Seb seethed throughout the interminable meal and castigated himself for his own stupidity. Of course she hadn’t been gazing at him in adoration. She had been gazing at him infeignedadoration because she had wanted to make the windbag jealous. For Seb, the entire drawing room had disappeared as he lost himself in her eyes. One second he had seen her looking bothered by the simpering Lady Olivia and he had offered her a smile of support. Then time stood still as their gazes locked. He hadn’t felt the need to blush or break eye contact, because in that transcendent, flawless moment there had been just her and him. Understanding. Affection. The latent heat which had simmered between them when they had kissed. A magical sense of rightness.
Clod! The magical, special, achingly tender moment Seb had experienced was uniquely his.
Now he was invisible as Westbridge dominated her time. The pair had been seated together at dinner and ensconced together now that they were all back in the drawing room for the after-dinner entertainments. Something Seb should have expected because that was the way of things. Currently, she was seated next to her younger rival, both gazing up at the fool while he waxed lyrical about something. Westbridge was always waxing about something. So much so he rarely paused for breath. Even Penhurst couldn’t pretend to be riveted by his most illustrious guest’s conversation. He had drifted off a good twenty minutes ago for pastures new.
But Gem was still riveted.
Still desperate to be his duchess.
Why did she want to waste her life with a man who never listened? A man so full of his own hot air that he was blissfully ignorant of all others nearby. He hated seeing her reduced to a pathetic dolt, purposefully suppressing her own sharp intelligence and clever wit in deference to that man’s overwhelming self-importance.
Seb was tempted to go over there and list all the reasons why he was much better than the pompous fool she had set her sights on. Despite his dubious bloodline, lack of significant fortune and absence of illustrious connections, at least he appreciated the woman beneath the perfect face—despite the fact he had grown to loathe her trademark ringlets. If she were miraculously his wife—a foolish image his mind refused to jettison—he would dig a big hole in the garden and bury her dratted curling irons and ban rags at bedtime. Or better still, distract her so thoroughly at bedtime that she was too exhausted to bother with all that nonsense. Those curls, like the silent, adoring creature sat in that chair, was Westbridge’s incarnation of perfection. The woman with poker-straight hair and the smart mouth was his. She could eat biscuits till the cows came home and the pair of them could grow old, plump and wrinkly together. Perhaps he should tell her that and see what she thought about it?
Tell her! As if he could find the words.
Besides, such a declaration would only end in polite rejection. Lady Clarissa Beaumont, earl’s daughter and laudedIncomparable, was always destined to marry a pure aristocrat. What had he expected? That under these unlikely and fraught circumstances two people who never would have collided under the normal run of things could suddenly overcome all the obvious obstacles and live happily ever after? She might makehimblissfully happy, but he couldn’t makehera duchess or erase the dirty stain of his lineage.
She didn’t come from his world. She came from the world of titles and privilege, where the measure of the man didn’t mean a thing against the rank he was born into.Thank you for making him jealous with your splendid flirting!He had been flirting—a milestone in itself—and it had been splendid, and once again his hopes and his heart had been bludgeoned by her thoughtless words. In that moment, that dreadful moment of pain and clarity, he realised he had gone and allowed himself to believe his nocturnal fantasies and fallen a little bit in love with her. Like his naïve mother before him, he had given a chunk of his heart to someone incapable of loving him back.
But unlike his mother he was damned if he would let it define him. If he had fallen for her swiftly, he would damn well fall out of love swiftly, as well. He wanted that chunk of his heart back in his chest where it belonged. Where it would doubtless sit and pine for all that was out of its reach for ever. Clod! He didn’t notice Penhurst sidle up next to him until he spoke.
‘Oh, dear. I see your quest is not going well.’
Clearly he was displaying all of his jealousy and frustration to the room. It was time to be Millcroft again. ‘She will succumb in the end. They always do.’ It would be laughable if it wasn’t so tragic. All his life he had pitied his mother’s poor judge of character, yet now he knew he was no better. Gem was as shallow as she was beautiful. If he was here as plain Seb Leatham, a fatherless nobody, rather than her Duke’s rival, Lord Millcroft, he doubted she would be as cordial. ‘And if she doesn’t, there are plenty more fish in the sea.’ Tasteless and dull fish that would never be as perfect in his eyes. Gem had ruined him for all other women.
‘I’m glad you said that. I might have just the thing to cheer you up.’
‘I’m listening.’
Penhurst touched the side of his nose and winked. ‘A select group are taking a little excursion later tonight. There is a seat in my carriage if you want it.’
‘That depends on where you are going.’ The viscount liked it when Millcroft played hard to get, but already Seb felt sick. Thanks to Gem he knew exactly where they were going and really didn’t want to be invited. Not even for King and country.
‘We are going to a place where the women are willing and plentiful and rules don’t exist.’
Lord save him. This night was rapidly deteriorating into the worst of his life. ‘Splendid. What time do we leave?’
