The Mysterious Lord Millcroft

Mercilessly.

He might currently be a monosyllabic, coarse clod, but even clods had some pride. If he couldn’t be erudite, he could at least be fit enough to facilitate his own escape next time he collided with her and climb those damn stairs himself! He would exercise away the weakness in his body and find a way to conquer those stairs... Obviously in secret. Well away from the mocking eyes of the Incomparable or his well-meaning hosts. If Bella or Joe caught him exercising before they thought he was ready, they’d put a servant on watch and he’d be chained to the bed for sure. But if he wasn’t allowed to move, how the hell was he supposed to build his strength up? They didn’t know his limits and, by God, he had a long way to go yet before he reached them!

And thanks to her he was now starving as well as emasculated. Building his strength up required food, which was also down those blasted stairs. Imbued with the outraged strength of the self-righteous and clutching his painful abdomen, Seb gingerly sat up, then slowly twisted his legs from the mattress. He used the nightstand and rested the full weight of his body on his arms to stand up, then panted through the pain as it burned in his gut. He shuffled, rather than walked, to the door, then muttered a frustrated obscenity under his breath. It would take a month of Sundays to get fit at this arduous rate and he was damned if he would lose a month. He needed to push past the pain. Ignore the weakness. Be better than he was, which ironically was the sorry story of his life. Always trying to be better, yet never quite measuring up.

Remarkably, the discomfort lessened as he shuffled along the landing. Clearly moving was warming up those atrophied muscles. They still screamed, but not so much in agony any longer, more just a disgruntled shout. Maybe in a few more minutes, the shouting would become the occasional bellow? He simply had to push himself, just as he always had. Especially when things were at their worst. It never ceased to amaze him what he was truly capable of when he stretched himself to his limits, something he did with surprising regularity thanks to the obstacles life constantly put in his way and because of his stubborn refusal to let others believe he wasn’t good enough when he tried to prove to everyone he was. From birth, his betters had always looked down their noses at him, casting unsupported judgements based entirely on prejudice, and he prided himself on always proving them wrong. Seb was as good as anyone. He made sure of it. It was that tenacity that made him a fearless fighter, a logical problem solver and a damned good spy. Only he knew he didn’t believe it himself.

The staircase loomed, mocking him. The foul taste of humiliation at having to be supported by two men as they hauled his sorry carcass back up it in front of Lady Clarissa was something Seb never wanted to repeat. ‘Oh, you poor, brave thing.’ He bet she never referred to her fancy Duke as a thing. It was an insulting label he never wanted to hear again. Which meant he needed to get up and down those damn stairs himself to be able to safely disappear into the sanctuary of the same bedchamber he had thought a prison only this morning. Safe from Incomparables with a warped sense of humour and his own intense and mortifying reaction to them.

He stared at the steps with a heavy heart. They were steep, he knew, and the hard wood jarred his mashed guts with each painful step. There had to be a way of doing it without nearly dying from the effort. Rely on the strength in his arms, perhaps? Lean on the banister a certain way? Whatever it took, he would find a solution tonight and save himself from all potential further embarrassment.

Supporting himself on his good side, Seb gripped the sturdy banister for all he was worth and rested his upper body on it. Only then did he risk lowering one foot down. The movement did something to his torn innards which robbed him of the ability to breathe. It took a full ten seconds before he could lower the other foot, but that hurt less as everything inside lurched to its proper place. Encouraged, he managed another four stairs in much the same manner, then, fearful he was about to pass out, allowed himself five minutes’ rest slumped over the wood. After the next four stairs, he was dangerously light-headed and needed to lie down, but as there was now a greater distance upwards than down he decided his best option was to recover on the sofa. Down had to be easier than up. Up, in his current state, might well kill him.

The remaining stairs caused white-hot pain behind his eyes despite the fact he took them slower than the clock hands had moved over dinner and he found himself slumped against the bottom banister for an age before he could even think about moving again, heartily annoyed at himself for biting off far more than he could plainly chew and being goaded by his stubborn pride to do so because of her.

