Playing to Win (32 page)

He seized her face in his hands and
tilted her chin up, forcing her to meet his eyes. Now he was close
enough to see the torment she was hiding behind her set expression.
"Aha!" he whispered. "You are tempted."

Her skin was like warm silk beneath his
fingers. He could feel the pulse beating in her throat, strong and
rapid. But she was utterly still, motionless in his grip, a silent
reproof to his ferocity. Her voice, though quiet, was very clear.
And what she said was, "No."

She was strong. She was admirably
strong. But there was something between them that might prove
stronger yet. A slow smile curved the edges of Trevor’s mouth. He
waited, feeling her pulse quicken, knowing it was a reaction to his
nearness. Color rose in her cheeks, and she dropped her eyes to
conceal what they might show him.

Too late.

"Liar," he whispered.

And bent to touch his mouth to
hers.

Chapter 21

Oh, it wasn’t fair. It wasn’t fair for
a simple touch to do this to her. As long as he kept his distance,
Clarissa felt safe on this dangerous ground, clinging to her
determination like a shipwrecked sailor clings to solid rock. But
when his lips touched hers, treacherous emotions surged up like a
riptide, sweeping her away, buffeting her, pulling her
under.

Now, resistless, she clung to him
instead. Reason evaporated, pride vanished, all thought
stopped.

His mouth, tender and demanding, was
moving against hers, coaxing her. She felt her knees go weak as a
powerful, bone-deep longing flooded her. Trevor’s arms tightened
around her and she clung closer, shaking. She felt joyous and light
and fierce and needy. What was it? Dear God in Heaven, what was
this terrible, wonderful feeling?

He muttered some choked exclamation and
pulled her tighter, even tighter. His kiss became fierce, urgent.
Then her arms were sliding round his neck as if of their own
volition and her head fell back, giving him access to her throat
while she gasped, panting for air. His lips traveled down her neck
and she shivered with terror and delight.

"Clarissa," he whispered, and his mouth
captured hers again. She felt him bend, felt his arm sliding under
her knees as he lifted her like a baby and carried her to the
nearest chair.

She buried her face in his shoulder and
moaned. He sat, holding her as tenderly in his lap as if she were a
child, and she suddenly realized she was weeping. Those were tears
salting her lips.

Trevor’s arms closed round her
possessively. He cradled her head against his shoulder with one
strong hand. "God help me!" he said hoarsely. "I want you so much I
can scarcely speak."

I want you, too,
she thought
miserably. What a dreadful discovery. What a calamitous turn of
events. Why hadn’t anyone told her that women could feel passion?
She hadn’t bargained for this. It was difficult enough to tell him
"no," caring for him the way she did, without this hot rush of
desire clouding her judgment.

He fumbled in his waistcoat and pulled
out a handkerchief. She silently took it from him and passed it
over her face, trying to collect her shattered thoughts. It wasn’t
possible to move, even if she had wanted to; he was resting his
chin on the top of her head. She supposed it was perverse to cling
to him for comfort, since he was the source of her misery. But
cling she did.

"I cannot stay here," she said finally.
Her voice was small and sad. He immediately moved to free her so
she could get up from his lap, but although she sat up, she shook
her head. "I mean, I cannot stay in your house."

A brief silence fell. She glanced at
him, but when his eyes caught hers, she felt like she was drowning
again. She had to look away.

"You still mean to refuse me." It was a
statement, not a question.

She nodded, twisting his handkerchief
nervously. "Of course."

Clarissa felt his muscles bunch and
tense beneath her, and braced herself for his anger. It didn’t
come. He pushed her off his lap, but not roughly. She stood
miserably by the chair while he strode to the fireplace. His back
was to her. He placed one foot on the fender and leaned a hand
against the mantelpiece, staring down into the flames. Finally he
spoke.

"Very well," he said quietly. "You
win."

She hadn’t realized she was holding her
breath until he spoke. But she was so surprised by his words, the
air rushed out of her in a soundless whoosh.

He turned to face her, his harsh
features drawn into lines of defeat. "I am not imagining the bond
that links us, Clarissa. I know now that you feel it, too. And
still you deny me. Since that is the case, I have done all that I
can do. I am not a man who chases after lost causes."

He straightened, dropping his hand back
to his side to address her formally. "It will give rise to gossip
if you leave Morecroft Cottage now." A faint, ironic smile curled
his lips. "I see no point in saving your virtue if we
simultaneously ruin your reputation. I think the best course is for
you to remain, in the guise of my ward. You need not fear that I
will force my company on you; I will no longer attempt to manage my
affairs from here. I will either vacate the house entirely and
remove to London, or drive to the City every day. Either way, you
will not be burdened with my presence overmuch."

Misery filled Clarissa’s eyes and
paralyzed her speech. All she could do was nod dumbly, twisting his
handkerchief. His generosity made her feel small and mean and
wretched. And Trevor was going to distance himself from her. She
knew he had to, of course. It was for the best. It was what she
wanted.

No, it wasn’t what she wanted. But that
made it all the more necessary. The depth of her unhappiness told
its own tale. She had grown far too attached to him. She saw his
shoulders move as he sighed, and thought her heart would break. It
took every ounce of willpower she possessed to keep from running to
him and telling him she didn’t mean it, that she would stay on
whatever terms he desired, that she—

That she loved him.

Oh, madness! Clarissa closed her eyes
in pain. She must never tell him that. Was it true? She didn’t
know. She was so confused. Perhaps what she felt for Trevor was
friendship, and her loneliness had magnified it into something
more, something it was never meant to be.

But he was speaking again. "I suppose
it will worry you to feel beholden to me, but that cannot be
helped. Comfort yourself with the knowledge that you did not place
yourself in this awkward situation. I put you there, and it is my
duty now to make matters as comfortable for you as I
can."

