Date with a
Regency
Rake
The Wicked
Lord Rasenby
Marguerite Kaye
The Rake’s
Rebellious Lady
Anne Herries

www.millsandboon.co.uk

The Wicked Lord Rasenby

About the Author

Born and educated in Scotland, MARGUERITE KAYE originally qualified as a lawyer but chose not to practice—a decision which was a relief both to her and the Scottish legal establishment. While carving out a successful career in IT, she occupied herself with her twin passions of studying history and reading, picking up a first-class honours and a Masters degree along the way.

The course of her life changed dramatically when she found her soul mate. After an idyllic year out, spent travelling round the Mediterranean, Marguerite decided to take the plunge and pursue her life-long ambition to write for a living—a dream she had cherished ever since winning a national poetry competition at the age of nine.

Just like one of her fictional heroines, Marguerite’s fantasy has become reality. She has published history and travel articles, as well as short stories, but romances are her passion. Marguerite describes Georgette Heyer and Doris Day as her biggest early influences, and her partner as her inspiration.

The Wicked Lord Rasenby was Marguerite’s first novel for Mills & Boon.

For J always. Just love

Prologue

1798—Sussex coast

As the clouds cleared, revealing the moon shining high in the night sky, Kit cursed under his breath. He had counted on the cover of darkness until they safely made landfall. Under the relentless beam of the nearly full moon, the Sea Wolf would be in full view as she stole into the remote cove, and that was the last thing he wanted. Surely his luck would hold. After all, it always had until now.

Casting a glance over his shoulder at the two huddled figures on deck, he gestured them to go below. ‘Allez, vite’. Placing a finger over his mouth, indicating silence, he returned his anxious gaze to the shore line. No sign at present of the Revenue cutter, but there was time yet. He knew he was under surveillance.

‘All quiet for the moment, John.’ Kit’s voice was barely a whisper, showing no signs of the tension and mounting excitement he always felt when they neared home with a cargo. He almost wanted to be pursued. Faith, at least it made him feel he was alive.

Even as he spoke though, he caught a glimpse of a sail just off to starboard, approaching fast. ‘I think they’re on to us, John.’ Kit felt the rush of excitement in his blood as the Sea Wolf wheeled hard. ‘We have the wind in our favour, we can still make it.’

John, Kit’s captain, and only companion on these night runs, peered anxiously through his spyglass. ‘They’ve spotted us, Master Kit.’ Keeping his eyes firmly fixed on the course, John showed no outward sign of worry—Kit would get them out of it if the worst happened and they were boarded. The greatcoat his master wore did nothing to hide the muscular strength of the man underneath, but it wasn’t just Kit’s height that gave him that air of command. It was the piercing blue-black eyes under those formidable black brows, the thin-lipped determination above that strong jaw that made John fear for any of Kit’s foes. He was not a man to cross, that was for sure. Almost, John could pity the cutter’s crew. ‘They’ll know where we’re headed.’

Kit laughed softly, viciously. ‘Of course they know. But we’ll have time to unload before they reach us. I’ll go and make sure our French friends are ready.’

The revolution in France was over, and the Terror, the mass slaughter of the French aristocracy, which had included King Louis and his queen, Marie Antoinette, was over too. But the émigrés, seeking shelter from the new regime, continued to flee to England.

The killing was not yet finished. It would go on, under one banner or another, for years. War was inevitable, and likely to be waged with England again, as anyone who even half-understood the volatile new French state could see. War would signal an end to these trips. But in the meantime, Kit was happy to do what he could to rescue those émigrés who made it to the French coast. He took no political sides, but believed one should live and let live.

It took but a brief moment below decks to address the two refugees. The Frenchmen listened with due respect. Kit was well known amongst what was left of the aristocracy as an efficient and courageous rescuer. Well known, also, for taking no payment, accepting no thanks. Addressing the men in flawless, if curt, French, Kit told them to be ready for a quick getaway. The thrill of the chase, the need for speed, the challenge of outwitting the customs men, gave a glow to his hard, handsome countenance.

He was as dismissive of the threat as he was of the men’s attempts to thank him. Kit prided himself on doing this job well, down to the last detail. He had promised them safe passage and no one was going to prevent him keeping that promise. In this secret life, Kit allowed himself a sense of honour that his public persona had no part of.

A post-chaise would be waiting to take the émigrés to London. They would be off his hands, and it was unlikely that he’d ever see them again. The thrill was in the rescue, that was enough. They would have to sink or swim without him once he had safely landed them in England.

