The Mysterious Lord Millcroft

by Virginia Heath

  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 b
lush.’

  ‘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?’

  Chapter Fifteen

  Penhurst used the journey to quiz Seb about his investment plans and seemed particularly interested in the idea of the gaming hells and his list of contacts within that community. While many of the men Seb claimed acquaintance with were very real and exceedingly dubious, a great many were also fictitious as he found himself imagining how Gem would embellish the story. The viscount’s eyes lit up when Seb declared his vow nev
er to pay a penny of tax to the Crown—but he kept his counsel. For now, Lord Millcroft was on trial. Once he had proved himself guilty of all manner of debauchery, then perhaps he would be invited into the inner sanctum. In his experience, all criminals were cautious, but fundamentally greedy. If the right opportunity presented itself, that greed would lead them astray. This outing was another test. As much as he was dreading it, Seb knew this was a significant trial by ordeal.

  The brothel was less than ten miles from Penhurst Hall, although to all intents and purposes it was just a quaint, stone cottage on the Downs. Inside, it was anything but. Not only was this an out-and-out house of ill repute, it was an expensive one. The madam who owned it was French, as were two of her girls. She greeted Penhurst, Regis and Gaines as old friends, although the lingering, deep and distasteful kiss she bestowed upon the viscount suggested they were more than friends. Was this madam the French mistress Gem had heard him bragging about? Was this painted harlot Jessamine?

  The madam eyed Seb with barely disguised interest. ‘Who is this?’

  ‘Monique, allow me to introduce you to my friend Lord Millcroft. Another hedonist in search of pleasure.’

  ‘Then he has come to the right place. Bienvenue.’

  Aside from the disappointment at the incorrect name, there was something off about her accent. ‘Vouz avez une maison charmante.’ He kissed her hand so he could watch her face closely and, as he had suspected, she blinked rapidly in confusion before she covered it with a smile. ‘Est-ce que la maçonnerie semble médiévale?’

  ‘Your French is excellent, monsieur.’