Lorraine Heath - Passions of a Wicked Earl

L ORRAINE H EATH

P ASSIONS
OF A
W ICKED E ARL

For the amazing May Chen,
who understood my vision for this story
better than I did.

Thanks, Mayfor everything.

London

1853

M organ Lyons, the eighth Earl of Westcliffe, unhurriedly trailed his fingers over the slender bare backthe appearance of which always delighted him. A light touch, barely there, as soft as a cloud drifting across the late-afternoon sky. Hed discovered that Anne responded best to only the hint of sensation, as though the torment of being denied more pressure heightened her pleasure.

She was such a wonderfully carnal creature, willing to explore passion and pleasure in all its forms. It was the very reason he sought her company.

She was soundly asleep, not reacting to his subtle gestures, but she would be miffed if he took his leave without giving her a proper farewell. Gathering up her hair, with its hints of red that often made it seem as though it might ignite at any moment, he draped it over one shoulder, exposing the nape of her slender neck. Shifting his body so she was cradled beneath him, he pressed his hot, moist mouth to the ridge of her spine and began to leisurely travel downward.

Moaning low, she stretched languorously, like a feline lazing in the sun. Mmm, I do so enjoy the way you awaken me.

Her voice, lazy, raspy, sultry, caused him to harden swiftly and painfully. With his knees, he spread her thighs, opening her to him, and slid into her velvety haven. It was only here, when he could become lost in wicked sensations, that he was master, that the world and all its disappointments receded.

Welcoming him with a groan of satisfaction, she lifted her hips slightly, and he delved deeper. Now he was the one to groan, a growl really, low and throaty. This was what he needed, what he always needed. Hands gliding, fingers teasing, mouths devouring.

Theirs was an ancient ritual of writhing bodies, escalating sighs, and intense sensations. With a triumphant laugh, she bucked him off, straddled him, claimed him. Even as he took her again, even as he caused her to cry out his name, he felt nothing beyond the searing press of flesh. Why the bloody hell couldnt he feel moretrue enjoyment, immense satisfaction, contentmentinstead of this bloody wasteland of lackluster emotion?

The room echoed with their grunts, their shouts, their cries. He knew how to touch, how to stroke, how to please, how to bring her the ultimate in pleasure.

Even when she collapsed over him, he fought his own cataclysm, staved it off as long as possible, until it consumed him, came crashing around him.

Replete, exhausted, breathing heavily, he lay beneath her. As always it was never enough. His legendary prowess mocked him, leaving him dissatisfied. Ah, the physical release was grand, but afterward, he always experienced a keen sense of bereavement, of something amiss, something that he could wrap neither his head nor his heart around.

He was always left wanting more, but for the life of him, he couldnt define exactly what the more should be.

He knew only that for all her exquisite beauty, she didnt provide it. But he also knew the fault resided with him, not her. He lacked something essential. It was the reason no woman had ever loved him.

As gently as possible, he eased her off him. Her green eyes lethargic, she gifted him with a contented curl of her lips, a cat that had lapped up the last of the cream. He pressed a kiss to her forehead before rolling out of bed.

He gathered up his clothes from where theyd landed on the floor when shed first divested him of them hours earlier. It wasnt until hed sat in the purple velveteen chair to pull on his boots that she scooted to the foot of the bed and said, Tell me whats troubling you.

He peered over at her, now wrapped modestly in the red satin sheet. She swung her legs off the end of the bed and grabbed one post. She gave the appearance of someone sitting on a swing, and he was reminded of a golden-haired girl hed long ago seen in that exact pose. If he were capable of flowery emotions, he might have thought hed begun to fall in love with Claire that day. Silly thought.

Youve grown bored with me, Anne said succinctly, before he could answer. Not that he would have. He was not in the habit of sharing anything that resided within him. He allowed only the outer shell to be available for her amusement.

Haughtily, making a great show of securing the sheet more tightly around herself, she walked to the window. They say no woman can hold on to you. I thought to prove them all wrong.

After tugging on his boots, he crossed the room and wound his arms around her waist, inhaling her fading scent mixed with the musky fragrance of passion hed unleashed earlier. Ive not grown bored with you.

Then stay the night. For once, stay the night.

He tucked his finger beneath her chin, tilted her head around, and took her mouth as though he owned it. Only when she turned and sagged against him, did he lift her into his arms and carry her to the bed. Setting her down gently, he drew the covers over her. Not tonight.

As he was striding toward the door, she called out, I hate you!

Her words gave him no pause. Hed heard them before, from others. The first time he was five-and-twenty. The words had pained him then, but never since. Why did women not understand that hate could not hurt if there was no semblance of love? She didnt love him. He knew that, accepted it.

She was as frosty as he. It was the reason they were well suited, the reason hed not yet grown bored with her.

Westcliffe?

Striving to come up with a way to communicate that he wasnt upset with her, he glanced back and merely said, Tomorrow.

I expect to receive a very nice bauble.

He gave her a grin and a wink. Something to match the green of your eyes, I should think.

She blew him a kiss. She was so easily mollified. He was weary of growing bored, but ennui hovered nearby, waiting impatiently

He would not succumb. Not this time. She deserved better.

He hurried down the stairs and out the front door into the lightly falling rain, where his carriage waited, illuminated by the distant gas streetlamps. The footman leaped forward and opened the door.

St. James, Westcliffe ordered as he climbed inside and settled back against the plush bench for the journey to his residence. Not a home. Simply a place where he resided, where he would wallow in his whiskey and contemplate why he refused to stay the night with Anne. Such a small request, but conceding to it would give her too much control over him. And he was a man who relished his freedom. Hed gone too much of his life without possessing either control or independence.

His father, damn him, had left behind little except debt, two sons, and a widow who understood the ramifications of her dire circumstances well enough that, without delay, shed chosen as her second husband a man with a more powerful title and a good deal more wealththe Duke of Ainsley. Shed blessed him with an heir, and five years later, hed left her a widowone who no longer relied on anyone for anything.

It was years before the same could be said of Westcliffe.

Hed been dependent on the kindness and generosity of his youngest brother, Ransom Seymour, the present Duke of Ainsley. He may have been the last born, but he acted as though he were the firstirritatingly responsible, obsessed with duty. He comported himself with the mien of someone three times his age. Their mother had often remarked that even from the cradle, hed given the impression that he could handle the greatest of matters. Westcliffe had found it exceedingly difficult to usurp his brothers rightful place in the sibling hierarchy when the next moment could very well involve holding out a hand, asking for favors. It was one of the reasons that Westcliffe had spent as little time as possible with his familyto avoid the reminders of the failures hed inherited from his father, which had weighed heavily on his shoulders as hed grown into manhood. Hed been more than willing to take whatever actions necessary to shed them.