As he had predicted, the wind was in their favour, and the clouds too, played their part, scudding back across the moon to hide the yacht as she closed in on her berth. By the time the customs cutter came close enough to hail them, the émigrés were dispatched, with haste and brief adieus, to the waiting chaise. A final reminder from Kit that, should they happen to meet again, under no circumstances were they to acknowledge him, and the Frenchmen were gone. Keeping his smuggling life separate from his life in London was more important to Kit than he cared to admit. As Kit, he could be free. In London, he was somewhat more constrained.

The other cargo, a mere half-dozen kegs of French brandy, was safely stowed in the false floor of the boat house. Kit took his time responding to the hails from the Revenue ship.

‘Well, Lieutenant Smith, we meet once more.’ His smile was sardonic. He knew he’d won again, and he knew too, that the Riding Officer would make no move to search the Sea Wolf now. Lieutenant Smith would need more than a suspicion of smuggling before taking action against the Earl of Rasenby, owner of almost all the land in the surrounding area.

‘Another night-fishing expedition, Lord Rasenby?’

‘As you see, Lieutenant.’ Kit indicated the box that John was unloading. ‘May I offer you something to keep out the cold? Or perhaps a share of my catch for your supper?’

Lieutenant Smith bit down a retort. No benefit, he knew, in riling his lordship. It was more than his job was worth. ‘Thank you, my lord, but I have a job to do. No doubt we’ll meet again one fine night.’ Lieutenant Smith consoled himself with the knowledge that at least his informant had been reliable. Next time, mayhap, Lady Luck and the weather would be on his side.

‘No doubt.’ As he turned to give final instructions to John, the sparkle died from Kit’s eyes, and a slight frown marred his handsome countenance. ‘Twas always thus. The thrill of the chase made him glad to be alive, but after, he felt drained of energy, listless, and reluctant to return to the tedium of his other life.

It had been close tonight, perhaps too close. It wasn’t fair to continue to expose John to such danger, and, if he was honest, the excitement was beginning to pall. Kit had been smuggling for years, for the fun of it—brandy usually, silks sometimes. The human cargo had been a more recent addition, but the smell of war was in the air now, and the scent of change for France in the wind. The need for his services was coming to an end.

Nodding absently to John, and slipping him the usual douceur, Kit saddled up his patient horse and headed back across the marshes to his estate. One more run, he promised himself, then he would have to look for distraction elsewhere. One more run, then maybe he would take up his sister Letitia on her offer to find him a suitable bride, and settle down to a life of domesticity.

Lightly touching the sides of the black horse with his heels, Kit laughed out loud. He didn’t know which he found funnier. The thought of Letitia’s face at being asked to supply a willing bride. Or the thought of the poor, faceless bride, at being asked to wed and bed the most notorious rake of the ton.

Chapter One

Two weeks later—London

‘You’re surely not going out in that attire, Amelia?’ The Honourable Clarissa Warrington looked aghast at her younger sister. ‘You’re positively indecent, I swear I can see through your petticoats.’

Amelia, the younger by six years, and at eighteen in full possession of her glowing beauty, simply laughed. ‘Don’t be such a frump. It’s all the rage, dampening your petticoat a little. You’d know that, Clarrie, if you got out once in a while.’

‘I’ve no wish to go out in the company you keep, Amelia. And if you’re not careful, you’ll find that you soon get the sort of reputation that goes with dampened underskirts. To say nothing of the fact that you’ll likely catch cold, too.’

‘Typical Clarrie, ever practical—I never catch cold. Now do stop and fix my hair for me.’ Amelia turned the full force of her huge cornflower-blue eyes on her sister and pouted. ‘No one does it like you, and it’s so important that I look nice tonight.’

With a sigh, Clarissa picked up the brush. She could never stay angry with Amelia for long, even when she felt in the right of it. Amelia was attending yet another party with her friend Chloe and Chloe’s mama, Mrs Barrington. Clarissa received the same invitations, but almost always declined. Aside from the cost, she had no wish to spend the night dancing with dull men who bored her to death with their insipid conversation. Or worse, having to join in with the obligatory female bickering and simpering.

Amelia was different. The latest styles and colours, who was likely to marry whom, were to her of the greatest importance. And it was just as well, thought Clarissa wryly, deftly arranging her sister’s hair, that she found it all so entrancing. Marriage was the only thing Amelia was good for, really. Clarissa loved her sister, but she was not blind to her limitations. How could she be, after all? Amelia was exactly like their mama.

