Playing to Win (18 page)

But then he pictured himself trying to
oversee his many business ventures from Spain, and grinned at his
own folly. Spain would have driven him mad within a
week.

And, of course, he would never have met
Clarissa.

The eternal optimist residing within
Mr. Whitlatch’s buoyant soul still believed that meeting Clarissa
had been a stroke of astonishing good luck. Once he persuaded her
to abandon her silly notions of respectability, she would easily
reconcile him to spending the winter in England. And he was now
convinced that the sooner she banished virtue, the better it would
be for her.

This prospect was, naturally, cheering.
He beguiled the tedium of the journey to Morecroft Cottage with
pleasant visions: Clarissa hanging breathlessly on his every word,
held spellbound by the genius of his arguments. Clarissa falling
into his arms, begging forgiveness for the stubbornness that had
kept her from his bed. Clarissa discarding the wardrobe she
currently owned, which (from what he had seen of it) had been
chosen to quell her beauty, and arraying herself in raiment
befitting her loveliness.

Better yet: Clarissa wearing garments
specifically designed to inflame a man’s desire.

Best of all: Clarissa wearing nothing
whatsoever.

But however enjoyable one’s musings, a
lengthy drive in an open carriage is a miserable way to spend a
drizzly November afternoon. By the time he reached Morecroft
Cottage, Mr. Whitlatch was stiff with cold. The lamplit windows had
never looked more welcoming.

Chapter 12

Mr. Whitlatch, always dismissive of
details, had forgotten his early-morning mention to Dawson that he
would return by nightfall. He was therefore agreeably surprised to
discover that the household was on the lookout for his
arrival.

The contrast to yesterday’s reception
was striking. Dawson nipped out and took the curricle without his
setting up a shout; the front door opened magically as he
approached; the dour visage of Simmons greeted him and relieved him
of his gloves, whip and driving coat; Mrs. Simmons popped out of
nowhere with a steaming mug of tea laced with brandy; and Mr.
Whitlatch was whisked into the library, where a roaring fire
awaited him. He was so overwhelmed by his staff’s efficiency and
solicitude, it was not until the library door closed behind him
that he remembered he had a bone to pick with the
Simmonses.

He halted on his way to the fireside,
on the brink of ordering them to return and hear exactly what he
thought of housekeepers and butlers who deserted their posts, when
a soft voice spoke from one of the wing chairs.

"Mr. Whitlatch!" Clarissa said, her
voice warm with delight. "I am glad you have arrived safely home. I
missed you today."

He turned and saw her rising gracefully
from her seat by the hearth, the loveliest of smiles lighting her
face, her eyes sparkling. He caught his breath. All irritation was
forgotten. It was worth coming home tired and chilled to be greeted
by such a sight. Her genuine pleasure at seeing him again warmed
him more thoroughly than the snapping fire. The day’s annoyances
fell from him like a stone, and he smiled.

"It’s ‘Trevor,’" he reminded her,
taking her hand in his for a moment and dropping a light kiss on
her cheek. "I don’t deserve to be welcomed. But thank
you."

Clarissa’s hand traveled briefly to her
cheek, as if unconsciously, and she appeared confused. "Trevor,"
she murmured obediently, then gave an uncertain laugh. "I am still
unsure whether it is right for me to—"

He moved away before she could retreat
further.

"What a wretched host I have been!" he
said lightly. "I mean to make it up to you in future." He dropped
into the chair across from her and yawned, watching her
covertly.

She sank slowly into her chair, doubt
in her eyes. He hid a smile. Why had he always thought women
baffling? Clarissa was as transparent as glass. He felt he could
almost hear her thoughts as she tried to convince herself that his
casual kiss had been perfectly innocent and friendly. In a moment,
Trevor thought, she’ll be ashamed of herself for having thought it
could be anything else.

Sure enough, a faint blush mounted her
porcelain cheeks and she bent hastily over the sewing basket beside
her. Trevor allowed himself a momentary grin of triumph, but hid it
carefully behind his steaming mug.

