Chapter Twenty-One
Clarissa floated into the breakfast room, rejuvenated despite the few minutes of sleep she had managed to snatch between bouts of splendid lovemaking. Seb was already seated, looking more handsome than he ever had. She had watched him swallow at the sight of her, pleased that the simple, loose knot Agnes had arranged her hair in perfectly displayed its lack of curls. It was a statement. A declaration of love. One it was obvious he appreciated.
Breakfast was the least formal meal in the Penhurst house and guests seated themselves. This morning’s bunch was sparse. Penny sat at the head of the table, Westbridge and the young usurper on one side and Seb sat alone on the other. Supremely conscious of his eyes on her, Clarissa loaded her plate with all the foods she usually deftly avoided. Because he adored her curves, and to her maid’s utter consternation, she had insisted her stays should be looser and more comfortable this morning. It was a good job. Clarissa was famished. In fact, she could not remember a time when she had been this hungry. Confession truly was good for the soul. So was pleasure. Seb had invented a scandalous way of helping her consign his questions for Penny to memory. She had remembered them all much earlier than she let on, prolonging the sweet torture until all rational thought was impossible. She was going to thoroughly enjoy being his wife.
Not that he’d asked.
They had been too busy exploring each other to discuss the inevitable formalities.
Balancing a slice of toast onto the mountain of eggs and bacon on her plate, she took herself to the seat next to Seb.
‘Good morning, my lord. How are you?’
‘Never better, my lady. Yourself?’
‘In fine fettle. The finest, in fact.’ Thanks to his talented mouth and the glorious other parts of his anatomy. His knee came to rest next to hers proprietorially and desire bloomed afresh. Would they be able to sneak away some time this morning? Clarissa certainly hoped so. Making love to Seb was her new favourite form of exercise.
‘Good morning, Lady Clarissa.’
The clipped tones of the Duke of Westbridge reminded her of his existence and reluctantly she tore her eyes away from her handsome lover to politely smile down the table. What on earth had she ever seen in the man? In a ridiculous profusion of lace, the Duke appeared annoyed. She couldn’t muster the enthusiasm to care what about. ‘Good morning, your Grace. And Lady Olivia. You look lovely today.’ Clearly her good mood knew no bounds if she was tossing out compliments so blithely. But then Olivia was no longer competition now that Clarissa had won the real prize.
‘You look...different. Whathaveyou done to your hair?’ The younger woman’s smile didn’t touch her eyes.
‘Nothing whatsoever. I left it as nature intended. It’s wonderfully liberating. You should try it.’
‘Alas, my hair is naturally curly.’
She felt Seb’s warm palm smooth up her thigh under the table and swallowed the bubble of laughter that threatened. ‘Lucky you. I have to sleep in uncomfortable rags to get mine to curl. I’ve decided to dispense with them henceforth.’ Alongside her tighter corsets and her virginity. And the ridiculously constricting label ofIncomparable. That, too, was part of her past and she was done pretending. Clarissa was going to be herself from now on. ‘Could you pass the jam, Lady Olivia? I have a sudden craving for sweet things.’
The table fell silent as she smothered her toast in a thick, crimson layer of raspberry preserve as if the concept of a young lady indulging in sugar in public were entirely alien. She supposed it was. They all curbed their natural desires and personalities to secure the right husband, a wholly pathetic notion now that she thought about it properly. Thanks to Seb, the blinkers Clarissa had worn for a decade had been totally discarded. There was a whole world outside of the claustrophobic confines of polite society where a woman’s life was dictated by unreasonable expectations.
Frankly, it no longer mattered that she couldn’t speak French or play an instrument, paint or embroider. She was loved rather than admired. Respected for her quick thinking and canny insight. Her new world involved espionage and excitement, passion and laughter. A meaningful sense of purpose. Love. None of those meant she needed to abandon her desire to have a family—only now she would be having a family with a man she adored rather than one who loved the façade she had painstakingly constructed and hidden behind all her adult life. The urge to paint a garish and childish rainbow was overwhelming.
‘Penny, can I borrow your watercolours this morning?’ With Seb off to meet his men this morning, she might as well indulge her whim.
‘I didn’t know you could draw?’ Her friend sounded amused at the uncharacteristic request.
‘I can’t, but that doesn’t mean I shouldn’t.’ She might even take a Mrs Radcliffe novel out on the lawn and struggle through it at a snail’s pace. Feeling loved made Clarissa feel invincible.
‘Then perhaps we should take a ride across the estate?’ Never one to miss an opportunity, Lady Olivia pawed at Westbridge’s scrawny arm.
‘Would you care to ride with us, Lady Clarissa?’ The ugly vein next to Westbridge’s eye was pulsing. It almost put her off her jam.
‘No, thank you. But the pair of you should go.’ And ride off into the sunset together towards their inevitably miserable society marriage. With her blessing. ‘I’m sure dear Olivia would prefer having you all to herself, your Grace.’
‘I shall go and change immediately!’ The barnacle practically bolted in case anyone changed their mind, her bird-sized breakfast already forgotten.
Penny was watching her intently, a question in her eyes. ‘If you don’t mind the company Clarissa, I should like to paint, too.’
‘I should love some.’ Although the prospect did dampen her buoyant mood, Seb needed answers and Clarissa needed to find a way of forewarning her friend of the chaos to come without compromising the mission. Seb squeezed her thigh in sympathy, then stood.
‘I shall see you later, ladies.’ His head tilted ever so slightly. ‘Your Grace.’
She watched him leave with a definite spring in his step and grinned into her napkin. ‘I should change also. Excuse me.’ Westbridge clicked his heels like a Russian Prince and strode out as well, clearly fuming. That, too, made her smile.
‘What’s going on?’ Penny darted from the carver chair at the end of the table to the one Seb had just vacated.
‘I’m not sure what you mean?’ The smug, satisfied smile refused to fade and she found herself grinning openly at her friend.
