Playing to Win (29 page)

He felt her soften. The wariness left
her, and she hung, defenseless, in his grip. Dear God, she was so
beautiful. A tide of desire surged through him. It was torture to
hold her like this, at arm’s length, and watch her eyes go wide and
misty.

"Thank you," she whispered. "I wish it
were possible."

Well, this was progress! She wished it
were possible. He was careful to keep the hope from his expression.
Instead, he merely nodded, and let her go. They were approaching
the house.

Chapter 19

"Look what I have found!"

Trevor glanced up from the charts he
was studying and saw Clarissa, seeming very pleased with herself,
standing in the doorway of his office and holding out a dusty box
for his inspection. He eyed it with foreboding. "What is
it?"

"It is a backgammon set! Someone had
placed it in the back of the linen closet. I can’t imagine
why."

"Can’t you?" said Trevor politely. "I
have already thought of one likely explanation."

"It seems a strange place to store a
game. Who would think to look for it in a linen closet? It might
have been lost forever!"

"Precisely."

Her eyes widened in that startled look
he loved, followed by her charming ripple of laughter. "Sir, you
are too bad! Do you not like backgammon?"

A man could not help smiling at her.
"Do you?" he countered.

"I believe I do. I have not played it
often."

"Well, that explains it. I have played
it too often! My uncle was fond of it, and I was frequently bored
enough to indulge him in a game or two during our travels together.
Backgammon is a colossal waste of time."

Clarissa’s face fell. "It is not
exciting, of course. I suppose you prefer games of chance. Most
gentlemen do."

"Oddly enough, this gentleman does
not." Trevor yawned lazily and stretched his cramped arms. Studying
charts was fatiguing work. "Betting on a game strikes me as even
sillier than playing the game for its own sake."

She nodded approvingly. "Now, there, I
must agree with you. I have never understood the impulse to
gamble."

"Good," muttered Mr. Whitlatch,
recalling the incredible sums Rosie had managed to squander at
silver-loo in London. Her addiction to gaming had been the main
reason he had packed her off to Morecroft Cottage. Not that that
had answered; she had immediately taken to drink. It amazed him now
to think that he had ever found that red-headed harpy
attractive.

But Clarissa was studying him with her
head cocked, birdlike. "I am surprised, you know, to discover that
you dislike gaming."

"Why?" he asked, amused.

"It appears to me that your life
consists of one gamble after another! I never met anyone who
relished adversity the way you do. I had thought that taking
foolish risks was your favorite sport."

His eyes gleamed. "The risks I take are
never foolish."

Clarissa laughed a little. "Risks are
always foolish," she told him primly.

"Good God! What a tame and depressing
life you must have led!"

Some of the laughter left her eyes.
"Why, so I think. But I never knew it until—" She stopped,
seemingly vexed with herself.

Trevor reached her in two strides and
placed a finger beneath her chin, tilting her face up. Her eyes met
his unwillingly. He finished her sentence for her. "Until you met
me."

She tossed her head, crossly swatting
his hand away. "Oh, very well—yes! But I daresay I shall quickly
reaccustom myself to a—a more ordered existence."

He quirked an eyebrow at her. "A duller
existence."

"A
normal
existence." Her face
was turning pink. "You scarcely acknowledge the rules most people
live by," she told him severely. "And you tackle every project,
every problem, with so much—enthusiasm! It isn’t seemly. Most
people would consider the life you lead to be nothing short of
harrowing!"

"But that is not your opinion, and
never has been. You enjoy it here. You find my company
exhilarating."

Clarissa backed toward the edges of the
room, clutching the backgammon box protectively. "How dare you!"
she spluttered.

He followed her, deftly pinning her by
placing his palms flat on the wall on either side of her. "How dare
I what, Clarissa? Speak the truth to you? I will always speak the
truth to you. Life is too short for polite
equivocation."

