The Mysterious Lord Millcroft. Virginia HeathЧитать онлайн книгу.
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.
Clarissa yelped as the door slammed suddenly open in the silence, the soggy piece of shortbread falling from her fingers and smearing strawberry jam over the front of her nightgown. Not that Clarissa noticed. She was too busy gaping at the sight of the semi-naked Mr Leatham propped against the frame.
He was wearing breeches and a bandage.
Nothing else.
Her mouth went suddenly dry as her palms became moist. Good gracious, he was so...well built. The soft light from the single candle she had next to her gave his skin a golden hue, the shadows emphasising the powerful muscles in his arms and shoulders. Above and below the bandage wound tight around his middle was a dark dusting of hair over even more muscle. It stopped at the base of the strong neck her eyes appeared unable to move above.
Why would they when his body was so very...manly? All in all, it was possibly the most splendid sight Clarissa had ever witnessed.
‘I’m sorry... I didn’t mean to frighten you.’
Against her own body’s wishes, she tore her gaze away from his chest and only then saw the strained look on his face as he rested against the wood. He was very pale. Clearly struggling to stand. Instinctively she shot off the sofa and went to his aid.
‘Oh, Mr Leatham. You poor thing! Here—let me help you.’
‘I am not a thing, madam, and you would do well to remember it!’
Bravely ignoring his murderous expression, she wrapped one arm about his waist and regretted it instantly. His skin was deliciously warm to the touch. Soft velvet draped over steel. His back was as solid as the rest of him appeared, those strong muscles bunched under her fingers making them tingle in the most peculiar way. Forcing herself to 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