Date with a Regency Rake

Kit’s ruthless assassination of her sister’s character she acknowledged to be sadly all too accurate. There could be no doubt that Amelia would accept whatever Kit Rasenby offered, proper or improper. What would count with Amelia would be the recompense in purely financial terms. And the higher the terms, the less Amelia would concern herself with the loss of her virtue. Kit Rasenby was right. Amelia would be plucked—she shuddered at the awfulness of the term and all it implied. If not by him, then certainly by some other opportunist with a large and generous purse and a taste for virgin flesh.

Ruefully, Clarissa realised she would not wish Amelia as a wife on Kit Rasenby even had he any such intentions. It would be the road to misery for them both. Not, she cautioned herself, because she had any feelings for Kit herself, mind you. No, it was merely that she was sure they would bring only unhappiness to each other. And even a rake, after all, deserved more from matrimony. No, Amelia and Kit must not—would not—marry.

Amelia herself put an end to these musings, storming into the breakfast parlour in a state of high dudgeon, bright flags of anger flying in her cheeks. She was not yet dressed, and though she had discarded her nightcap, her hair was hanging loose, and the muslin wrapper she wore over her chemise was only loosely tied.

‘Clarrie, there you are. I’ve been looking for you everywhere—where have you been? I’ve had the most dreadful night, I’ve hardly had a wink of sleep.’ Throwing herself into a chair, failing to notice that her sister looked singularly tired from her own restless night, Amelia’s mouth puckered in temper that boded a storm of tears in the near future. Reaching for a roll from the basket, she discarded it again petulantly. ‘These are cold. And I expect the coffee is, too! I want fresh. Where is that dratted maid, she’s never here when I need her? Honestly, Clarrie, is it too much to ask that we employ servants who can actually fulfil their duties? I swear that woman hates me. How I detest being poor!’

Pulling the bell to summon fresh coffee, Clarissa eyed her sister with an impending sense of gloom. The last thing she needed was one of Amelia’s tantrums, which were not only exhausting, but all-consuming. And unstoppable. There was no point in trying to do anything other than let them run their course, so she simply sat back and waited.

‘Don’t look at me like I’m some tiresome child to be indulged. I won’t be ignored! Oh, Clarrie, you don’t know—how can you know?—how truly dreadful it is to be me. Sometimes I almost wish I wasn’t so beautiful. If I was merely pretty, like you, then it wouldn’t be so bad.’

Clarissa, inured to such casual insults, continued quietly with her breakfast. Amelia slumped into her seat, causing her to hope that a full-blown tantrum was to be avoided, but this was dashed when, with a long drawn-out ‘Ohhhhhh’ of frustration, her sister rose abruptly, pushing her chair over, and started pacing in front of the fireplace. With a sigh, Clarissa gave Amelia her full attention.

‘Come Amelia, what ails you? Won’t you sit down and tell me?’ She patted the chair invitingly, but Amelia continued to pace.

‘I tell you, Clarrie, I am positively sick to my teeth of my life. Look at me!’ Pausing to inspect herself in the mirror above the meagre fire burning in the grate, Amelia looked temporarily gratified at what she saw. Really, she was simply beautiful, even with her hair uncurled and her nightwear in disarray. But that was just the problem. ‘I mean, I’m lovely. I’m not being vain, Clarrie, I can see it myself. And everyone says so—Mama, you, Chloe, everyone. I can’t be this beautiful if it’s not for a purpose, can I? I must be meant to marry well, I don’t want to be an ape-leader like you.’ Her breathing quick and shallow, Amelia paced, determinedly nursing her anger. ‘It’s my destiny, a good marriage. The end to all of my problems.’

Wryly Clarissa noted that Amelia concerned herself only with her own fate. No thought, as usual, for Mama. But then, when did Amelia ever think of anyone but herself? Last night Clarissa had accused Kit of escaping all responsibility by using his money to pay people off, everyone from his mother to his mistress. Sometimes she wished she had the means to do the same thing. Kit’s wealth would do a lot to ease the many responsibilities she carried on her slim shoulders. Her mother’s debts. A dowry for Amelia. Even enough to put adequate coals on the fire, or something other than rabbit and onions on the table for dinner.

