The Mysterious Lord Millcroft. Virginia Heath
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Clarissa had fled here needing that honesty and forthrightness, needing to know that there were no subtle nuances or hidden meanings in conversations, hoping that a few days of not having to pretend to be perfect would fortify her enough to endure the rest of the awful Season—no matter what was thrown at her.
However, in just a few short minutes, her hasty flight from Mayfair to the north was not looking like the most prudent course of action. She had quite forgotten Bella was nursing a hero back to health. Clarissa still missed her sister dreadfully, and usually took great interest in the chatty, weekly letters Bella sent her. The letters she pretended she was far too busy to read. The same letters Clarissa laboriously read alone in her bedchamber, smiled over yet never replied to. Their mother’s letters kept Bella up to speed with all Clarissa’s news, assuming her eldest daughter was too busy or flighty to bother with such things, and out of pride she never corrected that false assumption because she had worked very hard to achieve it.
Whilst it wasn’t the same as having Bella in London, those triangulated missives still felt like a conversation of sorts and reinforced their sisterly bond. But events in Clarissa’s own life had rocked her to her core and quite overshadowed everything else, leaving her floundering and feeling so dreadfully alone and bereft. It had been instinctual to need Bella even though she knew she would never pluck up the courage to confide in her or anyone. There were too many lies now. A decade-and-a-half’s worth. But with Bella she could at least lick her wounds in private and decide on the best move to make upon her return to fix the horrendous mess Clarissa had not seen coming.
None of those things would be easy to do with a stranger in their midst. Not only would Mr Leatham be here for the duration of her brief visit and beyond, Clarissa had not considered how painful it would be to see her brilliant baby sister blissfully happy, head over heels in love with a worthy man who obviously adored her. It rubbed even more salt into an already open wound and made her feel unbelievably stupid once again. Not that she really needed the extra reminders. She’d lived with them all her life.
She felt ashamed at envying Bella’s happiness. Bella was not only brilliant and clever, she was kind, ridiculously brave and the most selfless individual Clarissa had ever known. Bella had worked hard to overcome her insecurities, while Clarissa worked hard to hide all hers. Her only ambition had always been to secure a good marriage to a decent man, one who loved her despite her flaws, become a mother and do wifely things. Frankly, with her limited abilities at anything else, that had seemed ambition enough. Her husband would shield her failings from the world and her life would have some purpose.
But then her face and figure had been lauded as special and her head had been turned by the compliments. If she couldn’t be brilliant, slightly clever or even of average intelligence, being beautiful and sought after had become far more important than it should. Why marry a decent man when she could marry a real catch? A duke, even? It would be the single most triumphant achievement of her life and something few young ladies could ever aspire to. And as the wife of a duke she could employ people to make up for all her failings. Duchesses were too busy to school their own children or reply to their own correspondence. As a duchess, no one—not even her illustrious husband—would ever need to know how truly stupid she was. The allure of perpetuating that lie had sucked her in and Clarissa had quite lost sight of her goals.
What a foolish dream! And yet another example of her lack of wits. She should have settled that first Season when the beaus had been plentiful. Now she was trapped in a nightmare she didn’t dare leave, while sensible Bella was living Clarissa’s only dream. She was loved for who she was—flaws and all.
As much as she loved her sister, she hated walking in her shadow. Bella had always been better than Clarissa in everything. More intelligent. More practical. More academic. More altruistic. She could play the piano, speak passable French in conversation and set a broken bone without any real effort at all. In the two years she had been married to her handsome physician, Bella was practically a fully trained physician herself, albeit one who would never hold the lofty title of doctor on account of her sex, and now she was to become a mother, as well. Unwittingly, she had achieved everything Clarissa had always hoped for and all without trying. While Clarissa had tried everything to win her a man and was still left sitting on the shelf. Unless she thought of a way out of her current, perilous situation quickly, that shelf was beginning to look as if it would become her permanent residence.
* * *
Of course, it hadn’t helped that her sister had ribbed her over luncheon in front of Mr Leatham.
‘Back in town Clarissa is highly sought after. She’s considered an Incomparable. A diamond of the first water.’ Bella had grinned mischievously and Clarissa had forced herself to shake her head and laugh.
‘A preposterous title.’ One she had simultaneously grown to loathe while also fearing the day when she was not being referred to as such. All the signs pointed to that day coming very soon. ‘A silly nonsense thought up by the scandal sheets.’ Who now had labelled other girls as beyond compare. Younger girls. Far more intelligent girls. Girls who hadn’t seen too many Seasons go by and were the new fresh faces competing for the very best gentlemen and one in particular. The Duke of Westbridge. The wealthiest and most eligible bachelor in London, who up until recently solely had eyes for Clarissa. Until his eyes had wandered to pastures new.
‘A gem?’
Mr Leatham said this with a smile, the only one he had bestowed upon her, and for once it was a genuine smile, she could tell. His dark eyes had crinkled in the corners before he had scowled and quickly looked away. Perhaps he wasn’t quite as brash and ferocious as he seemed?
He was not immune to her charms. Clarissa could see through his short, sharp answers and borderline rudeness because he couldn’t seem to take his eyes off her. She was still pretty. Her only saving grace was intact. A reassuring piece of knowledge when her pride and her confidence were so severely damaged, although his charming reaction to her customary flirting came nowhere near close enough to repairing that damage. But then Mr Leatham was no duke and as such lacked the cold self-assurance such men wielded with cruel precision.
He was handsome though, in a rough and ready sort of way. The way he filled out the soft linen shirt he wore open at the neck was quite magnificent.
Broad shoulders, muscular arms, big hands which positively engulfed the delicate china teacup he was trying to hide behind. Nothing at all like the usual men of her acquaintance who padded their coats extensively to achieve half the effect. Nor did he try to impress her with bravado, as men usually did. He was a genuine hero. A man who had selflessly been prepared to sacrifice his own life to save another and was lucky to be alive. Every gentleman she knew would have crowed about his bravery from the highest rooftops, revelling in the deserved admiration he received from his peers. Not so Mr Leatham. As her sister had promised, he was a man of few words and those he did utter were curt. That curtness didn’t put her off him in the slightest because behind his brief, gruff answers and standoffishness, he had nice eyes. Kind eyes. Eyes that told her he listened carefully to everything she said rather than treat her as a purely decorative companion whose only purpose was to listen to what he said. Eyes that frequently, shyly struggled to hold her gaze as he spoke.
How adorable was that?
Once or twice, between glares, Clarissa was convinced he even blushed—which was an unusually endearing trait in a man in his prime and one which made her predisposed to like Mr Leatham a great deal. Even though she knew next to nothing about him and had promised herself not to be so trusting ever again with so little background knowledge of a man’s true character.
‘I can’t say I know any Leathams. Who are your people?’ A ploy to change the subject, although she was curious about the enigmatic man who said so little but she suspected saw so much.
‘They were farmers. In Norfolk.’
‘Were?’
‘I’m the last of the line.’
He said it in such a matter-of-fact way, as if being all alone in the world didn’t matter, but immediately her heart went out to him. Clarissa hated being alone at the best of times