Seb failed to materialise for luncheon as he had promised. Clarissa tried not to be concerned. After the smuggling ship had offloaded last night she supposed the mission was at its most critical stage. Plans would need to be put in place. Reinforcements and the proper authorities would have to be summoned. Instead she helped herself to extra potatoes and did her best to appear interested in Westbridge’s conversation. Annoyingly, he was seated beside her. More annoyingly the other Duke, the one she ferociously hated, was sat the other side. Feigning civility to the man who had beaten Seb and ruined his childhood was proving to be more difficult with each passing minute. Each time he spoke, the urge to stab him in the forehead with her fork was overwhelming. In fact, the urge to stab a few of the so-called gentlemen seated at this table with a fork was overwhelming.
Penny was subdued. They’d had a long and frank discussion about the state of her marriage and the perils of marrying the wrong man, and whilst her friend was still convinced Seb was the wrong man, discussing her own troubles, so long bottled up, had stirred up emotions that up to now had been private. As Clarissa had long suspected, Penhurst’s cruelty was physical as well as mental and he was not averse to beating her if she spoke out of turn or displeased him. Which she apparently did without trying.
The viscount’s infidelities were more than an open secret. They were another stick to beat his wife with. The monster revelled in telling his wife all the sordid details of his affairs, comparing her body to the harlots he preferred as he forced himself on her. Those debasing violations, Penny had assured her, weeping, happened less and less, and she would still not hear of leaving him because of her son. That baby and the long stretches of her husband’s absence were Penny’s salvation. His visits home a nightmare. All bar one of the dates Seb had given her married with the days Penhurst had graced his wife with his presence and subjected her to his abuse.
Clarissa hoped he hanged and was more resolved than ever to help free her friend from the life she had never deserved. It was an extreme solution, but a fitting one for Penhurst. He caught her looking at him and raised his glass, already drinking wine in the middle of the day.
‘Do you have any idea when Millcroft will be back?’ It was the third time he had enquired in the space of an hour. Penhurst’s interest bothered her.
‘Soon, I am sure.’
‘I hope so, for I have something to... Ah! Talk of the Devil and the Devil shall appear.’
Seb strode in and little bubbles of excitement popped in her belly as she waited for him to glance at her in the same heated way he had over breakfast. He didn’t look at her. ‘I’m sorry I’m late—but it is a lovely day and I lost track of time.’ He snapped open the napkin as he sat in a chair next to Penhurst at the opposite end of the long table.
‘Better late than never, old chap.’ The viscount leaned his head and whispered in Seb’s ear. Clarissa strained to hear, but had to settle for seeing Seb nod and then whisper back. Their covert conversation paused as the servants dished up his food and then it continued in earnest. Once it was done, he concentrated on eating, a tightness about his jaw and brows she had never seen before.
‘Did you have a pleasant ride, my lord?’ It wasn’t strictly polite to talk down the table, but then as it wasn’t polite to whisper either, Clarissa didn’t care. For the first time his eyes lifted to meet hers and burned. But not with passion or longing or shared secrets. The venom in them shocked her.
‘Very.’ And as if she were suddenly as insignificant to him as Penny was to Penhurst, he turned his head and plunged head-first into a mumbled discussion with Lord Gaines. Whatever he was talking about, it had all of Penhurst’s odious cronies chortling to the exclusion of the rest of the diners, Clarissa most definitely included.
It had been a pointed cut, and a public one, although she didn’t know why. Rattled, she went back to her plate and tried to ignore her own hurt at the slight and Penny’s weighted stare. There was probably a very good reason why he was ignoring her. Hadn’t he once cautioned that if he ever appeared rude or obnoxious she should pay it no mind because he was playing Millcroft?
* * *
As soon as the meal ended, he was off as if his breeches were on fire, and his foot was already on the stairs to the east wing before she caught up with him. ‘Seb!’ He stilled, but didn’t turn around at first. When he did, his hostile expression had been replaced by one of bland indifference.
‘My lady.’ No mischievous stare. No warmth. No nothing.
‘Is something wrong?’
‘Should there be?’
‘I don’t know.’ He was being Millcroft yet there was nobody close by to witness it. Just to be sure she scanned the hallway. Aside from the ever-present footman at the front door they were alone—but the footmen had ears and he was right to be cautious.