Attempting the stairs had been stupidity incarnate. Something a weakened man with a hole in his chest and a distinct lack of energy should never have attempted alone. Pride had been his sole motivator, just as it always had been when fate thought it was having the last laugh. But pride came before a fall. It was a blasted miracle he hadn’t fallen and undone all the good work the doctor had done. The implications didn’t bear thinking about. Ripped stitches. Internal bleeding. And all in the middle of the night when there was nobody around to save him. Seb deserved a damn good telling off for being so careless with his life and was likely due one unless he could find the strength to get himself back to his bed before his hosts found out what a blithering idiot he had been or Miss Perfect witnessed this fresh humiliation.

However, returning up Mount Staircase at this very moment was out of the question. The muscles in his arms were shaking from the effort of getting down, acid was roiling in his stomach and his head was all over the place. He needed to sit. Rest. Regroup. The door to the drawing room was ten feet away, yet that ten feet suddenly felt like ten miles now, longer if he hugged the wall rather than went as the crow flies. There seemed little chance he could get there without a wall propping him upright, so he didn’t bother trying.

Seb fell against it thankfully and squeezed his eyes shut against the pain, allowing the cold plaster to cool the burning in his back until the dizziness and nausea subsided. From then on, he edged his way along the hallway, shuffling again as that was all he had left in him, until he finally arrived at his destination. In a few steps there was soft upholstery. Nothing else mattered.

Chapter Three (#u2742195e-daed-5662-8001-428564abb0b8)

Clarissa yelped as the door slammed suddenly open in the silence, the soggy piece of shortbread falling from her fingers and smearing strawberry jam over the front of her nightgown. Not that Clarissa noticed. She was too busy gaping at the sight of the semi-naked Mr Leatham propped against the frame.

He was wearing breeches and a bandage.

Nothing else.

Her mouth went suddenly dry as her palms became moist. Good gracious, he was so...well built. The soft light from the single candle she had next to her gave his skin a golden hue, the shadows emphasising the powerful muscles in his arms and shoulders. Above and below the bandage wound tight around his middle was a dark dusting of hair over even more muscle. It stopped at the base of the strong neck her eyes appeared unable to move above.

Why would they when his body was so very...manly? All in all, it was possibly the most splendid sight Clarissa had ever witnessed.

‘I’m sorry... I didn’t mean to frighten you.’

Against her own body’s wishes, she tore her gaze away from his chest and only then saw the strained look on his face as he rested against the wood. He was very pale. Clearly struggling to stand. Instinctively she shot off the sofa and went to his aid.

‘Oh, Mr Leatham. You poor thing! Here—let me help you.’

‘I am not a thing, madam, and you would do well to remember it!’

Bravely ignoring his murderous expression, she wrapped one arm about his waist and regretted it instantly. His skin was deliciously warm to the touch. Soft velvet draped over steel. His back was as solid as the rest of him appeared, those strong muscles bunched under her fingers making them tingle in the most peculiar way. Forcing herself to concentrate, she wrapped her other arm carefully around his bare arm to help support him. ‘Lean towards me. Let’s get you sat down.’

He did as she asked and she felt his muscles quiver as she manoeuvred him carefully towards the sofa, supremely conscious of how large he was in close quarters. Her head barely reached his chin, the hand which had clamped about her wrist dwarfed hers. Its warmth seemed to brand her, searing her skin in a wholly pleasant but completely inappropriate way. Her heart quickened and her body yearned. That was the only way she could think to describe what was happening. She had the strange urge to run her hands all over his torso, just to discover exactly what all those impressive muscles felt like. Clearly eating too much sugar had scrambled her brain because she was not normally so...needy.

Attempting to ignore her unladylike reaction, Clarissa changed position to help him sit, her face now tantalising close to his neck. So close she could see where the pulse beat beneath his ear. Close enough to be aware of the glorious, masculine smell of him. Just soap and clean sheets, yet the heat of his body made those common fragrances heady in a way which caught her by surprise. His ragged breath feathered against her cheek and did strange, alluring things to parts of her body that had no place being excited. Not when the poor man was in agony and she was the only person around to help him.

‘Thank you.’ His eyes were kind again as he shyly looked away. ‘I didn’t mean to growl.’

