Playing to Win (7 page)

"You haven't traveled much, I
see."

"Only on a stagecoach," Clarissa
admitted, wiggling her toes appreciatively against the hot
brick.

She noted with relief that his voice
had suddenly sounded almost friendly. Perhaps the muted light and
cozy confines of the coach's interior would have a mellowing effect
on Mr. Whitlatch's temper. She had never seen, never imagined, such
a richly appointed carriage. The walls were paneled in what
appeared to be oak, the squabs were of dark blue velvet, and the
windows were curtained in matching velvet.

"I had no idea such a degree of comfort
could be had in a private carriage," she remarked. "Do you always
travel in such style?"

"Always." Mr. Whitlatch leaned lazily
back against the squabs, crossing his powerful arms across his
chest. "Are you engaging me in polite conversation?"

She regarded him nervously. "If you
please."

"Well, I think I had rather not," he
said softly. The carriage gave a gentle lurch and their journey
began. "In fact, I am almost sure I had rather not. I find I am not
in the mood for conversation."

She stared at him, nonplussed. "But I
must explain my circumstances. I know it must appear strange to
you—"

"I am not interested in your
circumstances. Besides, they have just changed. Hadn't you
noticed?"

She blinked. "Changed?"

"For the better, I hope, now that you
are under my protection."

Clarissa stiffened. "Your protection!
That's a fine word for it. Just what will you protect me from,
sir?"

He chuckled. "From the predatory
designs, unwelcome attentions, and physical advances of other
men."

"And who will protect me from yours?"
she demanded.

His eyes gleamed in the dimness. "No
one, and nothing, can protect you from mine," he said
affably.

Clarissa swallowed her rising fear and
spoke reasonably. "Mr. Whitlatch, you are laboring under a
misapprehension. You must let me explain—"

"I told you I was not in the mood for
conversation. Are you going to take off that ridiculous bonnet, or
shall I?"

Clarissa's hands flew to her bonnet.
"Pray do not!" she gasped, clutching it protectively.

"No?" he murmured. He reached easily
across the space between them and slowly ran one finger along the
edge of the satin riband, just touching her cheek. "It will be very
much in the way."

Clarissa's heart seemed to jump into
her throat. She could feel her pulse beating there, high and fast
and terrified. The touch of his hand to her face sent shivers of
fear down her spine. Fear and—something else, something confusing,
something odd. What was happening? Her face tingled where he had
touched it; it was almost as if his finger burned.

"Don't," she whispered. To her
astonishment, it was suddenly difficult to speak. A strange,
suffocating intimacy seemed to be pulling them toward one another
in the dim light. Her eyes searched his, spellbound. But she did
not find her reflection in them. His eyes held only a hot, dreamy
haze.

Why, he wasn't seeing her at all! He
saw nothing but his own desire.

This realization hit her like a dash of
cold water. Her brows snapped together. "Don't!" she repeated, more
firmly. But before she knew what he intended, he had untied her
bonnet with one swift, strategic yank. Mr. Whitlatch laughed softly
as the wide satin ribbons tumbled down across her chest.

The bonnet, however, remained anchored
to her head. Clarissa suddenly remembered the hat pin. Her courage
returned. She could wipe that hazy look off his face if it became
necessary.

Mr. Whitlatch was leaning slowly toward
her, his eyes still hot and unfocused. Clarissa placed her small,
determined hands against his shoulders and pushed. The time for
plain speaking had obviously arrived.

"You must listen to me!" she said, her
voice sharp with desperation. "I am not interested in becoming your
mistress!"

At that moment, the carriage
simultaneously bounced into a rut and turned a corner. Clarissa
pitched helplessly forward into Mr. Whitlatch's waiting
arms.

He did not appear to have heard her
last statement at all. Instead of responding like a sensible man,
he caught her fast and held her against him while the coach gently
rocked and swayed. If anything, his eyes burned hotter than ever.
"So beautiful," he whispered.

His words seemed to travel deliciously
down her spine and out her toes. What on earth was the matter with
her? Clarissa discovered that she was clinging to his shoulders. If
she let go, she would fall to the floor of the coach. This did not
strike her as a good strategy for discouraging Mr. Whitlatch. She
continued to hold onto him—for the time being. Heavens, he was
strong!

"Mr. Whitlatch, you must let me go at
once," she said, as firmly as she could.

The ghost of a laugh shook him. "Must
I?"

To Clarissa's dismay, he leaned down
and began playfully nudging the bonnet with his head as if to push
it off. Still anchored by the pin, it refused to budge. But—what in
the world was he doing to her neck? It was making her hair stand on
end. Was that his
mouth
she was feeling? Outrageous!
Shocking! She gasped with terrified pleasure.

"Mr. Whitlatch, pray stop! This is not
seemly."

To her annoyance, her voice sounded
breathless and shaky. Even in her own ears, she did not sound like
she meant what she was saying. Small wonder that Mr. Whitlatch paid
no heed.

Struggling, still bound by the lap
robe, she managed to get her knees onto the floor of the coach and
tried pushing against his shoulders once again. He finally lifted
his face, but his arms tightened around her and he slid off the
bench, joining her on the floor. She realized he now meant to push
her onto her back.

The bewildering pleasure she had been
feeling was instantly banished. Real panic welled within Clarissa.
How could she get through to this man?

"Mr. Whitlatch!
Sir!
I appeal to
your sense of honor—I appeal to your chivalry—"

His warm breath stirred against her
cheek as he chuckled. "You appeal to me in every way,
Clarissa."

His mouth was seeking hers. She
squirmed and twisted frantically to avoid his kiss. Heaven help
her, she had no other choice—! Clarissa struggled to get one hand
to her bonnet, then tugged desperately at the hat pin. Success! Her
bonnet tumbled off the back of her head just as the lap robe
slipped to the floor between them, freeing her limbs.

