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S eb’s invitation to the Penhurst house party miraculously arrived the next day and without Clarissa having to ask him to attend or even mention it, he had confirmed he would be there. She knew this because Penny had sent a note across Berkeley Square immediately. The next week positively shot by as she made her preparations, buoyed with a fresh optimism which had been missing since Lady Olivia had elbowed her way into Westbridge’s affections. Her Duke certainly appeared significantly more interested in her since Seb had commandeered her. In the two balls and one night at the opera since, the pair of them had been as thick as thieves. Lord Millcroft always had the first waltz and had brought her refreshments and dominated the interval at the opera, and poor Westbridge had been obviously furious at both while sticking to them like glue until Seb had been dragged away by Penhurst.

She always missed him when he was gone. Being with Seb, having a purpose beyond simply looking pretty, was the most fun she had had in years. For the first time since being declared an Incomparable , Clarissa felt important. Vital even. It didn’t matter that she excelled in very little, because the things she did excel at were exactly the things which helped him to do what he needed to do. How many other ladies got to help the government? And whilst that lofty achievement gave her a deep sense of worth, so, too, did being there for him.

Watching Seb work was fascinating. He was so subtle and sharp. Those dark eyes of his everywhere, noticing everything. His memory for names and details was staggering, surpassing her own, but when she asked him how he remembered so much information he simply shrugged and said, ‘I’m a spy.’ As if that was explanation enough.

She wished she could see him in action in the card room. Amongst men he didn’t suffer from the awkwardness which still plagued him—even with her. It was lessened now, although while Millcroft was mysterious and aloof, in the few snatched minutes they had shared where he was just Seb his intelligent eyes still struggled to meet hers and he still blushed occasionally and became tongue-tied and gruff. Knowing the real him was a delicious secret and one she selfishly did not want to share. She hoped they would have ample opportunity to spend more time alone at the house party. Clarissa desperately wanted to know more about him. The real him that only she saw.

According to Penny, Westbridge had been very put out to learn of Seb’s inclusion in the house party and had done his best to get Penhurst to rescind the invitation, fortunately all to no avail as Penny’s foul husband was quite taken with his new friend. Whilst she was pleased for Seb, she was also very satisfied with the way things were going. Now, instead of being on the back foot, Clarissa would cheerfully stride into Penhurst Hall, safe in the knowledge that her other suitor would be there, too.

* * *

Seven days of excitement.

The carriage wheels couldn’t turn fast enough.

Once she was presentable, of course. They had stopped at an inn half an hour away from the Sussex estate so that Clarissa could fix the damage caused by hours of travelling. It was a habit she had begun during her first Season to ensure she never arrived anywhere looking anything other than her best. Something Westbridge would expect in his future duchess. Thanks to the dire state of the road to Eastbourne, her dress was crumpled, her perfume was stale and her ringlets were sadly wilting. This quaint little inn a few miles away from the main road was a regular stopping point on her jaunts to Penny’s. She had lost count of how many visits she had enjoyed here and always booked the same cheerful, sunny room well in advance of every Penhurst party. The curling irons were already in the fire and she was stripped down to her chemise after washing with her favourite French soap while her maid was brushing her hair before restyling it.

The innkeeper’s wife knocked on the door and stepped inside. ‘There is a visitor for you, my lady.’ Impossible—aside from the coachmen, nobody knew she was here. ‘He’s waiting in the taproom.’

‘He?’

‘A Lord Millcroft.’ An expensive calling card was thrust into Clarissa’s hand. ‘He says he has urgent things to discuss with you.’

How did Seb know she was here? ‘Tell him I will be down as soon as I can.’ Which would be at least an hour in her current state of dishabille.

‘I don’t have time to wait.’ His deep voice from behind the door brooked no argument, the sound of it sending tingles down her spine regardless. ‘This will only take a few minutes, Gem.’

