Playing to Win (25 page)

The hat was simply darling. The new way
Bess had done her hair was as stylish as it was pretty. And the
habit fit perfectly now. In fact, Clarissa wondered nervously if it
fit a little too well.

Bess caught the sudden worry in
Clarissa’s eyes and drew closer. "Is something wrong, Miss? Don’t
you like it?" she asked anxiously.

"Oh, you’ve done beautifully!" Clarissa
assured her quickly. "It’s just that—" She patted the bodice,
turned sideways, glanced again at her reflection, and blushed. "Do
you think the jacket might be a bit too snug?"

Bess’ wide brown eyes appeared over
Clarissa’s shoulder in the mirror. "No, Miss, it looks ever so
nice. Does it pinch you?"

Clarissa’s expression turned
thoughtful. "No." The high-waisted silhouette that emphasized her
breasts did look very much like illustrations she had seen in
The Lady’s Magazine.
She also remembered seeing similar
form-fitting garments on well-dressed persons in London. This must
be the order of the day, she supposed.

Then she remembered Mr. Whitlatch
teasing her about being a Puritan. That made her mind
up.

"We won’t change a thing," Clarissa
announced. "This is the most elegant outfit I have ever worn. I
shall stop fancying myself conspicuous, and simply enjoy
it."

Bess clapped her hands, giggling. "Aye,
Miss, right you are! You go on down and have the time o’ your
life!"

Clarissa then reduced Bess to
speechless bliss by thanking her, praising her, and recklessly
withdrawing a sixpence from her slender store of funds to press
into the girl’s palm. Clarissa had no idea if sixpence was
considered adequate largesse in the first circles, but then, she
was fairly certain Bess didn’t know, either. Her stammering
gratitude made Clarissa feel that the precious money had been
well-spent.

There was something magical about
wearing new clothes. Especially clothes in which one felt oneself
looking one’s best. Clarissa’s eyes sparkled with anticipation as
she caught the velvet train up over her arm, exited the bedchamber
and fairly danced to the top of the staircase. She paused at the
top and leaned over the rail. Mr. Whitlatch was waiting in the hall
below. Clarissa was seized with a sudden, mischievous impulse to
make a dramatic entrance.

"Mr. Whitlatch!" she called.

"Trevor," he responded automatically,
turning and looking up at her.

She smiled saucily. "Trevor," she
corrected herself obediently, and then moved lightly down the
stairway, one hand gracefully trailing on the banister.

She had the satisfaction of seeing his
jaw drop. Her heart gave a happy little leap at the sight, and she
beamed at him. This seemed to complete his stupefaction. Clarissa
reached the foot of the stairs, dropped the train behind her and
twirled once, laughing with delight.

"Isn’t it fine?" she exclaimed. "Thank
you so much for allowing me the use of it."

Trevor’s jaw worked soundlessly for a
moment. "Fine," he repeated hoarsely. He cleared his throat. "You
have a genius for understatement."

"Do you like it?"

"Very much."

"I am glad." She spread her hands and
pointed one toe, showing him the costume. "The only garments you
see that are mine are the gloves! I had to stuff tissue in the toes
of the boots, but everything else I was able to alter tolerably
well."

His eyes narrowed for a moment, and
then he grinned. "Do I recognize that lace at your
throat?"

Clarissa blushed. "Oh, dear! Mrs.
Simmons assured me that you had thrown the shirt out, sir.
Gentlemen haven’t worn lace for years."

"Quite right; I am pleased to see it
put to good use. It looks far better on you than it ever did on me.
What a thrifty soul you are."

"Lace is very dear," she said, with
dignity. "I am not generally a nipfarthing."

"Oh, no! Not a cheeseparer," he agreed.
"It’s just that you don’t live beyond the door. Very
commendable!"

She suspected that he was roasting her,
but before she could demand to know his meaning he bowed, and
offered his arm. She was glad to let the subject go, so she tucked
her hand companionably in the crook of his elbow.

