Playing to Win (30 page)

"What have you got there,
lad?"

"Packet from the linen draper’s,
sir."

Trevor’s eyebrows climbed. "Really? I
don’t recall ordering anything."

"No, sir. It’s for Miss Feeney,
sir."

The eyebrows climbed higher. "The devil
you say!"

Was she finally pledging his credit?
Spending his money? It was surprising, but actually a rather
welcome development. Let her be beholden to him! He felt, at this
stage of the game, he would take whatever meager advantage he could
obtain.

"Let’s have a look." Mr. Whitlatch
removed the package from the stableboy’s resistless grip and tore
the paper off in one smooth movement. Several lengths of muslin and
one of silk, neatly folded and stacked, met his interested gaze. On
top was a ready-made round gown of dark blue kerseymere.

New clothing. And, from the look of it,
finer clothing than he had yet seen her wear. The colors were not
bright, but neither were they the drab hues she currently favored.
One of the muslins was white, delicately sprigged in cherry. One of
the muslins was a pale violet. And the silk was a pastel yellow of
some kind. There was no pink to be seen, he noted with a flash of
amusement.

Now, what did this portend? He rubbed
his chin thoughtfully, staring particularly hard at that jonquil
silk. Had he ever seen her wear silk? He thought not. Pretty high
flying, for a would-be nursemaid.

Mr. Whitlatch became aware that the
stableboy was staring at him with shocked, sorrowful eyes. "Them
was Miss Feeney’s things, sir," the boy said. His respectful tone
was edged with condemnation.

Irritated, Trevor fixed him with the
gimlet gaze that had caused many a hapless cabinboy to quail. This
lad was apparently made of sterner stuff. His eyes did not drop.
"Well?" demanded Mr. Whitlatch.

"We hadn’t ought to open her packages,
sir."

"It is not
her
package if I have
paid for it!"

The boy gulped, abashed. "I thought she
paid for it herself!" His cheeks reddened and he ducked his head
nervously. "I hope you won’t take offense, sir; I’m that
sorry."

Sudden doubt struck Mr. Whitlatch. "Was
this delivered, or did you pick it up?"

"She sent me to the village for it,
sir."

Trevor held out a peremptory hand.
"Give me the bill."

"There wasn’t a bill, sir. She gave me
a haddock full o’ beans afore I left." In proof of this assertion,
he dug in his jacket for a moment and unearthed a small bag
fashioned from a knotted handkerchief. A few coins still weighted
the bottom of it. "It’s been paid for, all right and tight,
sir."

He proffered the makeshift purse to his
employer, who took it, frowning. It certainly was not
his.

Trevor’s jaw worked soundlessly for a
moment, then a crashing oath escaped him. Dawson’s boy fell back a
pace, startled, but Mr. Whitlatch’s wrath was directed only at
himself. Another blunder! What in blue blazes was wrong with him?
He had deliberately torn open her package and inspected her
personal belongings. Now he owed Clarissa an apology. He was sick
to death of owing Clarissa apologies!

He curtly dismissed the confused
stableboy, stuffed the purse in his pocket, and, arms full of
fabric, strode grimly to the morning room. His arrival, he
discovered, was ill-timed. A cozy scene met his affronted gaze.
Clarissa and Mr. Henry were seated at a small table before the
fire, heads almost touching, playing backgammon.

It was a relief to direct his anger
away from himself and onto a more comfortable target. What the
devil was she doing, entertaining Mr. Henry with parlor games?
His
parlor games, in fact, and in
his
parlor!

Clarissa looked up when he appeared in
the doorway, and he thought he saw her blush. His eyes narrowed in
suspicion, but before he could utter the scathing words that rose
to his lips, he recalled that they were not alone. He nearly
choked, biting back his remarks. The probable reason for Clarissa’s
blush was present. It had risen from the table, in fact, and was
bowing to him.

"Mr. Whitlatch! How do you do, sir? I
wondered if I might have the pleasure of seeing you today," said
Mr. Henry as he bowed.

