Claire didn’t recall inviting the duchess to dinner, and yet there they all were, sitting at the dining table while soup, pork cutlets, and garnished brussels sprouts were served as though the guests had been anticipated. It occurred to her that the duchess had seen to matters regarding the cuisine while everyone else was in Westcliffe’s bedchamber.

It was not the room she’d have chosen. She thought the light in the salon with its floor-to-ceiling windows was better, but Leo—while she was uncomfortable referring to him so intimately, he insisted it was the only name he possessed—had assured her that the bedchamber was the only room that would do. She had stared at that massive bed, which had obviously been crafted especially for Westcliffe’s size, and wondered how many women had shared it with him.

“Your décor is rather interesting,” the duchess said to her son, breaking into Claire’s thoughts. “Paintings and statues of dogs, but no people.”

“I purchase that from which I receive enjoyment. Besides, dogs are loyal. People seldom are.”

“And by ‘people,’ I assume you mean family.”

Her husband did little more than hold his mother’s gaze.

“You might say that of Stephen, and perhaps of me,” she said quietly. “But Ainsley would give you the shirt off his back if you asked. He has always adored his oldest brother.”

Westcliffe dipped his gaze to his plate and began to concentrate on his food, and Claire wondered if he were uncomfortable with Ainsley’s adoration. She knew Stephen had sometimes felt conflicted, loving his brothers but resenting what they possessed. He was in a unique position of being the middle brother between two lords.

“I saw Ainsley last night,” Westcliffe said.

“At a gambling house no doubt,” the duchess stated, as though she knew exactly where they’d been.

Claire felt immense relief that they’d not been at a brothel although she was certain he’d been with someone. She didn’t want to contemplate that he no longer wanted her because he’d fallen in love with someone else. Through the wisdom of years, she couldn’t help but consider that his amour might be as passionate as his fury. What she’d feared as a child intrigued her now.

“I do worry about him,” the duchess said. “He gambles so much.”

“He was winning. He always wins.” Westcliffe slid his gaze over to Claire. “Fortune seems to smile on Ainsley.”

“Do you resent it?” She didn’t know from where the question had come.

His jaw working back and forth, he seemed to give it serious thought before shaking his head. “No.”

His answer made her smile inside, gave her a sense of relief. It was one of the things that had always bothered her about Stephen—that he could be angry at his brothers for things over which they had no control. They couldn’t help it if they were born to inherit titles and property while he was not.

The conversation drifted into more comfortable territory: the styles of the Season, which ladies were still unspoken for, which ones would be making their debut. While the duchess claimed to live on the fringes of society, she was quite well versed in the comings and goings of the upper crust.

It had been a long day, and Claire was quite relieved when dinner finally came to an end.

“We shall see you tomorrow afternoon,” the duchess said brightly, squeezing Claire’s hand and patting her son’s cheek before disappearing through the doorway with Leo.

“Thank God that matter’s done with,” Westcliffe muttered. Then he shouted, “Willoughby!”

“Yes, my lord.”

“Have my carriage readied immediately.”

“Yes, sir.”

Claire desperately wanted to ask him where he was going, wanted to ask him to stay. She didn’t want to be alone. She was so tired of being alone, but she’d promised not to make a nuisance of herself, so instead she said, “I’m sorry.”

He turned and looked at her as though only just remembering she was there.

“Your mother. I’m sorry. The portrait, the dinner, they weren’t my idea. I went to her hoping that she could assist me in being invited to balls, in introducing Beth to society. And she is going to help. She will let it be known that Ainsley will only attend balls if we’re invited—”

“I don’t need Ainsley to garner invitations.”

Without another word, he strode down the hallway toward his library, leaving her standing there, feeling foolish. What was she to do now? She’d thought he’d be pleased not to be bothered with courting invitations. She was about to ascend the stairs when he returned to the entryway and held out a handful of invitations to her.

“Are these to upcoming balls?” she asked, amazed.

“And dinners. And various other functions.”

Taking the offering, she stared at the half dozen envelopes. “I’m not sure why, but I assumed you weren’t invited to balls.”

“There is not a woman in London who doesn’t want to be seen dancing with me.”

Her joy over finding herself with entry into the finest houses diminished. “Of course.”

She heard his harsh curse, then his hand was beneath her chin, lifting her gaze to his. “Claire, I’m sorry. That was uncalled for. I’m invited because I’m a curiosity. I seldom accept.”

She nodded, licking her lips. Why was her mouth always so dry when he was near? “Perhaps you would consider altering your stance for this Season.”

