Clarissa returned listlessly to her chair with the wives, trying to appear composed, but failing miserably. How could she sound excited about riding tomorrow when Seb was putting himself in harm’s way tonight? Damn Penhurst to hell! At the unladylike thought, her eyes came to rest on him coldly. He was stood smiling smugly with his awful friends, the three looking exceptionally pleased with themselves as they listened to Westbridge who was still holding court by the fireplace.
‘I see you are staring longingly at Westbridge.’ The interruption made her jump. ‘He cuts such a fine figure, doesn’t he?’ Lady Oliva offered her a brittle smile and sat determinedly in the chair next to hers.
It was then Clarissa felt the magnetic pull and just knew he had returned. The room felt warmer. Her eyes drifted to Seb of their own accord and she found herself smiling at his Lord Millcroft persona as he greeted some guests in that imaginary lord’s customary arrogant fashion. ‘Yes, he does. A very fine figure.’ The way Seb’s shoulders filled out his black evening coat was really quite something. Although he wore a bandage better...
‘We shall be seated next to each other at dinner. I am very much looking forward to it. His Grace is excellent company.’
Gracious—they were supposed to be discussing the same man and Clarissa had momentarily forgotten her Duke once again because Seb was occupying her thoughts. Foolishly, she was giving the horrid Olivia the upper hand. ‘Yes, indeed. Dear Albert is very diverting.’ No, he wasn’t, but it would serve the young usurper right to think that she was missing something.
‘This morning we took a turn around the gardens together.’
‘That’s nice.’ Good Lord, how had Clarissa missed that?
‘Yes, indeed. We have been spending a great deal of time in one another’s company since we arrived here in Sussex.’
‘Have you? I haven’t noticed.’ A staggering truth, yet the truth none the less. At this rate, she would have lost the game through her own negligence. It was all well and good being caught up in Seb’s mission, but Clarissa had come here with her own. One that was rapidly receding into the mist and which she couldn’t appear to muster the energy to retrieve.
‘It has been wonderful getting to know him on a deeper level.’
What did that mean? ‘That’s nice.’
‘May I confide in you, Lady Clarissa?’ The girl had a calculated gleam in her eyes.
‘Of course you may.’ Jealousy warred with the overwhelming urge to check on Seb, She could sense him close by. It took a great deal of resolve to stare into her rival’s eyes and smile.
‘His Grace has implied that he is fond of me.’
Implied? Not a declaration, then. But a worry. Yet another worry when her aching head was full of them. ‘Let me guess—he has complimented your beauty?’ One of the few things Westbridge ever noticed about a woman.
Lady Olivia pretended to look coy, as if she found such compliments outrageous. ‘Not just my beauty, but my grace and innate sense of style.’
The usual, then. ‘Try not to read too much into it. Dear Albert does tend to flatter the ladies.’ Clarissa took a casual sip of her ratafia and acted bored. Tomorrow, she would get up early, have her maid arrange her hair in a very becoming style and squeeze her into one of her specially made new gowns. Gowns which had been copied from the latest Parisienne fashion plates and the most vibrant un-debutante-like silks. They would swiftly remind Westbridge who was the true Incomparable.
If she could miraculously muster the energy.
‘It is funny that you mention reading—we have discovered a mutual love of the poems of Lord Byron. He has specifically asked me to read some after dinner.’
Clarissa’s heart plummeted to her toes just as Westbridge turned towards them. His eyes darted between the pair of them as if he wasn’t entirely sure where to look before he hastily turned back to the gentlemen. A telling omen if ever there was one. Her Duke was torn. Her nerves were frazzled. Her old friend and her spy were in jeopardy and she couldn’t memorise an entire Byron poem in an evening at such short notice. Such things usually took days to fake. The best Clarissa could muster on the back foot was a particularly salacious passage from Mrs Radcliffe’s The Romance of the Forest which had been exciting in the extreme and filled with derring-do. That dog-eared favourite novel was hardly of the elevated literary genius of the fêted Byron. Reciting it would make her appear shallow—which of course she was. Olivia had won another round before it had started, making Clarissa’s long-hoped-for future less secure. Every day the ground beneath her feet seemed to get less certain. First her Duke and then the revelations about Penhurst, poor Penny...
The warmth of awareness suddenly cut through her despondency and once again of their own accord her eyes sought and locked with Seb’s. Clarissa had never experienced such an overwhelming connection with another before. It was as if Seb had read her mind, knew that she had needed his support and was immediately there for her. In his gaze was reassurance. Calm. Amusement at the ridiculousness they both found themselves embroiled in and the people they were forced to endure, things they would deal with together. He believed in her enough to entrust her with his secrets. He believed she was clever and witty and resourceful, because with him she felt she was all those things. Not just a pretty face. But more.