She took a hasty step back, clasping her errant hands primly in front of her because they didn’t feel anything like hers any more and she didn’t quite know what to do with them. ‘Do you want me to fetch help?’ Part of her wanted to run away and put some well-needed distance between them. Another part of her scandalously wanted to keep him all to herself. Because he was almost naked and...well...she liked it...and was definitely attracted by the festival of intriguing raw maleness in front of her. And it wasn’t just his physique which intrigued her. The gruff, blushing, intuitive Mr Leatham was equally alluring. She had never been so confused about a man in her life. The usual signals were a contradiction. He was outwardly unfriendly and detached, but had kind, soulful eyes when he thought she wasn’t looking. He seemed so disapproving of her, yet blushed when she flirted. Each time their eyes had met over dinner, her pulse had fluttered. What was that about, when she was supposed to be mourning the loss of her Duke? The fluttering now was making her jumpy. ‘I could wake Joe or Bella.’

He shook his head despite the pain etched on his expression. ‘No!’ He jabbed the air with his finger, ferocious once again. ‘Brandy! Lots of it!’

Clarissa scurried over to the decanter and sloshed as much over her quivering hand as she did in the glass. She pressed it into his, the touch playing yet more havoc with her bouncing nerve endings, holding it steady as he brought it to his mouth and then severing the contact as quickly as she could because her uncharacteristic reaction frightened her.

It wasn’t like her to be so flustered around a man. Being a flirt and charming them was probably the only thing she truly excelled at, yet here she was, more flustered than she had ever been in her life. Mr Leatham had managed to make her feel off kilter since the first moment she had laid eyes on him this morning. With his clothes on he was disconcerting. Without them he thoroughly disorientated her. In such close proximity to his breathtaking presence, Clarissa was uncomfortably lost for words.

Mute, she watched him gulp down the brandy, trying to ignore the way his Adam’s apple bobbed with each swallow or how his ridiculously broad shoulders rose and fell in time with his laboured breathing. He rested his head on the back of the sofa and closed his eyes, the empty glass still clasped limply in his hand.

‘Would you like some more?’

He nodded without opening his eyes and held out the crystal balloon glass. ‘Don’t be stingy with it.’

Clarissa made sure no part of her hand touched his as she took it, refilled the glass and passed it back. For a moment, she seriously considered pouring herself some to steady her nerves, then decided against it because her wits were scrambled quite enough already. There was no telling what they would do under the influence of fortifying spirits. This time he sipped the brandy more slowly and she was relieved to see the colour begin to return to his face. Only when he had eventually drained the second glass did he open his eyes and look at her.

And, good gracious, did he look at her. His dark eyes slowly raked her body from the face down, then darkened as they laboriously climbed back up to meet hers.

Then he chuckled. The sound more intoxicating than any brandy.

‘You look like Medusa.’

The chuckle turned into a laugh which had him wincing as he held his abdomen.

‘And is that jam all over your front?’

One hand went to her head and then her bosom ineffectually. ‘You caught me by surprise. I dropped my biscuit!’ A true gentleman would never have mentioned it. Not outright at any rate. The fact that he had made her feel silly and exposed. ‘What do you think you are about, slamming through doors in the dead of night? It’s your fault I look a fright.’

He glanced to the stain on her front, then back to her head. ‘Then I apologise for frightening you—but that still doesn’t explain your hair. What the blazes have you done to it?’

Both hands now shielded the brightly coloured array of rags sticking up from her head, as if covering them now would erase the mortification she’d experienced at having him see them. Attempting haughty indifference, Clarissa returned her hands to her sides. ‘The rags set the curls.’

‘I knew they weren’t natural.’ More evidence of his lack of gentlemanly manners.

‘No ladies’ curls are natural. We all go to bed like this.’

‘Why?’

‘Because curls are becoming.’

‘Ah. I see.’ Although he plainly didn’t. Still smiling, he leant forward and flicked one of them. ‘They look painful. Do they hurt?’

Yes. ‘No. I barely notice them.’

‘But they are dragging your eyebrows up. You look permanently startled.’ His lips twitched again. ‘Do you wake up with your face aching?’

‘Oh, go ahead. Laugh. Have your fun. I doubt a mere farmer from Norfolk would understand the world I live in.’

She had meant to offend him, remind him his manners were sadly lacking and to put him back in his place, yet he didn’t appear the slightest bit offended. ‘You poor thing! I never realised how the other half suffered. I’m curious—without those...’ he gestured to her head ‘...monstrosities, what does your hair really look like?’