Playing to Win (38 page)

Humbled…and ashamed.

Trevor closed his eyes and pressed his
cheek against the top of her head, breathing in the fragrance of
her and fighting back a lump in his throat. He finally had what he
thought he had wanted, and it was proving to be Dead Sea fruit. If
he accepted Clarissa’s surrender, she would never be a respectable
woman again. Not in her own eyes. Nor in the world’s eyes, for that
matter, and he had just experienced a sample of what that would
mean. His knuckles still stung from his reaction to it.

A surge of fierce protectiveness shook
him to the core of his being. No whoreson vicar was going to insult
his darling girl. Never again.

"Marry me," he murmured. The words were
out before he could stop them. His eyes flew open, startled. Good
God! Had he actually said what he feared he had just said? Or had
he only
thought
the words, in a moment of
weakness?

Oh, Lord, he must have said it.
Clarissa had pulled back and was staring at him in shock. "Wh-what
did you say?" she asked faintly.

Her hair, her beautiful, touchable
hair, was tumbling down. There were tearstains on her cheeks. Her
cloak was all awry, and most of her was hopelessly tangled in the
blanket. She looked ridiculous. She looked gorgeous. He felt an
idiotic smile spreading across his features.

Oh, well, what the hell.

Trevor slid onto one knee in the
broken-down coach and grinned recklessly at the unmarriageable girl
before him. "Clarissa, will you marry me?"

He had become used to her extraordinary
beauty, but nothing could prepare a man for the sight of Clarissa
Feeney transfigured with joy. Before his very eyes, she transformed
into a creature so dazzling that if he had been able to think at
all, he would have congratulated himself on escaping with his
vision intact.

"Oh! Oh! Oh!" was all she said for some
appreciable time, but she said it repeatedly. It was only after he
had kissed her thoroughly that she was able to reply sensibly.
"Trevor!" she gasped, clutching his lapels. "Are you
sure?"

“
Perfectly.”

“
You distinctly told me
that no man worth marrying would ever offer me
marriage!”

“
I distinctly told you many
things that I now intend to disprove. That is one.”

Her eyes searched his anxiously.
"But—do you love me?"

"To distraction!"

“
I cannot forget—you wanted
to marry a titled lady."

His eyes gleamed, and his arms
tightened across her back. "You will be Mrs. Whitlatch before the
year is out, and that will be title enough for the
present."

Her starry-eyed glow returned. "There
is no title I would rather have. But—"

"But?"

Her forehead puckered again. "Will it
be enough for
you?
I don’t like to think of you abandoning
your social ambitions, just to marry me."

"Very well, I won’t. By this time next
year, you will be Lady Whitlatch. I am not without influence, you
know. I daresay it will require no more than a word in the right
person’s ear."

"How lovely! But—" She blushed
guiltily, and bit her lip.

"Yes?"

"Oh—poor Eustace! What will become of
Eustace?"

Trevor cupped Clarissa’s face in his
hands and addressed her with great firmness. "Eustace Henry will
fancy himself heartbroken for perhaps a month. Two, at the outside.
To repair his spirits, his parents will send him to visit a
favorite uncle, where he will promptly fall in love with the sister
of one of his cousin’s friends. And, my darling, you have not yet
answered me."

A gurgle of laughter escaped Clarissa.
She curled contentedly on his lap, playing with his fingers. "Then
yes, Trevor," she said, shyly but happily. "My answer is yes. Yes,
with all my heart."

EPILOGUE

Shortly after the New Year, Fred Bates
received a letter in the morning post. This is what it
said:

Dover, 4th January

Bates –

I took your advice. Found respectable
employment for C. Also removed her from Morecroft Cottage. You may
send felicitations to us c/o Pensione Bella Vista, Venice, Italy.
Returning to England in April.

Wish me happy, old man.

W.

P.S. Still consider it my duty to
avenge you. Vigorously pursuing action that will completely ruin La
G.

I
plan to make her a grandmother.

