Like her Duke, Penhurst, too, wore his title like a badge, but as a mere viscount came significantly lower in the pecking order and therefore had less scope to blithely ignore those in the room as Gem’s Duke did. However, his guarded eyes were everywhere, assessing. Currently they were quietly watching Seb, which he assumed was a good thing now that their brief business discussion was concluded and he was quietly pleased with the job he had done under the strained and unexpected circumstances. It showed Penhurst was intrigued enough to want to know more, but was nowhere near ready to reveal his hand. This next part, the dance that Lord Fennimore hoped would lead to overtures, would be tricky. Push too hard and the hatches would be battened. Fail to push and Seb would be easily forgotten. It was a delicate balance and one for which he would need all his wits about him to achieve. The nagging fear about Lady Clarissa blowing his cover wide open needed to be dealt with swiftly, yet to do it he would need to get her alone.
Fortunately, Seb didn’t have to wait long. Another young lady with a head of blonde, tight-corkscrew ringlets sailed over, her destination obviously the Duke. He watched Gem’s arm tighten around Westbridge’s, but upon seeing the younger chit, the Duke immediately extricated himself from her grip and her smile was suddenly as brittle as spun sugar. Not close enough to hear the exchange, Seb watched the other woman tap her dance card and the Duke step forward to take her arm instead, theIncomparablehe had just abandoned clearly already forgotten.
As the pair headed towards the dance floor, the younger girl—because she was far too young, in Seb’s humble opinion, to be considered a woman yet—looked back and shot Clarissa a triumphant smile before literally hanging on the windbag as they walked away.
When those around her stopped watching, the false smile slipped off Clarissa’s lovely face and she appeared rattled. Deflated even, until her slim shoulders stiffened and she elegantly inhaled a very deep breath. Then she swiftly turned on her heel. Seb saw a flash of red disappear towards the refreshment table with more haste than was necessary and deftly followed. Away from her friends, they could talk—if he could get his tongue to untangle long enough to string coherent sentences together. Of all the women he had to run into, all the unforeseen complications, why did it have to be her? And why did she have to look so damn beautiful tonight that she took his breath away?
She sensed him before he had chance to speak and turned just her face to look at him. ‘LordMillcroft. What a surprise.’
‘We need to talk. Privately.’
‘I dare say we do. Do you waltz?’
‘After a fashion.’ At least Flint and Warriner had attempted to teach him the dance when they were all at Cambridge together, in the faint hope he would pluck up the courage to ask a woman to dance with him one day. From memory, he recalled it mostly involved turning and counting to three while avoiding looking at his masculine partner’s grinning face.
‘Splendid. You can begin explaining yourself the moment we reach the floor.’
Seb held out his arm and she laid hers upon it, the odd sensation her touch created joined all the other unwelcome and swirling emotions currently cluttering his mind and putting him off his game. Fear, awkwardness, determination, sprinkled with a touch of jealousy and a generous pinch of wholly inappropriate lust. How the hell was he supposed to do his job with all that going on? She twirled gracefully to face him and curtsied and he just about remembered to bow, then he slid his farmer’s hand around her waist and instantly felt hot.
All at sea.
Her significantly smaller palm slipped into his and she gazed up at him, smiling. Or at least her mouth was smiling. Those fine eyes of hers were shooting poison darts. Even so, his poor heart began to race and his mouth became dry, so dry he feared he’d be unable to speak should he attempt to. He began to silently count the beat in his head—one, two, three...one, two three—as they began to move in the hope that it would calm him.
‘Which are you—a Leatham or a Millcroft?’ Straight to the point. No nonsense. No time to pause and think. Seb missed a step as he considered lying, then thought better of it. Gem was a sharp one and because she knew some of the truth, he would undoubtedly make a huge hash of it.
‘Leatham. You know I am a Leatham. But for the foreseeable future I must be Millcroft.’ Whispering and counting was a challenge, too. There was absolutely no chance of achieving anything vaguely resembling calm within. He was simultaneously hot and cold. Terrified and overwhelmed. All the people, petticoats and the oppressive heat of the dance floor seemed to be closing in on him. Fennimore should never have put him in this position. Less than half an hour in and the stench of failure hung putrid in the air. He could barely dance and the scant bit of socialising he had done already, combined with the presence of the distracting woman in his arms, was giving him palpitations.
‘I am not in the mood for mysterious! What is going on?’
‘Trust me when I tell you it’s probably best if you don’t know.’
‘Yet you expect me to allow you to perpetrate this falsehood in front of my friends! To what end?’
‘It is a matter of national importance.’
‘Really? Do I look as though I was born yesterday?’
She looked beautiful. Smelled beautiful. If he’d known how to flirt Seb would have told her so. Instead he manoeuvred them clumsily towards an alcove, then dragged her by the arm behind a potted palm. For several long moments she stood waiting, her arms crossed bossily over her chest and her scarlet-shod foot tapping impatiently while Seb breathed deeply, considering all his options.
Pretty soon he realised they all boiled down to one. Either she trusted him or she didn’t. If she didn’t, he was doomed anyway. If by some miracle she did, then it would only come about with the truth—or at least as much of the truth as he dared tell her without compromising the rest of the investigation.
‘I work for his Majesty’s government. With both the Home and Foreign Office. I am covertly investigating a dangerous smuggling ring which has infiltrated the highest echelons of society. They are a dangerous gang, with significant resources. Many men have died already trying to infiltrate their ranks, so I must insist that you cannot breathe a word of what I am telling you to anyone.’
‘Covert?’ She blinked and moved her face closer to his. ‘Are you telling me you are a spy?’
‘Yes.’
‘I don’t believe you!’
‘Why do you think I got shot saving that school mistress? Do you think such things happen in everyday life? The man who fired the bullet was one of the smugglers!’
Her mouth opened, then promptly closed again as she considered the validity of his claim. ‘You’re a spy?’ This time she sounded less dismissive, her gaze boring into his searching for the truth.
‘I am one of the King’s Elite.’
‘I’ve never heard of such an organisation!’
‘Precisely. That’s because we operate under the utmost secrecy. But I can assure you we exist. Lord Upminster works at the Foreign Office—he can corroborate my story should you require it—but I am begging you to keep my true identity a secret from your friends. It really is a matter of national importance.’