She lifted her chin at him, and her
eyes flashed. "Life is too short for mannerless
bullying!"

He laughed softly, delighted. "Yes, by
God! Give me the word with no bark on it!"

"Don’t sneer at me!"

"I’m not sneering at you. I’m admiring
your spirit. You are every bit as outspoken as I am, and that’s a
rare, fair quality in a woman."

She looked confused, but some of the
anger left her. "You’re talking nonsense. You should not praise me
for intemperate speech, of all things! It has always been my worst
fault."

"I like it."

She wrinkled her nose at him. "Yes, a
charming quality! My hotheadedness has won friends for me
everywhere I go!"

"It has won you this friend, at any
rate."

"You are serious!"

"Of course I am. I like to know exactly
where I stand. Don’t you?"

She bit her lip, but a smile tugged at
the corners of her mouth. "I have always had difficulty
distinguishing between plain speech and rudeness, especially when I
speak in haste. You mustn’t pretend that fault is a virtue, simply
because you share it!"

He grinned. "Virtue is in the eye of
the beholder. We are kindred spirits, you and I. Confess! You feel
perfectly comfortable with my lack of manners and my unconventional
ways. My rough edges don’t frighten you a bit."

Amusement lit her eyes. "You haven’t
succeeded in hoodwinking me, if that is what you mean."

He was startled. "Hoodwinking
you?"

"Yes! The way, I fancy, you have duped
your unfortunate employees. I have seen the gentlemen who visit you
in the afternoons. They shake in their shoes whenever your eye
turns in their direction! What a humbug you are."

He was so nonplussed, he failed to
block her move as she ducked neatly beneath his arm and freed
herself.

She unconcernedly walked away,
approached the massive table where his charts were spread out, and
began to glance over them inquisitively. Aggrieved, he followed
her.

"I’ll have you know, Miss Feeney, that
I am an extremely powerful and terrifying individual. My word is
law, and my wrath is dreadful to behold."

"Oh, yes! I daresay it is," she agreed
calmly. Her eyes were on the charts, and her expression was
suspiciously demure.

His lips twitched. "Beware! One day you
will incur my displeasure. On that day, you will quickly learn to
fear me."

"Pooh! You are all bark and no
bite."

He took her shoulders and pulled her
firmly round to face him. "If a dog barks loudly enough, he often
does not need to bite. But the teeth are still there,
Clarissa."

"Ah. I see. Your point is well-taken,
sir; you are a tyrant after all."

Her face was turned up to his, rosy and
laughing. His senses were teased with a whiff of lemon verbena
sachet. "And you, Clarissa, are a darling," he exclaimed, leaning
in and kissing her swiftly.

The touch was purposely brief and
light; the sort of kiss that expressed affection or greeting, not
desire. But Clarissa pulled away, startled, and instinctively
pressed one palm to his chest as if to hold him at bay. He
pretended not to notice. With studied nonchalance, as if exchanging
a kiss was a common, natural, friendly occurrence, he turned back
to his work.

Clarissa was standing utterly still,
blushing rosily. He kept his face impassive. He had been carefully
trying, the past few days, to retake the ground he had lost when he
kissed her on the ridge. He had believed himself to be beginning to
recreate the friendship that he hoped would form a starting-point
for his siege. She had visibly relaxed more around him, permitted
his touch when it was offered in an ostensibly friendly spirit, and
obviously enjoyed his company more with each day that passed. She
still mentioned leaving far more than he liked, but he thought she
seemed noticeably less enthused about the prospect. If only he
could convince her that his kiss was harmless! The less alarming
she found his advances, the further he could go.

With that in mind, he gestured casually
toward the papers in front of them. "What did you find here to
interest you?"

"Oh—nothing," she stammered. His air of
unconcern seemed to help her recover her tone of mind somewhat,
just as he had hoped. She leaned over the desk beside him in a much
more natural manner. "It all appears quite meaningless, to me. What
are these curious dotted lines you are poring over?"