‘You are acting very peculiarly... The morning room should be empty.’ She tugged at his arm and felt it stiffen to granite beneath her fingers. The icy coldness made her panic. ‘Please, Seb.’
‘We have nothing to talk about, my lady.’
‘Of course we do...’ How dared he? They had everything to talk about. Their future. Their hopes and dreams. Their wedding. ‘Why are you angry?’
‘Stop playing games. I know.’
‘Know what?’ Now he was talking in riddles and her own temper flared. ‘Stop this nonsense. What happened this morning? What is the plan?’ She was aware she was babbling, but his behaviour was so uncharacteristic it was frightening.
With deliberate slowness he uncurled her hand from his elbow and stepped away. ‘Stay in your room tonight. By tomorrow it will all be over.’
‘Stay in my room!’ Had he lost his wits? ‘No!’ She reached for him and he stepped away. ‘I want to be with you. Don’t you dare try to shut me out! I’m helping you. You need me to help you!’
‘I don’t need you at all!’ He spat it with such venom she recoiled. Seb’s cool, detached composure had cracked and his face contorted into a snarl, one he tempered as the two Dukes entered the vast hallway and began to walk in their direction. He barely inclined his head to them, adjusted his cuffs and turned his smile to her. His usually dark, stormy eyes were dead behind the irises. ‘We are done, Gem. We have both more than served our purpose.’ Then he calmly, cruelly, walked away.
Clarissa wanted to go after him and demand an explanation but a public slanging match—because that was what Seb’s dreadful behaviour warranted—was out of the question in front of witnesses. One of them would let slip something in anger and potentially jeopardise the mission. She swallowed her temper and stalked to the opposite staircase.
‘Clarissa?’
‘What?’ She didn’t bother smiling at Westbridge.
‘If you have a moment I would like a word.’
‘About?’ Not that she cared, her mind was too busy trying to work out why Seb was fuming. What exactly had happened between breakfast and lunch to turn him from an adoring lover to a snarling stranger? It was so out of character. Something must be very wrong.
‘The question I asked yesterday.’
Oh, good gracious—she had completely forgotten about that. Westbridge’s lacklustre proposal was so low on her list of priorities it had not occurred to her to respond. Not when there had been Penny’s woes, smugglers, and scorching kisses in the rain and earth-shattering passion in her bedchamber. ‘Thank you for your proposal.’ Because Lord only knew she had waited long enough for it. ‘But the answer is no.’
‘No?’ The Duke gaped, incredulous. ‘Are you toying with me?’
‘Not at all. I gave the matter careful consideration...’
‘Hardly careful consideration if your answer is no!’
Pompous windbag! ‘I do not love you, your Grace. If I am honest, I am not altogether sure I even like you.’
The ugly blood vessel next to his eye rose and began to twitch with indignation. For the longest time he said nothing, then his face changed. ‘I see what this is about.’ His finger wagged amongst the profusion of lace. ‘I made you wait—ergo, you are getting your own back.’
‘Not at all...’
‘I shall redouble my efforts to court you.’
‘That would make no difference!’ The stupid man wasn’t listening to her at all. As usual. ‘I don’t want you to court me. The truth is...’
‘The truth is as plain as the nose on your face and I will enjoy the chase. What would you like? Flowers? Jewels?’
‘Nothing. I want nothing from you.’
‘Love poetry, perhaps? Something that does justice to your beauty.’
Good grief, she could think of nothing worse. ‘You are quite mistaken, your Grace. I want nothing from you. Not even your company henceforth...’
He grinned. It didn’t suit him. ‘Leave it with me. I shall surprise you.’
‘Oh, for pity’s sake!’
‘And I shall begin at once.’
‘You would be wasting your breath.’ But Clarissa was talking to his back. Imbued with a sense of purpose, the Duke was off on a mission of his own. So be it. She had better things to do than chase after the fool and correct him. He would get the message soon enough when she became Mrs Leatham. And she would become Mrs Leatham because Seb loved her. The real him had said so and he had meant it regardless of the nonsense he had spewed just now. A man who made love to her so ardently and with such tenderness couldn’t fake those feelings. Seb adored her. The real her. And she adored him, too. Something that was far too precious to lose. She would let him cool down, then have it out with him, and if that failed she would knock him over his thick head with her redundant curling iron and drag him to the altar.
