Playing to Win (37 page)

Mr. Henry took a deep breath,
preparatory to further remarks, but Trevor interrupted him. "Yes,
very well! And I am ‘the wicked,’ I suppose! This is all quite
elevating, but let us come down from the heights for a moment!
Stand aside while Miss Feeney and I descend from the coach. You
cannot shout at us in comfort while your face is at the level of
our knees."

Some of the air went out of the vicar,
but he continued to splutter indignantly as he backed off from the
coach. Dawson, still appearing chastened from incurring Mr.
Whitlatch’s displeasure, hurriedly tossed aside the shovel he was
gripping, pulled the step down, and reached to assist his employer
to alight. But Clarissa hung back, her eyes wide with panic. She
clutched rather desperately at Trevor’s sleeve. Preparing to
descend, he glanced down at her and offered a reassuring smile. He
even patted the terrified hand that clung to his sleeve. "Come,
Clarissa! The vicar cannot eat you."

She could not find words to express her
shame and distress, so shook her head at him mutely. It seemed
impossible to exit the coach and face Mr. Henry!

Trevor’s hand tightened over hers and a
swift frown darkened his features. "Come! I won’t allow anyone to
upset you."

A strange little laugh, almost of
hysteria, escaped her. As if she could feel any worse than she did
now! But Trevor climbed out of the coach and held his hand out to
her with such calm authority, she took it. He lifted her
effortlessly from the interior of the vehicle and set her neatly in
the snow, where she somehow managed to stand. She placed one
trembling hand on the doorframe for support, feeling almost faint
from embarrassment. But Trevor was beside her, lending her
strength. She lifted her chin and willed her knees to stop
shaking.

But it was even worse than she had
guessed. In addition to Dawson and Mr. Henry, two slack-jawed
yokels stood by, one leading a horse and another carrying two
shovels. Their eyes were almost starting from their heads with
curiosity and salacious enjoyment. It was clear that nothing so
interesting had happened in the village for many a year.

Clarissa wondered, in a detached sort
of way, if it were really possible to die of shame. She was
inclined to believe it was simply a figure of speech. Had it been
possible to die of shame, she would even now be lying lifeless in
the snow.

Ignoring everyone else, Trevor turned
to face the vicar, his demeanor conveying courteous deference. He
started to bow, and opened his mouth to begin what Clarissa
devoutly hoped would be a more conciliatory speech than he had yet
offered. However, no words escaped his lips. The vicar bore down on
them grimly, his aspect as fierce and unyielding as an avenging
angel.

"Do not dare to mock me, Mr. Whitlatch!
Do not dare! I stand before you, sir, as the spiritual leader whom
God has sent to this parish! I demand your respect, sir! I go
further: I command it!"

Mr. Whitlatch froze, his lips
compressing into a thin line. He seemed to struggle with his temper
for a moment, but, to Clarissa’s relief, conquered his irritation
and finished his bow. "I do not dispute your calling. I would be
loath to show disrespect to a man of God."

The vicar, gaining strength, pulled
himself up to his full height and extended his arm, pointing
accusingly at Mr. Whitlatch. "It is well! But I stand before you as
something more than a humble vicar, sirrah! I stand before you as
the father of the unfortunate lad whom you sought to
dupe!"

Trevor’s black brows snapped together.
"You are laboring under a misapprehension! Nobody sought to dupe
Eustace."

In his rage, the vicar’s voice became
shrill. "My boy believed this wretched female to be as innocent as
he!"

"She is innocent!"

"She is your
doxy!"

The ugly word seemed to echo in the
stillness. For a moment, everyone in the clearing ceased to
breathe. They all stood paralyzed by the enormity of the vicar’s
epithet.

Then Trevor Whitlatch’s right arm shot
out from his shoulder and his fist connected neatly with Mr.
Henry’s jaw.

Chapter 25

The vicar dropped like a
stone.

