Playing to Win (24 page)

This was obviously no desultory search
for a ripe apple. Mrs. Simmons had been teaching her the art of
pie-making, so Clarissa clearly meant business and expected
results. She was armed with a two-handled straw basket and a
rickety stepladder.

The lower branches of the tree had been
denuded weeks before. The only apples worth picking were well out
of reach. Undeterred, Clarissa had set up her stepladder and
dragged the basket up it. When he first spied her, she was balanced
atop the stepladder, grasping one of the gnarled branches over her
head with one hand. The basket swung precariously from the
other.

Her back was to him, so he was able to
watch, undetected, while Clarissa cautiously raised herself up on
her toes. She then reached both arms over her head, shoving the
basket among the branches while still clinging with one hand. This
maneuver disclosed spotless white stockings and worn black slippers
to Mr. Whitlatch’s interested gaze. He wondered if she would
actually climb the tree. If she did, he wondered how she planned to
get down again. He also wondered how she planned to get the basket
down, once it contained apples. His grin widened.

She lodged her basket in the branches
and shook it a little. Thus satisfied that the basket was secure,
she let go of it, grabbed the overhead branch with both hands,
tested her weight, then swung her feet up off the stepladder onto a
neighboring branch.

Catastrophe struck. Clarissa had failed
to take into account the trajectory her swinging skirts would
trace. Several pounds of flying calico and muslin slapped the
stepladder broadside. It promptly toppled over.

Clarissa, hanging in the tree by her
hands and feet, squeaked. It was not an elegant sound, but it was
so far from the profanity he would have used under like
circumstances that Trevor had to bite his lip to keep from laughing
aloud. Delighted, he waited to see how she would extricate herself
from this predicament. He was rewarded by the sight of Clarissa
cautiously lifting her hips, bending her knees, and sliding slowly
forward onto the branch where her feet were. This stretched her
lovely body lengthways and, since it was still necessary for her to
cling to the tree with both hands, he was treated to an example of
exactly
why
mothers forbade their daughters to climb trees.
Clarissa’s body slid forward, but her skirts stayed where they
were. First her ankles, then her shapely calves, then her knees,
then a pair of ribbon garters all presented themselves in turn as
she slid onto the branch. Unfortunately, once her thighs touched
the branch, the show was soon over. She gripped with her knees, sat
on the branch, dangled her feet, let go of the overhead branches,
and hurriedly struggled with her skirts. They were voluminous
enough to give her a fight, but eventually succumbed.

"What a pity that hoops have gone out
of fashion," remarked Mr. Whitlatch.

Clarissa gasped, and nearly fell out of
the tree. "M-mr. Whitlatch! Heavens, what a start you gave
me!"

"Trevor," he corrected her, for the
umpteenth time. He strolled up to her, grinning. "The ladder has
fallen over," he pointed out.

"I see that," she said crossly. She
tried to tuck her skirts more closely round her ankles, but almost
lost her balance in the effort. Another squeak escaped her, and she
gave up, clinging to a nearby branch with as much dignity as she
could muster. "Pray do not stand directly beneath me!"

"Very well," said Trevor obligingly.
"The view is almost as fine from here."

Clarissa’s cheeks reddened prettily.
She feigned unconsciousness, however. "Actually, it is a very good
thing you have arrived, sir," she said airily, waving a careless
hand. "Would you kindly set my stepladder back up?"

"Oh, is that your stepladder? I thought
it was mine."

She choked. "Of course it is
yours!"

"Then we need not discuss absurdities.
I like it where it is."

She tried to glare at him, but burst
out laughing instead. "You will not be so rude as to leave me up
here!"

"Won’t I?" he teased, placing one hand
on the trunk of the apple tree and leaning toward her so
suggestively that she squeaked again, scrambled higher on the
branch, and clutched her skirts. "What is the chivalrous thing to
do, do you think? Shall I come up after you?"

"Never mind chivalry, sir; try for the
sensible
thing!" she begged. "Do put the stepladder up—and
then go away!"

