The Mysterious Lord Millcroft

by Virginia Heath

  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

  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?’

  ‘It is as straight as a poker. Just like my sister’s.’ Why had she confessed that?

  ‘Bella has lovely hair.’

  ‘Yes, of course she does, but...’ Having to justify her choice of hairstyle was ridiculous, so she clamped her mouth shut in case she said things she would rather he didn’t know. Bella didn’t have to be persistently beautiful every waking minute of the day. She had her man. And her enormous brain and copious talents.

  ‘But you are the Incomparable, therefore your hair has to curl. Your clothes have to be perfect. Every nuanced movement has to convey your sheer perfection. A diamond of the first water.’ He wafted his large hand in the air like a ballet dancer. Mocking her. Earlier he could barely string two words together and now suddenly he was capable of the most cruel and cutting insults. More cruel because they were completely accurate. The insufferable, insightful man.

  ‘Go back to planting your turnips!’ Clarissa stomped to the door.

  ‘It was turkeys actually, not turnips. But mostly geese, if you must know. Norfolk is famous for its poultry. Every year my grandfather would walk them to London wearing little leather boots to protect their feet. Always made me laugh as a child. Birds in boots.’ He said this conversationally, his deep voice slurring slightly. Clarissa turned against her better judgement and saw him slumped a little and smiling soppily. It was the brandy loosening his tongue, she realised. She had given him rather a lot of it. ‘Would you read to me? You have a lovely voice.’

  ‘No, I will not.’ The suggestion alone had brought out a cold sweat and panic. ‘It would be wholly improper.’

  ‘Can you at least pass me the shortbread before you leave? I daren’t move and I’m starving.’

  Of their own accord, her feet moved to do his bidding. She snatched up what was left of the original biscuit and thrust it at him, only to have him snap it in half and pass a piece right back. ‘It was your midnight feast. I’d feel guilty if I ate it all. Does shortbread taste better with jam?’ His eyes flicked to the jar.

  ‘Everything tastes better with jam.’ To prove her point she dipped the edge of hers in the pot and then held it out for him to do the same. He took a bite, chewed thoughtfully, then nodded.

  ‘You are right. It does. But if you have such a sweet tooth, why did you refuse the trifle at dinner?’

  ‘I didn’t feel like trifle.’

  ‘Of course.’ He said it with a disbelieving note of sarcasm before taking another bite while those dark eyes scrutinised hers. ‘Is he worth it?’

  ‘I’m sorry?’

  ‘Your duke? Is he worth depriving yourself of desserts and trying to sleep with all that nonsense on your head?’

  This man was too insightful. ‘He’s a duke.’

  ‘Dukes are merely men in finer waistcoats.’

  Clarissa smiled then, she couldn’t help it. Like this, a little bit tipsy and suddenly vocal, Mr Leatham was quite charming. ‘And there speaks a man with little experience with the breed.’

  ‘I have lots of experience with dukes. My father was one.’

  The last bite of biscuit paused midway to her lips. ‘You jest!’

  ‘Not at all. My father was a very illustrious duke.’ He waved his hand in the air loftily. ‘Very well connected at court—although I’m not supposed to talk about it or mention his name alongside mine. It’s a big secret. He thought himself most benevolent in quietly acknowledging me behind closed doors and providing for me financially. I received a gentleman’s education, I’ll have you know. I even went to Cambridge... Never had a seat at his table though. Appearances and all that.’

  ‘You are a...’ How did one put it politely?

  ‘By-blow? Nullius filius? Illegitimate? Born on the wrong side of the blanket? There are many gentle ways to say bastard, my lady—none of them alter the truth.’ He toasted her with his glass. ‘I have a half-brother who’s a duke, too. He’s a pompous man. Once called me a “thing”, just like you did. “Get that thing out of my house.” I remember it verbatim because those are the only words he’s ever said to me.’

  Her cornflower eyes widened and Seb wondered what had possessed him to tell her, until he remembered he had consumed two huge glasses of brandy, in quick succession and on an empty stomach whilst physically as weak as a kitten. He’d never been much of a drinker and thanks to his injury hadn’t touched a drop in a month. Was it any wonder the strong spirit had gone straight to his head? ‘Sorry. Didn’t mean to tell you that. I think those brandies have loosened my tongue. I’m not normally this chatty. Usually I’m shy around females. Painfully shy. I don’t suppose a fine lady like yourself would understand what that’s like, but aside from my mother I never really knew any women growing up... Why am I admitting that?’ It hadn’t just loosened his tongue, apparently it had also greased his jaws.

  ‘By the time I was grown I had no clue what women to go for. Being a by-blow you sort of sit on the fence between the two. I am neither a gentleman nor a peasant. I have nothing in common with the uneducated women and I have no experience of the merchant class, so never really understood where a man in my position hunts for women. And so many look down their nose at my situation, it’s rather put me off trying. Do you know, I can’t even flirt? Never dared try it.’ Largely because he didn’t want to suffer the inevitable reaction when they learned he was nothing better than a rich man’s bastard.

  Her multicoloured head leant closer. ‘Are you telling me that you have never...?’ Her words trailed off as her perfect cheeks blushed.

  ‘No! Of course not. There have been a few women, but fortunately, every woman has seduced me. Thank goodness. Else I’d be hurtling towards thirty with no experience whatsoever.’ Seb started to laugh at his own ineptitude. ‘The first time, I was so green I didn’t realise what was going on until I found myself in her bedroom. Probably shouldn’t have told you that either, but I’m very tired.’ He could
feel his limbs getting heavier with fatigue and suspected he would sleep like a baby for the rest of the night. Lord, he was exhausted. So weary he could barely see straight. All she had to do was ask and he probably would confess all his secrets.

  Yet sat here with her in the candlelight, his tongue blessedly untied for once, admitting to his shameful lineage and his failings had been surprisingly easy. With her hair poking out of her head in rainbow tufts, jam stains on the front of her nightdress and one unnoticed sticky lump glued just above her lip, the Gem didn’t seem half as terrifying as she had before. There was something endearingly normal about her now and somehow he found this version far more attractive than he did the other incarnation. This woman was real. Vulnerable and much more accessible. Despite the pull of Morpheus, he wanted to spend more time with her. ‘Why do you want to marry a duke? Their privilege and upbringing make them very difficult men.’

  She inhaled deeply, then sighed it out, perching herself on the edge of the chair directly opposite him while she considered whether or not to answer. Then she shrugged. ‘He’s a duke.’

  ‘Who clearly makes you miserable.’

  ‘Why do you say that?’

  ‘Because I might be hopeless with women, but I notice things, Gem. Every time his name came up in conversation today, your smile wasn’t genuine.’ At least the brandy had numbed the pain even though Seb had to concentrate to keep his eyes open.

  ‘Dukes are fickle things.’

  ‘That they are. But they are still men.’ And untrustworthy ones at that.

  She swayed closer, within arm’s reach as she listened intently to his words. With staggering clarity considering his progressively inebriated state, and his increasingly heavy eyelids, he knew she had lost her confidence. Something which was as mind boggling as it was tragic. ‘Stop giving him power over you. Don’t let his elevated social standing and inflated sense of his own importance diminish what you are.’ Wise words he had tried, yet still failed, to live by. His hand stretched out and touched her cheek. It was soft. So soft. Absolute perfection. Her eyes lifted to his and they shared what he thought was a perfect moment. One he ruined with a huge, noisy yawn.