What did he mean? It was hard to think
while being buffeted by so many feelings. Now the faint smile had
returned to his features, and he pulled something out of his
pocket. It was her handkerchief, the one she tied her money up
with. He tossed it to her and she caught it, bewildered.

"The groom’s boy gave it me when I took
your package from him," Trevor explained. Then he held his hand
out. She walked numbly over to him and handed him his own
handkerchief. "Thank you," he said, and pocketed it.

"It’s a little damp," she said
apologetically, speaking with difficulty past the constriction in
her throat.

"That’s what a handkerchief is for," he
said quietly.

His nearness made her feel faint with
longing. She dared not move, and fixed her gaze on the topmost
button of his waistcoat. After the briefest of pauses, he stepped
away from her and bowed.

"I hope we may remain friends," he
said. His voice sounded hoarse and strained.

"Always," she whispered.

He bowed again, and was
gone.

* * *

The weeks that followed were wretched
ones for Clarissa. Trevor kept his word that she would not be
burdened with his presence; she scarcely saw him. He left the house
early in the morning, while she was still supposed to be abed.
Unbeknownst to him, however, she woke early to keep a daily vigil
in her bedroom window. She would throw a quilt round her shoulders,
press her cheek against the cold glass, and wait there in her
nightgown to see him off, whispering a prayer for his safe return.
She was ashamed of this weakness, but somehow she couldn’t help it.
Her heart would ache as she watched his carriage disappear down the
lane. He always returned late in the day, tired and
uncommunicative, and often would give her no more than a curt nod
on his way up to bed.

She missed him terribly.

Sometimes she wondered if he were
forcing himself to keep his distance from her. Once or twice he
stopped to converse with her on his way up the stairs, almost as if
compelled against his better judgment. It seemed to her that there
was a sort of hunger in his eyes, that they devoured her, as if he
were starving for her as much as she starved for him. But he always
mastered himself after a few minutes and left her, saying he was
tired, or had pressing business. It was naturally impossible to
trail after him, or to call him back. One had one’s pride, after
all.

She soon discovered what he had meant
by warning her that she would feel beholden to him. Bess announced,
beaming with pride and excitement, that Mr. Whitlatch had told her
she was to be Miss Feeney’s personal maid. This came as a surprise
to Miss Feeney, but she was very glad of Bess’s help in designing
and making up gowns from the fabric she had purchased. Bess
definitely had a genius for this sort of work, and long before
Clarissa believed it possible, she had a beautiful new wardrobe as
tasteful and well-fitting as it was fashionable.

This was well enough, but then the
gifts began to arrive.

While Mr. Whitlatch was off in London,
package after package was delivered to the house, and every one of
them was addressed to Miss Feeney. Shawls of Norwich silk, slippers
of Moroccan leather, hats and bonnets too lovely to resist, bolts
of rich silks with yards of trimming, cloaks and frocks and gloves
and boots and reticules! When they first began to appear Clarissa
was scandalized, and lay in wait for Mr. Whitlatch that evening to
tax him with it the instant he walked through the door. But he gave
her to understand, in no uncertain terms, that so long as everyone
believed her to be his ward, his ward she must be. He would not
allow her to go about in public looking like a poor relation. He
said it shamed him.

This aspect of the situation had not
occurred to Clarissa. The argument effectively silenced her. It
would be a shocking thing, after all his kindness to her, if Mr.
Whitlatch was unfairly criticized for failing to provide for his
"ward." He was quite right that a guardian was expected to clothe
his ward in a manner befitting her station. But he had also been
right in expecting that she would feel oppressed by his generosity.
Every kindness he showed her, every gift he forced her to accept,
weighed more and more heavily upon her.

There was nothing she could do to repay
him. The only thing that might suffice, she had refused to give.
There was nothing to do but accept the gifts, the wonderful,
gorgeous, perfect gifts, and wish it were possible to enjoy them.
It wasn’t, of course. Bess would tear them eagerly open, oohing and
aahing at each new proof of Mr. Whitlatch’s good taste and eye for
beauty. And Clarissa would listlessly agree, feeling more crushed
by every parcel that arrived.

It should have helped, knowing that she
looked so well in the new clothes. It was gratifying, she supposed,
that the girl gazing mournfully back at her from the looking glass
was undeniably beautiful. And for once in her life, she valued
being attractive. It was important, after expending so much effort
on it, to succeed in attracting someone. Her future depended upon
it.

And it did seem to be working. Eustace
Henry was reduced to speechless idiocy in her presence. This was
tiresome, of course, but surely he would overcome that eventually.
In the meantime, it was rather an advantage. She could do no wrong.
He was so dazzled by her, he hardly seemed to notice when she was
sad and silent, or cross with him from time to time.

During their rare snatches of
conversation these days, Mr. Whitlatch never mentioned the
employment opportunities he was still, supposedly, seeking for her.
And Clarissa ceased to ask him about it. It appeared more and more
likely that she would, one day, defy the odds stacked against her
and marry.

She was being courted. Actually
courted,
and by a young man who obviously adored her, a
young man who was everything she had dreamed of—educated,
kindhearted, respectable, and even passably good-looking! If such a
man proposed marriage to her, the secret wish of her heart would
come true. She could scarcely believe she was on the cusp of
realizing a dream she had longed for, but had never seriously
believed would come to her. It was so amazing, she found it
difficult to picture living with Mr. Henry.

That must be why she viewed the
prospect with so little enthusiasm. These ought to be the most
exciting days of her life. Yet, somehow, this astonishing stroke of
good fortune was failing to thrill her. She told herself over and
over how lucky she was. She was able to drum up gratitude, but try
as she might, joy eluded her.