Claire had heard of Cremorne Gardens but had never visited. Her father had never been too keen on sharing the sights of London with his daughters. And the aunt who had helped with her upbringing after her mother died had never favored walking—aching joints, you know—and the gardens were designed for walking.

She’d taken great care in preparing for the evening, selecting a dress that was not quite as revealing as the gown she’d worn the night before but still designed to display the barest hint of cleavage. Beth was more modestly attired, but then she was still a maiden, whereas Claire was a married woman—one who was determined to garner her husband’s attention. Presently, they were strolling with her arm intertwined with his.

“I suppose if you spot a gentleman who would be appropriate for Beth to meet that you’d make an introduction,” Claire murmured quietly.

“No gentleman I know would be appropriate.”

He wore a burgundy jacket and dove gray trousers. Being seen with him brought her both pride and pleasure. He strode through the gardens with such confidence. She didn’t recall him exhibiting so much in his youth, perhaps because he’d always felt beneath Ainsley’s thumb—not that she could imagine Ainsley lording his position over his brother.

But she could envision Westcliffe resenting having to ask his youngest brother for so much as a farthing. She’d only ever considered what marriage had meant for her, she’d not taken into consideration what it had meant for him. He’d gained a certain amount of freedom, perhaps absolute, to be his own man.

And within hours of taking on the responsibility of a wife in order to address the responsibilities that came with his position, he’d found her within his younger brother’s arms. At the time, she’d thought only of her own fears and needs. How little she’d known about Westcliffe. How much more she was coming to know.

She should have come to London sooner. She shouldn’t have docilely accepted his edict that she remain at the estate.

“Oh, may I have some lemonade?” Beth asked brightly, holding out her hand like a child before the answer had been given.

Westcliffe looked at Claire. “Would you care for some?”

“No, thank you.”

He withdrew a coin from his pocket and handed it to Beth, who fairly skipped over to the table where beverages were being sold.

“I don’t think I was ever that young,” Claire said.

“You were.”

She looked up at Westcliffe questioningly. His jaw was clenched as though he wished he’d held his tongue. “When was I?” she asked softly.

He shook his head as though he had no answer, then he said, “You were fifteen before I realized you could walk. You were always chasing after Stephen, running to elude your sister, leaping over flowers—”

“I was dancing,” she said haughtily.

He arched a brow at her, and she relished this moment of teasing each other. In spite of his claims to want a divorce, she couldn’t help but hope she could somehow change his mind. “How could you notice all that? You were around so seldom.”

“I was around enough.”

“Why did you never join us?”

“I was the oldest. Playing was … beneath me. My father was not with us that long, but he taught me that with my rank came great responsibility. I must never do anything that would give the impression I was unworthy of the title I would someday inherit and the courtesy title I was born possessing. I envied Stephen his freedom to play, to play with you. You had the most amazing laugh.” He cleared his throat, as though suddenly uncomfortable. “I’d have not given your sister a coin had I known it would take her so long to purchase a lemonade.”

She didn’t know what to say. His words humbled her. He’d no doubt expected her laughter to fill his house once they were wed. “I didn’t know,” she finally said, devastated by all that he’d revealed. “I didn’t know you watched, I didn’t know … I didn’t know you.”

Before he could respond, if he would have responded, Beth reappeared. “You two look so melancholy. I swear you are the most boring of creatures. Come, let’s have some fun.”

She led the way as though she were the leader of a parade.

Westcliffe seemed to think their conversation was over, perhaps to be forgotten. But Claire wanted that moment remembered. She squeezed his arm, and when he glanced down on her, she gave him a secretive smile. “You know, should you ever long to hear my laughter in the future, you should know that I’m terribly ticklish. Unfortunately, it is only one spot. I wonder if you’d have any luck in finding it.”

Before he could respond, she released her hold on him and hurried to catch up with her sister, wrapping her arm around Beth’s, walking briskly along as they had when they were younger. When she glanced back, it was to see Westcliffe standing like a statue in the middle of the path, staring after her. She couldn’t judge his expression, but she did hope she’d given him something to think about.

Westcliffe studied Claire in the shadowy darkness as the first burst of fireworks filled the sky. Anyone else watching might have thought she had the joy of a child, but there was nothing childish about her. She had matured since the day he’d taken her as his wife.

In her expression, he saw pleasure, a woman’s pleasure, and he couldn’t help but wonder if the same satisfaction would fill her face when she lay replete after lovemaking. He remembered the way she’d looked when he’d kissed her the night when he’d discovered her rearranging furniture. Ravished and ravishing, like a woman who’d had her senses awakened. The hardest thing he’d ever done was walk out of that room.

He would not take her to his bed, dammit. He wouldn’t search for that ticklish spot. He would not.

