Westcliffe had left word with Willoughby that he was to be notified the moment the duchess’s carriage pulled to a stop in front of his residence. Therefore, he was nearly to the front door as Leo walked through it.

“My lo—”

Westcliffe abruptly halted his greeting by grabbing him by the scruff of the collar and hauling him to the parlor. The man was only a few inches shorter, but the way Westcliffe was feeling at that moment, he doubted even a man who towered over him could have dissuaded him from his purpose.

He was in a foul mood. He’d gone to bed aching with need. He’d intended merely to play his lips over Claire’s, give her a sampling of his kiss, but somewhere along the way his intentions had wandered off course. It had been too late to go to Anne or any other woman. So his frustration over what had happened with Claire was still harping at him, and he needed to unload it somewhere. Unfortunately for Leo, he was about to be the unlikely recipient. Westcliffe slung the young man into the room and closed the door behind them before advancing on him.

That Leo merely straightened his attire while standing his ground spoke well of him, but it did nothing to lessen Westcliffe’s temper.

“What the devil do you think you’re attempting to convey with that portrait?” Westcliffe demanded.

Leo merely smirked and sank into the nearest chair. “I told you not to look at it.”

“You knew damned well that I would.”

Leo shrugged as though he couldn’t be bothered to care what Westcliffe thought or felt.

“That scowl does not flatter me.”

“Then I suggest you not scowl.”

Before he planted his fist in the young man’s fair face, Westcliffe strode away, then swung back around. “Why that moment? Why did you choose to outline that particular moment?”

“Because it was the only one that revealed any emotion. I care little about the outer shell of those I put on canvas. I attempt to reveal the inner soul.”

Westcliffe braced his arms on either side of the man’s head where it rested against the back of the chair. “You won’t much like what you’ll find in my soul, so stop digging into it. You will paint as we are posed or not paint at all.”

Leo’s mouth formed a cunning smile. “Interesting. Yesterday you wanted me not to paint at all. Now you give me a choice. Perhaps you welcome the excuse to be so near your wife.”

Did this man not recognize a threat when it was delivered? And he didn’t wish to be near his wife. He did not desire her. He did not want her. He shoved himself back. “You know nothing.”

“As you wish, my lord. I’m merely an ignorant painter.”

The door opened, and Westcliffe moved even farther away.

“Oh, you’re here, Leo,” Claire said. Her gaze darted to Westcliffe, and he could have sworn her cheeks took on a pink hue before she turned her attention back to Leo. “Are we going to have another session?”

“I believe we are,” Leo said, coming out of the chair.

Westcliffe watched as he approached Claire and pressed a kiss to the back of her hand. He knew he shouldn’t feel any jealousy, and yet he did. He’d be rid of her come the end of the Season. What did he care who touched her, who kissed her? But for now, she was still his wife.

“Whenever you are ready, my lord,” Leo said, and escorted Claire from the room.

He followed them up the stairs, his gaze level with Claire’s provocatively swaying hips, hips he’d cupped last night, hips he’d pressed against his. What had he been thinking? He’d been frustrated following his visit to Anne’s because the distraction of his wife’s arrival had prevented him from wanting Anne. Then his wife had enticed him with her innocent request for a kiss.

She wore the same gown as yesterday, while he’d not bothered to wear the same jacket, waistcoat, and cravat. He’d assumed Leo would go skittering away. He should have known better. His mother didn’t suffer fools gladly. The fact that Leo had been her companion for some time now meant the man was no fool.

But neither did it mean that in this particular matter he was not serving as his mother’s puppet.

Claire was acutely aware of the tension in Westcliffe as he stood behind her, his hand resting heavily at her shoulder, his thumb grazing the nape of her neck. She wondered if he was even aware of the constant stroking. Leo had already moved on to using the oils. She wondered how many afternoons she’d be forced to endure this heaven and this hell. It was strange to find herself intrigued by her husband, to want to know so much more about him. In particular how he could act as though the intimacy of talking and later kissing had never happened, when it was all she could think about.

Suddenly, she felt the brush of his fingers over her cheek as he captured the errant strands that had once again worked their way free of her pins.

“They never seem to stay caught,” she said, wishing she didn’t sound so breathless.

“They say when a woman’s hair will not stay pinned that there is a wildness in her,” Leo murmured.

She’d thought she’d spoken quietly enough that only Westcliffe would hear her. “I’m not wild. I’m dreadfully dull.”

Westcliffe’s thumb stilled, and she wanted to glance back to see if he agreed.

“You never did answer my question yesterday,” he said instead.

What had she not answered?

“The one about my intentions regarding your mother?” Leo asked calmly, and she realized the question had been directed at him. “I intend to marry her, my lord.”

“That way lies heartache. She has only ever loved one man.”