Amelia unwittingly echoed her thoughts. ‘I need money. I was born for luxury. I can’t go on like this, I just can’t. I’m fed up with wearing the same old clothes all the time, and never having nice jewellery. I’m eighteen, for goodness’ sake, I’m practically on the shelf. I mean, look at you, Clarrie—what have you got in front of you except life as an old maid, or a governess, or married to some ancient old fossil and having to spend your days changing his gout bandages? I’ve got to get out of here. I’ve got to get married. I’ve just got to!’

Giving her temper full reign, Amelia’s voice rose shrilly. Her face became unattractively red and tears flowed rather unbecomingly down her cheeks. A bout of crying was one of the few things that drew attention away from her charms. For a few moments, there was silence in the parlour, interrupted only by hearty sobbing. Amelia cried with a passion, her shoulders heaving, her face hidden in her arms, as she sprawled once more on a seat at the table.

Eventually the tears turned to hiccups and she looked up, a sorry sight, hair tangled and lying damp on her cheeks, eyes puffed and red, to continue her lamentations. ‘And if I’m to marry without a dowry, then it stands to reason that I’ll have to resort to some underhand behaviour, as some people have called it. It stands to reason that I’ll have to be less than honest in my dealings, as some may accuse me. It’s just that fate needs a helping hand sometimes. And if some people can’t see that, well, that’s their problem, not mine. And what’s more, if that’s the way some people think, well … then they’ll find that I’ll refuse to see them again. Not ever! Then they’ll be sorry.’ The sobbing resumed, but more quietly now. The storm had almost worn itself out.

Smiling inwardly, Clarissa realised they had finally come to the crux of the matter, the real reason for Amelia’s tears. Amelia’s plans for tricking Kit into marriage had obviously been in part revealed to Edward last night. And Mr Brompton, bless him for the honest man he must be, had obviously severely upbraided Amelia. The fact that Amelia had listened sufficiently to be able to quote his reservations back word for word this morning was evidence enough of her affections being engaged, would she just admit it. With satisfaction, Clarissa realised that Amelia was, rather astonishingly, falling in love with this sober and righteous young man.

Trying to persuade Amelia that Edward and his reservations should be paid heed was, however, beyond Clarissa’s capabilities for the present. With resolution borne of experience, Clarissa decided to sit back and let Amelia cry herself out, inwardly calmer herself now in the knowledge that she was right to pursue a course of separating her sister from Kit Rasenby. And hopeful too that Edward had played a part in putting at least some obstacles in the way of Amelia’s plot to trick Kit.

But it took the rest of the morning and well into the early afternoon for Amelia’s tears to run dry. Only then did she allow Clarissa to dose her with hartshorn and water, tuck her up in a darkened room, and leave her to sleep off the damage done to her complexion.

Which left Clarissa with little time to continue her own reflections before having to ready herself for her assignation with Kit in the park. He would say yes, he had to say yes. And if he turned her down—well, that simply wasn’t an option. She told herself, with more bravado than conviction, that she would persuade him—somehow—to come round to her way of thinking.

Had she been aware of just how Kit had spent his extremely busy morning, Clarissa would have been more than a little perturbed. As it was, she set out for the Green Park by hack, looking smart in a pale green merino walking dress and matching spencer, a gift from her aunt. Her feet were clad in boots of Morocco leather, and a reticule of her own design dangled from her wrist. A treasured pair of kid gloves and a simple poke hat completed the outfit. Clarissa was content with her appearance, and happy that she looked her best. She carried no muff, it was a luxury she could not afford, but the day was none too cold, and she was not anticipating being in the carriage for long.

With a heart fluttering with anticipation, despite having given herself a stern talking to on the subject of attractive rakes, their kissing abilities, and the need to avoid all such intimate contact in the future—somehow or other—Clarissa paid off the hack, and stepped lightly through the park gates.

Lord Rasenby was waiting in a high-perch phaeton to which two glossy, perfectly matched chestnuts were poled. They were restless, contained with some effort by the small tiger at their heads, and Clarissa looked up at their master, carelessly lounging in the seat of the vehicle, impossibly high off the ground, with some trepidation.