"Go away? I am not so poor-spirited. I
will stay and help you out of the tree."

"If you set the ladder up, I will not
need your help!"

"On the contrary! How will you get the
apples down? Aha! I see you had not thought of that."

Clarissa bit her lip. "No," she
admitted. "But I haven’t any apples yet."

"After taking so much trouble, it would
be a pity to leave without them." He straightened himself leisurely
and strolled beneath her branch. "Hand me the basket."

She eyed him uncertainly. "Are you
proposing to help me pick the apples?"

Trevor grinned crookedly at her. "It
wasn’t my first choice, you know, but you have refused all my other
proposals."

He saw her expression soften and knew
he had somehow scored a hit. "Hand me the basket," he repeated, and
reached up for it. To his surprise, Clarissa leaned down and
touched his hand lightly with her own.

"I think you are the kindest, most
honorable man I have ever met," she told him, her voice sounding a
little tremulous. Before he could recover from his surprise and
react suitably to her advance, she had pulled away, as if
embarrassed, and begun tugging briskly at the basket. She had
lodged it in the branches a little too securely, however, and it
refused to budge.

Trevor opened his mouth to say, "Allow
me—" but suddenly Clarissa uttered a strangled cry and slipped.
Quick as thought, Trevor braced himself beneath her and caught her
legs. In her terror, however, Clarissa was clinging to the tree
trunk and futilely struggling to recover her balance.

"Let go," he commanded.

"I am falling!" she gasped.

"Yes, very well; fall!" he said calmly.
"I have you."

Clarissa closed her eyes and obediently
let go. She tumbled immediately into Trevor’s arms. "Oh!" she
cried, convulsively clutching him round the neck.

"Are you hurt?" he asked.

"Oh!" She clung to him,
shuddering.

"Clarissa, are you hurt?" he repeated,
more sharply.

She opened her eyes. "N-no," she
managed. "I don’t think so."

But she made no move to get down. And
he made no move to set her down. His arms tightened round her as he
gazed at the exquisite face so close to his. Her skin was
extraordinary; lush, creamy and flawless. Her color fluctuated
deliciously as she stared into his eyes; she seemed embarrassed by
her predicament, but somehow—hallelujah!—he had her mesmerized. He
could feel it. She wasn’t going anywhere.

For a moment he forgot to breathe. He
could scarcely believe his good fortune. It seemed he had been
waiting for this moment forever. Now it was here. Clarissa, this
girl of all girls, in his arms. Her heat and softness and beauty
all his. It was intoxicating.

He watched, spellbound, as her
porcelain cheeks flushed a delicate shade of pink. Her lashes swept
down against the soft curve of her cheekbones like fluttering
moths.

"You must think me a perfect fool," she
whispered.

No, Clarissa, I just think you are
perfect.
The answering words rang so forcefully in his mind
that he thought for an instant he had said them aloud. But his
tongue seemed stupidly thick; he felt unable to speak or move. All
he could do was stare drunkenly at the girl in his arms. Her skin,
her hair, her scent, her mouth.

Ah, God, her mouth.

This was it. This was the moment. He
was going to kiss her. Every instinct shouted:
now!

But the seconds ticked inexorably by
while Trevor Whitlatch, that master of timing, froze. What in the
hell was the matter with him? He had never wanted anything so much
as he wanted to taste this girl’s lips. He wanted it so much it
made him dizzy. But her very nearness robbed him of rational
thought, robbed him of all ability to act.

Damn.
He
was the one who was
mesmerized.

He gazed, paralyzed, at Clarissa while
her pink cheeks turned pinker. Eventually she began a modest
struggle to get down. The opportunity had clearly passed him by.
Bemused and baffled, Mr. Whitlatch set her on her feet, still
unable to believe what had just happened. Clarissa had tumbled into
his arms, had almost
encouraged
his advances, and he had
stood there like a stick.

