‘No, Mama, she must know nothing, for she will put an end to it all, and then we won’t get any money, and she will be ruined, and you will be in prison or the poor house, and I won’t be able to marry Edward and—so you see, you must promise.’
‘Well, when you put it that way…’ Lady Maria remained doubtful, but she was a woman used to being told what to do, and was no match for Amelia in this determined mood.
The letter was duly written and dispatched within the hour. When Clarissa finally emerged from her room dressed for walking, Lady Maria and Amelia were huddled innocently together over a pattern book in the parlour. Calling a subdued good morning, Clarissa left the house for a brisk walk around the park. Her head was still aching.
Kit had also taken to the fresh air to clear his head. One minute he was missing Clarissa desperately and castigating himself with having taken her innocence. The next minute he was sure his suspicions had been right all along, and congratulating himself on having been rid of the baggage. The next again, he was trying to persuade himself that to take Clarissa as his mistress would be a compromise well worth attempting, even if it did mean humbling his pride a little. At least he would have her delectable body at his disposal long enough to sate this consuming passion, which was overthrowing the normal order of his mind.
On his return, the arrival of Lady Maria’s letter put an end to the torture. Kit did not recognise the hand, and the name signed at the end was unfamiliar. Skimming through the note with difficulty, for Lady Maria’s writing was spidery and had a tendency to slope dramatically at an angle on the page, Clarissa’s name leapt out at him. Kit repaired to his favourite chair in the large, oak-panelled library and read through the epistle carefully. By the end of it his temper was as white hot as the flame in a blacksmith’s forge—Clarissa’s duplicity was the bellows which fanned it.
He had been right from the first. She was a scheming wretch. She had not lied when she reassured him she would not be getting in touch. Had not lied when she said she would not blame him for taking her innocence. Oh, no, she had not lied. Clarissa had done none of these things. She got her mother to do her dirty work instead!
My God, it was beyond the pale. Screwing the letter into a tiny ball, Kit hurled it into the grate. That it missed and lay intact on the hearth added fuel to his anger. How could he have been so duped? He had been so close to believing her. So racked with guilt for most of the last twenty-four hours. So afraid that Clarissa was hurt, upset, sobbing her heart out somewhere, alone and facing an uncertain future. And all the time, the plotting, scheming doxy was waiting to launch her attack on him. He was beginning to wonder if it was possible somehow that she had faked her innocence in the first place. For a woman who could lie so very convincingly, pretending virginity would be simple enough trickery. She was a witch, and she had come so close to bewitching him that he was overcome with rage at how gullible he had been.
Kit groaned. He prided himself on being up to snuff. He was so sure he knew every trick in the book. Yet here was a variation on the very oldest trick, and he had almost fallen for it, hook, line and sinker. Almost convinced himself that he cared. Almost decided to seek her out, to offer her his protection. Almost believed he had true feelings for her. My God, he had almost come to believe that they might have a future together, one based on—damn it, one based on genuine affection!
Almost, but not quite. And certainly not now. Revenge would be his. Nothing would prevent him from putting Clarissa at his mercy. He would see to it that her suffering was slow and drawn out, preferably something that would ensure that she and that entrancing, delightful body of hers were at his disposal night and day. Until he tired of her, that is. Until his desire for her was sated and his need for her exorcised.
It was a relief to Kit to be able to think ill of Clarissa, having spent the last twenty-four hours thinking so ill of himself. He was well and truly vindicated. She spoke the truth in that damned letter of hers. He had taken nothing she had not freely given! And no doubt had freely given to any number of others in the past, too. He did not relish the idea of Clarissa in any other arms than his own, however. She was a doxy, but she should be his doxy, and his alone!
Bitterly, Kit tried to repress the feelings that, despite all Clarissa’s perfidy, were determinedly calling to his conscience in her favour. She had courage and integrity. She was witty and intelligent. Surely there was some mistake in all this? Alas, the facts combined with this dastardly letter did not lie. And yet he still wanted her.