‘Don’t be alarmed, I assure you I have them well under control. Any rake worth his salt, you know, is an expert at mastering even the freshest of fillies.’ The sardonic look that always accompanied any mocking reference to his reputation was tempered by a slight smile. ‘It’s not so high as it looks, just place your foot on the step and I’ll help you up.’ Leaning over to take her hand, Kit pulled Clarrie easily into the carriage and briskly tucked a rug over her knees. His touch was cool and impersonal, but she flushed slightly all the same. With a curt nod of dismissal to the tiger, he jerked sharply on the reins, and the chestnuts set off at a brisk trot.

The few moments it took to get the horses under control allowed Clarissa to rein in her own feelings at the proximity of this man. His thigh brushed hers through the rug, for the seat was narrow. She could not but be aware of that hard, muscled body which his caped greatcoat did nothing to hide. He was every bit as overpowering as she remembered. Every bit as attractive. And every bit as dangerous, she chided herself. Think only of what you have to achieve, and make sure you do it with regard to your own safety, Clarissa Warrington.

‘I congratulate you for your punctuality, Clarissa, it’s not a trait common to your sex.’

His words startled her from her thoughts, and she replied with unthinking asperity. ‘As I believe I have been at pains to point out to you, sir, I am not inclined to be taken for the common herd. I pride myself on being punctual.’

‘And frank, too. You could not be accused of reticence.’

She laughed. ‘Yes, that too. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to be rude. It’s just that—well, I hate being judged. I know you’ll think me foolish, but you’ve no idea how irritating it is when people assume you are just the same as every other young lady. I try not to be so predictable.’

‘You do me a disservice, madam. I sympathise with your frustration and assure you I understand only too well both your feelings and your reaction. But are you not being a little hypocritical, for did you not so judge me—as a rake—when first we met, in exactly the same way?’

‘Yes, I did, and it was wrong of me. Although I have to say that you’ve been at great pains to confirm me in my assumptions, have you not?’ A glance at him showed, from the lips firmly suppressed, that she had hit home. ‘And when I did point out that you were hiding behind your reputation, you were not best pleased.’ Another glance showed that he was not best pleased again. Oh dear, her unfortunate tongue—when would she learn to guard it? ‘I’m sorry. I fear I have offended you once more. And I so meant not to—offend you, I mean. I meant to be more propitiating.’

A crack of laughter made her look up, an answering sparkle in her own eyes.

‘You think that’s funny. I know what you’re thinking.’

‘I doubt it. Pray tell me.’

‘That my behaviour is hardly conducive to achieving my goal. Getting you to agree to my proposition, that is. And I do most abjectly apologise, for contrary to what I may have said, and even with the benefit of a night’s reflection, I do want you to agree.’

‘Actually, I was thinking that you’re the most unpredictable woman I’ve ever had dealings with. And I was thinking that I would very much like to kiss you again. So you see, my fair Clarissa, you’re not as able to read my mind as you think you are.’ A smile, warmer than before, softened the words.

‘Oh.’ A blush stole across Clarrie’s pale cheeks, for his words roused such pictures in her head as she had been trying to suppress since last night.

As she looked up at him, her eyes wide, her soft mouth trembling slightly, Kit was surprised at the sharp gust of desire that ripped through him. The combination of honesty—or the appearance of it, in any case—and the undercurrent of passion, the fiery nature that must surely accompany those auburn locks, was captivating. Once again he reminded himself that he was no doubt being embroiled in a plot of her making. Once again he decided that whatever it was, it was a small price to pay for the use of the exceedingly comely body being offered to him.

Raising a dark winged eyebrow in query, he smiled. ‘Oh? Is that all you have to say? You are not normally so succinct.’

‘No. That is … well, Lord Rasenby—Kit, I mean, there must be no kissing yet, for we have not sealed our bargain. We were to discuss it further, were we not? Then, in case you need reminding, there was to be payment in advance on your part, in terms of our adventure, before any more such—intimate contact.’ Ignoring the blush that heated her face despite the cold wind, Clarissa tried to pull the conversation back on track. ‘So, there will be no more talk of kissing at the moment, if you don’t mind. We have other things to discuss.’

‘You would concede then that our kissing last night was exceptionally pleasurable?’ He was enjoying the act in front of him, she was squirming in seeming embarrassment. Really, the woman should be on the stage.

