disconcerting. Without them he thoroughly disorientated her. In such close proximity to his breathtaking presence, Clarissa was uncomfortably lost for words.
Mute, she watched him gulp down the brandy, trying to ignore the way his Adam’s apple bobbed with each swallow or how his ridiculously broad shoulders rose and fell in time with his laboured breathing. He rested his head on the back of the sofa and closed his eyes, the empty glass still clasped limply in his hand.
‘Would you like some more?’
He nodded without opening his eyes and held out the crystal balloon glass. ‘Don’t be stingy with it.’
Clarissa made sure no part of her hand touched his as she took it, refilled the glass and passed it back. For a moment, she seriously considered pouring herself some to steady her nerves, then decided against it because her wits were scrambled quite enough already. There was no telling what they would do under the influence of fortifying spirits. This time he sipped the brandy more slowly and she was relieved to see the colour begin to return to his face. Only when he had eventually drained the second glass did he open his eyes and look at her.
And, good gracious, did he look at her. His dark eyes slowly raked her body from the face down, then darkened as they laboriously climbed back up to meet hers.
Then he chuckled. The sound more intoxicating than any brandy.
‘You look like Medusa.’
The chuckle turned into a laugh which had him wincing as he held his abdomen.
‘And is that jam all over your front?’
One hand went to her head and then her bosom ineffectually. ‘You caught me by surprise. I dropped my biscuit!’ A true gentleman would never have mentioned it. Not outright at any rate. The fact that he had made her feel silly and exposed. ‘What do you think you are about, slamming through doors in the dead of night? It’s your fault I look a fright.’
He glanced to the stain on her front, then back to her head. ‘Then I apologise for frightening you—but that still doesn’t explain your hair. What the blazes have you done to it?’
Both hands now shielded the brightly coloured array of rags sticking up from her head, as if covering them now would erase the mortification she’d experienced at having him see them. Attempting haughty indifference, Clarissa returned her hands to her sides. ‘The rags set the curls.’
‘I knew they weren’t natural.’ More evidence of his lack of gentlemanly manners.
‘No ladies’ curls are natural. We all go to bed like this.’
‘Why?’
‘Because curls are becoming.’
‘Ah. I see.’ Although he plainly didn’t. Still smiling, he leant forward and flicked one of them. ‘They look painful. Do they hurt?’
Yes. ‘No. I barely notice them.’
‘But they are dragging your eyebrows up. You look permanently startled.’ His lips twitched again. ‘Do you wake up with your face aching?’
‘Oh, go ahead. Laugh. Have your fun. I doubt a mere farmer from Norfolk would understand the world I live in.’
She had meant to offend him, remind him his manners were sadly lacking and to put him back in his place, yet he didn’t appear the slightest bit offended. ‘You poor thing! I never realised how the other half suffered. I’m curious—without those...’ he gestured to her head ‘...monstrosities, what does your hair really look like?’
‘It is as straight as a poker. Just like my sister’s.’ Why had she confessed that?
‘Bella has lovely hair.’
‘Yes, of course she does, but...’ Having to justify her choice of hairstyle was ridiculous, so she clamped her mouth shut in case she said things she would rather he didn’t know. Bella didn’t have to be persistently beautiful every waking minute of the day. She had her man. And her enormous brain and copious talents.
‘But you are the Incomparable, therefore your hair has to curl. Your clothes have to be perfect. Every nuanced movement has to convey your sheer perfection. A diamond of the first water.’ He wafted his large hand in the air like a ballet dancer. Mocking her. Earlier he could barely string two words together and now suddenly he was capable of the most cruel and cutting insults. More cruel because they were completely accurate. The insufferable, insightful man.
‘Go back to planting your turnips!’ Clarissa stomped to the door.
‘It was turkeys actually, not turnips. But mostly geese, if you must know. Norfolk is famous for its poultry. Every year my grandfather would walk them to London wearing little leather boots to protect their feet. Always made me laugh as a child. Birds in boots.’ He said this conversationally, his deep voice slurring slightly. Clarissa turned against her better judgement and saw him slumped a little and smiling soppily. It was the brandy loosening his tongue, she realised. She had given him rather a lot of it. ‘Would you read to me? You have a lovely voice.’
‘No, I will not.’ The suggestion alone had brought out a cold sweat and panic. ‘It would be wholly improper.’
‘Can you at least pass me the shortbread before you leave? I daren’t move and I’m starving.’
Of their own accord, her feet moved to do his bidding. She snatched up what was left of the original biscuit and thrust it at him, only to have him snap it in half and pass a piece right back. ‘It was your midnight feast. I’d feel guilty if I ate it all. Does shortbread taste better with jam?’ His eyes flicked to the jar.
‘Everything tastes better with jam.’ To prove her point she dipped the edge of hers in the pot and then held it out for him to do the same. He took a bite, chewed thoughtfully, then nodded.
‘You are right. It does. But if you have such a sweet tooth, why did you refuse the trifle at dinner?’
‘I didn’t feel like trifle.’
‘Of course.’ He said it with a disbelieving note of sarcasm before taking another bite while those dark eyes scrutinised hers. ‘Is he worth it?’
‘I’m sorry?’
‘Your duke? Is he worth depriving yourself of desserts and trying to sleep with all that nonsense on your head?’
This man was too insightful. ‘He’s a duke.’
‘Dukes are merely men in finer waistcoats.’
Clarissa smiled then, she couldn’t help it. Like this, a little bit tipsy and suddenly vocal, Mr Leatham was quite charming. ‘And there speaks a man with little experience with the breed.’
‘I have lots of experience with dukes. My father was one.’
The last bite of biscuit paused midway to her lips. ‘You jest!’
‘Not at all. My father was a very illustrious duke.’ He waved his hand in the air loftily. ‘Very well connected at court—although I’m not supposed to talk about it or mention his name alongside mine. It’s a big secret. He thought himself most benevolent in quietly acknowledging me behind closed doors and providing for me financially. I received a gentleman’s education, I’ll have you know. I even went to Cambridge... Never had a seat at his table though. Appearances and all that.’
‘You are a...’ How did one put it politely?
‘By-blow? Nullius filius? Illegitimate? Born on the wrong side of the blanket? There are many gentle ways to say bastard, my lady—none of them alter the truth.’ He toasted her with his glass. ‘I have a half-brother who’s a duke, too. He’s a pompous man. Once called me a “thing”, just like you did. “Get that thing out of my house.” I remember it verbatim because those are the only words he’s ever said to me.’
Her cornflower eyes widened and Seb wondered