Virginia Heath - The Mysterious Lord Millcroft

‘I’m sure it’s only a matter of time before we all have to refer to you as your Grace .’

Bella’s teasing tone was almost her undoing, but she managed to force a smile in response before hiding behind her own teacup, thoroughly disgusted at her own youthful foolishness at allowing herself to be seduced by the idea of being better than she was. Then she caught Mr Leatham staring at her quizzically. Almost as if he knew that the whole Incomparable Lady Clarissa was indeed one big, fat sham and the real Clarissa wasn’t much of a catch for anyone. A sad truth which couldn’t be denied.

After that, the rest of the lunch was pure torture. Mr Leatham listened to Bella regale tale after tale about Clarissa’s legions of suitors, expecting her to embellish certain stories in her customary witty manner. It was exhausting and humbling to remember exactly how far she had fallen since her empty head had been turned. When Bella had insisted her patient return to bed because he looked worn out, Clarissa, too, pleaded tiredness from her travels. She needed time to lick her wounds in private and to repair her mask before dinner, which had been more of the same—only worse. Much worse.

* * *

Throughout the evening she had not only had to contend with Mr Leatham’s intelligent, silent assessment as she pretended to be engrossed in a book to avoid conversation, but the sight of her baby sister and her husband together. Deliriously happy, perfectly content. Hopelessly in love. A stark reminder that Clarissa had failed to manage that in much the same way as she failed at everything else Bella excelled at. Yet hardly a surprise really. Bella had substance and Clarissa had none. Dreaming of finding a man who loved her was as futile as believing she could pull the wool over the eyes of the ton indefinitely.

Fleeing here had been a huge mistake. Her unexpected visit would be fleeting. Another day at most. Any more would likely destroy what was left of her self-esteem and render her a gibbering, self-pitying wreck. If she shed any more tears, it would show in her face—while Lady Olivia’s fresh face would undoubtedly be strain-free.

She let her maid come in and help her prepare for bed, endured the pain of her hair being bound in the tight rags which kept her trademark ringlets in place, better than any curling irons, and then gratefully sank into bed. Only, sleep proved to be as elusive as a proposal and some time between midnight and dawn, she gave up and took herself back downstairs to warm some milk in the hope it would magically cure the restlessness and provide some respite from her worries.

Insomnia had always been an issue, even before she had taken to wearing the uncomfortable rags in bed. Clarissa had never been one of those people who could simply close her eyes and doze off. Her mind didn’t work that way. Usually, it was at its most active as her head hit the pillow, and once she had given every dilemma some serious thought she naturally drifted off. But of course, usually the only dilemmas she had were what gown to wear to the next soirée, what topics of conversation would be the most engaging and what was the best way to tell a story so that she could consign it to memory. Everything had to be consigned to memory because she could hardly write it down.

Literally.

Like so many other talents, writing extended prose was beyond her capabilities. Now her head was filled with a conundrum which wouldn’t be solved by a well-cut watered silk or a scandalous discussion about the latest society gossip. Now she had to work out a way to outshine Lady Olivia Spencer and capture her Duke for ever.

Then again, perhaps new gowns were the answer. Westbridge was a famous collector of beauty. It had been one of the biggest reasons she had chosen him as a potential husband. His ostentatious Mayfair mansion was crammed to the rafters with exotic objets d’art from around the globe. Ancient Egyptian sarcophagi sat beneath paintings from the Renaissance masters, Roman and Greek pottery adorned the finest Italian sideboards. Even the windows were draped in delicate French lace and the very best silk from the Orient. The mish-mash of styles had never been to Clarissa’s liking, but the ton lauded him for his magnificent taste. Even the Regent was envious of her Duke’s collection of art. She pretended enthusiasm with the same aplomb as she pretended to be so much better than she actually was. But Clarissa could be beautiful, if nothing else, and had ensured she was as beautiful as possible whenever she was in his presence in the hope he would add her to his collection. Fortunately, thus far he hadn’t expected her to be anything else, which was just as well. Because there really wasn’t anything else she could impress him with.

Unlike her sister, Clarissa’s talents were few and the least said about her academic achievements the better. Once upon a time she had desperately wanted to learn, only to discover that she didn’t possess the skills necessary to accomplish even that. She was the most unaccomplished Incomparable that ever graced the ballrooms of Mayfair, her only talents had always been the ability to charm the birds from the trees and to turn the heads of gentlemen.

She had a pleasing face and figure.

That was all.

A face and a figure which had been on the marriage mart for nearly four long years. If she could go back in time, she would have a stern talk with her younger self, remind her of her limits and tell her that setting her sights on a duke was pure folly. Dukes were fickle and few and far between. She should have married one of the earls or viscounts who had lined up to court her in her first two Seasons, then she would have the title which everyone believed an Incomparable deserved, albeit a lesser one. Those peers still had literate servants and paid for tutors. She’d be married, have her own home and probably a child or three already.

Then it wouldn’t matter if her figure turned to fat because she desperately wanted to eat and her perfect cheekbones disappeared under plumper, happy, married cheeks. Or that she couldn’t read any faster now than she did when she had been eight years old, despite her secret love of Mrs Radcliffe’s novels, and, although her handwriting was lovely, because Lord knew she had practised it often enough in the private confines of her bedchamber, she couldn’t spell to save her life. The letters were always correct, but the order they came in was nonsense. As mistress of her own house, she would issue all her instructions verbally, consign all important facts to her blissfully huge memory and pray that nobody—including that elusive yet-to-be husband—would be any the wiser to the shameful fact that she was on the cusp of being completely illiterate.

Agitated, she sloshed milk in a pan and set it to warm, then decided she was so depressed she deserved something sweet. Since her come-out she had denied herself cakes and biscuits, rarely ate anything covered in her beloved pastry and avoided any food bigger than the palm of her hand in case she gained unattractive weight, but frankly, after the week she’d had, only sugar would do. A quick rifle in the well-stocked pantry provided her with a whole round of crisp shortbread and a jar of strawberry jam. Exactly what she needed.

Despondent, she loaded the whole lot onto a tray and carried it into the drawing room. Sitting cross-legged on the sofa she unashamedly slathered a biscuit in a thick layer of jam, dipped the whole lot in her milk until it went deliciously soft and soggy, then shoved it into her mouth, sighing noisily in joy.

* * *

‘Oh, you poor thing! Shall we call someone else to help carry you?’ She had touched his arm in sympathy, an arm which he had tugged away swiftly as if he had been burned, which in a manner of speaking he had. He’d felt that calculated, flirtatious touch all the way down to his feet and at the roots of his hair. And once again, she had known the powerful effect she had on him. Doubtless it was the same effect she had over all men and to be yet another admirer in that long line made him feel insignificant in the extreme.