‘What are you plans for the afternoon?’
To die inside. ‘Act normally. Penhurst has arranged a shooting competition for the gentlemen.’ Which blessedly spared him the sight of her.
‘A timely bit of target practice will warm you up for tonight.’ Gray watched him tear the cravat from his neck and throw it to the ground, then slam the wardrobe door shut after he had grabbed the ‘shooting’ clothes the tailor had made for him. So many stupid outfits. So many stupid rules. Oh, how he hated the aristocracy! ‘Do we trust you to hold a gun? In your current mood...’
‘Back off, Gray!’
His friend’s dark eyebrows raised, but he wisely clamped his smart mouth shut. As Seb quickly dressed, he went back to cleaning the pistol. Just as well. The need to resort to violence to relieve the agonising tension in his body was palpable. But this wasn’t Gray’s fault. It was his. He’d allowed himself to be seduced by the exact sort of woman he loathed the most. The judgemental, spoiled, pampered princesses of society. Gem wasn’t from his world. Didn’t adhere to the same rules of conduct he did. Her blood was as blue as her eyes and his, as far as her world was concerned, didn’t pass muster.
And she had lied to him.
Perhaps not with actual words, but certainly with her deeds. Last night, during all the time they were alone together, while they had discussed her doubts about her Duke and lost themselves in each other, she had omitted telling him one significant yet fundamentally critical detail. Westbridge had proposed.
And she hadn’t said no.
Which explained their lengthy discussion about the pros and cons of marrying the man, yet clearly being pompous, self-centred and devoid of all emotion paled into insignificance because of the lofty fact he was a duke.
It didn’t make Seb feel any better when he slammed out of the bedchamber and stamped down the stairs, but when he saw Westbridge and his awful brother guffawing next to Penhurst and his cronies on the lawn a part of him died inside. It took all seven years of his training to strap on the mask of Lord Millcroft. There was nothing left but to act like Millcroft, as well.
‘One hundred pounds says I can outshoot any man here!’