He led her outside. Dawson waited there
with two beautiful horses. Clarissa eyed them a trifle nervously.
One was an enormous chestnut with his coat polished to a high
gloss; the other, smaller, horse was a soft dapple gray. She was
relieved to see that it was the smaller animal that bore a
sidesaddle. She could not imagine herself atop the chestnut, whose
size alone was intimidating. When the huge horse reinforced the
terrifying portrait he presented by rolling his eye at her and
snorting, Clarissa instinctively stepped a little closer to Mr.
Whitlatch. She peeped anxiously up at him.

"Did I explain to you, sir, that I am
not an accomplished horsewoman?"

His grin flashed down at her. "I didn’t
suppose you could be. Come! I’ll help you up."

He transferred his hands to her waist,
but Clarissa hung back. "Ought I—ought I, perhaps, to pet the gray
horse a bit? Give him a chance to become acquainted with
me?"

"Her," corrected Trevor. "She’s a mare.
Certainly you may pet her, if it makes you feel more
comfortable."

Clarissa, with Trevor’s hands still
lightly holding her waist—to reassure her, she supposed—reached out
a gloved hand and timidly patted the mare’s glossy neck. "What is
her name, Dawson?"

Dawson touched his forelock to her.
"Daisy, Miss. She’s a ladies’ mount, so she ought to give you a
comfortable ride."

Mr. Whitlatch made a rude noise. "In
other words, she’s a slug! Beautiful manners, though. You won’t win
any races, but you needn’t fear she’ll throw you into the nearest
hedge."

Clarissa stepped out of Trevor’s
encircling hands to stroke the mare’s nose. She ventured a smile.
"I cannot imagine you buying a
slug
, sir, let alone keeping
her once you had done so."

"I didn’t buy her for me," he said
shortly.

Clarissa flushed scarlet. What a
ninnyhammer she was! The mare was bought for the female whose
riding habit she was wearing. Some of the magic that had surrounded
her this morning suddenly faded.

But the glow returned once Mr.
Whitlatch flung her up into the saddle and Dawson handed her a
riding crop. The saddle was surprisingly comfortable, and after
Dawson had adjusted the stirrup for her, and she had arranged the
skirt of the riding habit to drape properly, she felt much more
secure than she thought she would. The mare was perfectly docile,
and it was rather glorious to be perched high on Daisy’s back,
feeling the animal’s muscles bunch and move beneath her, carrying
her effortlessly forward. Mr. Whitlatch, perched even higher atop
the chestnut, led the way out of the yard and toward the lane.
Clarissa, following on gentle Daisy, laughed aloud from pure
pleasure.

Trevor swiveled round in the saddle to
grin at her. "Enjoying my slug, Miss Feeney?"

"Slug, indeed!" cried Clarissa
indignantly. She leaned forward to pat Daisy’s neck. "Don’t listen
to him," she advised the mare. "You’re a love, aren’t you? Yes,
good girl, then! We’ll show him."

"A
love,
is she?" said Trevor
musingly. He pulled his horse alongside Clarissa and pretended to
regard Daisy with new appreciation. "I don’t believe I’ve ever
chosen a mount using that particular yardstick."

"Very well, then; she is a
sweet-goer.
Is that better?"

He laughed. "Spoken like a right one!"
he agreed. "Although how you arrived at that conclusion so quickly,
I cannot conjecture. You must be a wonderful judge of
horseflesh."

Clarissa rolled her eyes mournfully.
"You are forever roasting me! I haven’t ridden a horse above half a
dozen times in my life, if as much! And I am sure you are well
aware of that."

"No, how should I be?"

She cast him a skeptical look. He
appeared serious; merely interested. "Well, I had to borrow a
riding habit."

"True."

"And I was a little afraid of Daisy,
just at first."

"No! Were you? You astonish
me."

She burst out laughing. "There must be
any number of clues that give me away!"

Trevor ran his eyes over her
appreciatively. "Not at all. You carry yourself very gracefully,
Miss Feeney. You don’t appear awkward in the least."

Clarissa beamed. "Really?"