There can be nothing without trust, nothing worth while based on deceit. Clarissa’s own words mocked him. Her face, those expressive green eyes, that slumberous, quirky smile. The voluptuous curves of her body. She haunted him, filling his mind, leaving little room for aught else. There was no escaping the hurt and disappointment that were his overriding emotions as the full depths of her betrayal sank in.
Kit retrieved the letter from the hearth and unravelled it. Lady Maria demanded suitable recompense for the loss of her daughter’s innocence. There was no indication of how much this sum would be, but he had no doubt that it would be enormous. After some garbled threats and recriminations over Kit’s cruel and callous treatment of her pure and innocent child, Lady Maria’s epistle launched, confusingly, into a catalogue of Clarissa’s charms. Clarissa was very fair—Amelia had baulked at beautiful—her brain above ordinary, her wit very clever. She could manage a house efficiently, was well versed in books and the like, and was generally considered to be an asset that any gentleman would relish the opportunity to have at his side.
Kit wondered idly if Clarissa herself had been privy to compiling this list of accomplishments. He doubted it. He wished he could have watched her face if she had. How she would laugh. Her eyes would sparkle, that kissable little top lip of hers would quirk up at the corner, and that delicious gurgle of hers, like a brook in full flow, would escape, as she read her way down the eulogy. She would look up at him, a brow raised in question, and ask if he thought her merely very fair, knowing full well he thought her the most beautiful woman he had ever seen. Had he not told her so during their night of passion? Had he not shown her so as he worshipped her body? And she would smile, content.
Damn it! He had to stop this. Returning to the letter, the point of Lady Maria’s eulogy became clear. Not only did she revile Kit and demand compensation for the taking of her child’s innocence, she was offering to assist him in persuading that same innocent child to become his mistress. One thing Clarissa had not lied about—her mother was singularly lacking any trace of intelligence. Clarissa might be at the root of this plot, but of a certainty she had no part in this bird’s nest of a letter.
He would not demean himself by writing back to the mother, Kit decided. His dealings would be with Clarissa, and Clarissa alone. He would be happy to cross swords with her again. She would very soon realise she had underestimated him as an adversary. She might have outwitted him, but retribution was nigh. He was looking forward to it.
Kit’s reply on hot-pressed paper was brief and to the point. He was pleased to have received your mother’s charming blackmail letter sent on your behalf, but he preferred, in matters of business, to deal with the puppet master and not the puppet. Unless Clarissa would correspond with him direct, all contact between them of any nature would be at an end. He congratulated her on her effortless and skilled deceit. Kit would not be threatened, nor would he negotiate. He would be happy to make her an offer of a nature suitable and appropriate to her station, and he anticipated to compensate her more than adequately for her services.
With grim humour Kit pictured Clarissa’s response to these well-turned and carefully considered phrases. She would not misunderstand him. He was hers, etc., the letter ended, and was signed with a flourish. A last-minute postscript assured her that he took issue with her mother’s rather harsh description of her in her bill of fare and that he considered her not just very fair but quite beautiful. Satisfied, he sent a footman off to deliver the
letter by hand.
It was too late in the day to expect a response. Kit poured himself a brandy, trying to ignore the flat depression that threatened to overtake him at the thought of Clarissa’s betrayal. Some male company, cards, and a good deal more brandy were what he needed right now. He set off for White’s in St James’s Street at a cracking pace, and passed the following hours losing such a satisfactorily enormous sum as would have met the demands of Lady Maria and Amelia more than sufficiently. He also became systematically and resolutely drunk.
Chapter Eleven
Kit awoke the following morning with a splitting headache as his valet drew back the heavy curtains with a flourish. The weak morning sunlight struck the bed, making Kit squint wearily at the unwelcome intrusion. With difficulty he resisted the urge to burrow back under the pillows.
‘The young lady is waiting to see you, my lord.’ Fanshaw spoke in hushed tones. ‘She has been here some time, but I was reluctant to disturb your rest since you returned in such—er—obviously high spirits last evening.’
