Playing to Win (31 page)

God help him. She was the loveliest,
most desirable girl he had ever seen or dreamed of. It seemed that
every muscle in that lithe, willowy back of hers was tensed against
him. He spread his fingers, willing her to relax. She did
not.

He took a deep breath. "First let us
consider Mr. Henry’s proposal."

"Mr. Henry has made no proposal," she
said coldly.

"He will. If his mother permits him!
No, do not interrupt—Mr. Henry may be of age; I neither know nor
care. The point is, he is smitten with you. And I believe your
calculations are correct. Since Mr. Henry is too young to have
recovered from boyish idealism, at some point he will probably
offer you marriage."

"It is the height of impropriety to
calculate
what Mr. Henry’s intentions may be! Really,
I—"

"Stop interrupting, Clarissa! You waste
your breath when you preach propriety to the likes of me! For the
sake of argument, let us say that you someday receive an offer from
the guileless Mr. Henry. It will be marriage that he offers. Are we
agreed on that?"

She hesitated, then nodded,
tight-lipped.

"Very well. Have you thought what
marriage to Mr. Henry would mean? A life of genteel poverty with a
man whom you will soon learn to despise!"

She gave a furious gasp. "How dare you!
Just because
you
despise poor Mr. Henry—"

"Aha!" Trevor’s eyes glinted in savage
triumph. "‘Poor’ Mr. Henry! In your heart, Clarissa, you know he is
not your equal, and never can be. Eustace Henry is no fit match for
you."

"He will not care for that! He is too
noble, too unworldly a man to care for that."

"I don’t mean your birth," said Trevor
impatiently. "I mean your natures. You would be bored and unhappy
with a man who worships you! I know you, Clarissa."

His eyes raked her features mockingly,
but he was brought up short by a sudden revelation. I’faith, it was
true.
He knew her.
The advice he was giving her was sound.
Had his motives been entirely disinterested he would have given her
the same advice.

The insight shocked him. He felt
connected to this girl on some deep, instinctive, primitive level.
He could not remember ever feeling such a thing before. "I know
you," he whispered again, and wonder dawned in Clarissa’s eyes as
she saw his expression change.

His voice became low and urgent, husky
with sudden emotion. "Don’t do it, Clarissa. Don’t chain yourself
to a man you cannot love. You would regret it to your dying
day."

She looked uncertain now, and dropped
her eyes in confusion. "You are very persuasive," she said
hesitantly. "But you cannot predict the future, after all. And we
are speaking of hypotheticals. Mr. Henry may never propose marriage
to me. Or if he does, by then I may have learned to—to care for
him."

Trevor snorted derisively. Clarissa
lifted her chin, defiant again. "I like him very well! Many people
marry with less."

"But a
lifetime,
Clarissa! A
lifetime of Eustace Henry! Is that the price of
respectability?"

She set her jaw, but he thought he saw
despair and desperation in her resolve. "If it is, I must pay
it."

His eyes gleamed with sudden humor.
"Clarissa, I am going to give you a little business advice. Never
pay a high price for a commodity you can obtain cheaply
elsewhere."

She tilted her head, puzzled. "What do
you mean?"

"I can give you respectability," he
said softly. "And you won’t have to marry a moonling. I’ll make you
a present of it."

Her voice was nearly inaudible. "How
can you?"

Trevor shifted his arms to hold her
more gently. "Here is my offer, Clarissa. Place it alongside
Eustace Henry’s and weigh them carefully against each
other."

He paused, gazing intently at the
perfect face turned up to his. Her expression was attentive; wary,
but no longer hostile. He spoke softly, choosing his words as
carefully as he knew how.

"I would like for you to stay with me
here, at Morecroft Cottage, as the lady of the house. I meant what
I said about tearing out the pink; we will remove every trace of
Rosie’s presence and I will give you
carte blanche
to redo
that room however you choose. Money will be no object. You may have
whatever you wish, both in furnishings and decoration. My servants
will be your servants. If you wish, you may order the meals and run
the house; if you don’t care for housekeeping, there is no need to
bestir yourself. Everything shall be exactly as you choose,
Clarissa."