That was the night when Trevor
Whitlatch paced before his bedroom fire in stocking feet and grimly
entertained the possibility that he was going mad. Brain fever. He
had heard terrible things about brain fever. What were the
symptoms, anyway? What would his brother-in-law, Dr. Applegate, say
about a normally fearless man suddenly shaking in his shoes at the
prospect of stealing a kiss from a pretty girl? Brain fever would
be the least serious diagnosis!

He flung himself into a chair and
poured himself a dollop of brandy from a decanter on the side
table. He tossed it down his throat, poured another, and moodily
swirled it in the glass, watching the light play through the amber
liquid. On Tuesday, he had rashly promised to find the wretched
girl employment next week. Now it was Friday night. He was running
out of time.

It occurred to him that the notion of
seeking a bride in the spring might be preying on his fancy
overmuch. The seduction of Clarissa had become, in his mind, an
essential test. Despite her birth, in many ways Clarissa was a
woman of refinement. Educated, intelligent, modest, virtuous—just
the sort of female he hoped to win next year. If he could conquer
Clarissa’s heart, he could (he thought) face the women of the
beau monde
with equanimity.

Yes, that must be what was unnerving
him. It had nothing to do with Clarissa herself. Kissing her had
taken on this strange, unnatural importance only because he was
mentally preparing himself for kissing other, truly important
females.

His brow cleared. This problem would be
easy to solve. A pleasure, in fact, to solve. Clarissa was no
totem. She was a girl, a girl just like any other. And tomorrow he
was going to kiss her. No more waiting for the right moment. No
more hesitation. Just grab her and kiss her. This mysterious power
she had over him would instantly be broken. What could be
simpler?

Tomorrow, he promised himself. And this
time, he meant it. A slow smile of satisfaction unfurled across his
swarthy features. He silently toasted the resolution, tossed the
brandy down his throat, and set his glass down with a decisive
click. Tomorrow.

Chapter 16

A cloudless morning had dawned, and the
riding habit was finished. Clarissa had spent a great deal of time
over the past several days carefully altering the garment, which
had been made for a slightly larger and taller lady, to fit her own
form. The trick had been difficult to pull off, since Clarissa was
anxious not to harm the expensive garment or ruin the exquisite
tailoring it evinced. After all, since she was
borrowing
the
habit (as she continually reminded herself), she was determined to
make no irreversible changes. But at last the alterations were
completed to her satisfaction, and this, finally, was the day
Clarissa would go riding with Mr. Whitlatch.

She donned the riding habit in a fever
of nervous excitement. Mrs. Simmons had sent the youngest of the
dailies, Bess, to help her dress. Bess shyly confessed a secret
ambition to one day be a lady’s maid, and instantly entered into
the spirit of the momentous occasion. Her enthusiasm was contagious
as she tucked and patted and laced Clarissa into the costume. She
even manifested a genius for hairdressing, and insisted on brushing
Clarissa’s hair until it shone, curling it with hot irons, and
draping the fat sausage curls dashingly over Clarissa’s left
shoulder. Bess grew bolder as her confidence increased, and she
refused to allow Clarissa to peek while she worked. Eyes shining,
expression intent, Bess finally placed the little velvet hat with
the jauntily curling feather high atop Clarissa’s massed curls,
pinned it precisely into position, and stepped back to view her
handiwork.

Bess drew a deep breath, swelling with
pride, then let her breath go in a sigh. "Oh, Miss, you do look a
picture!" she breathed reverently.

Clarissa laughed at the girl’s
awestruck expression. "May I look now?"

Bess nodded. Clarissa stepped before
the cheval glass and halted, eyes widening. Was this fashionable
creature really Clarissa Feeney? It seemed impossible!

"Merciful heavens," murmured Clarissa,
staring at her own reflection.

It was a shock to see herself dressed
all in pink velvet. Why, she had never worn such a color in her
life! She had been half-afraid the effect would be vulgar. It was a
relief to see that the severe cut of the habit, and the fact that
the color became her extremely well, softened the impact. And after
all, the shade was more a dusty rose than an outright
pink
.
Her hair looked almost blue-black against the roseate hue, and the
warm, soft color definitely flattered her complexion. My goodness.
She had never known she could look so well.