Playing to Win (21 page)

"Not Boston," he admitted. "Now
there’s
a continent for you! It might be worth the voyage,
to see America."

Clarissa wondered if she ought to pull
her hand back out of his, but he was playing absently with her
fingers. It was clear his mind was elsewhere, so obviously he meant
no harm. And she rather liked having her fingers played with, she
discovered. She decided to let him hold her hand a moment
longer.

"I would like to see Italy one day,"
she confided shyly. "I am sure I never shall, but—oh! The pictures
one sees! It seems the sun is always shining there."

"I like Italy myself. Are you fond of
art? Paintings, and sculpture, and architecture and all
that?"

"I’ve never had an opportunity to find
out," confessed Clarissa. "I rather fancy I would be. I’m very fond
of history."

His grin flashed at her again. "Then
you must definitely see Italy."

"Oh, I dare not set my sights so high!
I would count myself fortunate merely to see Bath one day." As she
spoke she carefully drew her hand out of his clasp. She half feared
he would say or do something that would embarrass her, but he
seemed to take no notice. He certainly made no attempt to retain
her hand. An odd pang of disappointment mixed with her
relief.

"Bath! Your goals are far too modest."
Trevor reached for the half-empty wine bottle and refilled the
glass at her elbow. "Italy was the first foreign country I visited.
My uncle chose well, in taking me there. Venice whetted my appetite
for travel in a way that Bombay, had I seen it first, would not
have done."

He set the wine down and regaled her
with tales of Venice, Florence and Rome that fired her imagination
and filled her with wanderlust. He had traveled through Italy many
times, sometimes on business but often for pleasure. He had been
fourteen when he saw it first, and for the first few days had been
miserably homesick. She exclaimed at that, and questioned him
eagerly about the home he had left.

So Trevor, amused by her air of avid
interest, told her of his early life in a peaceful Devonshire
vicarage. This tale was as wondrous to Clarissa as any of his
adventures abroad. He had arrived late in his parents’ life, with
his older brothers already fifteen and seventeen years of age and
his oldest sister, Theresa, twelve years his senior. But he and
Augusta, born only eighteen months apart, had formed a close bond
in childhood that persisted to this day. The stories of the
mischief the two youngest members of the Whitlatch family had
gotten into, their wild escapades and the pranks they had played,
made Clarissa laugh heartily and wish she could meet Madcap Gussie,
as the family called her. It all sounded idyllic to Clarissa. She
envied him his childhood, and told him so.

"Life held its charms," Trevor
admitted. He smiled at her a bit quizzically. "It still does, you
know. I’m not the sort of sapskull who moons about, mourning his
lost boyhood."

"Oh, no!" she said quickly. "How silly,
to be sure! And I don’t mean to complain of my own situation. I
only meant—well, I don’t know what I meant." Clarissa blushed
faintly and looked at her hands. "I suppose I was comparing my own
childhood to yours. Absurd! I was—I
am
—very grateful for the
opportunities I was given."

"A roof over your head, three meals a
day, clothes on your back, and an education."

"Yes. I had everything I needed." She
smiled at him, but knew her smile did not reach her eyes. The
stories of Trevor’s adventurous life, and the warm family affection
he had taken so much for granted, revealed the barrenness of her
own existence in a painful light.

She would have looked away to hide her
shameful envy, but his eyes held hers.

"Oh, Clarissa," Trevor murmured softly.
"You break my heart."

Her eyes widened in surprise. His
features had harshened into a strange mixture of anger and sadness
that she recognized, startlingly, as pity. He reached out a hand
and brushed his fingers against her cheek, a gesture so
unexpectedly tender that she felt sudden tears welling.

Clarissa was embarrassed by her odd
surge of emotion. "You are kind," she whispered. A ragged smile
curved her mouth. "I don’t know why kindness should make me
cry."