‘As I told you last night also, sir, having no other kisses with which to compare yours, I cannot say whether it was exceptional, or merely mundane.’ The sparkle in her eyes and the challenging tilt of her chin belied the put-down. Clarrie could not help it, she enjoyed sparring with this man. She ignored the added frisson of awareness that such very risqué subject matter aroused, deciding that since no one else could possibly overhear them, she had naught to be ashamed of.

And she was rewarded for her barbed witticism with another burst of laughter. ‘Touché, Clarissa. But your kisses gave you away last night. Your claims to virginity are both false and unnecessary. So once again I will remind you to cast off that part of your repertoire. Your passion and your experience are what I desire. And what I shall have. For, having considered your terms, I have decided to accept your offer.’

His capitulation was so unexpected and so sudden that his determined disbelief in her innocence was cast momentarily from her mind. Clarissa was betrayed into a small crow of delight. She would do it. She would keep him away from Amelia. Edward would have his chance. And she would spend some more time in his company. His exclusive company. Ignoring this inward voice—for it was of no relevance, she told herself—Clarissa tried, rather belatedly, for composure. ‘Thank you, Kit. I look forward to our adventure, when you’ve had sufficient time to arrange it.’

Kit merely smiled and gave his attention to the horses, relaxing his grip slightly on the reins to give them their heads. ‘Since our business is concluded for the moment, then, let us relax and enjoy the ride.’

The phaeton was built for speed, and responded so smoothly that it was quite some time before Clarissa, deep in her own thoughts, became aware of their change from sedate trot to swift gallop. Even longer before she became aware that they had left the confines of the park, and even the traffic of the city, and were now traversing open countryside. How long had they been travelling thus? ‘I’m afraid we must turn back, sir, I’m expected at home. I hadn’t realised you intended more than a drive around the park. I’m not dressed for a longer journey.’

‘Not far now, my horses need some exercise. Be patient, and enjoy the scenery.’

Suddenly Clarissa became aware of how foolish her behaviour must seem, alone in an open carriage with a notorious rake. Fleeting thoughts of abduction passed through her mind, to be dismissed summarily. She was being foolish. Kit had no need to take her by force when she had already offered herself so freely. After all, he did not know that she had no intention of fulfilling her promise. And while he was a rake, he was surely no villain. No, her imagination was simply overwrought, what with lack of sleep and too many lurid novels. Clarissa tried to relax and follow Kit’s advice to enjoy their surroundings, but it was a relief none the less when, a short time later, the carriage slowed to a halt as they approached a whitewashed and thatched inn set prettily by a bridge over a lazily flowing river.

The small seed of doubt as to his intentions died. They would partake of some refreshment here and he would return her safely home. He had merely wished to try the paces of his horses, that was all. Well, they had certainly had a good run. How long had they been on the road? She was chilled. The horses being released from the traces by two uniformed ostlers were steaming with sweat. She had no timepiece, but Clarissa was starting to worry, from the darkening sky, about returning home in time for dinner.

‘My lord, I—’

‘Inside, Clarissa, where there is a fire. Come along, you’re cold. I must see to my team first, then we may talk more freely.’ An imperious hand in the small of her back propelled her forward, and she went with him, more reluctant with each step.

‘I had no idea we had been driving for so long. We must turn around quickly, my lord, for my mama will be expecting me.’

A curt nod was his only response. He would brook no discussion in front of the servants. But what, exactly, was in need of discussion? Surely they were just waiting on fresh horses? That was it, of course. Fresh horses. And some warming coffee while they were poled up. With a lighter step, Clarissa preceded Lord Rasenby through the door of the inn, and towards the reassuring warmth of the fire in a small private parlour.

‘I won’t be long.’ A stiff bow, and she was suddenly alone.

But as she stripped off her gloves to heat her chilled hands at the blaze of the fire, Clarissa was beset by doubts. He hadn’t needed to command the parlour. What was it the innkeeper had said when he had welcomed them at the door? Everything is ready, just as you requested, my lord. Well, perhaps he had decided in advance that they would take a drive. No harm in that, was there? And he was obviously well known to the proprietors, so it wasn’t as if he was concerned about his identity becoming known. So the growing fear Clarissa was trying to subdue, that she was being abducted, was ridiculous, wasn’t it?