Mr. Whitlatch's eyes re-focused a
little at the sight of a thin band of steel flickering before his
face. "What the deuce—?" he began, but Clarissa fought her way free
of him with one desperate shove and pressed herself against the far
wall of the coach, brandishing her hat pin.

She hoped she looked more dangerous
than she felt, braced on the narrow floor between the two benches,
the velvet curtains swaying gently above her head. Now that she had
actually pulled out her trump card, she felt remarkably foolish.
She pointed her pin toward her assailant and tried to look
fierce.

Mr. Whitlatch crouched before her with
the blankest amazement writ large across his face.

"What is that?" he demanded, eyeing the
wavering point of the hat pin.

"If you come near me again, I shall
pierce you through!" warned Clarissa.

"Yes, I daresay, but with
what?"

"It is my hat pin."

Mr. Whitlatch choked. "A hat
pin!"

Clarissa lifted her chin at him. "Do
not laugh! It is ten inches long, and excessively
sharp!"

"Ah." Mr. Whitlatch settled himself
gracefully on the floor as if it were perfectly natural to choose
to sit there. He leaned against the opposite door of the coach.
Amusement lit his eyes.

"You are a resourceful little puss.
Would you really offer me violence, do you think?"

"Yes, I would," declared Clarissa,
deciding to pass over his characterization of her.

His eyes raked her. "Let's put that to
the test, shall we?"

She gritted her teeth. "If you make me
do it, I will hurt you," she promised. "But I hope you do not make
me!" she added hastily, seeing the speculative gleam in his
eyes.

"You do this very well," he
congratulated her. "I almost believe you." He leaned forward and
slipped one hand around her ankle, caressing it.

With a shocked exclamation, Clarissa
jumped back and tucked her feet beneath her. "What are you doing? I
told you not to touch me!"

"So you did," agreed Mr. Whitlatch.
"Shall we stop this game? I am growing weary of it." He picked
himself up off the floor, seated himself on the forward-facing
bench, and with one smooth movement pulled Clarissa up beside him
as though she weighed nothing at all.

Clarissa took a deep breath, closed her
eyes, and jabbed. She felt the pin skitter along the surface of
something and then push home. She could not help crying, "Oh!" as
she felt the sickening sensation.

Her cry of distress was lost, however,
in the crashing oath that issued from Mr. Whitlatch.

Chapter 5

With great presence of mind, Clarissa
seized the end of her hat pin and drew it back out. After all, she
might need it again. Only then did she open her eyes.

Mr. Whitlatch had one hand clapped to
his left forearm. Fury glittered in his eyes. It was all too clear
he was fighting to control his temper. She hastily removed herself
as far as possible, which was not very far. She made herself as
small as she could against the wall of the coach.

Why did he not speak? He looked
murderous. It was terrifying. She prayed fervently that he would
not strike her. But she had deliberately injured another human
being! It was all very dreadful.

"I beg your pardon," she whispered,
frightened tears welling in her eyes. "But you would not listen to
me."

He kept his voice level, but anger
crackled through it alarmingly. "I did not think you were
serious."

"No, I saw you did not. That is why I—"
She swallowed. "That is why I pricked you."

"You did not
prick
me," he said
through his teeth. "You stabbed me. Vixen."

That brought her head up. "I daresay
you will recover from your wounds!" she said, with exquisite
sarcasm. "In the meantime, I hope your manners will recover as
well! A lady should not have to resort to such measures to ensure
that she is treated with respect."

"Now,
there
we come to the crux
of the matter," he said. He enunciated each word contemptuously
until it cracked like a whip. "Pray explain to me—if you can!—how a
doxy's daughter can fancy herself a
lady."

With a low, indescribable cry, Clarissa
turned to him. Her lovely face was suffused with emotion. "My
mother's daughter!" she cried. "Is that all I am? Must I suffer all
my life for my mother’s sins?"

Tears still sparkled, forgotten, in her
eyes. She looked magnificent. Mr. Whitlatch found it difficult to
concentrate while sitting so close to her. It was impossible to
stay angry while facing this overwhelming abundance of anguished
beauty. But she had already turned away, dashing the tears from her
eyes with a shaking hand.

"You need not answer that," she told
him, her voice subdued. "Miss Bathurst must have read me the verses
a dozen times."

"What verses?"

"In the Bible, of course." Her face,
turned back to his, was woebegone. "The sins of the fathers are
visited upon the children."

"Ah. Yes." Every time his eyes met
hers, his wits went begging. He carefully removed himself to the
opposite bench, and faced her like an opponent.

"And who is Miss Bathurst?"

Her expression became even bleaker.
"She was my teacher. My friend."

"Was?"

Clarissa’s eyes filled again. "She
died," Clarissa whispered.

His brows snapped together. "I am
sorry."

She bowed her head. "Thank
you."

Mr. Whitlatch studied the girl who sat
across from him, head bowed, feet pressed modestly together, hands
clasped lightly in her lap. There was nothing in her dress or her
demeanor to indicate whose daughter she was. Had he met her under
different circumstances, he would have assumed she was a lady of
quality, not a bird of paradise. He shook his head in bemused
wonder.

"How the deuce did Gianetta manage to
rear a daughter so different from herself?"

Clarissa nostrils flared with delicate
disdain. "She! La Gianetta did not rear me. My father removed me
from her poisonous household at a very early age, and sent me to
the Bathurst Ladies’ Academy. He kept me there, at his expense,
until my seventeenth birthday."

"And what became of you after your
seventeenth birthday? Surely that date is somewhat behind
you."