Trevor’s eyes darkened, and a softer
expression than she had yet seen in him made him seem, for the
first time, compassionate. "You haven’t known much kindness, have
you, Clarissa?" he murmured. "A girl of such loveliness. Such
intelligence. With only a teacher for a friend? What a
waste."

His hand moved slightly, cupping her
cheek. His fingers felt warm and strong, for all his gentleness.
She wanted to protest the silly notion that she was pitiable—but
her protests died in the warmth of his touch.

She was so unused to human contact that
the simple act of touching, skin against skin, caused another
confusing rush of emotions. Longing spilled from somewhere deep
inside, as if his touch had opened a floodgate in her heart. Her
breath caught. She wished she could lean into his warm palm, lose
herself in it, wrap it round her like a quilt.

Trevor’s fingers moved lightly,
caressing her cheek, then slid into her hair. She closed her eyes
like a cat being petted and shyly, tentatively, raised her own hand
to touch his. He whispered something inaudible; she caught only the
word, "sweet." His hand moved again beneath her fingers, turned,
captured hers.

"I think you need a little kindness,
Clarissa," he said softly. "I think you need a holiday."

She opened her eyes slowly. "A
holiday?" she asked, confused.

"Have you ever had one?"

"Well, no. That is, I—I’m not sure what
you mean. I don’t always behave like a watering pot, I assure you!
Pray do not regard it."

"But I do regard it." He pulled their
linked hands away from her face and leaned in to her, resting his
elbows on the table. His thumb stroked the back of her hand
comfortingly. "I think you have suffered a great many upheavals in
your life in a short amount of time. You need a
vacation."

Clarissa smiled. "Are you proposing to
take me to Italy?"

Trevor’s eyes darkened swiftly. "Would
you go with me if I did?"

For a moment her heart pounded crazily.
"No," she managed to say, but her voice sounded, to her own ears,
suspiciously faint. Fortunately he did not press her, but
transferred his gaze to their linked hands.

"I think you can afford to wait awhile
before seeking employment. Let me take care of that. I’ll make a
few more inquiries on your behalf. In the meantime, Clarissa, I
think you should relax a bit and enjoy yourself."

Enjoy herself! What a strange idea. She
considered it warily, examining the concept as gingerly as if it
might bite her. "I am no hedonist, Mr. Whitlatch."

He looked pained. "‘I am no hedonist,
Trevor,’
" he corrected her, making her laugh in spite of
herself.

"Very well!" she said, trying to draw
her hand out of his. "I am no hedonist, Trevor!" But this time he
not only thwarted her attempt to pull away, he captured her other
hand as well. Clarissa decided resistance would only make her
appear foolish and sat passively, reproof in her gaze.

But he did not see it, since he
continued to regard their hands. "It’s an attractive picture," he
mused, toying with her fingers. "I would give a great deal to see
you frisking about the house like a kitten."

Clarissa gasped, and began to laugh
helplessly. "How ridiculous!"

"You could use a little absurdity, my
dear." He suddenly flashed her a crooked grin that made her heart
skip a beat. The gleam of mischief in his eyes was so inviting she
had to fight to keep herself from responding to it. "In fact, I
have never met anyone who needed absurdity as much as you do. A
healthy dose of frivolity would speedily cure what ails
you."

"Nothing ails me!" she said
shakily.

His hands tightened on hers. "Are you
so accustomed to suffering, Clarissa, that you no longer recognize
it?"

Her amusement faded. A sharp little
frown creased her forehead. "Trouble comes to every life. It would
be vain to deny that I am worried about my future, or that I mourn
the loss of my home and my friend. But you mustn’t teach me to feel
sorry for myself, Mr. Whi—
Trevor.
"

"No danger of that. After all, they say
trouble comes in threes, and you have had your three. You lost Miss
Bathurst, you lost your situation, and you fell into the clutches
of a wicked abductor. For the time being, your troubles must surely
be over."