He narrowed his eyes, and she rushed on to explain, “I should think it would go a long way to guaranteeing my sister is welcomed into society if you were to accompany us to the first ball. Of course, the sooner she is accepted, the sooner she is likely to find a match, and the sooner I may return to the country.”

If at all possible, he seemed almost bemused by her explanation. “I shall consider it.”

She offered him what she hoped was an appreciative smile. His gaze dipped to her mouth before returning to her eyes. She could think of nothing else to say except to ask him to stay, and she didn’t think he’d be pleased with that path of conversation, so she held her silence, acutely aware of his chiseled features, his dark eyes locked on hers. She inhaled his rich, masculine scent, could almost feel the heat from his nearness.

His hand still rested beneath her chin, and his thumb slid up to stroke her lower lip. She wondered if he was thinking about their earlier conversation regarding kisses. It seemed she was able to think of little else. She imagined his kiss would be vastly different from the innocent one Stephen had given her so long ago. His mouth appeared as though it had been shaped to deliver pleasure. It was an odd thought coming from her, when her experience was so lacking.

His head dipped a fraction, her heart thundered, his eyes heated—

“Sir, your carriage is ready,” the butler suddenly announced.

Westcliffe stepped back easily as though he’d been meaning to go in that direction all along. He nodded slightly. “Good night.”

Then he was gone, out into the night, and she was alone.

He possessed a key, so he didn’t bother to knock. He simply entered Anne’s residence. No servants were about. A single lamp waited on the entryway table. He knew where he’d find her this late. He grabbed the lamp and took the steps two at a time. At the landing he set the lamp on another table and extinguished the flame. Opening the door, he entered Anne’s bedchamber.

Lounging on a chaise, she was reading a book. He’d expected her to be miffed with his tardiness. But they had no set hours, no formal arrangement. He came and went as he pleased, and she welcomed him as it suited her. On occasion they attended the theater or an opera. They had planned to meet each other at various balls this Season, perhaps even to arrive together. They made no secret of their liaison.

She set the book aside and came to her feet. “I was afraid you weren’t going to come tonight.”

“I need you.” He crossed the room in half a dozen strides, took her into his arms, and plundered her mouth. He skimmed his hands up and down her back, her sides, her bottom, acutely aware that she wore nothing beneath the silk. She moaned low. He threaded his fingers through her hair, holding her head, angling it so he could taste her more fully.

The entire day had been hell, nearly every moment of it spent in Claire’s company. There was still an innocence to her, a sweetness, and yet there was also a strength. And her favorite color was blue. He’d had no idea. He knew Anne’s favorite color. It was whatever was the most expensive. She loved her trinkets and her baubles. Because of Claire’s dowry, he could shower Anne with them.

Claire. Claire. Claire. He didn’t want to think about her anymore. But he seemed incapable of catapulting her from his mind. She was there even now. With Anne’s lithe body pressed up against his. Tearing his mouth from hers, he swung away from her.

“Whatever’s wrong?” she asked. He heard the confusion, her panting.

He was breathing just as heavily, his heart racing. She deserved the truth. Better to hear it from him than the gossips. He faced her, regretting any hurt his words might cause her. “My wife is in London for the Season.”

He watched as displeasure crossed Anne’s face. Her features were all defined lines and sharp angles, but they came together in a mosaic of beauty. “After all this time, why now?”

He knew the reasons didn’t matter. He walked back over to her. “I know it’ll be difficult, but her being here has nothing to do with me. She wishes to give her sister a Season.”

“And you will play the role of dutiful husband?”

“I will do what I can to help her. I owe her that.”

He’d never seen her with tears in her eyes. It was like a blow to his chest.

“I want to be more to you than I am,” she said.

“You are everything.” Reaching inside his jacket, he removed a slender black box and extended it toward her. He held his breath while she glared at the object as though it were vile. Finally, she snatched it from him and opened it. Inside was nestled a necklace of emeralds. “It’s gorgeous.”

She looked up at him then, more tears welling. “But it’s not enough.”

Pressing her body against his, she cradled his jaw. In a low, provocative voice, she said, “I will do anything to have you. Will you say the same of me?”

“Anne—”

“Be rid of her.”

“An annulment is not possible. A divorce will create a scandal that—” The words lodged in his throat as she cupped him intimately and began a slow, seductive massage that he knew from experience concluded with her talented mouth doing wicked things no wife would do.

“Surely, you must admit that I’m worth scandal.”

Oh, yes, she was worth scandal … and a good deal more.