BONUS EXCERPT:

Dashing Through the Snow,
a
Regency Christmas story

It was a nasty dinner, consisting
largely of overdone mutton and underdone potatoes. But at least he
had not been forced to wolf it down in four minutes as the
unfortunate passengers on the Royal Mail were obliged to
do.

Fred Bates clicked his tongue
sympathetically as the young couple with the whining toddler were
harried mercilessly back onto the coach. “Should have eaten in
London,” he murmured. Experienced travelers set aside their normal
mealtimes and consumed a substantial repast prior to the mail’s
departure, even if that meant dining at the unholy hour of six or
seven o’clock. The London mail would, at all costs, arrive promptly
in Bath. If the weather hindered its progress, the time must be
made up by shortening the stops along the way. And the weather
tonight was ferocious.

Mr. Bates, seated comfortably before
the fire in the tap room at the Coach and Horses, stretched his
long legs out before him and congratulated himself on his
independence. Driving a gig through weather like this would be a
miserable experience, no doubt. But he was young and strong, and
not the sort of chuff who quailed at a bit of cold and damp. Better
by far to set one’s own hours, and not be subject to a coachman’s
brutal timetable. He could eat his nasty dinner at his leisure, he
reflected, grinning. And travel in daylight. Not for him the uneasy
doze that was the best one could achieve in a jolting carriage. No
matter how bad the beds at the Coach and Horses might prove to be,
they would, at the very least, be stationary. All in all, driving
oneself had much to recommend it.

The mail had not been gone three
minutes when a slight commotion, as of someone struggling with the
heavy door and finally banging it shut, sounded in the entrance
hall. Fred could see a portion of the hall from his vantage point,
and saw a huddled figure in a wet cloak, covered with snow, stumble
into view. The girl was shivering and out of breath. She gasped
gratefully as the comparative warmth of the inn’s interior smote
her icy cheeks.

“
S-s-s-s-Stourbridge!” she
cried, through chattering teeth. The small valise she was carrying
slipped from her frozen grasp and hit the wooden floor with a
thump. “Stourbridge!”

Fred dimly recalled that Stourbridge
was the name of the inn’s proprietor. Since the taproom was empty
except for Mr. Bates, Stourbridge had understandably vanished to
parts unknown once the mail coach departed.

No one was coming to the girl’s aid,
however, and she appeared quite distressed. Well, anyone in her
condition would be. She had the unmistakeable appearance of one who
had arrived on foot. No one could become as wet and breathless as
she was, merely alighting from a carriage and crossing the
stableyard.

Fred, his withers wrung, rose and
approached. “I beg your pardon,” he said pleasantly, “but may I be
of assistance? This inn seems a bit understaffed. Stourbridge is
the only person I’ve seen on the premises, apart from a couple of
greasy underlings.” He retrieved the girl’s valise and moved to
hand it to her, but thought better of the impulse and set it on the
counter for her instead. It went very much against the grain with
him to hand such a heavy box to a female, and besides, she was
shivering violently. Why the deuce was she carrying it in the first
place? “I believe he may have gone to the back of the house. Shall
I roust him out?”

The girl raised wet eyes to his,
sniffling. Her nose and cheeks were bright red, and for one
startled moment he thought she was weeping. Then he realized she
was simply chilled to the marrow. She was also distraught. Her
pupils were dilated with anxiety. She neither thanked him nor
replied to his offer, but simply blurted, “Has the m-mail b-been
through yet?”

“
Come and gone, not three
minutes ago. Why, what’s the matter? I say!” exclaimed Fred,
catching her as she staggered. The girl moaned, and covered her
face with her hands.

“
The devil fly away with
George!” she exclaimed passionately. “Oh, I knew it! I knew it!
Merciful heavens, what am I to do now?”

“
The first thing to do is
to come nearer the fire,” said Fred firmly, briskly knocking the
snow from her shoulders and the top of her hood. He then pulled the
resistless girl gently into the tap room and seated her on a wooden
settle. She mumbled her thanks and slumped onto the bench, gazing
dejectedly at the leaping flames.