She made him feel things he didn’t wish to feel. A gentle stirring in his heart that could destroy him if it wasn’t returned. Anne was a much better choice. Her eyes never welled up over silly gifts. She didn’t smile because of something he’d done for another. Her flirtations carried no innocence. Her fury was brittle. It didn’t heat him with desire. She didn’t have a damned ticklish spot. She was safe. If she left him, if he found her with another man …

He’d be angry. He might even punch the fellow. But he could easily walk away and never look back. He’d invested none of his heart and none of his soul.

From the moment he’d left Claire at Lyons Place, he’d continually looked back. That was the reason he’d taken numerous lovers. To forget her, to replace the memories of her, the hope for happiness he’d placed in her.

Now here she was, enticing him with her smiles, laughter, and flirtation. Even her anger lured him. He’d be within his rights to lay her down on a bed and have his way with her. She was still his wife. But once he did that, she’d be soiled goods. What man would want her? Three years ago, he wouldn’t have cared. Hell, a month ago, he wouldn’t have cared. He’d have thought she deserved to suffer.

But now he found himself wanting to protect her from gossip, scandal, and himself—a man without the ability to love.

As though suddenly aware that her sister was spellbound by the spectacular display of colors dotting the sky, she eased away until she was beside him. Placing her hand on his arm, she urged him away from the crowd until they stood alone in the shadows.

“Thank you for bringing us. I know Beth was disappointed that Greenwood didn’t call today. I think this outing was the perfect remedy to her melancholy.”

Rising on her toes, she brushed a kiss near the corner of his mouth. It took every ounce of willpower he possessed to hold himself perfectly still and not turn into her movement, not capture her mouth and give her the blistering kiss his body demanded of him.

“Did you enjoy the evening?” she asked.

Strangely, he had. He’d never been to the Gardens when decent folk were about. It was much more entertaining later—or at least in his youth he’d found it so. God, he was getting old when he took as much pleasure in the modest gowns as he did in the indecent ones.

Or perhaps it wasn’t the gown so much as the woman inside it. The dress wasn’t cut nearly as low as the ball gown she’d worn the night before, yet it was just as enticing, if not more so. Perhaps because his tongue knew exactly how silky smooth her skin was.

No, she was no longer a girl. That was evident in the way she stood there, challenging him—to do exactly what he wasn’t sure. Kiss her perhaps. Or take her farther into the shadows. He wasn’t half-tempted.

A hundred white lights burst through the sky, and in their reflection, he saw the errant strands of her hair that always seemed to work their way loose of any pins or combs. He reached for them, to tuck them back into place—

Another burst of fireworks, followed by the accompanying boom—

Fiery pain ignited through his upper arm. “Damnation!”

Grabbing his arm, he felt the warmth pooling through his fingers.

“What? What happened?” she asked.

“Good God, I think I’ve been shot.”

He’d been shot.

His assumption wasn’t confirmed until they returned home because the obstinate man wouldn’t let Claire look at his arm. He had allowed her to tie his handkerchief around it, for what little good that did.

After giving the crowd a cursory glance, he’d decided it was too dark and the crowd too immense to begin a search to determine who might have fired a pistol. He’d ordered the ladies to stay near him as they made their way to the carriage, then decided his proximity put them in danger and told them to hurry ahead.

Beth had complained incessantly because they were leaving before the fireworks extravaganza was over, but Claire hadn’t told her the reason for their hasty departure because she hadn’t wanted to worry her. As for herself, she was petrified. How she managed to keep her legs moving was beyond her. She kept looking back at Westcliffe, urging him on—torn between shielding her sister and dropping back to protect him.

It wasn’t until they were safe in the residence that Claire told Beth what had transpired—and only then because she needed Beth to go to her room while Claire saw to her husband. Beth had nearly swooned until Claire had shaken her and told her to get control of herself. She had no time to deal with theatrics. She had to see how Westcliffe was.

He’d immediately called for his manservant and retreated to his bedchamber. By the time she’d finished dealing with Beth and joined him there, he was sitting bare-chested in a chair while Mathers was dabbing at the crimson furrow in Westcliffe’s upper arm.

Westcliffe glanced over at her as though she were to be given no more consideration than a fly that had entered his domain. “It’s just a gash. Nothing to worry over. Go on to bed.”

“Nothing to worry over? Someone tries to kill you—”

“We don’t know that he was trying to kill me.”

“Why would he shoot at you?”

“We don’t even know that he was shooting at me. I just happened to be what he hit.”

“No one heard anything because of the fireworks, and if they did, they would have just thought it was noise accompanying the show,” she speculated. The perfect cover. But still it made no sense that anyone would want to kill him. She walked forward and took the cloth from the servant. “We should send for a physician.”

“It’s nothing more than a flesh wound.” Westcliffe took the cloth from her and pressed it against the wound.

She snatched the cloth away. “I should see to it. I’m your wife.”

“You’ll get blood on that dress—”

“I already have blood on me.”

He looked at her then, truly looked at her. The concern that flashed briefly in his eyes was deeper than any she’d ever seen. She’d known he was a man of strong emotions—she’d experienced his anger and his passion when fueled by anger or drink—but this was something else, and she realized he possessed a wider range of feelings than she’d ever given him credit for.