His eyes ran over her again, raking
her. He leaned toward her. "Shall I gratify your vanity by telling
you exactly how beautiful you look in that saddle?"

She blushed, and bit her lip. "Let us
talk of something else!" she begged.

They had turned down the lane.
Overarching branches of trees formed a canopy of yellow and gold
above their heads. Daisy paced daintily across the carpet of leaves
underfoot, but Mr. Whitlatch’s horse danced and tossed his head.
Clarissa stole a glance at Trevor, admiring how easily he
controlled the restless animal. She was glad he liked the way she
looked on horseback, but believed she couldn’t possibly look as
well as he did. He appeared perfectly at home, very much in
command, and devastatingly handsome.

They spent the next hour riding
companionably through the crisp, clear morning, laughing and
chatting together like old friends. Clarissa could not remember
enjoying any morning of her life more than this one; everything
conspired to make it perfect—the weather, the novelty of being on
horseback, the pretty clothes she was wearing, the beauty of the
countryside, and, best of all, the friendship growing between
herself and her host. It seemed the more she was around Mr.
Whitlatch, the higher he rose in her esteem. His manners might be
unconventional, but beneath his odd abruptness she was sure he had
a kind heart. And he was such good company when he chose to
be!

Trevor took her on one of his favorite
rides through the surrounding countryside. It delighted her to feel
she was sharing a part of his life that few others saw. He hadn’t
lived there long, having only purchased Morecroft Cottage a few
years ago, and he had no close friends in the neighborhood. She
suspected that the reason for this was the use to which he had put
the house, but she did not like to say so. Still, his affection for
the area and pride in his home was apparent; he spoke
enthusiastically of the improvements he had made to the property,
and gave her the history of many of the interesting items she had
seen in the house. As he talked, it became clear to her that
Morecroft Cottage’s manifold perfections were largely due to Trevor
Whitlatch’s own taste and eye for beauty. He had evidently chosen
everything, from the design of the stables to the furnishing of the
rooms, and by imposing his own clear vision on the house and its
contents he had created a home of surpassing loveliness. She felt
her heart warming to this unexpected side of him, but it also
seemed so strange to her, somehow, that she hardly knew how to
comment. She could not reconcile her concept of the reckless,
ruthless Mr. Whitlatch with this sudden glimpse of him as a gifted
domestic artist.

But Trevor chanced to look at her while
describing the difficulties he had encountered in choosing just the
right carpet for the dining room, and caught her expression of
doubt and wonder. That swift, disarming grin flashed across his
face.

"I know what you are thinking. No,
don’t blush and disclaim! You’re quite right. It’s odd that I would
care about that, isn’t it?"

"Well, I don’t know if ‘odd’ is the
right word," Clarissa temporized.

"Effeminate."

Clarissa threw back her head and
laughed heartily. Trevor’s grin widened. "Thank you!" he
said.

"I don’t know why I found it so
surprising," she remarked, after she had recovered somewhat from
her laughter. "When one comes to consider it, this quality is
completely consistent with what one knows of you. You simply
imposed your will on the house—exactly the way you impose your will
on everyone and everything around you."

"What an unflattering way of expressing
it! But it’s true, of course, that I have definite ideas. I always
have definite ideas, whether running a business or decorating a
mantlepiece."

"How fortunate that you have the means
to indulge your ideas!" she remarked, in a tone of
congratulation.

He grinned at her again. "I have the
means, Clarissa, largely because my ideas are good
ones."

She laughed, throwing up one hand in
the gesture of a fencer acknowledging a hit. "I am silenced, sir! I
find I cannot disagree. If your businesses are run as beautifully
as Morecroft Cottage is, you have indeed deserved your
success."

He led the way uphill and stopped at
the top of a rise where they could turn and admire the view.
Clarissa exclaimed at its beauty. From here, Morecroft Cottage and
its peaceful setting looked like a glimpse of heaven itself, and
she told him so. Trevor nodded with satisfaction, gazing past her
at the pretty house nestled in the dell. His expression was such a
mixture of pride and tenderness, she scarcely recognized
him.