The flowers began arriving midmorning, during breakfast. From half a dozen gentlemen. Beth was simply beside herself with glee.

Claire gave Westcliffe a questioning look. He simply shook his head and shrugged, hoping she’d understand that he’d had nothing at all to do with them. He was well aware, of course, that when a gentleman was interested in a lady, he expressed that interest by sending her flowers. He’d sent flowers to other women, never to his wife.

As Beth popped up from the breakfast table to welcome each bouquet’s arrival, Westcliffe shifted uncomfortably in his chair. His haste to marry Claire had denied her this excitement, this reassurance that she was sought after.

He’d not meant to be cruel, but it was another nail hammered into his coffin of guilt.

She seemed to take as much delight in the flowers as her sister, but when she reached up and touched Beth’s hair, drawing her in for a quick hug, he realized that what pleased her was the evidence that her sister had caught the attention of several gentlemen.

She was happy for Beth because Beth was ecstatic.

It was a somber realization to recognize that he’d never felt the same about his brothers’ successes, had never basked in their accomplishments. Rather, he’d resented Stephen’s freedoms—no responsibilities to hold him down—and Ainsley’s position and wealth that had come to him through no effort of his own.

Claire truly loved her sister, wanted her to have whatever would bring her the most joy. And at that moment it was an assortment of roses. Only a beast would not know that a gentleman sent roses to a woman as a sign of his affections.

Westcliffe felt rather like a beast.

“Beth, do come finish your breakfast,” Claire said.

“I’m not hungry any longer. Can you believe all the flowers we’ve been sent? My word, where shall we put them all?”

“We’ll have no trouble finding suitable places for them. But you must eat.”

“I’m going to go make a list of who sent me flowers and write down all I can remember about him.”

With that, she quit the room. Westcliffe didn’t think she even saw the indulgent smile her sister bestowed upon her.

“Are you certain you’re not responsible for this avalanche of blossoms?” she asked.

“Absolutely not. I could never afford all this.” He cleared his throat, and began stirring his tea, which was a pointless activity as he used neither

sugar nor milk. “At least not three or four years ago.”

Her gaze found and captured his, and in them he read the query. In spite of how much it galled him, he heard himself confessing, “Every shilling I had to spend came from Ainsley.”

She glanced down quickly, but not before he saw the understanding, the sympathy. It was the reason he’d never said anything. He wasn’t certain which he detested more.

When she looked back up at him, she had control of her facial features. Yes, sweetheart, I shall always know what you think, he thought.

“That’s the reason my dowry was so important, the reason you didn’t annul the marriage immediately after …” She shook her head as though the words were too painful to say. “I’m beginning to have a clearer understanding of how you must have felt. I can barely stand the thought that last night, you went to her—”

“I didn’t.”

Her mouth opened slightly.

“I went to the club,” he said. “I got foxed. In all honesty, I’ve gone to see her only once since the night you and I sat on the floor in the library. And then it was only for dinner.”

“Why?”

He shook his head. “I don’t bloody well know. Your apology, your sincerity—it just seemed wrong to continue as though you weren’t here.” It was harder to carry on with her here—her presence a constant reminder that he did indeed have a wife. He’d always planned to honor his vows. He knew his father hadn’t, knew his mother had suffered because of it.

“Thank you,” she said quietly.

“For what?”

“For taking a care with my feelings. It will make it easier to be here, to go forward.”

“Do not misunderstand, Claire. I still desire a divorce.”

“But not until after the Season ends. And the fewer rumors surrounding us, the better Beth’s chances of finding a suitable suitor.”

“Good God! Rumors about us could flourish, and she’d find a suitor. Did you not see the flowers?”

She laughed. “I daresay, we’re off to a good start. What say we go to Cremorne Gardens this evening? It would be good for Beth to be seen about.”

He tilted his head slightly. “I suppose you mean to go early, before the less-reputable people arrive.”

“We shall absolutely go early.” She gave him an impish smile. “Although perhaps we will also stay late.”

“Not if you wish her to marry. Reputations are ruined when the hour grows late.”

“Then we must take pains not to remain longer than is prudent.”

Anne was pouting. It wasn’t the first time he’d seen her out of sorts. She’d first approached him almost two years ago, desiring him to be her lover. But she was married at the time to the younger son of an earl. Knowing what it was for a man to find his wife with another, he couldn’t bring himself to have a liaison with a married woman. Then her husband had taken ill and died. She’d been Westcliffe’s companion for the past six months—as soon as she’d come out of mourning.

“I waited half the night for your arrival,” she said caustically. “I assume you will at least be joining me for dinner tonight.”

He’d never found her so unattractive. Before, he’d tolerated her little fits of temper, assumed they were a woman’s prerogative. Lord knew he’d grown up seeing his mother display enough of them.

But today, Anne gave the appearance of pettiness. Coldness. He thought of Claire tossing the whiskey on him. Anger should be accompanied by fire. He could handle that. But cold … he’d never realized that he didn’t much like it.

“Unfortunately, I’m taking my wife and her sister to Cremorne Gardens.”

Anne lounged on the fainting couch, staring out the window with such intensity that he was surprised the glass didn’t shatter. “You’ve been to see me only once since that whore of a wife—”

“Claire is not a whore.”

“She took your brother to her bed. Don’t tell me you’ve forgiven her.”

“She is not your concern, Anne.”

“I don’t do well alone, Westcliffe.”

He tried not to compare his wife—who’d had three years of solitude—to this woman. Claire had never complained. God knew she had a right to.

“The sooner her sister is married off, the sooner things will return to normal,” he said, not willing to admit that he wasn’t certain he yearned for normal any longer.

“Normal?” She came off the couch with self-righteousness etched in every move. “Did you inform her that you want a divorce?”

Why was he angry at her for being furious? She had a right. She was his lover, but this summer was not what she’d expected or hoped for. He knew that. He knew tolerance was needed. Still.

“Yes,” he bit out.

She nearly staggered back, in surprise he assumed. “What did she say?” Her voice was once again soft, sweet.

He strode to the window and glanced out. “She worries about scandal.”

“She should have thought of that before.”

“She was a child before.” Coming to Claire’s defense so easily and without thought surprised him.

“Surely you’re not excusing her behavior.”

He turned around. “No, but until the matter with her sister is taken care of, and I can see to bringing an end to my own marriage, I think it is best that I not … pay court to you.”

“You expect me to wait with bated breath for your return?”

“I expect you to understand how difficult all of this is and that it requires my full attention to bring it to fruition.” He crossed over to her, gave her a look of longing, and gently touched her cheek. “Anne, we will be together soon, I promise.”

“I’m not certain you completely understand how badly I want you. I miss what we had together. I miss you.”

“I miss it as well.” Taking her in his arms, he held her. Always before he’d felt the stirrings of desire. Strange, how all he felt now was a keen interest in leaving.