He smiled and she smiled back, because somehow that smile made it all better and allowed herself to bask in the moment. There were more important things to worry about than the usurper. On Clarissa’s ever-growing list, Lady Olivia came now close to the bottom. One reading of Byron wouldn’t make her a duchess any more than two years of being the flawless Incomparable had rewarded Clarissa the same fickle Duke. If that was all he wanted, then she was doomed. Mrs Radcliffe aside, poetry readings and discussion of books were never going to happen with her. Oddly, that thought didn’t panic her as it would have done a few short weeks ago. If anything, it was a minor irritation while Seb’s eyes held hers. Perhaps not even minor...
It took a few moments to realise that Westbridge was watching them intently and was not at all happy about it. The two men were inadvertently stood a few feet apart. Westbridge was glaring at Seb, Seb pretending her Duke didn’t exist as his gaze remained possessively on her. Drawing her into it until she was in grave danger of sighing and grinning like a besotted fool.
How could a simple look mean so much?
But it did.
It meant everything. There was more than lust and friendship now. Her heart was a little engaged. She knew this because it seemed to swell whenever he was near.
Feeling slightly off-kilter, Clarissa tore her eyes away and took a nervous drink from her glass before turning back to her unwelcome neighbour with an affected bored serenity she didn’t feel. ‘I’m sorry, Lady Olivia—you were saying?’ For good measure she even stifled a yawn and watched Seb grin in her peripheral vision.
For the next five minutes, she nodded blandly as the girl continued to extol Westbridge’s virtues and embellish the blossoming relationship between them. This time, instead of feeling envy, she found her mind and her focus drifting idly back to where her Duke and her spy now stood talking to Penhurst and his cronies.
Seeing them side by side, it suddenly struck her that they were much the same height. Up until that precise moment, Seb had always seemed so much taller in her mind, probably because his girth was double that of her Duke. Broader shoulders, more muscle and a significantly sturdier-looking skeleton beneath his sun-burnished skin made Seb an imposing, wholly male presence filled with vigour. Against him, the Duke was rather weedy and pale.
Seb was exciting, enticing and easy to talk to. She found herself being herself more around him than she had ever dared with a man before, while Westbridge was...well, Westbridge. Her eyes didn’t feast upon him, she had never had a lustful thought about him ever and, now that her life had suddenly becoming considerably more exciting and meaningful, the illustrious Duke was rather dull, truth be told. Her eyes wandered to his hands and she was alarmed to see how small they were buried amongst the lace. Perhaps that was why his cuffs were always so frothy? Her eyes flicked to Seb’s and Clarissa immediately recalled how tremendous those huge, capable, calloused palms had felt on her body—just as Penny announced it was time for dinner.
Like a shot, Lady Oliva jumped up and bounded over to claim Westbridge in case Clarissa got any ideas. Surprisingly she didn’t and that in itself was liberating. The Duke took the dolt’s arm, but his narrowed eyes remained resolutely on Seb. No doubt to continue to vex him, Seb sauntered over to Clarissa’s chair and held out his arm with a devastating, cocky smile which did peculiar things to her insides. ‘May I escort you in to dinner, Gem?’ His dark eyes were swirling with mischief. It was such an alluring sight she found herself grinning back as she wound her hand affectionately through the crook of his elbow. Then he bent to whisper in her ear and it sent her pulse jumping again as she remembered the feel of his lips on her ears. Her neck. Her collarbone. Her bosom...good gracious!
‘Poor you getting stuck with that Spencer chit. I had to sit next to her at breakfast. My, doesn’t she love herself? I caught her staring at her reflection in the back of her spoon.’
‘In some quarters she is considered very beautiful.’ It was a little test to see if Olivia held any appeal with Seb at all and perhaps a pitiful attempt to hear another compliment from him. His compliments made her feel so special.
‘She’s pretty, I suppose.’ His head turned to watch Clarissa’s rival sail past with a triumphant expression on her face. ‘But I don’t like what’s beneath.’
‘Beneath what?’
‘The face, of course. A face that won’t last for ever. I mean, how many old people do you look at and think, He’s handsome...she’s beautiful? Old people all look like old people. Age is a good leveller. Then the exterior pales into insignificance against what lies beneath the wrinkly and sagging skin and grey crinkly hair.’
