Playing to Win (22 page)

She stood her ground. "Well? What is
it?"

Trevor’s left hand held the candle, but
his right arm suddenly slid round her waist, pulling her close
against him. She froze, so astonished she could not
move.

"I am taking you upstairs, Clarissa. To
the ‘Tudor Room,’" he murmured, his mouth nearly touching her ear.
She shivered involuntarily as his warm breath stirred against her
neck. "We are going to remove some clothing there, you and
I."

Laughter quivered in his voice, but
Clarissa saw nothing humorous. She struggled on the narrow stair to
turn and glare at him, outraged. "How dare you?" she gasped. "Let
me go!"

"Careful!" he warned, releasing her
enough so she could catch hold of the banister. "I am less
dangerous to you than the polish on these stairs."

Clarissa clung to the banister,
breathless. She felt she had been knocked off-balance in more ways
than one. But Trevor kept one hand at the small of her back to
brace her. His hand felt as strong and steadying as the wood
beneath her fingers, and his face showed genuine
concern.

"Are you all right?" he
asked.

She glared at him in speechless
indignation. The man was impossible! But had she slipped, she was
completely sure he would have caught her.

"You chose a dangerous place to
frighten me half out of my wits," she told him, her voice
unsteady.

He appeared much struck. "So I did.
Let’s go up to the landing."

Clarissa choked. "Where you can begin
again, no doubt?"

"You read my mind," he told her.
Really, it ought to be against the law for a man to have such an
attractive grin!

She kept one hand on the banister, and
gathered her skirts in the other. "I am going up to the landing,"
she told him, with great aplomb, "because it is nonsensical to
stand on the stairs. But you are
not
going to take further
liberties with me, Mr. Whitlatch."

"Am I back to being ‘Mr. Whitlatch’?"
he mourned, trailing after her. "Must I apologize?"

"It would certainly do no harm if you
did. Taking me to the ‘Tudor Room’ to remove our clothing, indeed!"
She halted at the top of the stairs, bristling.

"To remove ‘some’ clothing," he
corrected her, assuming a ridiculously innocent expression. "I only
meant we are going to remove some clothing
from the
wardrobe.
What did you think I meant?"

She could not think of an adequate
reply. Her host crossed to the door of the lavish bedchamber she
had glimpsed yesterday, flung the door open, and bowed as if
ushering her in. Clarissa, flummoxed, remained at the top of the
stairs.

"Why did you say such outrageous things
to me?" she demanded, feeling extremely foolish.

Trevor strolled back to her and flicked
her cheek with one careless finger. Expecting only mockery, it
unsettled her to see the warmth in his smile. His expression
invited her to share his mischief, and she felt her defenses
crumbling. He cupped Clarissa’s chin in his hand and forced her to
meet his eyes. "You didn’t really think I would force my attentions
on you."

His directness pulled an answering
honesty out of her. "No."

Trevor’s expression was suddenly
completely serious. "Thank you," he said gravely. "I will never do
so."

She smiled softly at him. "I know that.
You are a man of honor."

A soundless laugh shook his shoulders.
"Oh, Clarissa, do not trust me too far! Your definition of ‘honor’
differs somewhat from my own."

She pulled his hand away from her face
and tried to look severe. "I do not think it right, for example,
for you to tease me as you did a moment ago."

Humor lit his features again. "You’ll
be glad to know there was a method to my madness."

She could not help smiling. "There was?
What was it?"

He winked. "I planted shocking thoughts
in your brain so my true intent will seem tame by
comparison."

Trevor then walked away from her and
into the bedchamber. He did not pull her hand, seize her elbow, or
use any physical means to compel her. He simply took the candle
with him. She had, perforce, to follow.

Chapter 14

Trevor was careful to leave the door
open behind him. He knew perfectly well that leading Clarissa into
this particular chamber was highly improper, and wasn’t sure how
far her natural curiosity would bring her. She did step rather
nervously over the threshold, but then halted immediately, as if
fearing the room held some contagion she might catch if she strayed
too far inside.