Almost immediately, the red haze of
anger cleared from Trevor’s eyes. He stood over Mr. Henry, looking
down at what he had wrought. The vicar lay sprawled on his back in
the snow, seemingly stunned. Contrition stirred, but then Trevor
remembered what the man had said and his face hardened. He would
not apologize. It was a shocking thing, no doubt, to strike a
vicar, but the biggest injury had probably been dealt to the man’s
pride. And it had been the swiftest and most effective way to
deprive Mr. Henry of speech. He could hardly regret
that.

"Help him up, Dawson," he said shortly,
and turned away.

His eyes fell upon Clarissa. She was
clinging gracefully to the coach’s doorframe, but any impression of
ease that her pose might have conveyed was belied by her face.
Shock had driven all the color from her cheeks and widened her eyes
into twin pools of anguish. He had never seen anyone who looked
more in need of a stiff jolt of brandy.

Trevor crossed to Clarissa in two swift
strides and put a sustaining arm around her. She did not move. Her
eyes were still fixed, dazed with horror, upon her prospective
father-in-law lying prostrate in the snow.

"I’m sorry, Clarissa. Fiend seize it! I
shouldn’t have done that, least of all in your presence. I don’t
know what came over me. Clarissa? Are you all right?"

Behind him, Dawson and the village boys
were pulling the vicar to his feet and dusting him off. Clarissa’s
eyes turned slowly, painfully, to Trevor’s. He saw the bewilderment
in their depths, and the shame. She did not appear to have heard
him at all.

She was trying to speak. He leaned in
to catch her words.

"Did you hear what he called me?" she
whispered, pathetically.

Trevor suddenly longed to deck the
vicar again. He put his other arm around Clarissa and held her
close. She was shaking, whether from cold or shock, and as soon as
his arms went round her she clutched him tightly. She also began to
cry, in great, wrenching, sobs that he thought would tear his heart
in two.

May Christ forgive him. He had ruined
her life.

Aching to console her and not knowing
how, he held her and patted her, murmuring foolish things into her
hair. He tried to tuck her cloak around her, but, like most female
clothing, it was an impractical garment. The slippery lining
defeated every attempt to gather it. Her sobs did not subside. He
finally lifted her bodily off the ground and tipped her into the
coach. She landed on the floor, but it didn’t matter. At least she
was out of the snow.

Trevor turned to issue orders to
Dawson, and discovered him tenderly tying up the vicar’s jaw with a
scarf. His mouth twisted wryly. If the facer hadn’t succeeded in
shutting Mr. Henry up, Dawson’s bandage surely would. The village
boys stood idly by; they had obviously been watching him comfort
Clarissa. Well, let them look! He was past caring.

"Dawson, for God’s sake, take these men
away! And see the vicar home, would you? You can come back for us
with a couple of saddle horses."

A few quick orders and the thing was
done. The vicar, still livid but now rendered mercifully
speechless, was bundled back onto his horse. Trevor summoned
sufficient civility to bow and beg his pardon, but his apology was
purely perfunctory. Dawson led the vicar’s animal, and the village
lads trailed reluctantly off in the party’s wake. Trevor, having
commandeered the extra blankets they had brought, returned to the
still-stranded coach. He tossed in the blankets, climbed in, and
shut the door behind him before daring to look at
Clarissa.

She had ceased weeping, at any rate.
She had dragged herself onto the seat and was huddled against the
wall of the coach, a woebegone and pathetic figure wrapped
incongruously in red velvet. Trevor handed her a blanket. He then
dropped onto the seat across from her and buried his face in his
hands.

"I seem to spend most of my time
apologizing to you for one thing or another," he said, almost
inaudibly. "I promise you, Clarissa, I’ll put things right
somehow."

"How?" she whispered.

He straightened himself with an effort.
It was very hard to meet her eyes. He knew damned well there was no
way to remedy this particular disaster. But hope was the least he
could give her.

"It all arose from a misunderstanding.
When the vicar recovers his temper, he’ll see that. Why, I never
would have struck him if he hadn’t insulted you! He’ll come to his
senses and realize he must have been mistaken. And once the vicar
acknowledges his error—"

"There was no error." It was the
whisper of despair. Her eyes were blurred with tears. And even in
this extremity, she was the loveliest sight he had ever
seen.

