Playing to Win (14 page)

"Tell me something," he
murmured.

"What?" she asked sleepily.

"Why were you crying?"

A short silence fell, while the fire
popped and crackled. One log fell softly into a heap of smoldering
ash.

"I was sad," she said
finally.

"Did I say something to make you
sad?"

Her shoulders shrugged against him. "I
was already sad. But you made me—you made me think of
it."

He spoke as gently as he could. "I
meant what I said, Clarissa, about wickedness. Do you really think
it would be better for you to have not been born? God has given you
many gifts. I know women who would sell their souls to possess your
beauty."

"I suppose so," she said
listlessly.

"Tell me. Why would it be so wrong,
merely to use the gifts God gave you? Did he mean for you to waste
them? Each of us is given something, Clarissa. Each man has some
special gift, and we all trade upon what God sees fit to bestow
upon us. If I’m not mistaken, somewhere in the Bible we are adjured
to do precisely that."

He felt tension running through her
now, and did not attempt to pull her back when she sat upright and
frowned down at her hands, clasped lightly in her lap. "I don't
know if I can explain it to you," she said quietly. "You want to
know the reasons why I—why I am so adamant about—protecting my
virtue."

"Yes. Is that a stupid
question?"

A faint smile played around the edges
of her mouth. "To speak truth, it wounds me that you would ask it.
After we had been so friendly together, I thought you had discarded
the idea. So it—affected me—when I learned that you had
not."

He groaned. "I am a
blackguard!"

She laughed a little. "I daresay! But
now that I am able to consider it more rationally, I do not think
it is a stupid question. It must seem strange to you that
I have no wish to—what was it you said? ‘Trade upon’ my
beauty?"

"That is what I said."

She looked up at him thoughtfully.
"Setting aside the moral question," she said slowly, "I wonder if
you can understand what my life has been, dwelling in the shadow of
my mother's notoriety. Escaping that shadow has become almost an
obsession with me. But I have never been able to escape it, try as
I might. All my struggles have been in vain."

She looked back into the fire, as if
seeking words in it that would make it clear to him how she felt,
and why.

"It is more than hateful to me," she
said, almost inaudibly. "It is blighting. I have no family. I can
form no friendships. The shadow of La Gianetta pushes people away,
colors their perceptions of me regardless of anything I say or do.
My life has been completely dominated by a circumstance I did not
choose and cannot change: the accident of my mother's
identity."

Her voice hardened. "The thought of
emulating her is more repellent to me than I can possibly express.
I will starve in the street before I follow in her footsteps. I
will go to the workhouse, I will throw myself upon the mercy of the
parish—anything!—rather than embrace a life of harlotry as she has
done."

Mr. Whitlatch almost winced. This was
going to be harder than he had thought. Clarissa had erected
barriers against seduction that might keep her safe despite a
determined siege. He hoped the barriers would not prove
insurmountable. At the moment, however, he felt considerably
dashed-down.

But she had turned back to him. It was
clear, from her expression of surprised reproach, that she had seen
his grimace of chagrin.

He grinned sheepishly at her. "Rather
hard luck for me," he explained.

Clarissa was so startled by his
honesty, she burst out laughing. "Yes, it is," she gasped. "I am so
sorry!"

Really, he was the most disarming
creature!

Now he was leaning back on his elbows,
smiling at her in a way that made her suddenly feel a little
breathless.

"Well, if I cannot hope for better
things, I still hope you will honor me with your friendship,
Clarissa."

She smiled warmly at him. "Of course.
Trevor." She stumbled a little over using his name, and blushed. It
felt so strange! It did seem to please him, though. He rose, and
extended a hand to help her up.

"I'll light you to your room," he
announced, picking up the lamp they had brought from the
kitchen.

"Thank you," she said shyly. He did not
let go of her hand, which was odd, but she decided not to remark
upon it. She supposed it would be churlish to pull back after she
had just offered him her friendship. Besides, she rather liked the
feel of her hand in his. Strange how much comfort could be found in
human touch. When she had burst into tears in that stupid way, it
had been so kind of him to hold her until she felt better. And
clinging to him had, indeed, made her feel surprisingly
better.