Trevor barely heard Mr. Henry’s polite
blatherings. Ugly memories were flashing through his mind, memories
of light-skirted women who had done their best to fleece him,
smiling and fawning and cooing in his presence, and cheating on him
in his absence. Fury shook him.

"How d’you do?" snarled Mr.
Whitlatch.

Mr. Henry’s doglike countenance became
anxious. He was clearly cudgeling his brain to discover what he
might have done or said to offend Mr. Whitlatch. But Clarissa had
risen, her eyes on the material in Trevor’s arms.

"Is that parcel mine?"

"Yes!" snapped Mr. Whitlatch. He
supposed he must look ridiculous, standing there like a mannequin
holding several ells of yardage half-wrapped in torn paper. It
didn’t matter. By God, Clarissa had set out to make him look
ridiculous. She was playing him for a fool, just like all the
others had done.

Her eyes lifted to his, puzzled. "The
paper is torn."

"What of it? The contents are unhurt."
He tossed the package contemptuously onto a sofa.

Clarissa studied his white-lipped
countenance for a moment, then swiftly crossed to him and laid a
gentle hand on his sleeve. "You are angry. Why?"

Her directness rattled him. For the
first time, he almost understood what people found so objectionable
about his own manners. Candor was all very well, but it knocked a
man off balance to be addressed with outright bluntness. He scowled
down at the lovely eyes upturned to his and tried to remember why
he was angry. Bloody hell! It was a curse to be so easily bewitched
by a pretty face.

He became aware of Mr. Henry’s voice,
like the buzzing of some annoying insect, forcing his
attention.

"I beg your pardon—I fear I have
overstayed. I don’t mean to intrude. That is—I mean—" he gulped.
"Really, Miss Feeney, I enjoyed our game so much that the time just
slipped away! Mr. Whitlatch, I hope you will not think me
hopelessly rude if I take myself off?"

The silly young chuff was red as a
beet. Trevor waved his hand impatiently. "For God’s sake, man,
don’t stay on my account!"

Clarissa walked back to shake Mr.
Henry’s hand, and as he watched Mr. Henry’s worshipful eyes
devouring Clarissa’s face, Trevor remembered exactly why he was
angry. Mr. Henry clung to Clarissa’s hand just a heartbeat longer
than he needed to. He even had the temerity to take her little hand
in
both
of his, and press it in a way that struck Trevor as
extremely loverlike. A surge of possessiveness ripped through him,
turning his mood as black as thunder.

Clarissa appeared perfectly composed.
She did not seem to encourage Mr. Henry’s ardor, and she did not
return his clasp, but (Trevor reminded himself savagely) she
probably
dared
not, in his presence! She neither blushed nor
pulled her hand away, blast her! Mr. Henry declared that he
required no escort, since he knew his way out—evidence of
familiarity that further enraged his host—and Clarissa walked with
him as far as the door of the room and shut it behind him as he
departed. She then turned and leaned against the door, her hands
still gripping the door handle behind her back.

"Well, Mr. Whitlatch," she said coolly.
"What do you have to say for yourself?"

Chapter 20

"Don’t play the outraged innocent!" Mr.
Whitlatch spat. "It is not you who has been injured, and well you
know it!"

"No, indeed! It is Mr. Henry who has
been injured. I have merely been embarrassed," said Clarissa
scornfully. "I know that you pride yourself on your rudeness—God
knows why!—but I never saw anything to equal that performance!
Whatever possessed you to storm in here and interrupt our game with
your theatrics?"

"My
theatrics!
That’s rich, by
heaven!" Trevor pointed accusingly at the stack of folded yardage
lying in a welter of torn paper. "Would you care to explain this
interesting purchase?"

Clarissa lifted her chin defiantly.
"Would you care to explain its condition?"

His jaw clenched. "Don’t expect me to
beg your pardon! Not now! Aye, I tore it open."

Clarissa walked crisply to the sofa and
began straightening the package, her fingers trembling a little. "I
knew you had done so, the moment I saw it," she said, in a low,
strained voice. "But why? I do not understand you. You pretend I am
a guest here, then treat me like chattel! You have no right, no
right whatsoever, to inspect my personal property."