Trevor clasped his hands tightly to
keep himself from reaching for her. "Nonsense. There is no reason
in the world why you shouldn’t marry Eustace Henry. I will go to
the vicar and crawl, if I have to, to make him see that." Anger
welled within him as he recalled the vicar’s self-righteous
stupidity. The memory made him punch his fist into the seat beside
him, and he winced as his sore knuckles protested. "Hell and the
devil confound it! How dare he think for a
moment
that you
aren’t good enough for his precious son? He ought to thank God,
fasting, that you’re willing to marry so far beneath
you!"

Clarissa gave a shaky little laugh, and
he was glad to see a tiny smile warm her perfect features. "Thank
you, Trevor. But it won’t do."

He frowned. "Yes, by God, it will. That
nincompoop! That Pharisee! He thinks his jinglebrained son has
fallen for nothing but a pretty face. Well, that may be, but what
does it matter? There’s so much more to you, Clarissa, than a
rubbishing pretty face! I envy him the discovery." Trevor’s voice
suddenly cracked and he looked away, startled by his own vehemence
and struggling to get a grip on his emotions.

He felt the light brush of her hand on
his knee and glanced down to see it resting there, like a white
bird that would fly if he moved. He did not move.

Clarissa’s voice was very quiet. "If
you manage to convince Mr. Henry that I will be a fit wife for his
son, then Eustace will renew his offer of marriage."

"Yes," said Trevor, with an
effort.

"But I cannot accept his
offer."

Trevor looked up, startled. Clarissa’s
eyes met his, clear and steady. She looked perfectly calm, if a
trifle sad. The tiny smile reappeared fleetingly. "I cannot accept
his offer," she repeated.

"Why not?" he asked roughly. "What’s to
stop you?"

Her eyes were so beautiful. A man could
drown in those blue depths. She removed her hand from his knee and
leaned back against the squabs, regarding him gravely.

"I am very fond of Eustace, but I do
not love him. He deserves better than that."

Trevor moved impatiently. "Rubbish!
Eustace Henry, to deserve better than
you?
That’s a loud
one! Why, he’s a nothing, a zero, a complete non-entity! You
deserve better than
him!
You, with your beauty, and your
fire, and your wit, and your sweetness—!" His voice was cracking
again. "There’s not a man on the planet who is worthy of
you."

And suddenly she was in his arms,
laughing and crying at once, and covering his face with kisses.
"Oh, Trevor, I do love you so!" she said.

The words shot through him like a
lightning strike. He held her away from him and stared. She was
smiling at him, with a look that took his breath away. "You love
me?" he repeated stupidly.

She nodded mistily. Then sadness tore
at the edges of her smile, turning it ragged, and dimmed the glow
in her eyes. "I must not marry Eustace Henry. I could not stand in
church and say the words I would have to say, to marry him. It
would be a great wickedness to do so. Because I am in love with
you."

Wordlessly, he folded his arms around
her and pulled her close.

“
I cannot play this game
any longer,” she said. “I know that now.” Her voice was muffled
against his chest, but she sounded deeply unhappy. She sounded
…defeated. “I cannot make vows before God that I know to be
false.”

"Are you sure?" he asked
hoarsely.

She nodded against his chest. And then
she said, haltingly, in a sad little whisper, the words he had
thought he would never hear her say: "I would rather be your
mistress than any other man’s wife."

Victory. Victory at last. Triumph
surged through him, and fierce joy, and an odd twinge of guilt.
Guilt?

Trevor let his breath go in a long
sigh. Yes. It was a pity she could not give herself to him
unreservedly, but no matter. Even a tarnished victory was sweet.
Almost as sweet as the girl in his arms.

But nothing was as sweet as Clarissa.
Nothing as rare. Nothing as precious. He knew what it was costing
her to offer herself to him, and felt humbled by the enormity of
her sacrifice.