Fred cleared his throat delicately.
“Shall I go and find Stourbridge for you? I think you should
bespeak a bowl of gruel, or a cup of tea, or—or something.
Something hot.”

She gave a listless shrug. “Thank you,”
she said. The words came out in a bitter little whisper. It was
clear that the absent George had somehow blighted her life, and
that a bowl of gruel would do little to mend matters. Still, Fred
thought it politic to summon Stourbridge. If the girl perished of
cold, it wouldn’t be because Fred Bates had abandoned her to her
fate.

Fred went back to the entrance hall and
set up a shout. Stourbridge soon appeared, wiping his hands on his
apron and looking much harassed.

“
A young lady has arrived,”
Fred told him.

The gleam in Stourbridge’s eyes, and
the eager way he headed toward the outside door, told Fred that he
had given the man a mistaken impression. “There’s no carriage to be
seen to,” he informed the innkeeper hastily. “She’s come on
foot.”

The host stopped in his tracks. His
gaze traveled in surprise and suspicion to the valise Fred had
placed on the counter. It was secured with two leather straps,
rather worn, and its top bore a light dusting of snow. It looked
soggy, battered and disreputable. Stourbridge’s cheeks puffed with
disapproval.

“
What’s this? What’s this?”
he exclaimed, bustling into the tap room.

When he saw the bedraggled figure
dripping melted snow onto his hearth, some of the air went out of
the innkeeper’s sails. He set his arms akimbo. “Miss Ripley,” he
said grimly. To Fred’s surprise, the gaze he bent on the shivering
girl mixed sternness with affection in a manner that was almost
parental. “I might ha’ known it would be you.”

Miss Ripley sneezed. “Yes, you
certainly might,” she uttered, when she had recovered. “For I
booked a space on the mail from you only two days ago! How could
you let it leave without me?”

“
Come now, miss, you know
better than that! There’s no stopping the mail.”

“
Yes, but I was on time! I
know
I was.”

“
You was late,” retorted
Stourbridge. “And there’s never any knowing what maggot you might
have in your brain! I thought mayhap you had come to your senses.
For you hadn’t ought to be traveling alone, as you know well!
Where’s Master George?”

“
At home,” sniffed the
girl, struggling to pull off her wet gloves. “He wouldn’t bring
me.”

“
Ha! Never thought I’d see
the day I’d be grateful to that rapscallion. I’m glad someone down
at the Hall was having a care to your reputation.”

The girl’s chin began to jut
alarmingly. “If you are suggesting that any harm could have come to
me on the Royal Mail—”

“
No, now, I’m not
suggesting nothing, one way or t’other!” interposed Stourbridge
hastily. “I’m only telling you what anyone would tell you, and
that’s that young ladies don’t jaunt about the countryside
unprotected. But there was never any use in telling you a blessed
thing, no way, nohow! You’ve gone your own way since you was
born.”

The girl must have seen the amazement
and disapproval on Mr. Bates’s face, for a deep chuckle escaped
her. “Stourbridge was in service with my family,” she explained.
“His wife was my nurse.” She shot the man a darkling glance. “And
now that she’s gone to her reward, Stourbridge thinks
he’s
my nurse!”

“
Well, if ever a young lady
wanted looking after, it’s you!” retorted Stourbridge. “If my good
wife was here this minute, she’d bring you a posset.” He looked the
girl over critically. “And a dry blanket, I dessay.”

Miss Ripley would have replied
indignantly, but another sneeze prevented her. Stourbridge bustled
off, frowning and blessing himself.

“
Well, if he’s gone to brew
you a posset, you have my sympathy,” remarked Fred. “He served me
the most shocking dinner an hour or so ago. I say, he’s right about
the dry blanket, though. May I help you to remove that cloak? It
can’t be doing you any good.”