beth’s arrival, she was presented at court—their father’s rank having guaranteed her a presentation. The following days included a whirlwind of activity. In spite of the fact that she’d brought three trunks, Beth had bemoaned her lack of a truly exquisite gown for the first ball she’d attend. It had taken little to cajole Westcliffe into agreeing to purchase one for her—on the condition that Claire had one sewn as well. She’d not bothered to argue against it because on further reflection, following the night in the garden, she’d determined the gowns she did possess were sadly out of style. She’d also become determined to garner her husband’s attention, and for that she required an arsenal of flattering clothing. The dressmaker and her ladies were working diligently to ensure that all the items purchased were finished as quickly as possible. So she and Beth spent a portion of their days involved in fittings. Then they shopped for hats and gloves and shoes.

Claire couldn’t deny the joy it brought her to see Beth so hopeful and happy. But the first ball would be the true indication regarding her likelihood of finding a suitor.

Having only just awakened from a short nap, she had Judith assist her with her dress and hair. She was grateful for how busy she was helping Beth prepare for her Season. Westcliffe was often off seeing to business during the day. The evenings were a strange mixture. With rare exception, he joined them for dinner. What most surprised her was his tolerance of Beth’s company. On occasion, he would play chess with her. More often she entertained them with the pianoforte. On the few evenings when he did leave the residence, it was always late—after Beth was abed. Claire would lie in her bed listening for his return. Some nights, he was as quiet as … the grave. And others he was as loud as an ox. On those nights she suspected him of being three sheets to the wind.

They’d settled into a comfortable tolerance. But since the night in the garden, she never found herself alone with him. Not for want of trying on her part. Strange to think that in such a short time, she had no desire at all to avoid his company. He still scowled too often, was far more serious than she thought any person should be, but she couldn’t deny that he intrigued her.

After Judith finished arranging her hair, Claire walked down to Beth’s bedchamber, only to discover it empty. Beth had obviously awoken from her nap sometime earlier. With a few discreet inquiries to servants she passed in the hallways, she picked up her pace and headed toward the library. As many times as she’d told Beth not to bother Westcliffe when he was there, her sister seemed intent upon not listening. She didn’t seem to comprehend that if she fell out of his favor, her Season would come to an abrupt end.

But as she neared the open library door, she was as annoyed as she was surprised by the laughter, deep and masculine, floating out through it. Annoyed because it was not a sound he shared freely with her. Surprised because it was rich with the enjoyment of life.

Entering the library, she came up short at the sight of her sister waving her fan in front of her face, opening it, closing it, touching it to Westcliffe’s shoulder.

“Please,” she pleaded.

His eyes crinkling, he smiled and shook his head. Had she ever seen him so relaxed, so obviously enjoying himself? “The ones I know are not ones with which you need to become familiar.” His gaze suddenly shot past her to land on Claire, and her heart began a strange gallop. “Ask your sister.”

Beth glanced back at her, rolled her eyes, and released an impatient sigh. “She’ll be of no help. She didn’t have a Season. She knows nothing of flirtation.”

She grew uncomfortable under his formidable gaze. He studied her as though he’d just discovered something profound.

“So what are you two about?” Claire finally asked, anything to break the tension that was mounting.

“I’m trying to learn the language of the fan, and your husband won’t help. Claims he doesn’t know anything that a respectable woman would use.”

“I suspect that’s true.” She forced a lightheartedness into her voice, and, based upon the sudden twitch of his mouth, she suspected he appreciated what she wasn’t saying. That respectable women were not his forte. “But you are in luck, dear sister, because I do know various messages that the position of a fan can convey.”

“Truly. That surprises me.” But even as she spoke, Beth extended her closed fan.

“Just because I didn’t have a Season doesn’t mean I wasn’t prepared.” What she wasn’t prepared for, however, was her husband hitching up one hip and settling on the corner of his desk, as though anticipating a show. “Come, Beth. I’m certain my husband is busy. We should adjourn to the parlor where—”

“Stay. Present your lesson here. Perhaps I’ll learn something,” he said laconically.

“I find it difficult to believe that you don’t already know everything you need to know about the fan.”

“As I confessed to Beth, nothing I know about it would be used in polite society.” His eyes held a challenge and a glint of amusement.

With a flick of her wrist, she opened the fan and quickly closed it. “You are cruel.”

His expression darkened. “Am I?”

She’d thought him so in the beginning, because he’d seemed so hard and unforgiving, but he’d done nothing to make Beth’s stay unpleasant. Even her own was no longer as difficult as she’d anticipated. He possessed a kindness she’d not envisioned. She swallowed hard. “That’s what the gesture conveys.”

“Why would I ever use that?” Beth asked.

