The Mysterious Lord Millcroft

‘A gem?’

Mr Leatham said this with a smile, the only one he had bestowed upon her, and for once it was a genuine smile, she could tell. His dark eyes had crinkled in the corners before he had scowled and quickly looked away. Perhaps he wasn’t quite as brash and ferocious as he seemed?

He was not immune to her charms. Clarissa could see through his short, sharp answers and borderline rudeness because he couldn’t seem to take his eyes off her. She was still pretty. Her only saving grace was intact. A reassuring piece of knowledge when her pride and her confidence were so severely damaged, although his charming reaction to her customary flirting came nowhere near close enough to repairing that damage. But then Mr Leatham was no duke and as such lacked the cold self-assurance such men wielded with cruel precision.

He was handsome though, in a rough and ready sort of way. The way he filled out the soft linen shirt he wore open at the neck was quite magnificent.

Broad shoulders, muscular arms, big hands which positively engulfed the delicate china teacup he was trying to hide behind. Nothing at all like the usual men of her acquaintance who padded their coats extensively to achieve half the effect. Nor did he try to impress her with bravado, as men usually did. He was a genuine hero. A man who had selflessly been prepared to sacrifice his own life to save another and was lucky to be alive. Every gentleman she knew would have crowed about his bravery from the highest rooftops, revelling in the deserved admiration he received from his peers. Not so Mr Leatham. As her sister had promised, he was a man of few words and those he did utter were curt. That curtness didn’t put her off him in the slightest because behind his brief, gruff answers and standoffishness, he had nice eyes. Kind eyes. Eyes that told her he listened carefully to everything she said rather than treat her as a purely decorative companion whose only purpose was to listen to what he said. Eyes that frequently, shyly struggled to hold her gaze as he spoke.

How adorable was that?

Once or twice, between glares, Clarissa was convinced he even blushed—which was an unusually endearing trait in a man in his prime and one which made her predisposed to like Mr Leatham a great deal. Even though she knew next to nothing about him and had promised herself not to be so trusting ever again with so little background knowledge of a man’s true character.

‘I can’t say I know any Leathams. Who are your people?’ A ploy to change the subject, although she was curious about the enigmatic man who said so little but she suspected saw so much.

‘They were farmers. In Norfolk.’

‘Were?’

‘I’m the last of the line.’

He said it in such a matter-of-fact way, as if being all alone in the world didn’t matter, but immediately her heart went out to him. Clarissa hated being alone at the best of times because it allowed the doubts to creep in. She preferred to be in company because when socialising her mind was occupied and socialising was one of the few things she was good at. To have no one who cared about you—loved you—to be all alone with your thoughts didn’t bear thinking about. How awful must it be to have nobody to go to in times of need? Nowhere safe and comforting to escape to when you felt inadequate, which she did daily. Or when the bottom had fallen out of your world and your poor heart was bleeding.

‘Is the Season very dull this year?’ Bella stepped in to save him and inadvertently hit another sore spot with her question. They both knew that the most exciting entertainments happened in the spring when everyone was in town because the weather was at its best.

‘It is the same as it always is.’ Except it wasn’t. ‘I thought I would squeeze in a quick visit to my favourite sister before the garden parties begin in earnest.’ She flicked her eyes towards the reticent man in the chair opposite and hoped she appeared and sounded nonchalant. ‘It all becomes very tiring Mr Leatham.’

‘I wouldn’t know, my lady.’ Although something in his dark, intelligent eyes told her he knew much more than he let on. Saw far more than he said, which was unnerving and this time it was Clarissa who looked away first because she was frightened he would see the truth. Beneath the pretty face there was nothing else. An empty void of disappointing, below-average woman.

‘Clarissa is being courted by a duke.’

‘Is she now.’

‘Yes indeed.’ Bella had turned to her conspiratorially. ‘Do we anticipate the announcement of your engagement imminently?’

The canny Mr Leatham had seen her lip tremble, his dark eyes had flicked to it, then back to look into hers, but regardless the practised lie still tripped off her tongue.

‘I haven’t said yes yet.’

Because the Duke still hadn’t asked. Not once in the eighteen months of their much-gossiped-about acquaintance had the word marriage come up in conversation, let alone talk of affection, and Clarissa had become quite overt in her hints. He waltzed with her at every party. Sent her a bouquet of scarlet hot-house roses every Wednesday, drove her up and down Rotten Row each Saturday when the rest of Mayfair was there, all of which had served to scare off every other suitor she’d had, but the wretch hadn’t so much as hinted at making their liaison official or once tried to steal a kiss. The conflicting behaviours had kept her on tense tenterhooks from the outset, something the Duke doubtless knew, but didn’t seem to care about.

