Claire couldn’t deny that she wanted Beth’s first ball to be memorable. But to pay young gentlemen—

“Tonight was the most wonderful night of my life,” Beth said as she twirled around her bedchamber as though she were reliving the moment when some swain had held her in his arms. “Who would have thought I’d be so amazingly popular? I don’t know if there is any lady who danced as much as I did.”

Claire’s chest tightened. She didn’t want to ruin the illusion, but hurt was certain to follow. Westcliffe couldn’t pay the men at every ball. “Tonight might have been an exception, Beth. The men were curious. Yours was a new face in the crowd.”

Beth flopped back on the bed the way that they’d fallen in the snow when they were children intent on creating angels. “I shall most definitely be spared from marrying Lord Hester. I have no doubt.”

“I simply don’t want you to be disappointed if your dance card isn’t filled at the next ball.”

Beth popped up and smiled at her. “You worry about things before there is a reason to worry.” She walked around the bed and yanked on the bellpull to summon her maid. “You worried that living here with Westcliffe would be awful, and it’s not,” she continued. “You worried that we’d not receive invitations, and we have an abundance of them.” As she glided by, she tweaked Claire’s nose. “You are such a worrier. But all will be well. Even between you and Westcliffe. You seem to have his attention now.”

She wished she could be so certain. But she didn’t wish to discuss her doubts with Beth, so she simply said, “Sleep well, sister,” and let herself out of the room just as the maid was entering.

She was exhausted from the night, from all the emotions running rampant through her. She’d danced twice. Strange, she’d always felt comfortable around Ainsley, and yet it was the dance with her husband that stayed uppermost in her mind. The strength she’d felt in his hold, the sureness of his steps. When she was seventeen, he’d seemed like such a bully, and now she saw him as a man. One with responsibilities he did not shirk.

He knew her favorite song. He’d given her a bracelet to commemorate her first ball. And she’d noticed him talking with the most gorgeous woman she’d ever seen. She’d made the mistake of asking one of the ladies talking with her who she was.

“Lady Anne Cavill. Until recently, she was seen about town with your husband.”

She’d almost asked, “How recently?”

She considered preparing for bed, but words needed to be said. And Westcliffe had issued a dare even though it was long past midnight.

She walked down the stairs. The only sound echoing around her was the ticking of the clock in the grand entryway. She made her way along the hallway that led to the library. She was grateful to see no footmen or other servants about.

Of course, perhaps her husband wasn’t either.

But when she opened the door and peered inside, Westcliffe was lounging in a chair, near the windows, a tumbler of whiskey in one hand and the ever-faithful Cooper curled at his feet.

Westcliffe watched her approach. He’d told Anne to expect him, but he’d also issued an invitation to his wife and, for some unknown reason, curiosity had harkened him to remain a bit longer, to see if she would appear. She sat in the chair beside him. He reached for the extra tumbler of whiskey he’d poured earlier in anticipation of her arrival and handed it to her. She took it and sipped gingerly.

“Beth … she”—Claire released a heavy sigh—”she thinks every night will be like tonight.”

“No reason it can’t be.”

She arched a brow with a look of annoyance. “You intend to pay gentlemen at every ball to dance with her?”

“I can well afford it.”

“That’s not the point. She thinks they see something in her—”

“Perhaps they do. Greenwood wasn’t the only one to return the fiver.”

Sitting up straighter, she leaned toward him. “Truly?”

With only two lamps lit, she was mostly in shadow, and yet there were so many things about her to notice at that moment. The brightness in her eyes that outdid the glow of the lamps, the hint of her bosom, the creamy smoothness of her skin, the flush of her cheeks. But what caught his attention the most was the wayward curl that had fallen over her forehead and tapped against the small scar that bisected that delicate eyebrow. Without any thought at all, he captured it between his fingers and tucked it behind her ear, allowing his bare knuckles the luxury of skimming over the silky curve of her cheek.

Her breath caught, but she didn’t jerk back. He wondered if she’d remain as still, as brave, if he moved his mouth toward hers. She was nothing at all like Anne, and at that particular moment he was glad. Every moment spent with Anne was a game of enticing her, of keeping her satisfied. She grew easily bored. They shared no quiet moments. Everything was innuendo. Each conversation was wrought with naughtiness and conjecture.

He realized that he’d stayed here, hoping for Claire because she would expect nothing of him.