He followed her, and his long fingers
closed tightly round her arm. "What rights do I have, Clarissa?" he
hissed. "Or have I none?"

He jerked her around to face him, and
she gasped in mingled pain and outrage. "Unhand me this instant!
What has come over you? You are behaving like a
lunatic!"

His features were contorted with
frustration. "Have I no right to touch you?"

"None that I do not give you!" she
flashed. "Let go of me!"

Instead, he took both her shoulders in
a vise-like grip and stared hard into her face, a queer, savage
light in his eyes. "And what rights have you granted Eustace
Henry?"

Her eyes went wide with
shock.

"I’ve spent the better part of a
fortnight walking on eggshells around you, playing the fool,
treating you like a
lady,
by God! Thinking I could win your
cold little heart! And all the time, you meant to give yourself to
some mewling, puling little milksop—"

"Stop it!"

"—who’s not man enough to stand by you
when I come into the room!"

"Stop this at once!"

"So help me, Clarissa, if I loved a
woman I wouldn’t bow myself out and run away when I saw her
threatened by a rogue like me!"

"No!" she agreed hotly, struggling in
his grip. "I daresay you would wrestle him to the ground, or begin
a bout of fisticuffs for her entertainment! Edifying!" She pulled
herself out of his clutches and rubbed her arm where he had
wrenched it. Her eyes blazed with anger. "Mr. Henry, thank God,
possesses both manners and sense! He would never mortify a lady by
indulging in a tantrum!"

"Oh, Mr. Henry is everything that is
admirable!" snorted Trevor.

Clarissa compressed her lips in a thin
line, as if struggling to control her temper. She walked back to
the table before the fire and began, moving rather mechanically, to
put the backgammon game away. "He certainly has many admirable
qualities. You need not jeer at him, or call him names! Mr. Henry
has a well-informed mind and a kind heart. Such a combination must
always inspire respect."

Trevor’s eyes narrowed. "And
affection?"

She did not reply immediately, but bent
over the table, gathering the counters with shaking
hands.

"It’s plain as a pikestaff. You mean to
marry him, if you can." Trevor’s voice was hard with disgust. He
flicked the kerseymere dress with a contemptuous finger. "Where did
you find sufficient funds to acquire these fribbles? Silk, and
sprigged muslin! I thought you were a pauper."

"I had a little put by—not that it is
any concern of yours! Why should I not spend my money as I
choose?"

"Why not, indeed?" agreed Trevor
bitterly. "So you have squandered your nest egg! What a risky
experiment, for a woman who dislikes gambling! That decision must
have cost you a good night’s sleep. Still, I daresay it may prove a
profitable investment, if you succeed in laying a trap for that
unfortunate boy."

Clarissa flushed scarlet. "You are
vulgar, and hateful, and I won’t listen to you!"

"Oh, but you will! You will listen to
me!" Trevor strode swiftly across the room and caught her in his
arms. His violence knocked over the little table and the backgammon
game went flying, scattering counters across the hearthrug.
Clarissa cried out, struggling, but he held her fast.

"I will let you go, but you will hear
me first. For you have never heard me out, not once, in all the
little
discussions
we have had! You have told me all your
reasons, all your myriad and very good reasons, all your
reasonable
reasons, for rejecting my offer unheard! But for
once, Clarissa, you will hear it. You will listen to my offer in
plain English, and then reject it if you can!"

She tossed back her head and glared at
him. "Very well! Since you insist on tormenting me with your
unwelcome proposal, I will hear it—once and for all! Then kindly
refrain from insulting me with it again!"

He eased his grip on her then, but did
not let her go. She could have broken free, but apparently scorned
to do so. Instead, she leaned passively back against his
interlocked hands. Clarissa’s palms pressed against his chest as if
warning him: this far, and no further. Her expression was defiant,
furious, utterly closed against anything he could say. He knew
this, but there was no turning back.