At first, Clarissa had assumed those things would come with time, that he was just being careful as a man befitting his high station should be careful when choosing a wife, but now she knew better. The Duke of Westbridge, although enamoured, wasn’t nearly enamoured enough. She had accidentally overheard his own mother say as much in the retiring room at the Renshaws’ ball only last week. A cruel coincidence seeing as that was the second ball at which he had failed to waltz with her once despite the fact she had saved both for him, and the third in which he had waltzed with Lady Olivia Spencer. The latest and brightest Incomparable—now Clarissa’s significantly younger rival. If the gossip columns were to be believed—and she had no reason to doubt them—Lady Olivia had also received a bouquet of scarlet roses last Wednesday.

Thankfully, they hadn’t learned that Clarissa’s roses had suddenly been relegated to pink else she’d be a laughing stock as well as yesterday’s news. She’d stamped on the damning stems before packing her bags and dragging her surprised maid halfway up the country, praying that absence really did make the heart grow fonder. At the ripe old age of twenty-three, it was now her only remaining hope of securing a suitable husband and making something of the poor arsenal of attributes the good Lord had graced her with.

‘I’m sure it’s only a matter of time before we all have to refer to you as your Grace.’

Bella’s teasing tone was almost her undoing, but she managed to force a smile in response before hiding behind her own teacup, thoroughly disgusted at her own youthful foolishness at allowing herself to be seduced by the idea of being better than she was. Then she caught Mr Leatham staring at her quizzically. Almost as if he knew that the whole Incomparable Lady Clarissa was indeed one big, fat sham and the real Clarissa wasn’t much of a catch for anyone. A sad truth which couldn’t be denied.

After that, the rest of the lunch was pure torture. Mr Leatham listened to Bella regale tale after tale about Clarissa’s legions of suitors, expecting her to embellish certain stories in her customary witty manner. It was exhausting and humbling to remember exactly how far she had fallen since her empty head had been turned. When Bella had insisted her patient return to bed because he looked worn out, Clarissa, too, pleaded tiredness from her travels. She needed time to lick her wounds in private and to repair her mask before dinner, which had been more of the same—only worse. Much worse.

* * *

Throughout the evening she had not only had to contend with Mr Leatham’s intelligent, silent assessment as she pretended to be engrossed in a book to avoid conversation, but the sight of her baby sister and her husband together. Deliriously happy, perfectly content. Hopelessly in love. A stark reminder that Clarissa had failed to manage that in much the same way as she failed at everything else Bella excelled at. Yet hardly a surprise really. Bella had substance and Clarissa had none. Dreaming of finding a man who loved her was as futile as believing she could pull the wool over the eyes of the ton indefinitely.

Fleeing here had been a huge mistake. Her unexpected visit would be fleeting. Another day at most. Any more would likely destroy what was left of her self-esteem and render her a gibbering, self-pitying wreck. If she shed any more tears, it would show in her face—while Lady Olivia’s fresh face would undoubtedly be strain-free.

She let her maid come in and help her prepare for bed, endured the pain of her hair being bound in the tight rags which kept her trademark ringlets in place, better than any curling irons, and then gratefully sank into bed. Only, sleep proved to be as elusive as a proposal and some time between midnight and dawn, she gave up and took herself back downstairs to warm some milk in the hope it would magically cure the restlessness and provide some respite from her worries.

Insomnia had always been an issue, even before she had taken to wearing the uncomfortable rags in bed. Clarissa had never been one of those people who could simply close her eyes and doze off. Her mind didn’t work that way. Usually, it was at its most active as her head hit the pillow, and once she had given every dilemma some serious thought she naturally drifted off. But of course, usually the only dilemmas she had were what gown to wear to the next soirée, what topics of conversation would be the most engaging and what was the best way to tell a story so that she could consign it to memory. Everything had to be consigned to memory because she could hardly write it down.

Literally.

Like so many other talents, writing extended prose was beyond her capabilities. Now her head was filled with a conundrum which wouldn’t be solved by a well-cut watered silk or a scandalous discussion about the latest society gossip. Now she had to work out a way to outshine Lady Olivia Spencer and capture her Duke for ever.

Then again, perhaps new gowns were the answer. Westbridge was a famous collector of beauty. It had been one of the biggest reasons she had chosen him as a potential husband. His ostentatious Mayfair mansion was crammed to the rafters with exotic objets d’art from around the globe. Ancient Egyptian sarcophagi sat beneath paintings from the Renaissance masters, Roman and Greek pottery adorned the finest Italian sideboards. Even the windows were draped in delicate French lace and the very best silk from the Orient. The mish-mash of styles had never been to Clarissa’s liking, but the ton lauded him for his magnificent taste. Even the Regent was envious of her Duke’s collection of art. She pretended enthusiasm with the same aplomb as she pretended to be so much better than she actually was. But Clarissa could be beautiful, if nothing else, and had ensured she was as beautiful as possible whenever she was in his presence in the hope he would add her to his collection. Fortunately, thus far he hadn’t expected her to be anything else, which was just as well. Because there really wasn’t anything else she could impress him with.