Clarissa laughed, she couldn’t help it, because Seb always hit the nail on the head and his honesty was refreshing. ‘Are you an expert on the aged now?’
‘It’s basic common sense. By the time you get to that age it’s all about the character. They are either nice people or they are not. Interesting or dull. Jolly or as sour as lemons. Lady Olivia is destined to be wrinkly, saggy, crinkly like the rest of us. But she will be a nasty, dull and sour old lady. With miserable wrinkles.’
‘And what, pray tell, are miserable wrinkles?’
‘The sort which come from a lifetime of frowning and looking upon things with disgust.’ He pulled a face to demonstrate. ‘It trains the skin to set the expression in perpetuity once the bloom of youth has faded. The description says it all—frown lines. Who wants frown lines? Jolly people have happy wrinkles. Laughter lines. They brighten the face even when the face has seen better days.’
Ahead of her, Clarissa could still see the Duke glaring at them—to the barnacle’s obvious consternation. ‘If he’s not careful, Westbridge will have frown lines. I think you’ve upset him.’ And she didn’t care. Let the Duke glare. Chatting to her spy was infinitely more diverting.
‘Have I?’ Seb’s dark head turned and he appeared surprised to see Westbridge’s hostile expression as he took his place ahead of the other lesser-ranked guests in the queue. ‘I hadn’t noticed. But, yes. I fear he is another one doomed to age grumpily.’
‘It’s an interesting theory...’
‘It’s based on fact. Years of observation actually. My grandparents were happy people right to the last. They were kind and generous and didn’t take themselves too seriously. Both were covered in laughter lines.’
‘They do sound jolly.’
‘They were. And they were devoted to one another. Couldn’t bear to be apart. Worked alongside each other and slept on the same mattress till the end. I wasn’t the least bit surprised when my grandfather died that my grandmother followed him a week after.’
‘That’s sad.’
He turned to her then and smiled. ‘No, it isn’t. Watching her live without him by her side would have been sadder. They wanted to stay together.’
She paused and gazed up at him, surprisingly touched. ‘Well, I never! You are a hopeless romantic.’ He blushed then. It was as endearing as it was spontaneous. ‘But I shan’t tell anyone.’
‘You can’t.’ His voice dropped to a whisper for her ears only, the inevitable trail of goosebumps standing to attention at the intimacy. ‘Spies are supposed to be ruthless and cold, not sentimental.’
‘Nor are they supposed to blush.’
‘Indeed. And we both know it doesn’t take much to set that off.’
Clarissa giggled and tightened her hand affectionately around his arm, trying to ignore the urge to walk her fingers over his muscles again as she anchored him in place or the way her body awakened at the innocent physical contact. There was nothing innocent about the images suddenly flooding her mind. That flush she had less than half an hour ago returned unabashed. She could already feel it creeping up her neck and threatening to ruin her face. Adoring, flushed faces and needy hands were hugely inappropriate when he had generously come to her aid in the midst of an important mission to save her from Olivia.
At this rate he was going to know she had a bit of a tendre for him. A big, obsessive and wholly improper tendre indeed. And lust. Lots and lots of lust. Talk of romance had reawakened her desire. So much so, she should change the subject. ‘Thank you for just now. You made me feel better about Olivia.’
‘You shouldn’t let her bother you. She is not in your league. Westbridge must be stupider than I thought to even consider her.’ More proof Seb had been trying to uphold his half of their bargain.
‘Thank you again. For saying so and for making him jealous with your splendid flirting. It was just what was needed.’ At least her voice sounded normal. Just the right amount of playful to go along with the lightened mood, without alerting him to the fact she was suddenly indifferent to the Duke and her rival because her head was filled with thoughts of Seb instead. ‘With everything else going on, I have allowed that girl to dominate his time. Perhaps too much. Something you will be pleased to know I intend to remedy tomorrow.’ Or the next day.
If she could be bothered.
She felt his arm stiffen beneath hers as his dark eyes hardened. ‘I’m glad I could be of service.’ But he didn’t sound particularly glad. He sounded like Millcroft.
* * *
Seb seethed throughout the interminable meal and castigated himself for his own stupidity. Of course she hadn’t been gazing at him in adoration. She had been gazing at him in feigned adoration because she had wanted to make the windbag jealous. For Seb, the entire drawing room had disappeared as he lost himself in her eyes. One second he had seen her looking bothered by the simpering Lady Olivia and he had offered her a smile of support. Then time stood still as their gazes locked. He hadn’t felt the need to blush or break eye contact, because in that transcendent, flawless moment there had been just her and him. Understanding. Affection. The latent heat which had simmered between them when they had kissed. A magical sense of rightness.