The last thing he wanted was for
Clarissa to bolt like a frightened filly. He strolled casually away
from her as if her presence was a matter of complete indifference
to him. It was rather like taming a fawn, he thought.

His footsteps noiseless on the lush
carpeting, he crossed the floor and flung wide the gilded doors of
the enormous wardrobe. His mouth twisted wryly at the sight of the
empty shelves and pegs. The last time he had seen the inside of
this wardrobe, it had been crammed with expensive garments.
Expensive pink garments, he recalled with an inward shudder. Now
there were exactly two frocks, lonely and discarded, hung on pegs
at the back of the wardrobe. Neither of them were pink. Apart from
those, the wardrobe contained nothing but a large box. He lifted
this out and carried it to the bed.

As he set the box carefully down, he
glanced over his shoulder and saw Clarissa still in the doorway.
She was apparently rooted to the spot. Chuckling, he strolled over
to her and handed her the candle. "The room won’t bite you," he
assured her.

She rewarded this sally with a slight,
apprehensive smile. "I suppose not," she admitted. "I don’t know
why it should affect me so."

"Come along, then! Let me show you what
is in the box. I promise you it is nothing alarming." He placed a
hand in the small of her back and propelled her toward the
bed.

She stopped when she reached the
bedside and glanced fearfully overhead. "The mirror will not fall
on us, will it?"

Trevor, recalling the activities that
had been vigorously pursued beneath the mirror without dislodging
it, coughed. "I feel reasonably certain it will not."

He removed the top of the box and
pulled out a riding habit. Drifts of tissue paper floated to the
floor around them as Clarissa’s eyes widened in wonder. The light
jumped and wavered in her hand, and Trevor, with great presence of
mind, removed the candle from her suddenly nerveless
grasp.

"Oh, the gorgeous thing!" she breathed,
reaching for the garment as if in a dream. He placed it in her arms
and then strolled leisurely around the room, lighting the wall
sconces. By the time he returned and set the candle on the bedside
table, she appeared to have forgotten her surroundings. She was
perched on the pink satin coverlet, examining the cut of the jacket
with a combination of eagerness and reverence that made him
smile.

"Such beautiful work!" she
exclaimed.

"It ought to be. I would hate to tell
you what I paid for it."

Clarissa’s voice dropped to an
awestruck whisper. "And it is made of velvet. I have never touched
real velvet before."

She was petting the sides of the jacket
and the heavy folds of the skirt as tenderly as if they were alive.
Watching her caress the material gave Mr. Whitlatch an odd,
disembodied sensation. He stared, mesmerized, at her soft hands
running lightly over the velvet, at her gently stroking
fingers.

"Do you think it will fit?" he
managed.

Her fingers faltered. "Fit whom?
Me?"
she gasped.

"No, the Grand Turk!" he retorted,
jamming his hands in his pockets before they could reach for her of
their own accord. "Of course you! Don’t you ride?"

Clarissa dropped the garment as if it
might burn her. "I cannot accept a gift of
clothing
from a
gentleman!"

Mr. Whitlatch snorted. "I’ve no
patience with such stuff. Do you need a riding habit, or don’t
you?"

"What has that to do with anything?"
stammered Clarissa, horrified. "No lady could accept such a gift.
It would be
most
improper, sir!"

He knew it, but feigned astonishment
and hurt. "It has never been worn," he offered.

Trevor saw temptation flash in her
eyes, but she swiftly quelled it and pressed her lips firmly
together. "That is neither here nor there," she informed him
loftily. "I am sure you meant no offense sir, but nevertheless I
must refuse it."

"Very well," he said, trying to appear
wounded. "But you made such a point of your being an impoverished
schoolteacher, I thought you might not own a riding habit. If you
do, of course, there is no harm done."