Unlike her sister, Clarissa’s talents were few and the least said about her academic achievements the better. Once upon a time she had desperately wanted to learn, only to discover that she didn’t possess the skills necessary to accomplish even that. She was the most unaccomplished Incomparable that ever graced the ballrooms of Mayfair, her only talents had always been the ability to charm the birds from the trees and to turn the heads of gentlemen.

She had a pleasing face and figure.

That was all.

A face and a figure which had been on the marriage mart for nearly four long years. If she could go back in time, she would have a stern talk with her younger self, remind her of her limits and tell her that setting her sights on a duke was pure folly. Dukes were fickle and few and far between. She should have married one of the earls or viscounts who had lined up to court her in her first two Seasons, then she would have the title which everyone believed an Incomparable deserved, albeit a lesser one. Those peers still had literate servants and paid for tutors. She’d be married, have her own home and probably a child or three already.

Then it wouldn’t matter if her figure turned to fat because she desperately wanted to eat and her perfect cheekbones disappeared under plumper, happy, married cheeks. Or that she couldn’t read any faster now than she did when she had been eight years old, despite her secret love of Mrs Radcliffe’s novels, and, although her handwriting was lovely, because Lord knew she had practised it often enough in the private confines of her bedchamber, she couldn’t spell to save her life. The letters were always correct, but the order they came in was nonsense. As mistress of her own house, she would issue all her instructions verbally, consign all important facts to her blissfully huge memory and pray that nobody—including that elusive yet-to-be husband—would be any the wiser to the shameful fact that she was on the cusp of being completely illiterate.

Agitated, she sloshed milk in a pan and set it to warm, then decided she was so depressed she deserved something sweet. Since her come-out she had denied herself cakes and biscuits, rarely ate anything covered in her beloved pastry and avoided any food bigger than the palm of her hand in case she gained unattractive weight, but frankly, after the week she’d had, only sugar would do. A quick rifle in the well-stocked pantry provided her with a whole round of crisp shortbread and a jar of strawberry jam. Exactly what she needed.

Despondent, she loaded the whole lot onto a tray and carried it into the drawing room. Sitting cross-legged on the sofa she unashamedly slathered a biscuit in a thick layer of jam, dipped the whole lot in her milk until it went deliciously soft and soggy, then shoved it into her mouth, sighing noisily in joy.

* * *

‘Oh, you poor thing! Shall we call someone else to help carry you?’ She had touched his arm in sympathy, an arm which he had tugged away swiftly as if he had been burned, which in a manner of speaking he had. He’d felt that calculated, flirtatious touch all the way down to his feet and at the roots of his hair. And once again, she had known the powerful effect she had on him. Doubtless it was the same effect she had over all men and to be yet another admirer in that long line made him feel insignificant in the extreme.

‘I can manage myself.’ Seb had let go of the footman and dragged his broken body up the next step unaided, only to be swamped with dizziness and forced to collapse back against the footman in case he fell. Joe had sprinted up next to him and grabbed his other arm.

‘You’re not strong enough yet to do this alone.’

‘There is no need to be so proud in front of me, Mr Leatham.’ That seductive voice again, secure in the knowledge that he had attempted to tackle the stairs alone because she was stood watching him. It was beyond galling.

Hours later it still galled. Those were the last words she’d said to him as she had watched him struggle the rest of the way up, denying him the dignity to fail so abominably at a simple task in private. He loathed being feeble and dependent on others; he had spent the first thirteen years of his life being an inconvenient dependent and had come to hate that state with a passion, but being feeble and so obviously dependent in front of her was beyond the pale.

The minx had run rings around him all day and had thoroughly enjoyed seeing him wrestle with embarrassment when his ferocious mask had slipped. He closed his eyes and for the umpteenth time relived some of the more cringeworthy moments of a day stuffed full of them. The way he had stuttered over the questions about a wife, a fiancée or anyone he particularly had his eye on had been awkward in the extreme, but nothing compared to the horrendous way he had blushed when she had noticed he had put a coat on for dinner and then told him he needn’t have bothered on her account, you poor, brave thing, so it was patently obvious she had known he’d donned the too-tight borrowed coat expressly for her.

His stupid ears had glowed for several minutes afterwards because she had made a point of watching them intently and asking repeatedly if he was hot. Which he was. With shame at his own legendary ineptitude around the fairer sex, while she was undoubtedly the fairest of them all, and for being such an obvious clod in her presence. Even while she was teasing him, his traitorous gaze kept wandering back to her irritatingly perfect face, finest of fine eyes and luscious, vexing mouth. His errant thoughts distinctly carnal, yet his mouth crippled by angry self-consciousness. He’d picked at his food like a bird, despite the fact he was famished, in case he further disgraced himself and dribbled more on his chin. By the end of the interminable meal, his conversation had deteriorated into growled one-word answers.

Yet the Gem still persisted with her questions even as they both sat reading before bedtime.