Of course it was. And here to prove it was the landlady herself, bustling in with a pot of hot steaming coffee and a large jug of foaming ale. She busied herself, putting another log on the fire and fussily adjusting one of the porcelain ornaments on the large mantel. No sign at all of anything untoward.

‘Will that be all, madam? Lord Rasenby said to tell you to take your coffee while it’s hot, he is just making sure his horses are stabled properly. If you require anything else, just ring the bell to summon me.’ At Clarissa’s nod, she bobbed a curtsy and left.

There, seeing to the horses, the woman had said. Making sure the fresh pair were ready for a quick departure. She would be home, if not before dusk, at least before full dark. With a sigh of relief, Clarissa snuggled down on to the settle before the fire, and poured her coffee. The warmth of the flames after the cold outside lulled her body into comfort and her mind into a calmer acceptance of her situation.

It was not until she was pouring her second cup from the pot that she realised Kit had been gone an overlong time. And the doubts awakened again, with renewed force. Nervously, she stood and peered out of the window into the growing gloom. Judging from the light, it must be near six of the clock. They had driven nigh on an hour and a half. It would be well after dinner before she was back. What on earth was he thinking? And where on earth was he? As her worries grew, so Clarissa’s temper also rose.

The object of her ire finally walked back into the room, bringing with him a blast of cold air and the faint smell of the stables. ‘Ah. I see you are a little warmer. An open carriage for such an extended period at this time of year is not ideal. I apologise.’

‘Had I known you intended such a long drive, sir, I would have cautioned you against it. As I have told you twice now, I am expected at home.’

‘Yes, and I heard you the first time. I am not dim-witted, Clarissa, I do understand simple English.’

His bland tone provoked rather than calmed her. ‘Then you will understand the simple fact that we must leave at once and return to London, sir.’ This, through gritted teeth. ‘I would not wish to be at odds with you, but we seem to have rather different interpretations of the phrase a short drive in the park.’

He smiled at this sally, but she received no other response. Kit seemed more intent on the refreshing draught of ale he had poured himself, and the warmth of the fire. His very indifference made her throw caution to the winds. Clarissa stamped her foot in a fair imitation of her sister that very morning, had she been inclined to notice. It did not occur to her, however, so intent was she on gaining Kit’s attention. She really needed to get back home.

‘If you will not rouse yourself from your beer, then I will just have to commandeer a carriage myself.’ She had nowhere near sufficient funds in her purse to do so, but she tried not to think about that obstacle for the moment. Clarissa moved purposefully to the looking glass above the fire in order to adjust the strings of her bonnet.

He moved like a cat. One second he was lolling in a hard wooden chair, drinking from a brimming tankard, the next he was on his feet, standing all too close, his presence dominating her slim form, his face not angry exactly but stern. Forbidding. The full extent of her predicament struck Clarissa forcibly. No one knew where she was or who she was with. She had little money. And this man, this impossibly attractive, intimidating, overpoweringly strong man, was in full command of the situation. Nervously, Clarissa licked her dry lips, and decided to try a different tack.

‘You are teasing me, Kit, I know you are. But really, the joke has gone too far. I must go home now. We have agreed terms. You are happy with my proposal, you said so yourself. You’ll be wanting your dinner soon. And surely your horses will be rested by now. You will no doubt wish to have a think about our adventure too, to spend some time planning it. So we should go now, and make arrangements to meet in a few days. Should we not?’ Her voice faltered, seeing no change on his face, no response at her attempt to lighten the mood. ‘Kit?’

He was looking down at her, scrutinising her closely. There was confusion and fear lurking in her wide-open green eyes. He knew perfectly well what she was thinking, for he had fully intended to frighten her just a little, to let her know that whatever her game was, she wasn’t going to have it all her own way. But he had been unprepared for this feeling of pity, tenderness even, that her fear invoked. With difficulty, Kit resisted the sudden urge to reassure her, to soothe her anxiety. He reminded himself that she was an excellent actress. All the talk of Mama, the show of bravado, even the slight tremble of that full, sensuous bottom lip. Really, Mrs Siddons could not have acted better than this wench. She had no need of tenderness.