Claire swung her head around and up to look at Westcliffe only to discover that his gaze was focused on her. Her heart stuttered, and she wondered if he’d been focused on her the entire time. What was he thinking when he touched her hair, when his fingers skimmed over her skin.

“I assume you’re referring to the Earl of Lynnford?” Leo inquired.

Because she was looking at Westcliffe, she saw the flash of surprise in his eyes before he concealed it behind his arrogant mask, and she was left to wonder how much of himself he hid from others. She’d have not expected him to help her move furniture around. She’d actually enjoyed sitting with him in the library last night. She’d certainly relished his kiss.

“Why would you say Lynnford?” Westcliffe asked, his voice flat, giving away nothing.

“Just before you were married, your mother commissioned me to paint your portrait. I’ve been with her for three years. Since Lynnford was named guardian of her three sons, and Ainsley has only just reached his majority, I’ve had occasion to see Tessa and Lynnford together. You’re scowling again, my lord.”

She watched as Westcliffe relaxed his facial muscles. She knew she should turn her attention back to the artist, but it was so much more fascinating to observe her husband.

“Why would you settle for a woman for whom you would always be second?” Westcliffe asked.

“I would not even be second, my lord. Her sons would come before me. But you see, what matters to me is that in my heart, she would always come first. I can imagine no happier life than to always hold near what I love most.”

“Then I wish you your happiness, painter. But I suspect you’ll not find it with my mother.”

Claire was aware of the friction in the air, hovering between the two men. She wanted it to go away. “Westcliffe, I’ve been looking over the invitations you gave me. Were there any in particular you wished to accept?”

His gaze came again to rest on her. “Whichever suits you.”

“I don’t know these people. I never had a Season. Even at our wedding, I walked among strangers. I cannot discern which balls would be the most favorable to attend.”

He seemed to give the matter considerable thought before saying, “The Duke and Duchess of Greystone. I believe theirs is next week. It will no doubt be the most well attended.”

She gave him a tremulous smile. “Then we shall start there.”

He furrowed his brow. “Did you attend no balls?”

She shook her head. “No. When would I have? I was married before what would have been my first Season.”

His thumb began stroking her nape again, and her eyes almost drifted closed in wonder at the sweet sensation. “Sometimes I overlook how very young you were when we married. So this will be your first Season as well. I assume you dance.”

“Yes. Father hired a teacher. I’m not sure why. I suppose to prepare me to take my place—” Beside you. Not where she wanted to lead the conversation now. “I’m grateful. Do you dance?”

“On occasion.”

She could not help but notice that his gaze continually drifted down to her lips, which caused them to tingle in anticipation, as though he’d lowered his head to once again take her mouth. She seemed unable to stop her tongue from slipping out to soothe them, and she could see the smoldering passion in his eyes when she did. Did it take so little to arouse him? Only she wanted so much more: love, respect, trust. She wanted him to want her to be his wife again, only she had no idea how to gain that.

But at least they were talking. Late into the night. And he had kissed her. Surely, if he found her repulsive, he’d have not lingered.

“I received word from Beth this morning,” she said. “She will arrive on the morrow.”

“I’ll not be available until sometime in the afternoon. I have an investor’s meeting.”

“In what did you invest?”

She saw his hesitation, and she realized that he was not accustomed to sharing much of himself. Did he fear her hurting him again? Did he fear another betrayal? How lonely it must be always to guard one’s words, to constantly shelter one’s heart. Was Claire exclusively to blame? Or was there more? Was there a reason beyond his age difference that he’d always seemed at the edge of his family? He came to Lyons Place at Christmas. Why did he not go to Grantwood Manor?

“Railways,” he finally muttered, and she’d almost forgotten the question. “And shipping.”

“I’ve never traveled on the railway. Have you?”

“Yes, it’s quite remarkable.”

“Where did you go?”

“To the seaside. To Brighton.”

“You are such a man of the world. Perhaps I shall give it a go someday.”

He gave a barely perceptible nod as though he couldn’t imagine that she would carry through on the notion. He had such little faith in her. Perhaps she and Beth would go next week, just to show him that she had grown bolder. She craved his attention. Such a silly thing really.

“Will you be available for dinner tomorrow? It would make Beth feel most welcome.”

“I shall strive to be here.”

“Lovely. I’ll have Cook prepare your favorites.”

Abruptly, Westcliffe jerked his attention to Leo. Claire did the same and saw the young artist was leaning casually against the bedpost.

“If you’re finished for the day, you could have alerted us,” Westcliffe snapped.

“I did not wish to interrupt.”

“You’re meddling, painter. It’s not your place.”

“I’m aware of my place, my lord. It’s at your mother’s side.”

“She’ll not marry you, no matter how much you may wish it.”

“Then I shall be content with whatever she grants me.”

