The Mysterious Lord Millcroft. Virginia Heath

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СКАЧАТЬ concentrate, she wrapped her other arm carefully around his bare arm to help support him. ‘Lean towards me. Let’s get you sat down.’

      He did as she asked and she felt his muscles quiver as she manoeuvred him carefully towards the sofa, supremely conscious of how large he was in close quarters. Her head barely reached his chin, the hand which had clamped about her wrist dwarfed hers. Its warmth seemed to brand her, searing her skin in a wholly pleasant but completely inappropriate way. Her heart quickened and her body yearned. That was the only way she could think to describe what was happening. She had the strange urge to run her hands all over his torso, just to discover exactly what all those impressive muscles felt like. Clearly eating too much sugar had scrambled her brain because she was not normally so...needy.

      Attempting to ignore her unladylike reaction, Clarissa changed position to help him sit, her face now tantalising close to his neck. So close she could see where the pulse beat beneath his ear. Close enough to be aware of the glorious, masculine smell of him. Just soap and clean sheets, yet the heat of his body made those common fragrances heady in a way which caught her by surprise. His ragged breath feathered against her cheek and did strange, alluring things to parts of her body that had no place being excited. Not when the poor man was in agony and she was the only person around to help him.

      ‘Thank you.’ His eyes were kind again as he shyly looked away. ‘I didn’t mean to growl.’

      She took a hasty step back, clasping her errant hands primly in front of her because they didn’t feel anything like hers any more and she didn’t quite know what to do with them. ‘Do you want me to fetch help?’ Part of her wanted to run away and put some well-needed distance between them. Another part of her scandalously wanted to keep him all to herself. Because he was almost naked and...well...she liked it...and was definitely attracted by the festival of intriguing raw maleness in front of her. And it wasn’t just his physique which intrigued her. The gruff, blushing, intuitive Mr Leatham was equally alluring. She had never been so confused about a man in her life. The usual signals were a contradiction. He was outwardly unfriendly and detached, but had kind, soulful eyes when he thought she wasn’t looking. He seemed so disapproving of her, yet blushed when she flirted. Each time their eyes had met over dinner, her pulse had fluttered. What was that about, when she was supposed to be mourning the loss of her Duke? The fluttering now was making her jumpy. ‘I could wake Joe or Bella.’

      He shook his head despite the pain etched on his expression. ‘No!’ He jabbed the air with his finger, ferocious once again. ‘Brandy! Lots of it!’

      Clarissa scurried over to the decanter and sloshed as much over her quivering hand as she did in the glass. She pressed it into his, the touch playing yet more havoc with her bouncing nerve endings, holding it steady as he brought it to his mouth and then severing the contact as quickly as she could because her uncharacteristic reaction frightened her.

      It wasn’t like her to be so flustered around a man. Being a flirt and charming them was probably the only thing she truly excelled at, yet here she was, more flustered than she had ever been in her life. Mr Leatham had managed to make her feel off kilter since the first moment she had laid eyes on him this morning. With his clothes on he was 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.’ СКАЧАТЬ