"Shipping routes."

The blue eyes suddenly twinkled up at
him. "Well! And you think
backgammon
dull!"

He grinned at her, and suddenly he was
very aware of how small the space was between their bodies. Her
skirt brushed his leg. The air between them seemed charged with
electricity. Their eyes locked, and Trevor’s smile faded in a surge
of desire. The memory of kissing her, really kissing her, rushed
vividly into his mind. It took a strong effort of will to resist
his impulses; the urge to take her in his arms was almost
overmastering.

But what if she felt it, too? Ah, God.
She did. He saw her eyes dilate and her lips part, and sensed the
exact instant when she stopped breathing. His scruples vanished,
and he reached for her.

But Clarissa stepped away, tension
visible in every line of her squared shoulders. "Should I put the
game back in the linen closet?" she asked. Her voice sounded high
and tremulous.

"Blast the game," growled Trevor. He
moved purposely toward her, but then was frustrated by the entrance
of Mrs. Simmons. He checked in mid-stride. The housekeeper stood
placidly in the doorway, ducking a slight curtsey.

"Eustace Henry has called. Shall I show
him up?"

The moment was gone, as surely as if a
bucket of ice had been poured over him. "Hang Eustace Henry!"
snapped Trevor, exasperated. "Tell him to go to the
devil!"

Mrs. Simmons folded her hands against
her apron and fixed Trevor with a disapproving eye. "He has not
called to see
you,
sir!" she admonished him.

"Oh, dear," said Clarissa faintly.
"Pray show him into the morning room, Mrs. Simmons. I will be there
directly."

As soon as Mrs. Simmons had gone,
Trevor rounded on Clarissa. "What did I tell you when you invited
that gudgeon to call?" he demanded. "I knew he would haunt the
place!"

Clarissa peered distractedly at her
reflection, showing dimly in a brass wall sconce, and smoothed her
already-smooth hair. "I own, I did not expect him to call here
every day!" she admitted. "It is really rather awkward, with
everyone believing me to be your ward. The sooner you find me a
situation, sir, the better."

She whisked out of the room in a rustle
of skirts, and Trevor was left to stare at the space she had just
vacated. He swore under his breath, long and fluently. He was fast
becoming obsessed with the chit. And he was no nearer to his goal
than when she first arrived.

Well, that wasn’t entirely true. He had
kissed her, at least. But the only discernible effect it had had
was to make him want her even more. It had done nothing to soften
Clarissa’s position; she was as adamant as ever.

Trevor began furiously pacing the room,
pondering the problem. As a man of his word, he had, albeit
reluctantly, given one of his clerks orders last Monday to find
respectable employment for Miss Feeney. The ambitious underling had
proved lamentably industrious, and had, in fact, apprised Mr.
Whitlatch of several opportunities already. Mr. Whitlatch had
spurned them all. And he had, moreover, told Clarissa of none of
them. He was guiltily aware that she might not find them as
objectionable as he did. Three he rejected as ill-paying, four
because he thought the work demeaning, and one because the position
offered was in Yorkshire. He knew it was irrational; once she was
removed from Morecroft Cottage she would be as far out of his reach
in Finsbury as in York. But nevertheless, he threw the
advertisement in the fire. No Yorkshire situation for
Clarissa!

He tried to return to his charts and
ledgers, but soon gave it up as hopeless. Drat the wench. She was
ruining his concentration. He leaned tiredly against the table,
rubbed his eyes, and wondered what the devil Clarissa was doing,
holed up in the morning room with Mr. Henry. He ought to step up
and see for himself, by George.

Three long strides brought him to the
hall, where he nearly collided with Dawson’s boy, carrying a large
parcel wrapped in brown paper.

"Beg pardon, sir," piped the boy,
struggling to retain his hold on the package. Mr. Whitlatch reached
out and steadied it for him, for which he received a gulped "thank
‘ee!"