Marriage was in fact becoming a necessity for Amelia. Not, as their mama hoped, because she would make a fabulous match. With such a miniscule marriage portion, that was unlikely in the extreme. No, marriage was a necessity for Amelia because she had neither the skills nor the inclination to earn her own living. On top of which, Clarissa suspected that Amelia was falling into compromising company. If she was to reach the altar unsullied, a wedding must be arranged sooner rather than later.

‘Who are you so desperate to impress tonight then, Amelia?’

Amelia giggled. ‘I don’t think I should tell you. You’re so strait-laced, Clarrie, you’d be sure to run to Mama.’

‘That’s not fair!’ Clarissa carefully threaded a ribbon through Amelia’s golden locks. ‘I’m not a sneak, and you know it. I wouldn’t run to Mama.’ No, indeed she wouldn’t, she thought sadly. For Mama would be sure to say that Clarrie was a fusspot, and that Amelia knew her own business. In fact Mama, the widowed Lady Maria Warrington, would probably not even have the energy to say that much.

Lady Maria had been disappointed in life from an early age, and constant disappointment had taken its toll. Married to a younger son, then left a penniless widow not long after Amelia’s birth, Lady Maria drifted through life with as little effort as possible. Only cards, and the thought of the brilliant match her beautiful younger daughter would one day make, brought any animation to her face. At the slightest sign that any sort of effort would be required from her she wilted, and even on occasions took to fainting fits. Lady Maria had relied on her practical, pragmatic elder daughter for as long as either of them could remember.

Traces of Lady Maria’s beauty could still be detected beneath her raddled skin, but the years had not been kind. Amelia took after her, but Clarissa’s own deep auburn hair and vivid green eyes came from her father’s side of the family. Clarissa barely remembered Papa, and the little she knew came from Aunt Constance, his favourite sister. Questioning Mama simply brought on tears.

Aunt Constance, alone of Papa’s family, had never disowned them, and had always taken an interest in Clarissa. It had been Aunt Constance who funded Clarissa’s schooling, and encouraged her reading—histories, politics, and even romances. Aunt Constance could not like Mama, and had little success with Amelia, who refused to study anything beyond the pianoforte, but she doted on Clarissa, and was fond of telling her stories of Papa as a child.

A final twist to her sister’s coiffure ensured that one golden lock fell artfully over her shoulder. Amelia’s thin muslin dress was of palest pink, her little satin evening slippers dyed to match, as was the ribbon in her hair, dressed in the newly fashionable Grecian knot. Perhaps Amelia’s figure was a little too full to look its best in the high-waisted style, which still seemed so strange to people of their mother’s generation, but Clarissa could see that no gentleman would cavil at being faced with such a lush display of curves.

‘There! You look lovely, Amelia.’

‘Yes, I do, don’t I?’

Amelia preened in the mirror, and Clarissa sighed. Really, her sister was displaying all too much of her ample curves, even if the low décolleté was all the rage. ‘You don’t think that perhaps a fichu …’

The scornful look was answer enough. ‘Oh, very well. I hope you won’t get goose bumps!’ Clarissa tried to introduce a lighter note. There would be no getting anything out of Amelia if she was in the least lecturing. ‘At least tell me who your beau is. For you’ve made such an effort, there must be one.’

‘Well, I don’t know if I will, Clarrie; you’re bound to disapprove.’

The coy look that accompanied this challenge told Clarissa that Amelia was actually bursting to tell. Perversely, she decided not to pursue the matter. ‘Of course, Amelia, I respect your confidence.’ She turned to leave.

‘No, no, I’ll tell. Well, a little. Clarrie, you just won’t believe it. I think, I’m certain—well, almost certain—that Kit Rasenby is interested. What do you think of that then?’

‘Kit Rasenby? Amelia, you don’t seriously mean the Earl of Rasenby? Surely you are mistaken?’

‘Well, I’m not, actually.’ Amelia pouted. ‘He is interested. At the Carruthers’ ball last week he danced with me three times. That’s twice more than any other lady. And he sat next to me at tea. And then I met him at the theatre when we went to that boring old play you were so desperate to see. You know, the one with that old woman in it.’

‘You mean Mrs Siddons?’ Clarissa had been keen to attend the theatre that evening. Lady Macbeth was the part for which Mrs Siddons was most famed. But Lady Maria had had one of her turns, and Clarrie had to stay home to burn feathers under her nose and dab lavender water on her temples. Clarissa was used to self-sacrifice, even though she had long ceased to believe that these ‘turns’ of her mama’s were anything more than habit. But missing the great Mrs Siddons had been a trial.