“How many admirers does she require?” he asked, trailing his finger over the slope of her throat, lingering for two rapid beats of her pulse, before retreating, not wanting to admit the pleasure he’d found in so simple and so brief an exploration.

He watched her throat work as she swallowed, and as though finding her mouth dried, she turned to the tumbler, gulping a bit more than usual, swallowing again. Had he ever been so enticed by a woman’s throat?

“One, I suppose,” she rasped, “if he’s the right one.”

“How will she determine he’s the right one?”

“She’ll fall in love with him.”

He couldn’t help himself. He laughed. Apparently, her innocence knew no bounds. “Love is an emotion dreamed up by women. Men lust. They need. They desire. Women make men want them. Women call it love.”

“You’re quite cynical.”

He touched his glass to hers. “Quite.”

Claire hated hearing that. There was something in him that called to her, even without his trying. “I noticed tonight that you seemed to give an inordinate amount of attention to Lady Anne Cavill.”

He studied her for a moment before saying quietly and without emotion, “You should know that I intend to ask her to marry me.”

She’d obviously swallowed too much whiskey too quickly. His words made no sense, and neither did those coming out of her mouth. “You intend to ask her? To extend a courtesy to her that you never extended to me?”

He said nothing.

“I suppose it’s moot as you’re already married,” she felt compelled to point out.

“Yes, we’ll need to discuss that at some point after the Season is over.”

“We can discuss it now.”

He shifted in the chair to better face her. “Very well. I propose we seek a divorce.”

She stared at him in shock. The bracelet, the dance, the kiss, the way he looked at her of late—they all meant nothing. An elaborate ruse. A game. “Do you love her then?”

“I have a care for her, yes.”

“That’s not what I asked. Do you love her?”

He reached back, grabbed the bottle, and splashed more whiskey into his tumbler. “I’m incapable of love.”

“Why?”

He released a harsh bitter-sounding laugh. “It’s enough that I am. And before you ask, no, she doesn’t love me either.”

“How can she not?”

With a quick shake of his head, he downed the whiskey and refilled his glass. “Surely you can determine the answer to that easily enough.”

Only she couldn’t. The man she’d married had been harsh, hard, but she’d have not described him as bitter. She’d done this to him. Made him callous.

“I’m not easy to love,” he finally answered for her, each word delivered with a biting edge to it.

But you could be, she wanted to say. Instead, she held her tongue on that matter and addressed a more pressing issue. “If we get a divorce, I’ll be completely ruined. No man will have me. I’ll never have children.”

“I no longer give a damn. I’m weary of this life, of the loneliness, of—”

She didn’t know what possessed her, but she tossed what remained in her tumbler on him. Anger erupted on his face. Three years ago, she would have cowered, now she wanted to reach for the bottle and smash it over his head. He was weary? He was lonely? He was in the midst of people while she was surrounded by naught but land. Her life—

She shrieked and came out of the chair as his whiskey splashed over her. “You cur! You call yourself a gentleman?”

“You call yourself a lady?”

“Damn you! May you rot in hell!”

She wasn’t certain where she’d planned to strike him or even if she’d really intended to. She only knew that she raised her hand—

He rose in magnificent ferocity and grabbed her wrist, twisting her arm behind her back, bringing her up flush against him. “To borrow your words, do you think I’m not already there?” he demanded.

She was breathing harshly, the fury emanating from the core of her being. She realized it wasn’t that he’d tossed his liquor on her—it was that he was going to cast her aside … after everything. In such a short time, she’d begun to have hope that there was a chance for them. They’d talked, they’d moved furniture, they’d worked to give Beth a night she would remember. He’d been kind to Claire. Generous. He’d made her want him.

“I hate you,” she rasped.

“I know.”

Then he did the strangest thing. He touched the curl of her hair, the one that would never stay pinned, the one that always played with her irritating scar, and he tucked it gently behind her ear.

“I know,” he repeated, just before he lowered his head and licked the amber liquid that dotted her bosom.

Warmth swirled through her, its movement through her body mirroring his hot, velvety tongue as it journeyed over her flesh. Her knees grew weak, and if not for Westcliffe’s arm banded around her back at the waist, she was fairly certain she would have embarrassed herself further by ending up as a puddle on the floor. Why was he doing this, and why did she want him to continue?

His words echoed through her mind: What you had before was the kiss of a boy. That is the kiss of a man.