She knew he would expect to be invited in and she also knew that he wouldn’t be here unless it was of national importance—but, really! She looked a fright. ‘I’m not dressed.’

‘Then put on a robe.’

He’d already seen her hair in rags, so loose and virtually straight was an improvement, but allowing him to see her lacking her usual refinement made her feel uncomfortable. Clarissa didn’t want him to remember the rag incident and had paid more attention to her appearance since knowing Seb would see it. She grabbed her silk dressing gown and shoved her arms in the sleeves. Pulling the belt into a tight knot, she grabbed all her hair in her hand and twisted it to drape over one shoulder in what she hoped was a becoming manner before pinching some colour into her cheeks. ‘Very well. Come in.’

The innkeeper’s wife opened the door and Seb filled the frame. He had a habit of filling doorframes and, wearing a greatcoat, he left little daylight to seep around his imposing silhouette. He stood stiffly for a moment, then in two long strides he was stood before her, his eyes flicking to her maid warily. Clarissa recognised he wanted privacy. ‘You might as well have my dress pressed now, Agnes. You can fix my hair in a few minutes when his lordship has gone.’

The young woman hesitated at the lack of propriety, then bobbed a curtsy as she glared at Seb. ‘I shall be less than ten minutes, my lady. Or sooner.’ She snatched up the fresh travelling dress from the top of Clarissa’s trunk and marched out, still glaring at him. When she was gone he raked a hand through his hair and offered Clarissa a small smile.

‘Your maid thinks I have come to ruin you.’

‘She is blissfully unaware of your lack of seduction skills.’ Although, all windswept from his ride and struggling to meet her gaze, he managed to seduce her regardless. Her fingers wanted to smooth his mussed hair and touch his face, a scandalous thought whilst only a single layer of thin silk separated her gauzy shift from his gaze. ‘How did you know I was here?’

He shrugged and took in the unfamiliar room, the cooling water in the washbowl, the tangled pile of hair pins on the dressing table, the glowing irons in the fire. Anywhere but at her. ‘I’m a spy. Where else would you be?’

‘I mean seriously...’

‘Oh, all right—I had one of my men track you. I knew you would stop at an inn close to our destination.’ The smile turned into a smug grin as his eyes finally locked with hers. ‘Nobody looks as good as you do after hours of travel without a stop to make urgent repairs.’ Sometimes his astuteness was galling. This man would never forget the rag incident.

‘Why the urgency to speak to me?’

‘That fool Westbridge hasn’t left us alone all week and I needed to ask you about the guest list.’

‘Whatever for?’

‘Correct me if I’m wrong, but Penhurst Hall is going to be crammed to the rafters with society, is it not? What if one of the bounders I’m seeking is in attendance?’ So that was why he’d readily accepted Penny’s invitation. A tiny part of her had hoped he had jumped at the chance of spending a week with her. He pulled a folded document from a pocket inside his coat and held it out. ‘What can you tell me about the people on that list.’

Clarissa allowed a mask of boredom to conceal her utter terror at being asked to read when there were no other diversions in the room to plead as an excuse. Instead of taking it, she picked up her brush and began to drag it purposefully through her hair. ‘It will be mostly the usual bunch.’

‘Who are?’

‘Penhurst’s horrid friends.’ She felt her nose wrinkle in distaste as she listed them. Penhurst gallivanted about with a very dubious group of gentlemen who drank too much and disgraced their wives just as he did poor Penny. One or two made her flesh crawl, although thankfully they tended to hole up together with the host and do their own thing. ‘Acquaintances from town. Some family. He also likes to surprise us with an illustrious peer. He spends weeks courting them and then parades those daft enough to fall for his flattery around his house like a trophy, hoping to impress us and, no doubt, to soak up some of that power to inflate his own sense of worth. He’s foisted some dreadful bores on us whose only redeeming features are their ancient and impressive titles.’ Saying that made her fleetingly think of Westbridge before she uncomfortably quashed it. ‘If he has found another new friend to fawn over, then he will keep it a surprise until they arrive. It makes him feel superior. Thankfully, a great many of those men and the hyenas he surrounds himself with disappear swiftly to do who knows what with Penhurst, so we were spared the pleasure of their company for most of the week.’ Now that she considered it, there was every chance one of those awful men could be involved in something illegal. The vile viscount needed to choose better friends.