“Because some men are cruel. They take advantage and hurt you.”

“I should think that if they took advantage or

hurt me, that waving a fan at them would be the very last thing I’d want to do,” Beth said. “I believe I’d very much prefer to punch them.”

Westcliffe chuckled. “No need. Simply inform me, and I shall see to the matter, for both of you.”

She knew firsthand what sort of beating an unfortunate fellow would take if Westcliffe was displeased, yet she couldn’t deny the warmth that spread through her because he’d see to her honor. She touched the fan to her right cheek. “Yes.” To her left. “No.”

“What are the questions?” Beth asked.

“Across the room, a man might catch your attention, then tilt his head toward the terrace, perhaps wanting an assignation.”

“Oh, I see.”

“The answer should always be no,” Westcliffe fairly growled. “If you wish to retain your reputation, which I highly recommend if your intention is to find a suitable husband.”

“If I said yes, I suppose you would deal with him for inviting me to sin in the first place,” Beth said.

“Most certainly,” he assured her.

Claire was amazed that her sister could be so at ease with this man. How was it that she had failed to recognize the truth about him when she was that age? She snapped the fan closed. “I wish to speak with you.” She extended it toward her sister. “Closing the fan does signal that you wish to speak with someone. And I do wish to speak with my husband now—privately. We’ll continue the lessons later.”

“But—”

“Later, Beth. I’ll meet you in the parlor.”

“I can’t imagine that anything you have to say—”

“Beth.”

She gave a little pout. “Oh, all right. But we’ll have to continue much later, as we’re going to the park. We were simply waiting for you to awaken from your nap.”

“We?” Claire repeated.

“Yes. Westcliffe has consented to accompany us. It would be good for us to be seen out and about before the ball tomorrow night. I shall grab our hats and parasols while you have your little discussion.” Waving her fan, she fairly waltzed from the room.

“You’re going to have to keep a close watch over her,” Westcliffe said.

“Yes, I fear so.”

As though needing to put distance between them, now that they were alone, he hoisted himself up, walked around his desk, and took his chair. He lounged back in it, his dark gaze riveted on her. He arched an eyebrow. “You wished to talk?”

Whatever she’d meant to discuss with him escaped her mind as one overriding thought dominated. “The park? We’re going to the park? People will be about, will they not?”

“A good many people will be about.”

She nodded absently. Knowing the ball would be difficult, that her husband’s indiscretions were not secret, she’d been preparing herself for it. But this moment seemed too soon.

As though reading her thoughts, he said quietly, “It’ll make tomorrow night easier.”

“I had hoped all the attention would be on Beth, but I suspect there will be some speculation regarding me—us.”

“You must have anticipated that before you agreed to give her a Season.”

“She’s very difficult to say no to.”

He gave her a wry grin. “So I’ve discovered.”

Her mouth suddenly dry, her stomach a tangle of knots, she suggested, “You and Beth could go without me.”

“You’re going to have to face them all sooner or later, Claire. Would it not be better when it is not with the press of bodies, and escape is a tad more difficult?”

She realized he’d given it thought and drawn conclusions about the unconscionable position he’d placed her in. At that moment, she hated him for not being discreet. But neither could she deny the role she’d played in bringing this about with her childish behavior years before.

She bobbed her head. “Yes, of course. I can see the advantage to this.”

“If you grow too uncomfortable, we can easily leave and quickly.”

“All right, then. To the park we shall go.”

The landau was beautiful, black with red trim, pulled by two matching grays. Claire and Beth faced forward, while Westcliffe and Cooper had their backs to the driver. The dog sat on the seat more alert than she’d seen him since her arrival.

Beth could barely sit still. “You will tell me if you see anyone of consequence.”

“Everyone here is of consequence,” Westcliffe assured her.

“Do you think people are wondering who I am?”

Determined to focus on her sister and not herself, Claire squeezed her hand. “I’m sure they are, dear heart.”

“But there are so many people. What can you tell us about them, my lord?”

“I am not one for gossip, but do you see the couple in the white landau with the white horses?”

“The woman with the striking red hair?”

“Yes. That is the Duke and Duchess of Greystone. It is their home we’ll be going to tomorrow night.”

“From a distance they seem nice enough.”

“Until she married the duke, she was a bookkeeper at a gentlemen’s club.”

Beth’s eyes widened. “How scandalous!”

“They are closest to those with questionable pasts. I daresay you’ll see several of them at the ball. Neither the duke nor the duchess tolerates anyone speaking ill of someone within their residence. If it is gossip you seek, Beth, I fear I suggested the wrong ball for us to attend.”