"What are you doing?" he asked,
gesturing toward the cloth in her lap.

"Only some sewing for Mrs.
Simmons."

He sat upright, startled and a little
displeased. "For Mrs. Simmons!"

Clarissa laughed at him, her nose
wrinkling delightfully. "It is not her sewing, precisely! It is
household sewing. At the moment, I am hemming table
linens."

"You are not an employee here," he
growled.

"No, unfortunately. I am only a guest,"
she replied, her composure unruffled. "But as I am an uninvited
guest, this seems the least I can do to repay my host’s generosity.
I had as lief be useful, you know. I cannot sit idly all
day."

He relaxed again, amused. He could not
help contrasting her serenity and industry to the last occupant of
Morecroft Cottage, who would probably have been screeching and
throwing things by now to demonstrate her opinion of being left
alone all day with no explanation and no entertainment.

"No wonder you missed me," he
commented. "I hope you did not spend the entire day
sewing."

"Certainly not," she replied, a gleam
of mischief disturbing her gravity. "I also wound your clock,
sorted your spoons, and polished your epergne."

Trevor groaned and clutched his heart
dramatically. "If your object is to make me sorry I abandoned you,
you have succeeded admirably! Sackcloth and ashes would hardly
suffice to express my dismay. Good God, Clarissa, how can I ever
make it up to you?"

An enchanting gurgle of laughter
escaped her. "No need!" she assured him, neatly snipping a thread.
"I enjoyed myself thoroughly. And I was not alone. Mrs. Simmons is
a sensible woman and her conversation was most interesting. Do you
know, sir, her sister’s husband’s second cousin married a Feeney?
Only fancy! She and I might be related."

Mr. Whitlatch, who had just taken a
mouthful of hot toddy, choked. When he had somewhat recovered, he
fixed his watering eyes upon Clarissa and said grimly, "I wouldn’t
run away with that idea, my girl! Nor would I encourage Mrs.
Simmons to make inquiries as to your connections among the various
Feeney clans. She is perfectly capable of discovering
which
Feeney you are descended from."

Clarissa’s cheeks had turned a becoming
shade of pink. "I know nothing of my Feeney connections," she said,
with great dignity, "but as it is a common name, Mrs. Simmons and I
have agreed that it is unlikely I could be related to these
particular Feeneys."

"Most improbable!" he
snapped.

Her eyes were on her sewing, but she
shot him a mischievous glance from beneath her lashes. "Well, I
don’t know why the notion should upset you," she said
demurely.

Trevor carefully unclenched his jaw.
"It does not
upset
me."

"After all, it would be very
convenient. If I were Mrs. Simmons’ guest, rather than yours, my
staying here would be quite unexceptionable."

Mr. Whitlatch smiled through his teeth.
"Yes, provided you have no objection to vacating your chamber,
since it is an apartment reserved for my guests, and removing to
the servants’ quarters."

The chit had the impudence to chuckle!
"I would have no objection at all."

The conversation was fast slipping out
of Mr. Whitlatch’s control. He found himself hanging onto his
temper by the slenderest of threads, but he would be hard put to
explain why. Somehow the picture of Clarissa being related to his
housekeeper, however distant the connection and however farfetched
the notion, irritated him past bearing.

He glowered at her for a moment.
Clarissa serenely threaded a needle and began work on another
piece. Mr. Whitlatch was seized with an idea.

"I see what it is!" he exclaimed. "You
are punishing me. Very unhandsome of you, Clarissa! I have already
apologized for leaving you here alone."

She stared at him, distress and
astonishment in her gaze. "I am only teasing you a little.
Punishing you! How can you think so? What an odd
notion!"

Her sincere bewilderment told its own
tale. It struck him like a thunderclap that Clarissa, unlike every
other female he had known, dealt straight up. There was nothing
oblique about her. Had she been angry, she would have raked him
over the coals the instant she saw him.