So hand in hand, they mounted the
stairs in companionable silence. He led her to her bedchamber and
waited politely at the door while she carried in the lamp and lit a
candle. When she returned to hand him back the lamp, he was leaning
against the doorjamb and smiling lazily down at her.

It was the same smile that had turned
her breathless in the library a moment ago. Now she had the oddest
sensation that her knees were turning to butter. She realized, to
her dismay, that she was far more attracted to Trevor Whitlatch
than was good for her.

He thanked her as he took the lamp from
her. But he did not move from his place in her doorway. He still
leaned there, his eyes alight with some strange emotion.

Clarissa felt paralyzed on the
threshold, mesmerized as his eyes held hers.

"Good night," she whispered.

She ought to step back. She ought to
shut the door. She ought to do that right now. It was foolish to
stand here staring into his eyes. But she could not move. She could
scarcely breathe. What was wrong with her?

She watched as his eyes traveled to her
lips. Her mouth felt heated by his gaze. His eyes flicked back to
hers and she knew now that what she saw there, glittering in the
dark depths, was desire. And still she could not look
away.

Oh, dear God in heaven—was he going to
kiss
her? Her heart leaped at the thought and began pounding
crazily. But it wasn’t fear she was feeling. And it certainly
wasn’t disgust. It was something else, some strange emotion she
could not name. The effect was bewildering, terrifying.
Delicious.

She shivered.

"You are cold," he murmured, reaching
up to push a stray lock of her hair back into place. "I should not
keep you standing in the hall."

She could not speak. Her face tingled
where he had touched her. A slow smile curved the edges of his
mouth, as if he knew the effect he was having on her. She gazed
wordlessly at him, trembling. Waiting.

"Good night," he said
softly.

And he was gone.

Chapter 9

Clarissa drifted awake on a sea of
contentment. She sighed, snuggling deeper into the most comfortable
bed she had ever slept in. My, it felt good. Hazily she tried to
remember where she was. She felt safe and oddly happy. What was
different?

Her eyes flew open when she remembered.
Heavens above! Why did she feel safe and happy? She’d be safer in a
tiger’s den!

Of course, she supposed, anything was
an improvement over her situation yesterday morning. Having
awakened several mornings in a row to find herself locked in a
strumpet’s garret, it was naturally a relief to awaken somewhere
else. Anywhere else! That didn’t quite account for the glow of
happiness she felt, but still, her fortunes had indeed altered. And
with dizzying speed.

After yesterday’s hair-raising events,
a person might expect to lie awake for hours, nerves humming.
Instead, Clarissa had fallen asleep the instant her head hit the
pillow. For the first time in weeks she had enjoyed sound,
undisturbed, utterly refreshing sleep. She felt
wonderful.

She struggled to sit upright against
the soft heaviness of the featherbed. Daylight was pouring through
chinks in the closely-drawn draperies. The fireplace was stone
cold. What time was it? As if in answer to her unspoken question,
she heard faint chimes float down the hall.

Nine o’clock! Impossible! Why, she must
have slept for—what? Eleven hours? Twelve? And without even the
excuse of illness!

Horrified at her own slothfulness,
Clarissa fairly jumped out of bed. She made a hasty toilet,
smoothed her braids, pinned them closely round her head again,
donned her second-best morning dress, and hurried downstairs. In
the daylight, the main staircase was easy to find.

Mr. Whitlatch, on the other hand, was
not.

Clarissa hesitated at the foot of the
stairs, one hand resting uncertainly on the banister. Suddenly a
stout woman in a white apron materialized. The effect was so like
that of a Jack-in-the-Box that Clarissa gave a squeak of fright.
She then gasped, "Oh, I beg your pardon! You startled
me."

"M’sorry, I’m sure."