Taking the cloth from her, he slowly came to his feet and began wiping the blood that had splattered on her chest. Each stroke was so gentle, but his hand was larger than the cloth, and the edge of it grazed her skin. She thought she must be some sort of weak, wanton woman to be so distracted by his touch at a moment like this, when his arm was bleeding—or had been bleeding. It appeared that the wound had stopped seeping. Still, it needed to be bandaged. She’d get to it in a moment, when he ceased his ministrations.

She’d caught glimpses of his chest before, but only in the shadows, or at a distance, or only through the narrow V of a shirt. In the light, with no shirt, he was really quite lovely. Firm and muscular. She wondered what sorts of activities he engaged in to keep himself so. He had a fine sprinkling of hair that narrowed down and disappeared beneath the waist of his trousers. Trousers that presently sported a large bulge—and she realized that he was as affected by touching her as she was by being touched.

Swallowing hard, she lifted her gaze to his face, struck by the intensity with which he concentrated, as though he would allow no speck of blood to remain on her flesh. His touch was so unexpected, so delicious.

Gathering her courage, she pressed her hand to the center of his chest, surprised how the springy hairs curled around her fingers as though intent on holding them there forever.

To her chagrin, he stilled his ministrations. “We’re developing a rather nasty habit here of having me clean you up. I must confess to preferring the whiskey.”

“How can you be so calm?” she asked.

“What is to be gained by being otherwise?”

“It would at least make me feel better to know you were angry or incensed.”

“I was before you walked in and distracted me.” He stepped back.

“Let me wrap your wound,” she urged.

“My manservant can see to it.”

“He seems to have disappeared.” The servants were well trained in that regard. She didn’t wait for Westcliffe to argue further. She simply picked up the cloth that the servant had set aside and began to wrap it around his arm, securing the wound. She could smell the sweet scent of sweat. Perhaps he was human after all, to have sweated some, not to have been completely calm.

“Why the worry, Countess?”

She jerked her gaze up to his. What was he asking?

He cradled her face with his large hand. “If I were dead, so many of your problems would be resolved. No divorce, no scandal.”

“You idiot. Do you really think I would prefer you dead?”

Before he could respond, certain that anything he might have said would have been more ridiculous than anything he’d already said, she rose on her toes and covered his mouth with hers. She didn’t know where she’d gathered the courage and she’d fully expected him to set her back on her heels.

Instead, his arm came around her, lifting her slightly higher, as his mouth began hungrily to devour hers. She ran her hands up into his hair, pressing herself closer until her breasts were flattened against the wide expanse of his chest.

Oh, God, she wanted to feel every inch of him, wanted the freedom to run her hands over all his flesh, all of it. To think that tonight someone could have so easily taken from her what she had yet to know, to experience. In less than a second, within a heartbeat, all could have been lost.

Because she’d been too afraid to give what they might have had together a chance. Because she’d looked at Stephen and seen the familiar, and not been brave enough to reach for the unknown.

She wasn’t certain when she’d begun to care for this man. Perhaps when she’d first recognized the torment that her selfish actions had brought him. Perhaps when she’d watched his lonely figure walking over the moors with only a dog as his companion. Perhaps when he’d welcomed her sister into his home. Perhaps when she’d caught glimpses of a tenderness hidden behind a scowl or an expressionless façade. She couldn’t identify a single moment, but, somehow, moments woven together had given her a glimpse of what her life could be. Tonight, it had almost been snatched from her.

His low growl reverberated through his chest, vibrated through hers. Her hair tumbled down. She’d not even been aware of his removing the pins, so lost was she in the sensations running through her. His kiss was as powerful as he was—it demanded, insisted, required that pleasure rise and be celebrated.

Tearing her mouth from his, she dragged her lips over his neck, tasting the salt of his sweat. She nipped at the vulnerable skin at his collarbone. She wanted to taste of all of him. She wanted—

Shoving her away, he staggered back, turned, and grabbed onto the mantel as though it alone gave him the strength to stand. Breathing harshly, he bowed his head. “You should leave.”

She took a tentative, trembling step toward him. “No, I want this.”

“If I take you—” He shook his head. “It would be unfair to take you, then seek a divorce.”

“I don’t want a divorce.”

Shaking his head, he closed his eyes. “Tonight, emotions are high. In the morning, there will be naught but regret.”

“You’re wrong. I want—”

“I don’t.” He slammed his hand against marble. Then he was gripping it again, his knuckles turning white. “I don’t. Not like this. Not because a brush with death has us wanting to feel alive. You deserve a man who wants you because it is you. God help me, it has taken me long enough to realize that.”

“And you are not that man?”

“I don’t know. I only know that taking you to my bed tonight would be a mistake, and if you do not leave, that is exactly what I am going to do.”

“I’m not going to leave.”

“So be it.”

He turned around. The agony on his face nearly brought her to her knees. Then he strode past her, leaving the room, leaving her behind.