Kit tried to sit up, but groaned at the effect the sudden movement had on his already delicate constitution. He ran a hand through his tousled hair, looking puzzled. ‘What young lady? What o’clock is it? This is no time for morning callers—get rid of her, whoever she is, for pity’s sake.’
‘It’s the young lady from Thornwood Manor, my lord, the one who left so precipitously the other day. I thought, since you were so animated by her departure, that you would wish to see her.’
‘Clarissa is here?’ Kit could not stop the quiver of anticipation at the thought of seeing her again. ‘How long has she been waiting? What does she want? Never mind, never mind. Make sure she is looked after, and have Hodges inform her that I’ll join her in fifteen minutes—no, better make that twenty. Come on man, what are you waiting for?’
‘Twenty minutes, my lord? But you are not shaved. I have not laid out your dress. I require an hour at least to make you presentable. Please, my lord, I beg of you—’
‘Fanshaw, shut up and do as you are told. And bring me a draught of porter before you bring my shaving water, I have sore need of a hair of the dog that so savagely bit me.’
Clarissa was pacing the floor of the small withdrawing room anxiously, becoming less and less confident as time went on. Kit’s letter had come as a complete shock, and in those first numbing moments after reading and re-reading it in disbelief, she had thought it must be some sort of monstrous practical joke. Reality quickly set in, however, as she realised, with growing dismay, that there could only be one possible explanation for this extraordinary turn of events, and that the answer, unfortunately, lay very close to home. Her confrontation with Mama and Amelia had been far from pleasant.
Tears there had been aplenty. And drumming of heels—Amelia—and lamenting on the trials of life imprisonment—Mama. Remonstrations and threats alternated with an attempt to paint a picture of the bright and comfortable future that awaited all three of them, would Clarissa but comply with their plan and take Kit for a protector. Throughout, Clarissa remained intractable and implacable, determined to ensure that their interference ended once and for all. A threat to tell Edward the whole sorry tale put a stop to Amelia’s resistance. And from there, it was not much to persuade Mama to keep quiet and reassure her that all would be well without Kit Rasenby’s help.
Clarissa had then spent a torrid night haunted by what Kit must think of her, for her mama and sister had unwittingly ensured that she appeared every bit the scheming wench he had accused her of being. There was nothing she could write in return that he would believe. Nothing she could say in a letter to make amends for the one he had received from Mama. She must see him in the flesh and apologise, try to convince him that she had naught to do with the letter. But it would be the most difficult thing she had ever had to do, and she dreaded it.
She dressed for the task with care in a walking dress of palest blue wool and a three-quarter pelisse of dark blue merino. The hack deposited her at Grosvenor Square just before noon, but it was now nearly one and she had been waiting for almost an hour, having been informed, rather snootily, she thought, that his lordship was currently indisposed. Resisting all the butler’s attempts to persuade her to return at another time more convenient to his lordship, eventually the determined tilt to Clarissa’s chin and the mulish look in her green eyes had gained her the interview. Taking another turn around the room, unable to sit still, she wondered if he would keep her waiting for ever.
Finally, the door opened. In the time it took him to become presentable, the effects of last night’s brandy had added to Kit’s already-worn temper. He surveyed her coldly.
Clarissa’s heart leapt at the sight of him, so tall, so handsome, so exactly right. But the frown was firmly in place, the dark brows almost meeting, the eyes almost black, unforgiving pools, glittering as brightly as his polished Hessian boots. His mouth was fixed in a firm line, not even a trace of the normal mocking smile.
‘So much, then, Clarissa, for your promise never to see me again.’ Kit closed the door behind him and walked slowly into the room, not once taking his eyes from her face.
As he approached she could see faint lines of tiredness, and had to put her hands firmly behind her back in order to prevent them from reaching up to sooth away the harsh frown on his brow. ‘Good morning, my lord. I beg your pardon for intruding, I assure you I had no intention of breaking my promise not to see you again. I came merely to clear up the grave misunderstanding that has arisen between us from my mother’s misguided letter. A letter whose contents I knew nothing of, and condemn with all my heart.’
