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.
‘I can manage myself.’ Seb had let go of the footman and dragged his broken body up the next step unaided, only to be swamped with dizziness and forced to collapse back against the footman in case he fell. Joe had sprinted up next to him and grabbed his other arm.
‘You’re not strong enough yet to do this alone.’
‘There is no need to be so proud in front of me, Mr Leatham.’ That seductive voice again, secure in the knowledge that he had attempted to tackle the stairs alone because she was stood watching him. It was beyond galling.
Hours later it still galled. Those were the last words she’d said to him as she had watched him struggle the rest of the way up, denying him the dignity to fail so abominably at a simple task in private. He loathed being feeble and dependent on others; he had spent the first thirteen years of his life being an inconvenient dependent and had come to hate that state with a passion, but being feeble and so obviously dependent in front of her was beyond the pale.
The minx had run rings around him all day and had thoroughly enjoyed seeing him wrestle with embarrassment when his ferocious mask had slipped. He closed his eyes and for the umpteenth time relived some of the more cringeworthy moments of a day stuffed full of them. The way he had stuttered over the questions about a wife, a fiancée or anyone he particularly had his eye on had been awkward in the extreme, but nothing compared to the horrendous way he had blushed when she had noticed he had put a coat on for dinner and then told him he needn’t have bothered on her account, you poor, brave thing, so it was patently obvious she had known he’d donned the too-tight borrowed coat expressly for her.
His stupid ears had glowed for several minutes afterwards because she had made a point of watching them intently and asking repeatedly if he was hot. Which he was. With shame at his own legendary ineptitude around the fairer sex, while she was undoubtedly the fairest of them all, and for being such an obvious clod in her presence. Even while she was teasing him, his traitorous gaze kept wandering back to her irritatingly perfect face, finest of fine eyes and luscious, vexing mouth. His errant thoughts distinctly carnal, yet his mouth crippled by angry self-consciousness. He’d picked at his food like a bird, despite the fact he was famished, in case he further disgraced himself and dribbled more on his chin. By the end of the interminable meal, his conversation had deteriorated into growled one-word answers.
Yet the Gem still persisted with her questions even as they both sat reading before bedtime.
Mercilessly.
He might currently be a monosyllabic, coarse clod, but even clods had some pride. If he couldn’t be erudite, he could at least be fit enough to facilitate his own escape next time he collided with her and climb those damn stairs himself! He would exercise away the weakness in his body and find a way to conquer those stairs... Obviously in secret. Well away from the mocking eyes of the Incomparable or his well-meaning hosts. If Bella or Joe caught him exercising before they thought he was ready, they’d put a servant on watch and he’d be chained to the bed for sure. But if he wasn’t allowed to move, how the hell was he supposed to build his strength up? They didn’t know his limits and, by God, he had a long way to go yet before he reached them!
And thanks to her he was now starving as well as emasculated. Building his strength up required food, which was also down those blasted stairs. Imbued with the outraged strength of the self-righteous and clutching his painful abdomen, Seb gingerly sat up, then slowly twisted his legs from the mattress. He used the nightstand and rested the full weight of his body on his arms to stand up, then panted through the pain as it burned in his gut. He shuffled, rather than walked, to the door, then muttered a frustrated obscenity under his breath. It would take a month of Sundays to get fit at this arduous rate and he was damned if he would lose a month. He needed to push past the pain. Ignore the weakness. Be better than he was, which ironically was the sorry story of his life. Always trying to be better, yet never quite measuring up.
Remarkably, the discomfort lessened as he shuffled along the landing. Clearly moving was warming up those atrophied muscles. They still screamed, but not so much in agony any longer, more just a disgruntled shout. Maybe in a few more minutes, the shouting would become the occasional bellow? He simply had to push himself, just as he always had. Especially when things were at their worst. It never ceased to amaze him what he was truly capable of when he stretched himself to his limits, something he did with surprising regularity thanks to the obstacles life constantly put in his way and because of his stubborn refusal to let others believe he wasn’t good enough when he tried to prove to everyone he was. From birth, his betters had always looked down their noses at him, casting unsupported judgements based entirely on prejudice, and he prided himself on always proving them wrong. Seb was as good as anyone. He made sure of it. It was that tenacity that made him a fearless fighter, a logical problem solver and a damned good spy. Only he knew he didn’t believe it himself.
The staircase loomed, mocking him. The foul taste of humiliation at having to be supported by two men as they hauled his sorry carcass back up it in front of Lady Clarissa was something Seb never wanted to repeat. ‘Oh, you poor, brave thing.’ He bet she never referred to her fancy Duke as a thing.