The Mysterious Lord Millcroft. Virginia Heath

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      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. It was an insulting label he never wanted to hear again. Which meant he needed to get up and down those damn stairs himself to be able to safely disappear into the sanctuary of the same bedchamber he had thought a prison only this morning. Safe from Incomparables with a warped sense of humour and his own intense and mortifying reaction to them.

      He stared at the steps with a heavy heart. They were steep, he knew, and the hard wood jarred his mashed guts with each painful step. There had to be a way of doing it without nearly dying from the effort. Rely on the strength in his arms, perhaps? Lean on the banister a certain way? Whatever it took, he would find a solution tonight and save himself from all potential further embarrassment.

      Supporting himself on his good side, Seb gripped the sturdy banister for all he was worth and rested his upper body on it. Only then did he risk lowering one foot down. The movement did something to his torn innards which robbed him of the ability to breathe. It took a full ten seconds before he could lower the other foot, but that hurt less as everything inside lurched to its proper place. Encouraged, he managed another four stairs in much the same manner, then, fearful he was about to pass out, allowed himself five minutes’ rest slumped over the wood. After the next four stairs, he was dangerously light-headed and needed to lie down, but as there was now a greater distance upwards than down he decided his best option was to recover on the sofa. Down had to be easier than up. Up, in his current state, might well kill him.

      The remaining stairs caused white-hot pain behind his eyes despite the fact he took them slower than the clock hands had moved over dinner and he found himself slumped against the bottom banister for an age before he could even think about moving again, heartily annoyed at himself for biting off far more than he could plainly chew and being goaded by his stubborn pride to do so because of her.

      Attempting the stairs had been stupidity incarnate. Something a weakened man with a hole in his chest and a distinct lack of energy should never have attempted alone. Pride had been his sole motivator, just as it always had been when fate thought it was having the last laugh. But pride came before a fall. It was a blasted miracle he hadn’t fallen and undone all the good work the doctor had done. The implications didn’t bear thinking about. Ripped stitches. Internal bleeding. And all in the middle of the night when there was nobody around to save him. Seb deserved a damn good telling off for being so careless with his life and was likely due one unless he could find the strength to get himself back to his bed before his hosts found out what a blithering idiot he had been or Miss Perfect witnessed this fresh humiliation.

      However, returning up Mount Staircase at this very moment was out of the question. The muscles in his arms were shaking from the effort of getting down, acid was roiling in his stomach and his head was all over the place. He needed to sit. Rest. Regroup. The door to the drawing room was ten feet away, yet that ten feet suddenly felt like ten miles now, longer if he hugged the wall rather than went as the crow flies. There seemed little chance he could get there without a wall propping him upright, so he didn’t bother trying.

      Seb fell against it thankfully and squeezed his eyes shut against the pain, allowing the cold plaster to cool the burning in his back until the dizziness and nausea subsided. From then on, he edged his way along the hallway, shuffling again as that was all he had left in him, until he finally arrived at his destination. In a few steps there was soft upholstery. Nothing else mattered.