‘You do not approve of Penny’s husband?’

‘What is there to approve of? You are the spy. What are your impressions of him?’

‘Honestly...slimy. Cold. Selfish.’ In the absence of any other chairs, he tossed his hat on the mattress and sat down next to it, looking delightfully awkward still clutching the dreaded sheet of foolscap. ‘What specifically do you disapprove of?’

‘The way he treats Penny.’ Clarissa didn’t need to think about it. ‘I have long suspected he is violent towards her.’

She watched Seb’s jaw harden as he scowled and liked him more for that unguarded response. ‘Knowing that makes it harder to befriend him...but he serves his purpose.’ He seemed momentarily irritated with himself for saying that, but covered it quickly, yet the fact that he obviously disliked everything about Penny’s husband made Seb rise higher in her estimation. ‘Tell me more about his cronies.’

Clarissa reeled off what she knew. Being Seb, he had no need of notes and tucked each piece of information away in his clever mind, almost as if he was fully aware of the men and their backgrounds. His questions, when he rarely interrupted her to ask one, were very specific. As if he already knew most of the ‘usual crowd’ of debauched gentlemen, he asked her a few pertinent details about each one. Purported names of mistresses, rumoured vices and scandals. Debts. Topics she had never openly gossiped about with a man or with the ladies without a fan or a cup of tea strategically placed in front of her face. He apologised before broaching the subject of Penhurst’s many infidelities because he knew she loved Penny.

‘He has a new mistress, I believe. But then he has so many it’s hard to keep track. A French woman.’

Seb’s ears had pricked up at that. ‘French?’

‘Yes. She is apparently some sort of opera singer or actress. A woman involved in entertaining. I overheard him bragging about her a few weeks ago when I was last at Penhurst Hall.’ Along with an eye-opening and graphic account of what he had done to the poor woman when she had invited him into her bed. No matter how open she was being with Seb, there was no way she would be able to share those details. It was all too depraved.

‘None of my men has heard anything about it.’

‘That is good to know. I am hugely protective of poor Penny and would never cause her embarrassment by spreading such stories.’ Although why would Seb’s men be investigating Penhurst? ‘I am suffered at the house party because I am Penny’s only friend and I dare say the silly label of Incomparable helps, too—but while she has a friend with her he can stay at the card tables or do whatever it is that he does with the majority of his time till Lord knows when in the small hours. Penhurst prefers the company of his cronies. Even at home.’

‘Is that fool Westbridge one of his cronies, too?’

Whilst Seb had no regard for her friend’s odious husband, he obviously had a special well of deep loathing for her Duke. A loathing which sounded delightfully territorial. ‘Westbridge was at Oxford with Penhurst. Their acquaintance is old, but they are not particularly close any more.’ Her Duke held most people at arm’s length, including her. ‘He has little interest in gambling and drinking, thank goodness, therefore he doesn’t see Penhurst in quite the same depraved light as the rest of us.’ To do that he would have to take an interest in another person other than himself. Where had that disloyal thought come from? ‘But then as Westbridge is a duke , Penhurst is mindful not to show him the true extent of his debauchery either. He mostly flatters him. Having Westbridge as a friend enhances his own standing in the ton and Westbridge can be relied upon to attend regardless of who else has been invited. Everyone wants a duke on their guest list.’

At the mention of the word ‘duke’, Seb had become most belligerent. ‘Of course they do. The addition of a duke makes any gathering a resounding success, even if they are fools like yours.’