Her face had gone still and shuttered.
He could no longer read her expression. He continued, more
urgently. "You may go to London to shop for your clothes and
personal effects. Hire the most expensive modiste you can find, and
order whatever takes your fancy. Fill that wardrobe upstairs with
frocks and hats and boots and silk stockings; everything of the
finest. Then buy another wardrobe if you like, and fill it as well!
Hire an abigail to take care of it all. Spend whatever it takes, to
have what you want."

She still did not react. Trevor plunged
recklessly on. "Does London life appeal to you? We’ll go there
whenever you say the word. I’ll put you up at one of the finest
hotels. I’ll show you a London you’ve never seen! You may have a
box at the opera. We’ll attend every theater in town. I’ll take you
to Vauxhall. We’ll dance and drink champagne and watch the
fireworks. Would you like a horse? I’ll make you a present of
Daisy. Or if you don’t care for her, I’ll find you another. I’ll
buy you a team, if you like! What would you like?"

Realizing he was rambling, he stopped
abruptly. Why didn’t she say something? His eyes searched her face
desperately, but she neither moved nor spoke. It was like holding a
lifeless doll. "If something else occurs to you, name it! Be my
queen, Clarissa, and I will be yours to command."

Now she spoke, tonelessly. "For how
long?"

He smiled in relief. "Why, for however
long the arrangement suits us both."

Animation returned to her features, but
not as he had hoped. That was not temptation he saw shimmering in
her eyes, but cold fury. "And what becomes of me then?"

"When?"

"Afterwards. After you are
done
with me." Her voice shook with loathing.

But he had foreseen this question. He
grinned triumphantly at her. "Why then, Clarissa—I make you
respectable."

Her brows snapped together. Trevor
raised an imperious hand to ward off interruption. "At whatever
point our alliance ends, I will buy you a house. You may have a
cottage in some rural village, or a town house in Bath, or whatever
you please. Wherever you please. No one need know how you came by
it. You can call it a legacy from your great-aunt Mildred for all I
care. It will be yours, outright. No strings attached. Say ‘yes,’
Clarissa, and no matter what your future holds, from this day
forward you will always have a roof over your head. You shall have
that bargain in writing, my dear. Up front."

That had thrown her. He had chosen his
bait well, for once. Clarissa had never had a home of her own. Why,
the idea had struck her so hard she almost flinched. He saw her
eyes close in momentary pain.

"A house," she whispered. "My own
house." Then, slowly, her eyes opened to his. She had donned that
blank, shuttered expression again. "And what else?"

Surprise doused him like cold water,
making him feel strangely vulnerable. Then cynicism came to his
rescue. He ought to have known. All women were mercenary creatures
at heart. He had thought Clarissa different. He had been wrong,
that’s all. Odd that it should sting so much.

His lip curled. "Of course you may keep
whatever presents I bestow on you while you are under my
protection."

"Very well. Clothing and knick-knacks.
What else?"

Trevor’s sneer became more pronounced.
"Doubtless there will be some jewelry among your
souvenirs."

"Jewels," she repeated, as if adding
the item to a mental inventory. "And what else?"

Confound the wench! She was going to
drive a hard bargain. Well, no matter, he reminded himself grimly.
He was prepared to offer her more.

Trevor’s jaw tensed angrily. He had
wanted this to be a gift, and it had given him pleasure to picture
her receiving it with surprise and gratitude. But if she insisted
on making it part of the formal arrangement, so be it.

"Five hundred pounds a year. For life.
No strings attached."