Again, Claire could feel the tension between the two men. She rose. “Leo, may we postpone these sessions until the Season is under way. I have so much left to accomplish and to help prepare Beth.”

He bowed. “Of course, my lady. I shall take the canvas with me and work on what I can. Send word when you’re again ready to pose.”

“As I’m no longer needed, I have matters to which to attend,” Westcliffe stated succinctly before striding from the room.

Claire knew she should leave as well. It was not appropriate for her to be alone in the bedchamber with another man. She almost laughed with the absurd thought. She should have realized that on her wedding night.

But the door was open. And Leo obviously had no interest in her other than as a subject for his art.

“Perhaps you would do a portrait of Beth,” she said, to fill the quiet of the room.

He stopped in the midst of gathering his supplies and smiled at her. “I’d be delighted.” Then he glanced at the doorway. “So what happened between you and his lordship after the duchess and I left last night and before I arrived this afternoon?”

“Whatever do you mean?”

“I notice the subtleties in people. Yesterday, I believe he wanted to wring your neck. Today, it appeared he desperately wished to lay his lips against it.”

She felt the heat of embarrassment shoot through her, as well as a thrilling spark. Had the kiss meant more to him than simply a demonstration? She rubbed the nape of her neck where he had continually stroked her. “I’m certain you’re mistaken.”

His expression was kind, encouraging, and she comprehended why the duchess wanted him in her life.

“This Season is an opportunity for your sister to secure a husband. Perhaps it will serve the same purpose for you.”

Tessa lay sprawled against Leo’s side. She’d had numerous lovers in her life, but only one had meant more to her than he did. She knew what Leo wanted of her, but she couldn’t grant it. She was forty-five, and he was all of thirty. Her first husband had been twenty years older than she, but no one had considered it scandalous. Yet when a woman was much older than the man, Society frowned. And while she might thumb her nose at them in public, in private she worried that they’d eventually wear down Leo’s affections for her.

“How were matters between my son and his wife today?” she asked, circling her finger over his chest while he casually stroked her arm.

“I think something happened between them.”

“Of course it did. She betrayed—”

“No, I mean last night. I sensed a sensual tension in the air. He tried to ignore it by bantering with me.”

“Do you think he’s forgiven her?”

“No, but he might.”

She sighed. “He won’t forgive Stephen until he’s forgiven her.”

“Is that what this is about, Tessa? Are you trying to reconcile your sons?”

“It breaks my heart that they are at odds. They are brothers. They share the same blood.”

“Only their mother’s.”

She stiffened, her lungs refusing to draw in air. Raising herself up slightly, she stared down on him. “Why ever would you say that?”

Reaching up, he threaded his fingers through her hair. “I know that the previous Earl of Westcliffe did not sire Stephen. Do your sons know?”

Wrapping the sheet around herself, she moved away from him as though separating herself from him would distance the truth. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Pushing pillows behind him, he sat up. “I’m an artist. I notice the smallest of details. I have painted Lynnford. I’ve also painted Stephen. Did you think I’d not notice the similarities? Does Lynnford know?”

Tears burned her eyes. “You can’t tell him.” Her voice was hoarse, rough. “He’d never forgive me.”

“Tessa, I would never betray your trust.”

She shook her head. “I could scarce believe when Ainsley named Lynnford to serve as guardian over the boys in the event of his death. I fell in love with Lynnford when I was married to Westcliffe. We had a brief affair. Westcliffe did not care. I’d given him his heir, and he had his own paramour. I had only just discovered I was with child when Lynnford informed me that he would no longer be involved with me. He was getting married, and he would not betray his wife. I think he always believed that Stephen was Westcliffe’s. I never corrected him.” She released a strangled laugh. “They were always at odds—father and son. I think because they are so much alike, but neither of them could see it. Oh, God.” She buried her face in her hands. “I have carried that secret for so long.”

He wrapped a hand around her foot. “Tell me,” he urged.

She wanted so much to unburden herself, to someone, and he was so dear. “I have never stopped loving Lynnford. And I have loved Stephen all the more because he is his son. And my other sons have suffered because of it. Especially Morgan. As much as I tried, I could never feel close to him. He was so distant—like his father. Stephen was such a joy, always wanting to snuggle.”

Leo moved up and folded her within his embrace. “You were a child when you had Morgan.”

“It is no excuse. Morgan paid the price. I do not even know if he is capable of love.”

“He is. He is simply cautious.”

She tilted her head back and peered at him through her tears. “Do you think Claire could love him?”

“All things are possible.”

“I do not want him to be unhappy. I’ve been happy only twice in my life. When Lynnford was my lover—and now … with you.”

“Marry me, Claire.”

Her heart nearly broke with his hushed plea. She cradled his cheek. “No. I am not for you, my sweet.”

“I shall prove you wrong.”

As he brought her beneath him, she hoped he would. But she suspected her heart would not listen.