‘Westbridge isn’t a fool, he’s...’ Self-absorbed, fickle, nowhere near as broad, strong, considerate and impressive as the man sat on the bed in front of her. ‘He’s simply being a duke, Seb. He is actually rather pleasant when you get to know him.’

‘And you know him well?’

‘I do as a matter of fact. Westbridge is a renowned connoisseur. His collections of art and furniture are the finest in Europe. The Regent himself is envious of the Duke’s array of Old Masters.’ Something he informed her repeatedly.

‘Oh, he’s a connoisseur . That is excellent news.’

‘There is nothing wrong with liking beautiful things. Not that you’d understand. But those of us who know him well appreciate his superior taste and faultless eye.’ Clarissa was relying on it because like his collection of Ancient Egyptian relics she was all style over substance.

‘I can see you know him far better than most.’ His head tilted enquiringly and he folded his arms across the very chest she had just been contemplating. ‘I suppose that is why you do not have leave to call him by his Christian name.’

Her mouth opened and then closed. ‘His Christian name is Albert.’

‘Yet I have never heard you refer to him as anything other than Westbridge. The Duke or your Grace .’

Because Seb was right, damn him, her Duke had never invited her to dispense with the formalities. ‘I’m not particularly fond of the name Albert.’

This appeared to amuse him. ‘Will you call him Westbridge after you are married as well?’

Probably. ‘That is none of your business.’

‘How romantic.’

Westbridge wasn’t romantic. He wasn’t the slightest bit affectionate or even humorous. Devoid of all passion aside from that of collecting the unattainable. ‘I am not looking for romance.’ She was looking for a well-fortified battlement to hide behind. They didn’t come much stronger than a dukedom.

‘Or love by the sounds of it. Duchesses clearly need neither. But they are duchesses .’

When he put it like that her future sounded miserable. Seb didn’t understand that being a duchess would be the single greatest accomplishment for the least accomplished lady ever born. The unique achievement only Incomparables hoped for. Not just an advantageous marriage and a secure future, but the most advantageous of marriages. The most secure future. An impenetrable layer of protection against the judgement of all which would render her dirty secret a secret for ever. Clarissa had been a slave to that goal for the last two Seasons. Something the intuitive man before her obviously thought was shallow—because it was shallow, but then so was she. Girls who couldn’t paint or embroider, girls who couldn’t play an instrument or spell or read a sentence without laboriously trailing her finger beneath it lacked hidden depths. She would be a good wife and a good mother, a flawless decoration, content to live in her illustrious husband’s protective shadow.

Her self-absorbed, formal, passionless and fickle husband’s illustrious shadow.

‘Thank goodness you are beautiful else the connoisseur might have missed you. What an asset you will be to his exemplary collection. Unless he decides to add that simpering Olivia to his display case instead. Which I suppose is why you are here. Are you trying to improve on perfection by outshining her from the second you arrive?’

‘I’m sure the simpering Lady Olivia is doing much the same thing in another inn close by.’

The overloud cough outside signalled the return of her maid and thankfully the end of this uncomfortable line of questioning. When he forgot to be shy, his astute and painful honesty could be brutal. Agnes marched through the door, carrying her mistress’s freshly pressed new travelling dress aloft, and scowled at the sight of Seb sat on the bed to such an extent he stood. ‘I’d best be on my way. Will you read this list and appraise me of any details we might have missed later?’ He was back to not meeting her eyes and that was just dandy because she would rather die than let him see how much his insightful observations had bothered her.

‘Yes.’ If she started to read it today she might reach the end of the list by tomorrow. Or the next day. Just thinking about it made the letters swim and dance before her eyes and her tummy churn with the constant fear of discovery. In case he saw it, Clarissa turned her back to him as he walked to the door, both miffed at him and miffed at herself because she knew the source of her irritation was merely his accurate assessment of her situation. This week now couldn’t pass quickly enough.