Chapter Fourteen
Clarissa returned listlessly to her chair with the wives, trying to appear composed, but failing miserably. How could she sound excited about riding tomorrow when Seb was putting himself in harm’s way tonight? Damn Penhurst to hell! At the unladylike thought, her eyes came to rest on him coldly. He was stood smiling smugly with his awful friends, the three looking exceptionally pleased with themselves as they listened to Westbridge who was still holding court by the fireplace.
‘I see you are staring longingly at Westbridge.’ The interruption made her jump. ‘He cuts such a fine figure, doesn’t he?’ Lady Oliva offered her a brittle smile and sat determinedly in the chair next to hers.
It was then Clarissa felt the magnetic pull and just knew he had returned. The room felt warmer. Her eyes drifted to Seb of their own accord and she found herself smiling at his Lord Millcroft persona as he greeted some guests in that imaginary lord’s customary arrogant fashion. ‘Yes, he does. A very fine figure.’ The way Seb’s shoulders filled out his black evening coat was really quite something. Although he wore a bandage better...
‘We shall be seated next to each other at dinner. I am very much looking forward to it. His Grace is excellent company.’
Gracious—they were supposed to be discussing the same man and Clarissa had momentarily forgotten her Duke once again because Seb was occupying her thoughts. Foolishly, she was giving the horrid Olivia the upper hand. ‘Yes, indeed. DearAlbertis very diverting.’ No, he wasn’t, but it would serve the young usurper right to think that she was missing something.
‘This morning we took a turn around the gardens together.’
‘That’s nice.’ Good Lord, how had Clarissa missed that?
‘Yes, indeed. We have been spending a great deal of time in one another’s company since we arrived here in Sussex.’
‘Have you? I haven’t noticed.’ A staggering truth, yet the truth none the less. At this rate, she would have lost the game through her own negligence. It was all well and good being caught up in Seb’s mission, but Clarissa had come here with her own. One that was rapidly receding into the mist and which she couldn’t appear to muster the energy to retrieve.
‘It has been wonderful getting to know him on a deeper level.’
What did that mean? ‘That’s nice.’
‘May I confide in you, Lady Clarissa?’ The girl had a calculated gleam in her eyes.
‘Of course you may.’ Jealousy warred with the overwhelming urge to check on Seb, She could sense him close by. It took a great deal of resolve to stare into her rival’s eyes and smile.
‘His Grace has implied that he is fond of me.’
Implied? Not a declaration, then. But a worry. Yet another worry when her aching head was full of them. ‘Let me guess—he has complimented your beauty?’ One of the few things Westbridge ever noticed about a woman.
Lady Olivia pretended to look coy, as if she found such compliments outrageous. ‘Not just my beauty, but my grace and innate sense of style.’
The usual, then. ‘Try not to read too much into it. DearAlbertdoes tend to flatter the ladies.’ Clarissa took a casual sip of her ratafia and acted bored. Tomorrow, she would get up early, have her maid arrange her hair in a very becoming style and squeeze her into one of her specially made new gowns. Gowns which had been copied from the latest Parisienne fashion plates and the most vibrant un-debutante-like silks. They would swiftly remind Westbridge who was the trueIncomparable.
If she could miraculously muster the energy.
‘It is funny that you mention reading—we have discovered a mutual love of the poems of Lord Byron. He has specifically asked me to read some after dinner.’
Clarissa’s heart plummeted to her toes just as Westbridge turned towards them. His eyes darted between the pair of them as if he wasn’t entirely sure where to look before he hastily turned back to the gentlemen. A telling omen if ever there was one. Her Duke was torn. Her nerves were frazzled. Her old friend and her spy were in jeopardy and she couldn’t memorise an entire Byron poem in an evening at such short notice. Such things usually took days to fake. The best Clarissa could muster on the back foot was a particularly salacious passage from Mrs Radcliffe’sTheRomance of the Forestwhich had been exciting in the extreme and filled with derring-do. That dog-eared favourite novel was hardly of the elevated literary genius of the fêted Byron. Reciting it would make her appear shallow—which of course she was. Olivia had won another round before it had started, making Clarissa’s long-hoped-for future less secure. Every day the ground beneath her feet seemed to get less certain. First her Duke and then the revelations about Penhurst, poor Penny...
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 flawlessIncomparablehad 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.