"It is not
that,"
said Clarissa,
appearing much harassed. "As it happens, I do not own a riding
habit. Well, of course I do not! But that does not mean you can
give
me one! It is far too expensive, and far too personal
an item—oh, heavens! Even
you
ought to know
better!"

That surprised a laugh out of him.
"Even I!" he agreed, abandoning his injured posture and hopping up
beside her on the bed. "Oh, the devil fly away with propriety!" He
seized her hand and petted it, coaxing her. "Can’t you take it,
Clarissa? Won’t you? As a favor to me? It does no one any good,
sitting in the bottom of a wardrobe. And I would like to go riding
with you tomorrow, if the weather is fine."

His honest cajolery seemed to melt her
resolve more effectively than his pretended hurt had done. She
visibly softened, and bit her lip. "Oh, dear!" she said ruefully.
Her fingers reached again for the edge of the velvet jacket and
played with it lightly, longingly. "It’s lovely," she said, and
sighed. Then she pulled her hand away, as if with an effort, and
shook her head. "But I cannot."

Trevor had an idea. "What if you only
borrow it?" he suggested. "You needn’t accept it as a gift, if that
compromises your principles. For all I care, you may give the silly
thing back to me when you are done with it."

He thought he discerned a flicker of
hope in Clarissa’s troubled eyes. He continued quickly, before she
could speak and talk herself out of it. "You will probably need to
alter it, of course." Trevor ran his eyes over her figure. It
occurred to him that he had created an excellent excuse to do that,
so he allowed his gaze to linger. He was careful to hide the
pleasure it gave him.

Clarissa now appeared more thoughtful
than alarmed. He rose and lifted the garment away from her, holding
it up so its folds fell naturally into the lines it would assume
when worn. He grinned when awestruck desire leaped in her eyes. She
itched to wear the thing, that was certain.

"What do you think?" he asked her
innocently. "It may not be possible to alter it sufficiently, but
you will be a better judge of that than I."

"It looks as if it might be a fair
fit," she admitted. "But even if it were proper to borrow it, I—I
cannot imagine myself wearing it!"

"Why not?"

Clarissa rose and took the jacket from
him, gazing at it with longing. "This is much, much finer than
anything I have ever worn. I couldn’t possibly don such an
expensive garment, merely to ride a
horse!"

She sounded scandalized. Trevor threw
back his head and laughed. "You’ll look nohow if you wear it for
anything else!" he advised her.

"Yes, but—"

"But nothing! It’s a riding habit." He
took the jacket from her and tossed it, together with the skirt,
carelessly into the box. "If you won’t wear it while riding a
horse, it goes back in the wardrobe," he told her firmly. "I won’t
have you making a figure of yourself by wearing it to play whist
with the vicar."

That coaxed a reluctant laugh out of
her. "Well, I can’t do that! I haven’t been invited to play whist
with the vicar."

"No. You’ve been invited to go riding
with me."

Her eyes had not left the riding habit.
"So I have." Smiling softly, she walked back to the bed and began
to straighten and carefully fold the garment he had tossed there in
a heap.

While she worked there, lost in
thought, the unconscious sweetness of her expression made her
appear as incorruptible as one of Raphael’s Madonnas. And her
chaste gray gown was as incongruous against this background of
noisy pink as a Quaker in a brothel.

Trevor felt a sudden stab of disgust at
himself. He ought never to have brought Clarissa in here. He could
easily have taken the box to her in the library. Even with the door
open, this was no place for a virtuous female. He rose and scowled
down at her.

"Let me carry the riding habit
downstairs for you. There is no need to give me your decision
immediately."

A discreet cough sounded from the hall.
Trevor looked up to see his housekeeper standing in the doorway,
lifting a lamp and frowning accusingly at him. She looked exactly
like Diogenes, searching in vain for an honest man. Mrs. Simmons
had obviously taken in the situation at a glance, and was stiff
with disapproval. All she said, however, was: "Will you be needing
anything else this evening, sir?" She delivered this query in
minatory tones, gazing balefully at her employer.