Mr. Whitlatch hastily begged
pardon.

She was frowning. "Yes, but I think I
understand now what you were accusing me of, and I must say, Mr.
Whitlatch, I think it most unhandsome of
you!
What cause
have I given you to suppose that I would behave so—so
ungentlemanly?
And pray, what I have said to throw you into
whoops?"

"Forgive me! I have never before had
the privilege of acquaintance with a gentlemanly
female."

"Hmpf!" she sniffed, but her lips
twitched. "It is entirely unfair, in my opinion, that a word
embodying so much virtue should have a solely masculine
application."

He grinned at her. "I shall keep my
inevitable reflections to myself."

She had a delightful laugh. He suddenly
realized he was beaming as fatuously at her as a schoolboy in the
throes of his first calf-love, and Bates’ warning clanged jarringly
in the back of his mind. He dismissed the thought immediately, but
it had already wiped the grin from his face. Sobered, he watched as
she neatly set swift, tiny stitches in the hem of a tablecloth. Her
fingers moved with a rapidity and sureness that spoke of great
skill.

"You seem to have done this sort of
work before," he observed.

She flashed him another quick smile.
"Many times."

"Do you enjoy it?"

"Yes, in a way. There is something
about sewing that soothes the spirit. Of course, hemming
tablecloths is not as interesting as dressmaking."

"Good lord! You make your own dresses?"
He ran his eyes over her with renewed interest. She was wearing
another one of her modest, high-necked frocks, this one a gray wool
of some kind. Like the two others he had seen, it fit her
beautifully. It was the color and style of her clothes, not the
workmanship, that was unflattering.

He tried to picture how Clarissa would
look right now if that unappealing fabric were, say,
claret-colored. The image fairly made his mouth water. "Would you
like some unsolicited advice?"

"No, I would not!"

"What a pity." Trevor leaned back in
his chair, stretching his long legs toward the fire, and lazily
crossed his ankles. "By the by, aren’t you going to ask me where I
went today?" he inquired. "I am still waiting for you to treat me
to the tantrum I deserve."

"Mrs. Simmons told me you had gone to
London," she answered, contentedly stitching.

His brows climbed. "Was that sufficient
information for you? I admire your lack of curiosity. You have just
the sort of well-bred indifference my mother tried in vain to
instill in her daughters."

She must have heard the laughter
lurking in his voice, for she looked up, her eyes twinkling. "So!
You did
not
tell me anything about it! I thought perhaps you
had mentioned your plans to me last night, and I had been too
sleepy to retain it."

He laughed out loud at this. "You don’t
flatter a man, at any rate! Did you slumber through all my remarks,
or merely the later ones?"

"Only the later ones, I believe," she
replied mischievously.

"Come, that’s encouraging! I held your
interest for awhile."

"Just at first," she reminded him. "Are
you going to tell me where you went today, or must I first minister
to your vanity and beg you to disclose the whole?"

He grinned at her. "I dare not wait for
you to minister to my vanity! A man grows old
eventually."

He paused expectantly, waiting for her
to prompt him with a demand to continue. She did not rise to his
bait, however, but remained tranquilly sewing.

He chuckled. "Very well, Miss Feeney!
Although you pointedly refrain from asking, I will tell you. I did
indeed go to London today, where—among other errands—I spoke to my
sister about offering you a post as nursemaid to her
children."

He was unprepared for the intensity of
her reaction. Clarissa cried out, dropped her sewing, and clapped
her hands to her suddenly burning cheeks. Tears started in her
eyes.

"Oh, how
good
you are!" she
gasped. "Thank you, thank you!"

She must have seen the guilty dismay in
his face; something warned her that her joy was premature. The
blaze of gratitude in her eyes dimmed, and her hands returned to
her lap. Her fingers clenched tightly. Then a valiant attempt at a
smile wavered across Clarissa’s face.