Playing to Win (9 page)

He yawned. "I'll marry a titled widow,
then."

"Well, I hope she arrives with a
quiverful of children!" Clarissa said tartly.

"Excellent! That would solve your
problem too, wouldn't it? My wife could then employ you as a
governess." He laughed, his eyes raking her again. "Unfortunate
Miss Feeney! No bride in her right mind would let you past the
door, let alone set you up in her household. My titled lady will
have to be blind as well as widowed."

He expected her to utter some
conventional disclaimer in response to his back-handed compliment.
But Clarissa was not so easily distracted. She did not blush, or
bridle, or deny her beauty. Instead, her frown deepened.

"Mr. Whitlatch, pray be serious for a
moment! My situation is urgent. I must find immediate
employment."

"Must you?"

"Yes! And if you are not married, it is
ridiculous to discuss ways I could, or could not, be useful to your
wife. We must find a way I can be useful to
you."

Some of the heat returned to Mr.
Whitlatch's gaze. "You tempt me, Miss Feeney."

"I asked you to be serious!" she
scolded, flushing a little.

A slow smile lit his face. "I am
serious."

She ignored this lapse of decorum.
"Well? How can I be useful to you? Do you require a housekeeper? I
am very neat, and excessively thrifty."

The picture of Clarissa in a cap, with
a ring of keys in her apron pocket, was ludicrous. Still, he hated
to quench the hope flickering in her eyes. "I maintain several
establishments, but each of them is run by a respectable,
middle-aged housekeeper. With years of experience, I might
add."

"Oh." She mulled this over for a
moment, tapping one gloved finger meditatively. "I suppose it isn't
reasonable for me to expect that kind of position at my time of
life. I've no real experience, after all. But I am sure I could
learn."

"Housekeeping is not a profession that
accepts apprentices," he said drily.

"No." She looked a bit crestfallen.
"But where does one begin? Would one of your housekeepers employ me
as a housemaid, do you think?"

"A housemaid?" Exasperation
straightened Mr. Whitlatch's spine and returned his feet to the
floor. "By all means! There's a nice life for you! Or would you
rather I recommend you for a scullerymaid? You may take your pick:
On your knees all day with a rag and a bucket, or up to your elbows
in grease and scalding suds. Which occupation would you prefer,
Miss Feeney?"

She swallowed. "Well, I—I haven't
thought much about it one way or the other," she said.

Now she looked utterly forlorn. An
impatient exclamation escaped him. "You haven't thought at all.
Take off your gloves," he said roughly.

Her eyes widened. "What?"

"Take off your gloves. Let me see your
hands."

His tone was peremptory rather than
loverlike. She hesitatingly obeyed. He then took her small, white
hands in his large, brown ones and held them up for
examination.

"Look at your hands," he commanded her.
"What do you see?"

She eyed them warily. "Two hands. Ten
fingers. I see nothing remarkable."

"Do you not? Well, I do. I see two
hands of a quite remarkable softness, Miss Feeney. I see ten
fingers that have never done a hard day's work in the whole course
of their existence."

The blue eyes flashed. "Well? What of
it?" she said hotly. "Just because I have never done such work does
not mean I
could
not!"

He tossed her pretty hands back in her
lap. "But why should you?" he asked simply. Mr. Whitlatch leaned
back against the squabs again, crossing his arms across his chest.
He watched her from under hooded lids.

Clarissa blinked at him. Her forehead
puckered. "Why should I?" she repeated. "What do you
mean?"

"I mean what I say. Why should you? Why
waste your life toiling in a menial occupation?"

She lifted her hands in a hopeless
little gesture. "What choice do I have?" she asked.

A short bark of laughter escaped Mr.
Whitlatch. "Some women would have no choice," he agreed. "But you
are not among them."

Clarissa bit her lip. "I understand
you," she said in a low tone. "But we will not speak of that
option, if you please."

"Why not? You would be a thundering
success among the muslin company."

Her nostrils flared with disdain.
"Thank you, I do not aspire to a life of harlotry—successful or
otherwise! I will take whatever respectable post you have
available. Or—" Her eyes brightened, and she leaned forward
eagerly. "Sir, do you have some friend, or relative, perhaps, with
children? Could you recommend me to a household other than your
own? If the children are young, perhaps they need a
nursemaid."

Another flight of fancy. He kept his
face carefully bland. "What happened to your governess idea?" he
inquired politely.

"Oh, that would be better yet!" she
exclaimed.

"Would it?"

"Of course it would. I enjoy teaching."
But now she appeared thoughtful. She glanced speculatively at Mr.
Whitlatch.

"I daresay you think I am too
beautiful," she said.

Mr. Whitlatch, startled by Clarissa's
prosaic reference to her own charms, waited for the
self-deprecating giggle, the disclaimer, or the explanation that
should follow such a remark. None was forthcoming.

His lips twitched. "I do, actually," he
admitted, instantly joining in her spirit of frankness. "I’m afraid
you are completely unemployable in a private residence. No woman
wishes her sons—or her husband—to form a
tendre
for the
governess. Or the nursemaid, for that matter."

Clarissa's hands clasped anxiously in
her lap. "But do you not think, sir, that if I dressed very simply,
and always did my hair in a knot—"

He shook his head. "No good," he told
her firmly. "You are dressed simply now, and I promise you I was
not fooled for an instant."

"Then what am I to do?" she demanded,
spreading her hands helplessly. "I had hoped to teach at the
Academy until I was old enough to seek employment as a governess.
No one will hire me now. I am too young."

"Oh, no! Just too beautiful," he
corrected her, his voice quivering.

She did not seem to notice his
amusement. The worried frown still puckered her pretty forehead,
and the blue eyes were anxious. "But I do not wish to be a
scullerymaid, after all. What should I do?"