Clod! The magical, special, achingly tender moment Seb had experienced was uniquely his.
Now he was invisible as Westbridge dominated her time. The pair had been seated together at dinner and ensconced together now that they were all back in the drawing room for the after-dinner entertainments. Something Seb should have expected because that was the way of things. Currently, she was seated next to her younger rival, both gazing up at the fool while he waxed lyrical about something. Westbridge was always waxing about something. So much so he rarely paused for breath. Even Penhurst couldn’t pretend to be riveted by his most illustrious guest’s conversation. He had drifted off a good twenty minutes ago for pastures new.
But Gem was still riveted.
Still desperate to be his duchess.
Why did she want to waste her life with a man who never listened? A man so full of his own hot air that he was blissfully ignorant of all others nearby. He hated seeing her reduced to a pathetic dolt, purposefully suppressing her own sharp intelligence and clever wit in deference to that man’s overwhelming self-importance.
Seb was tempted to go over there and list all the reasons why he was much better than the pompous fool she had set her sights on. Despite his dubious bloodline, lack of significant fortune and absence of illustrious connections, at least he appreciated the woman beneath the perfect face—despite the fact he had grown to loathe her trademark ringlets. If she were miraculously his wife—a foolish image his mind refused to jettison—he would dig a big hole in the garden and bury her dratted curling irons and ban rags at bedtime. Or better still, distract her so thoroughly at bedtime that she was too exhausted to bother with all that nonsense. Those curls, like the silent, adoring creature sat in that chair, was Westbridge’s incarnation of perfection. The woman with poker-straight hair and the smart mouth was his. She could eat biscuits till the cows came home and the pair of them could grow old, plump and wrinkly together. Perhaps he should tell her that and see what she thought about it?
Tell her! As if he could find the words.
Besides, such a declaration would only end in polite rejection. Lady Clarissa Beaumont, earl’s daughter and lauded Incomparable, was always destined to marry a pure aristocrat. What had he expected? That under these unlikely and fraught circumstances two people who never would have collided under the normal run of things could suddenly overcome all the obvious obstacles and live happily ever after? She might make him blissfully happy, but he couldn’t make her a duchess or erase the dirty stain of his lineage.
She didn’t come from his world. She came from the world of titles and privilege, where the measure of the man didn’t mean a thing against the rank he was born into. Thank you for making him jealous with your splendid flirting! He had been flirting—a milestone in itself—and it had been splendid, and once again his hopes and his heart had been bludgeoned by her thoughtless words. In that moment, that dreadful moment of pain and clarity, he realised he had gone and allowed himself to believe his nocturnal fantasies and fallen a little bit in love with her. Like his naïve mother before him, he had given a chunk of his heart to someone incapable of loving him back.
But unlike his mother he was damned if he would let it define him. If he had fallen for her swiftly, he would damn well fall out of love swiftly, as well. He wanted that chunk of his heart back in his chest where it belonged. Where it would doubtless sit and pine for all that was out of its reach for ever. Clod! He didn’t notice Penhurst sidle up next to him until he spoke.
‘Oh, dear. I see your quest is not going well.’
Clearly he was displaying all of his jealousy and frustration to the room. It was time to be Millcroft again. ‘She will succumb in the end. They always do.’ It would be laughable if it wasn’t so tragic. All his life he had pitied his mother’s poor judge of character, yet now he knew he was no better. Gem was as shallow as she was beautiful. If he was here as plain Seb Leatham, a fatherless nobody, rather than her Duke’s rival, Lord Millcroft, he doubted she would be as cordial. ‘And if she doesn’t, there are plenty more fish in the sea.’ Tasteless and dull fish that would never be as perfect in his eyes. Gem had ruined him for all other women.
‘I’m glad you said that. I might have just the thing to cheer you up.’
‘I’m listening.’
Penhurst touched the side of his nose and winked. ‘A select group are taking a little excursion later tonight. There is a seat in my carriage if you want it.’
‘That depends on where you are going.’ The viscount liked it when Millcroft played hard to get, but already Seb felt sick. Thanks to Gem he knew exactly where they were going and really didn’t want to be invited. Not even for King and country.
‘We are going to a place where the women are willing and plentiful and rules don’t exist.’
Lord save him. This night was rapidly deteriorating into the worst of his life. ‘Splendid. What time do we leave?’