A brief smile flickered across
Clarissa’s face. "Unless I immediately start another set of three,"
she suggested.

"Not under my roof!" commanded Mr.
Whitlatch in mock horror. "You are going to have a holiday,
Clarissa. No arguments, now! Remember that I am your wicked
abductor. I might force you if you resist."

"Wicked abductor, indeed! Generous
benefactor is more like it." But the smile was tugging irresistibly
at the corners of her mouth. "Oh, dear! A real holiday! I wouldn’t
know how to begin."

For a moment she pictured what it might
be like, to toss her burdens aside for a time and play like a
child. It sounded delicious. Trevor must have seen the temptation
in her eyes, for that wickedly attractive grin flashed across his
features again. "It’s quite simple," he assured her. "You’ll pick
it up in no time."

"But what must I do?"

"Whatever you please. You can read
novels, and dawdle, and sketch. You can ride through the
countryside when the weather is fair, and laze about the house when
it is not. You can eat far more than is good for you, and sleep
late in the mornings, and anything else that takes your
fancy."

A bubble of laughter escaped her. "It
sounds wonderful," she admitted. "But it can’t possibly be right.
What would become of the world, if people followed their own
inclinations all the day?"

Mr. Whitlatch dropped her hands and
made a derisive noise. "You should have been born two hundred years
ago."

"I am not a Puritan!" she cried,
stung.

He pursed his lips and regarded her,
one eyebrow raised. Clarissa was suddenly aware that her gray
merino, high-necked and long-sleeved, was not only dowdy but,
perhaps, excessively modest. And she supposed there was no real
need to dress her hair so unbecomingly.

"Very well! Your point is taken," she
said stiffly. "But I would ask you to remember my circumstances,
sir! My wardrobe is perfectly appropriate for a rural
schoolteacher."

"A rural schoolteacher of advanced
years and no beauty," he scoffed.

"A rural schoolteacher of limited
means," she countered, with dignity.

"Aha! Is that the problem? In that
case, I have something to show you." Trevor seized her hand again
and rose, pulling Clarissa to her feet and tucking her hand in his
elbow.

"Where are we going?" she asked,
surprised by this sudden burst of activity.

He took a candle from the sideboard and
grinned down at her. "Upstairs, my innocent!"

It said much for her trust in him that
these fell words failed to alarm her. "You are never serious!" she
complained.

"I am frequently serious, as you will
soon learn," he promised, releasing her hand to open the door.
"Come along!"

"Now,
really—!"
she exclaimed,
hands on hips.

Trevor burst out laughing. "There is an
excellent carving knife in the cupboard there, if you would like to
arm yourself first."

Her lips twitched. "No, thank you. If
you are really taking me upstairs, I know exactly where my hat pin
is."

She allowed Trevor to take her hand and
lead her from the dining room. She supposed he would explain what
he was about in his own good time.

But his footsteps slowed on the stairs,
and Clarissa glanced up to see him frowning thoughtfully down at
her.

"Having second thoughts, Mr.
Whitlatch?" she teased.

He smiled, but absently. "No. But it
has occurred to me that what I am about to propose may offend you.
I hope it does not."

"Propose? I thought you were going to
show me something."

"Yes, but after I show it to you, I
intend to give it to you." His frown vanished, and devils suddenly
danced in his eyes. "Do you have any idea how suggestive this
conversation is becoming?"

Clarissa gasped, and bit her lip. "Pray
do not explain!" she begged.

His shoulders shook. "No, that would
ruin it," he agreed. "Besides, I have every hope that when you
actually see what I am going to show you, you will find it so
irresistible that you will
want
me to give it to you. I am
hoping, in fact, that your desire will overcome your
scruples."

Clarissa stopped dead on the stairs. "I
am not going another step further until you tell me what we are
discussing!" she declared, in a strangled voice.

His grin became, if possible, even more
devilish. "We are discussing my latest proposition,
Clarissa."