He’d left her with such longing after the scalding kiss he’d given her, but he’d only given her a sampling. The fire, the fury, the passion in him that she’d always feared … when released, they stirred her in ways that she’d never imagined that a body, a soul, even a heart could feel.

The first night here he’d also given her another sampling of what he could deliver with the simple touch of a finger. And here again, another sampling: the velvet caress of his tongue. Only she was growing weary of sampling. She wanted the entire meal.

He’d mocked her earlier reference to love—but could anyone experience such stirring, the giving or the receiving of it, if not even a hint of love, of caring was involved?

This was not lust—but if it was, God help her, she wanted more.

Finally, he began to lift his head, and before he was at his full height, she reached up, holding his head in place, and sampled the whiskey that clung to the bristle at his jaw. It was more flavorful, its richness enhanced by the saltiness of his skin.

His gaze held hers for the longest, searching for what—she didn’t know. When he finally released her, she dropped back into the chair, irritated that he had the uncanny ability to make her too weak to stand while he seemed to gain strength from the encounter.

“We’ll continue this discussion after the Season is over,” he stated succinctly, his armor back in place, his emotions tethered. He spun on his heel and strode from the room.

Glancing down, she realized he’d missed a drop. She almost called him back to see to it. Instead, she brought her feet up, curled in the chair, and gazed out into the darkness of the garden.

She didn’t want a divorce. He spoke of it as though it was a simple matter, but it was costly and involved, and fraught with scandal. She’d only ever heard of one couple being granted a divorce, and the woman had moved to France to escape the humiliation of it. Besides, she didn’t want an end to this marriage. Perhaps she was prideful, not wanting to be so easily thrown over for another woman.

But it was more than that. Recently, she’d begun to catch rare glimpses into the man she’d married, and she couldn’t deny that he fascinated her. She wanted to know him as fully as a woman could know her husband.

Even if it meant that the seduction would be left to her.

He did not want his wife!

Damnation, he did not. But bloody hell, he couldn’t stop thinking about her.

Westcliffe sat in a dark corner at Dodger’s, drinking fine whiskey almost as quickly as it could be poured. He’d intended to go see Anne, but he’d come here instead. The fragrance of roses wafted around him, and he had no desire to have it replaced with the scent of lilac. What an absurd thought.

But it was there all the same. Claire was uppermost in his mind, and it wasn’t fair to Anne for him to seek her out under those circumstances.

Whatever had possessed him to sip from Claire’s skin earlier?

It had been the fire in her eyes. He’d seen it often enough before they were married, when she would get in an argument with Stephen. It was the fire that intrigued him. It had been totally absent on their wedding day, as though somehow, with the taking of his name, she’d lost the very essence of herself.

Tonight Beth’s excitement over the damned ball had caused a measure of guilt to prick his conscience. Would it have been such a terrible thing to allow Claire to have a Season? He’d seen no sense in it. She’d been betrothed to him before she was born. She wasn’t in need of a suitor. Even the ever-practical Ainsley had agreed that nothing was to be gained by avoiding the inevitable. Although in hindsight, perhaps his brother had simply been ready to stop handing coins over to Westcliffe. Or more likely, not yet interested in the marriage market, he viewed balls as a waste of a man’s time.

Claire had looked so lovely this evening. He’d been glad when she’d not changed out of her attire before joining him in the library later. He’d enjoyed gazing on her—until the subject of Anne had come up. When Claire had tossed his good whiskey on him—

He gave a low chuckle. He’d reacted without thought. What gentleman tossed liquor onto a woman? What sort of gentleman retaliated at all?

He would have to apologize. Perhaps he could convince her that licking her clean had been the apology, but each sweep of his tongue had only caused his body to grow more taut. That he was able to walk out was a true testament to his determination.

He’d been surprised by her anger at the mention of a divorce. Yes, it was an act of last resort, but how many years did they have to live apart before admitting that they would never live together? He’d have thought she’d have welcomed the end to their marriage. She was young enough that by the time it finally came about, she could still marry. Surely she desired someone with whom to spend her nights.

Yes, there would be scandal. It would be impossible to avoid. But they were already the fodder for gossips with him living in London and her in the country. At least an end to the marriage would eventually bring an end to the gossip.

It wouldn’t be easy at first, but … well, it seemed nothing of late was ever easy.