More denials. He was not in the mood for her games. ‘For God’s sake, woman, have done with your lies.’ The ice-cold voice was gone, replaced by a hot rage that made her tremble. ‘I don’t think I’ve heard one word of truth from those treacherous lips of yours since we met. You have schemed and plotted your way into my life. You have bewitched me with that body of yours. And when you’ve found yourself bested, instead of giving in and admitting defeat, you simply twist and turn until you find another way to gain your devious ends.’
Kit paced around the room, breathing deeply in an effort to control the rage that was consuming him. A rage that was fuelled by the sight of Clarrie standing in front of him looking so vulnerable. Those big green eyes were gazing up at him full of hurt. That full bottom lip was clenched between her little white teeth to stop her from crying. He would not, would absolutely not be taken in by her wiles again.
‘I thought you understood enough of me, after the days we spent in each other’s company, to see that plain dealing would get you what you wanted. I thought there was enough truth between us for you to realise that an honest request direct from you—not through the medium of your mama—would have gained my attention. I thought you would at least grant me that.’
Fleetingly, the hurt her behaviour had caused showed on Kit’s face, but the mask was back in place before Clarissa could be sure. She could find no words at present, could only watch in dismay the results of her own reckless actions, of Amelia’s and Mama’s idiotic attempts at blackmail. The damage was well and truly done. With each word Kit uttered, she felt her heart shrivel and grow colder, felt herself retreating a little more into that dark place deep inside where she would have to learn to live.
‘Well I was wrong, obviously,’ Kit continued. ‘You have played me for a fool, Clarissa, but you have mistaken your man. Now, if you’ve said your piece you can go, and this will indeed be the last of our acquaintance. No, wait,’ he added urgently as she turned to obey him. ‘“Let us kiss and part,” Clarrie, we should end on a more pleasant note. You must realise by now that you will “…get no more of me.”’
For the first time that morning he smiled, that lopsided, harsh, malicious, mocking smile which made her go weak at the knees with desire.
‘“And I am glad, glad with all my heart, that thus so cleanly I myself free.”’ Clarrie recited the next line
of the poem bleakly. ‘Oh, Kit, don’t let it end like this. Won’t you believe me? I’d do anything to have you believe me.’ Clarissa laid a beseeching hand on the cloth of his dark blue coat, her eyes wide with unshed tears as she looked up at him.
‘Anything, Clarrie? But what is there left that you have not already given me?’ Kit lifted the hand from his arm and held it, trapped and fluttering between his own, like a small bird.
I would give you my heart, Kit, if you would but take it. But the words could not, would not, ever be uttered. Instead, a watery smile and a shake of the head were all she could summon. She turned to go, overcome with weariness and despair, realising how useless it would be to try to persuade him of her honesty after all that had transpired. But he held tight to her hand, perversely refusing to let her leave.
‘Surely, Clarissa, you don’t want to go without extracting something from me? All that effort, all that work to charm me. All the trickery you employed to entice me. Surely you want some form of return for such a very time-consuming investment?’
Clarissa’s face was burning with shame and embarrassment, but she was as cold inside as if sculpted of ice. His scorn at her behaviour, his callous dismissal of all the passion they had shared, were clear evidence of how little it had all meant to him. He had taken her to bed once, and obviously had no desire to do so again. As for the rest? Well, he would never trust her, never believe her. What future could they possibly ever have? Best that she walk away now with some shred of dignity and spend the rest of her life trying to forget him.
Clarissa blinked away a tear and tugged her hand free. ‘I want nothing from you, my lord, except perhaps your forgiveness. Since that is unlikely to be forthcoming, I can only apologise once more for any pain I have caused you, and assure you that you will not see me again. I bid you good morning.’ A small curtsy, a last look into that beloved face, and Clarissa made for the door.
The Wicked Lord Rasenby Page 19