Men!
* * *
‘The Excise Men will arrive here at eight just after everyone is seated at dinner.’
The sight of Gray in his bedchamber, diligently cleaning his pistols, was not what Seb wanted. Not yet. He needed at least twenty minutes to smash every stick of furniture in the room before he was truly capable of reason. Perhaps an hour. Three. Twelve. He suppressed the rage and the pain and grunted in response.
‘What’s wrong?’ His second paused, dropped the rag and frowned. ‘Do we have a problem?’
‘No.’
‘Really? Only you look ready to commit murder.’
He was. Westbridge, his long-lost brother. Gem. He wanted to wring her damned neck. He knew better than to expect, to covet what he couldn’t have, yet the ache in his chest was crippling him. ‘I’m merely eager to get this mission over with.’ Which was why Seb was rushing the conclusion when all they really had was more circumstantial evidence. Nothing a thorough search of the Penhurst cellar wouldn’t remedy if his gut instinct was correct. Nothing had left by road, so the illegal brandy still had to be there. The viscount was probably waiting for all the guests to leave before he shifted it. Most were leaving tomorrow. He had already informed the butler and his brow-beaten hostess he would be one of them. If the contraband wasn’t in the cellar, then he’d deal with the dire consequences later. It wasn’t as if he could feel any worse. ‘I’ve had about as much of society as I can stomach.’
‘Not all society though.’ His friend winked. ‘Dawkins mentioned he saw you kissing a certain lady on the Downs last night.’ The reminder was like a blow that winded him. His grief must have been obvious because Gray’s roguish grin was replaced swiftly with sympathy. ‘Oh...right...well, I’ve cleaned all the guns. I’ll hang around here, watch the cellar, etcetera, until they arrive. The rest of the men will make their way towards the house later. There’s a coastguard vessel anchored in the harbour as plain as day in case they get any ideas of moving the stuff before tonight and, of course, the other ships will flood the bay just before the off. Lord Fennimore has been summoned and should be well on his way by now. Anything I’ve missed?’
Only the complete annihilation of hope. ‘No. We’re all set.’
‘What are you plans for the afternoon?’
To die inside. ‘Act normally. Penhurst has arranged a shooting competition for the gentlemen.’ Which blessedly spared him the sight of her.
‘A timely bit of target practice will warm you up for tonight.’ Gray watched him tear the cravat from his neck and throw it to the ground, then slam the wardrobe door shut after he had grabbed the ‘shooting’ clothes the tailor had made for him. So many stupid outfits. So many stupid rules. Oh, how he hated the aristocracy! ‘Do we trust you to hold a gun? In your current mood...’
‘Back off, Gray!’
His friend’s dark eyebrows raised, but he wisely clamped his smart mouth shut. As Seb quickly dressed, he went back to cleaning the pistol. Just as well. The need to resort to violence to relieve the agonising tension in his body was palpable. But this wasn’t Gray’s fault. It was his. He’d allowed himself to be seduced by the exact sort of woman he loathed the most. The judgemental, spoiled, pampered princesses of society. Gem wasn’t from his world. Didn’t adhere to the same rules of conduct he did. Her blood was as blue as her eyes and his, as far as her world was concerned, didn’t pass muster.
And she had lied to him.
Perhaps not with actual words, but certainly with her deeds. Last night, during all the time they were alone together, while they had discussed her doubts about her Duke and lost themselves in each other, she had omitted telling him one significant yet fundamentally critical detail. Westbridge had proposed.
And she hadn’t said no.
Which explained their lengthy discussion about the pros and cons of marrying the man, yet clearly being pompous, self-centred and devoid of all emotion paled into insignificance because of the lofty fact he was a duke.
It didn’t make Seb feel any better when he slammed out of the bedchamber and stamped down the stairs, but when he saw Westbridge and his awful brother guffawing next to Penhurst and his cronies on the lawn a part of him died inside. It took all seven years of his training to strap on the mask of Lord Millcroft. There was nothing left but to act like Millcroft, as well.
‘One hundred pounds says I can outshoot any man here!’