He pretended to ponder her question
seriously. "I think you should grow a beard."

She stared at him. "What?"

"If you wish to be a governess, grow a
beard," he said calmly. "I am sure it would answer."

"But I cannot grow a beard!"

"How about a mustache?" he suggested.
"I have seen the loveliest of females rendered hideous by a
mustache."

Hiding his enjoyment, he watched the
emotions chasing across her face. Her baffled expression melted
into one of horror. She was plainly wondering if he were mad. Next
came an arrested look, as she noticed the devils dancing in the
back of his eyes. And then a wondrous thing happened: answering
laughter lit Clarissa's eyes, and she smiled.

He had never seen Clarissa smile. It
took his breath away. Dear God. He had to remind his suddenly slack
jaw to stay put. He felt a schoolboy's silly grin split his face.
Such beauty could deprive a man of his senses. Even his hearing, it
seemed. She was speaking again, and he hadn’t heard a word she
said.

"I beg your pardon?" he
managed.

The smile still illuminated her perfect
features, but it had turned a trifle shy. "I had no brothers, you
know, and being at school so long—I am accustomed only to the
company of females. And the vicar, a little. But he never joked
with us."

"Ah?"

"That is why I did not perfectly
understand you, when you were funning," she explained.

"Ah." He gave himself a mental shake.
"I take it Miss Bathurst was not an exhilarating
companion."

"Oh, she was the best of women!"
Clarissa said quickly. "But not—well, not precisely hilarious. She
did not approve of levity."

"You poor child!"

"A goose got into the parlor once,"
offered Clarissa. "That was droll."

"Miss Bathurst did not mind your
laughing at the goose?"

Clarissa dimpled enchantingly. "No,
because I was careful not to ridicule the goose, or shame her in
any way."

He broke into laughter. God, she was
irresistible. He must find some way to lure this delicious creature
into his bed. If it took him all winter, he silently vowed, he
would win her acquiescence.

A pity, of course, that he had to win
her acquiescence, but that could not be helped. It was unthinkable
to take advantage of her now that he was convinced of her
innocence. He had always despised men who forced or bullied women.
No, she must come to him of her own free will. But he would use
every means within his power—as a gentleman—to convince Clarissa
that the life La Gianetta had planned for her was far superior to
the life she had chosen for herself. A governess! God grant him
patience! What a shocking waste of so much loveliness.

But Clarissa's laughter had dissolved,
and alarm was dilating her eyes. Their speed had slackened. She
grasped the strap as the coach turned into a lane. "Where are we?"
she asked nervously, lifting the curtain beside her to peer
out.

Mr. Whitlatch glanced briefly at the
passing trees. "Morecroft Cottage, I imagine. Allow me to hand you
your bonnet."

He placed it in her hands, but she made
no move to put it on. She had paled again, and had the tense,
hunted look of a trapped fawn.

"Pray do not make me go in," she
gasped. "I cannot. Oh, I cannot!"

His eyebrows shot up. "My good girl, I
will not
make
you do anything," he said, with some asperity.
"You may sit in the coach all night, if you prefer. But since that
sounds like a dashed uncomfortable proposition to your humble
servant, I hope you will forgive me if I remove to the
cottage."

He placed his own hat on his head as he
spoke. She still sat, clutching her bonnet in an agony of
indecision. He felt a stab of pity for her. She was really in an
impossible position, the poor little innocent. And she had really
done nothing to put herself there.

The coach slowed to a stop. They could
hear the horses blowing and stamping. There was a rocking motion as
the driver began to clamber down from his perch. The door would
open at any moment. Tears of fright were gathering in Clarissa's
eyes.

Mr. Whitlatch reached out swiftly to
cover one of her small, cold hands with his own.

"You have nothing to fear," he said
quietly. "I am no ravisher of virtuous females. Put on your bonnet
and come in the house like a good girl. We will decide in the
morning what is best to be done."

She stared helplessly at him. Then,
without a word, she placed her bonnet on her head and began to tie
the ribbons. Her demeanor was as tragic as if she were going to the
scaffold, and he noticed her hands were shaking. He smiled
encouragingly at her. As if in a trance, she stuffed her gloves
into her reticule and picked up her muff.

Then the cold light of a November
afternoon flooded the carriage as the door was opened for them, and
Miss Feeney and Mr. Whitlatch were handed down.

Chapter 6

Clarissa, stepping from the carriage,
found herself on a neat, graveled drive. She was facing the
loveliest house she had ever seen.

Indignation stirred within her. Had she
been deliberately misled, or was Morecroft Cottage named in a
spirit of irony? Despite its mullioned windows, climbing ivy and
picturesque appearance, this was no cottage! This was the residence
of a gentleman, not a peasant. It was several stories high, large,
beautiful, and extremely well-kept.

Any hope she had unconsciously
cherished of being taken to an obscure hovel, where their arrival
might pass unremarked, perished.

She had known Mr. Whitlatch was
wealthy—after all, he talked about it with appalling frankness—but
she had not thought, during the trials of the past few hours, what
Mr. Whitlatch's wealth might mean. She had had no way of knowing
the extent of his prosperity. She now realized he must be very rich
indeed. Her heart sank.

Clarissa knew rural life. She was
standing before what must certainly be one of the principal homes
in the neighborhood. Morecroft Cottage's comings and goings would
be of interest for miles around. Her presence here would inevitably
become known, and merely by stepping over the threshold she would
furnish fodder for village gossip.

She clutched her muff tightly and tried
to still the trembling of her hands. Mr. Whitlatch towered beside
her, increasing her sensation of being overwhelmed. Even with her
bonnet on, the top of her head was barely level with his
earlobe.