Ah. He had startled her at last. For a
split second, her eyes widened in shock and her mouth opened in a
soundless "O." He rushed back into speech, pressing his advantage.
"You may have that in writing as well. Today. And by ‘no strings
attached,’ I mean the income is yours, yours alone, to do with as
you will. What does a governess earn? Thirty pounds a year? Forty?
If you wish to hire yourself out as a governess and live on your
wages, you may do so. Invest the five hundred, or give it to
charity, or throw it in the Thames! It’s yours. And if you marry,
you may spend it on your children or—" He hesitated, but only
fractionally. "Or share it with your husband. It’s none of my
affair."

He felt a tremor run through her. "Five
hundred a year," she said, in that same colorless tone. Then she
seemed to recover. A muscle jumped in her jaw. "But my fortunes
would be forever linked to yours," she uttered coolly. "What if you
suffer losses in the future? What if your businesses
fail?"

Anger licked through him. Damn her
bluntness. He had never had to spell matters out like this before,
but leave it to Clarissa to dispense with delicacy.

"I will set money aside now, Clarissa,
while I am still relatively plump in the pocket!" he said
sarcastically. "Sufficient funds will be safely invested in the
three-per-cents. They will be held in trust for you during your
lifetime, and the income will be paid to you quarterly."

"During my lifetime," she repeated, her
head tilted consideringly. "But nothing to leave to my
children."

"Perhaps you could bring yourself to
set a little of your income aside from time to time!" he suggested,
through gritted teeth. "No, Clarissa, I am afraid I must reserve
the principal to revert to my own estate."

Her eyes lifted again to his,
fathomless, fathomless depths of blue. "What if," she inquired
softly, "the children are yours?"

For a moment, Trevor forgot to breathe.
Once, long ago, one of his schoolboy friends had surprised him
during a heated argument by suddenly planting him a facer.
Clarissa’s statement had very much the same effect. He instantly
went numb with mingled shock and chagrin. Why had he not been
expecting that? It was so obvious. He ought to have been prepared.
Of course she might, despite all precautions, conceive a
child.

A vivid image of Clarissa, her belly
swelling sweetly with his son or daughter, suddenly superimposed
itself on the slender girl he saw before him. He was as unprepared
for the emotion this triggered in him as he had been for her
mention of its possibility. He swallowed past the lump that had
suddenly formed in his throat.

"In that case—" He said hoarsely, then
stopped and cleared his throat. "In that case, of course,
additional arrangements will be made."

He still could not read her expression.
She gazed at him, as enigmatic as the Sphinx.

"Then that is your offer. That is the
sum total of your offer. Is it not?"

Flummoxed, he nodded. Hang it all, it
was a generous offer! Nothing Eustace Henry could offer her would
compare to it! Even an innocent like Clarissa Feeney must realize
that.

"Let me go, Trevor. I have heard you
out."

He stared at her. "What?"

"You said you would let me go, once I
had listened to you. I have done so. Let me go."

Unbelieving, he dropped his hands to
his sides. She stepped away from him as calmly as if he no longer
existed, rang for a servant, and bent, herself, to pick up the
backgammon pieces. He was left staring down at the top of her
coiled black braids; her face was no longer accessible. These were
not the circumstances under which he wished to receive his
answer.

Seething, he began to vent some of his
emotions in pacing the room. One of the dailies arrived in response
to Clarissa’s summons, and he continued to prowl restlessly back
and forth while Miss Feeney directed the wench to take her package
up to her bedchamber. After the door had closed behind the
departing servant, Trevor felt he could bear the suspense no
longer.

"Give me an answer!" he
barked.

She was standing before the fire again,
folding the backgammon board and placing it, the last piece, into
its box. She settled the lid on the box with an air of finality.
Then, and only then, did she glance at Trevor. Her expression was
as remote and forbidding as an Alpine summit. And as
cold.

"I answered you the day we
met."

He advanced on her swiftly, mad with
anger and frustrated desire. "Has nothing altered since that day?
Nothing I have done, nothing I have said, has had any impact on you
whatsoever?"