The aproned female did not look sorry.
She was a middle-aged soul of generous proportions, neat and tidy
in every detail, with a rather intimidating air of crisp
efficiency. At the moment she wore an expression so forbidding that
it approached a scowl, but the frown lines marking her features
were not scored into her face. She must not use that frown very
frequently.

If she were smiling, Clarissa thought
forlornly, the woman might appear quite motherly. This was the face
of a kind and soft-hearted person. Instead, alas, the plump
domestic was staring very hard at Clarissa, suspicion and
disapproval writ large in every line of her stiff posture and
tight-lipped glare.

Clarissa swallowed painfully. She had
been the recipient of such glares before, but one never became
accustomed to them.

"Would you happen to be Mrs. Simmons?"
she inquired, as politely as she could.

An infinitesimal nod was the only
reply.

"I am Miss Feeney." She tried a rather
wavering smile. "I am—I was Mr. Whitlatch’s guest last night. I
wonder if you would be so good as to tell me where I might find
him?"

"With pleasure. He’s gone back to
Lunnon." Mrs. Simmons seemed grimly gratified by the expression of
dismay crossing Clarissa’s face. "I dessay you’ll be returning
there yourself soon?"

The housekeeper’s tone was waspish, but
the inference that Miss Feeney must have failed to please Mr.
Whitlatch was lost on Clarissa.

Clarissa pressed a hand to her brow,
trying dazedly to think. "Returning to London? Oh, I hope not! That
is—well, I hardly know. I cannot stay here, that much is certain.
What would people think?" She caught herself then, remembering that
she was speaking to Mr. Whitlatch’s servant. Clarissa drew herself
up a little, clutching the shreds of her dignity around her. "Mrs.
Simmons, would you show me to the breakfast room? I know I am
shockingly late, but I would be very grateful if you could arrange
for a little something to be brought there."

Mrs. Simmons’ expression had altered
slightly. It seemed that Clarissa’s speech was puzzling the woman.
As if moving automatically, she dipped a slight curtsey and said,
rather grudgingly, "Follow me, please." Clarissa did so, feeling
absurdly meek and guilty.

Mrs. Simmons showed her to a small but
sun-filled chamber where a sideboard graced the far wall and a
breakfast table had been placed in a bay window. It looked out onto
a garden that would be glorious to behold five months from
now.

"Oh, what a pretty room!" Clarissa
exclaimed impulsively. "Even so late in the year, the prospect is
pleasing."

Mrs. Simmons’ air of puzzlement visibly
increased. "Yes, Miss. Mr. Whitlatch is very particular about that
garden. Very particular, he is."

Clarissa smiled shyly at her. "I
understand he is equally particular about the house. He tells me he
is a very exacting master, but that you and Mr. Simmons perform
your tasks flawlessly."

What was left of Mrs. Simmons’ glare
vanished. "Imagine that! Well, we do try. But he never said such a
thing to my face, and that’s the Lord’s own truth."

Relief flooded Clarissa as she saw the
housekeeper thawing. "It has probably not occurred to him that you
might like to hear it," she suggested. "That is often the case.
Especially with gentlemen, I believe."

"Flawlessly," repeated Mrs. Simmons,
apparently overwhelmed.

"Of course, Mr. Whitlatch gave me the
impression that he would not keep you otherwise," ventured
Clarissa, her eyes twinkling.

Mrs. Simmons actually chuckled. "No,
that he wouldn’t! I’ve seen him dismiss a junior housemaid for
coming to work in a dirty apron."

"Well, you mustn’t think he doesn’t
appreciate you and Mr. Simmons, for indeed he does."

"Fancy that!" murmured the housekeeper,
shaking her head in wonder. Her gaze sharpened as she focused it on
Clarissa again, subjecting Miss Feeney to a close scrutiny. Doubt
and puzzlement returned to her features. She seemed about to say
something, then seemed to think better of it. "I’ll see to your
breakfast, Miss Feeney," she said primly, and exited.