Claire sat there, too stunned to speak. His gaze met hers for the span of a heartbeat. She saw understanding within the dark depths, perhaps even an apology, although that might have simply been her imagination. What she did know was that at the first ball they attended, she might not be the fodder for gossip and speculation that she’d feared. Afterward, certainly, but others around whom scandal stirred would serve as an initial distraction. She could scarcely signify that her husband had suggested that particular ball as a way to spare her some mortification. It was more likely that he was most comfortable with those who created scandal with the ease that he did. But whatever the reason, she was not dreading attending the ball as much as she had been an hour earlier.

A rider on a sleek brown horse approached, and the driver brought the carriage to a halt. Grinning broadly, the Duke of Ainsley swept off his top hat and bowed from the waist. “Countess, a pleasure to see you.”

“You as well, Your Grace.”

“Lady Beth, when did you grow up?” he asked.

“About the same time as you, I suspect,” Beth said, smiling brightly.

Then he turned his attention to his brother. “Westcliffe.”

“Ainsley.”

Claire couldn’t believe the formality between the brothers.

“Cooper, how are you, old boy?” Ainsley reached out and petted the dog with his gloved hand. “Heard Lord Chesney had a litter of pups recently.”

“Wonder how Chesney pulled that miracle off?” Westcliffe said laconically. “He should be studied. It’s not every day a man gives birth to dogs.”

Claire bit back her laughter. Her husband did seem to have an odd sense of humor. It didn’t often show itself, but obviously it lurked.

Ainsley narrowed his eyes at him. “Must you take everything so literally? His collie had them. Cute pups. I was thinking of getting one, but I’m leaning toward a setter.” He looked over at Beth. “Do you like dogs, Lady Beth?”

“Most certainly. Especially the setter.”

“Well, then, I shall keep that in mind when I make my choice. It was good to see you.” He tipped his hat. “Good day.”

He cantered away. Beth turned in her seat.

“Beth, don’t turn to watch him,” Claire scolded.

“Why? He is such a fine figure of a man. Do you think anyone noticed that he stopped to visit with us? It wouldn’t hurt at all if someone thought he were interested in making a match.”

“Courting is a slow ritual, Beth. You must have more patience with it.”

“But it is so hard.”

Before the landau could again be on its way, a barouche drew up beside it. Claire recognized the woman as Lucy Stuart, Lady Morrow. She was a friend of Claire’s cousin Charity. They’d played together on occasion. Last Season she’d married the Earl of Morrow and had promptly paid a visit to Claire to inform her that she didn’t approve of Westcliffe’s philandering. She was one of the ladies advocating that Claire bring her husband to heel—as though that were easily done.

“Countess, what a pleasure it is to see you in London … with your husband.” She blinked her brown eyes repeatedly as though she had a speck of dust in them. Her black hair was tucked up neatly beneath a hat with a brim so wide that her husband was forced to sit leaning to the side to avoid it. He greeted everyone, then turned his attention to their surroundings as though he were merely an ornament to his wife.

“Lady Morrow, how good it is to see you. You remember my sister, Lady Beth.”

“Yes, of course. The family resemblance is uncanny. I’d not heard you’d arrived for the Season,” Lady Morrow said.

“I was not aware my wife was required to inform you of her business,” Westcliffe said smoothly.

Beth gasped, Lucy’s eyes turned round as saucers, Morrow continued to look elsewhere, and Claire’s stomach dropped through the floor of the carriage. Still, she felt compelled to force out, “Beth and I have been extremely busy.” She hated herself for it, but she knew that, unlike the Duchess of Greystone, Lucy would spread rumors, and she needed her to at least think she and her husband were on their way to making amends. “Westcliffe and I are having our portrait made—and that’s terribly tedious and time-consuming.”

“Yes. Quite.” She looked at Westcliffe, then back at Claire. “I’m glad all seems to be well. You must come to call.” She bid her adieu, and they were racing away.

“I never much liked her,” Beth muttered.

“She can influence your Season, Beth.”

“Ainsley can influence it more.”

Claire was aware of a frisson of tension radiating from her husband. If she’d learned one thing of any consequence in the short time she’d been in London, it was that he didn’t like being beholden to his youngest brother. “I believe Westcliffe is providing all the influence you need. After all, he is the reason we have a ball to attend.”

His voice had a more relaxed edge to it when he ordered the driver to continue on. The drive through the park was more pleasant than she’d expected. No one else stopped to speak with them, but there were the occasional nods and acknowledgments directed at Westcliffe. Because he was with them, she had little doubt that some would assume all was well with their marriage. Others might see it as a tentative beginning. And a few might see it for what it truly was: an act.

Although for the life of her, try as she might, she was having a difficult time seeing it as an act. For her, it did feel more like a tentative beginning.