Amelia had no further interest in Mrs Siddons. ‘Yes, well, Rasenby came to our box particularly to see me. And he spoke to no one else. Chloe said he had eyes only for me all night.’

‘You mean he was eyeing you from the pit?’ Clarissa’s tone was dry. Gentlemen did not eye respectable ladies from the pit. The type of ladies eyed from the pit were not likely to be those offered matrimony.

‘And then, today,’ Amelia continued blithely, ‘when he stopped to talk with us in the park, he asked most particularly if I would be at the Jessops’ ball tonight. So, of course, I know he has intentions.’

‘Amelia, you know what those intentions are likely to be? You do know of the Earl of Rasenby’s reputation?’

A toss of golden curls and yet another pout were the response.

‘Amelia, I’m serious.’ Clarissa might have spurned most of the invitations she received, but no one could be unaware of the reputation of the Earl of Rasenby. He was a hardened gamester and an incurable womaniser. He was enormously rich and famously handsome, although Clarissa was sceptical about this—in her view, the rich were invariably good looking. Lord Rasenby’s mistresses were notoriously beautiful and expensive, and, despite endless lures and traps, he remained determinedly unattached. Quite the perfect Gothic villain, now she thought of it.

‘For Heaven’s sake, Clarrie, do you think I’m stupid? Of course I know of his reputation. Better than you, I expect, since you’re such a prude no one would dare tell you the plain truth. But I know he likes me. A lot! I just know!’

Nothing more could be gained from Amelia, and Clarissa went to bed extremely worried. Her sister was both young and naïve, and could all too easily fall victim to the likes of Rasenby. The company Amelia was keeping, never mind her lack of dowry, was likely to ensure that any offer would be strictly dishonourable.

And if Amelia was offered a carte blanche by someone as rich as Rasenby, she would take it. Clarissa turned restlessly in her bed. It was so hard to be genteelly poor, she could understand the temptation. To a girl like Amelia, the choice between a brief career swathed in furs and silks and showered in diamonds, or a safe marriage with a no more than adequate income was an all too easy one. But life as Kit Rasenby’s mistress would be very short-lived. Amelia’s charms were those of novelty and freshness, not likely to entertain so jaded a palate as Rasenby’s for long. And who would have Amelia then? There was only one way to go, and that was down. Amelia must marry soon, preferably to someone who would take her firmly in hand. But such a person was likely to be too staid and too poor for Amelia. Even supposing she did meet this paragon, would she even look at him, when dazzled by Rasenby’s wealth?

If Amelia was ruined, Clarissa would be ruined by association. Even finding a post as governess, something to which she was daily trying to resign herself, would be difficult. At twenty-four, Clarissa had set her sights on self-sufficiency as the only way to give her some element of the freedom she craved. Aunt Constance’s offer of a home was tempting, but Clarissa knew in her heart that it would mean tying herself to another obligation, even assuming Mama was settled with Amelia.

Clarissa had always been the sensible one. Beside her sister’s vivaciousness and dazzling looks, which had been apparent from a very early age, she felt plain. Her green eyes and dark auburn curls were no match for Amelia’s milkmaid perfection. She had settled compliantly into the role of carer. When Amelia tore her dress, Clarrie stitched it. When Amelia fought with her friends, Clarrie played the peacemaker. And as she grew older, when Amelia wanted to attend parties and make her début, Clarrie scrimped and saved to provide her with the dresses and hats and all the other bits and pieces that she needed.

For years now, Lady Maria’s hopes had been pinned on Amelia making a match that would save them from poverty. Having no wish to become a burden on Amelia’s future household, and having no desire to find herself a suitable match, Clarissa had started, discreetly, looking around for a genteel position. Surrendering her own chance of matrimony was no sacrifice, for she had never met a man who had caused her heart to flutter. In fact, she had never met a man she had found interesting enough to want to get to know better in any way.

Clarissa’s pragmatic front concealed a deep romanticism that the practical side of her despised, but which she was unable to ignore. She longed for passion, love, ardour—despite trying to convince herself that they didn’t really exist! She dreamed of someone who would love her for herself, value her for what she was, not for her looks or her lineage—which was good, even if Papa’s family did refuse to own them—or even her dowry. Someone to pledge himself to her for always. Happy ever after was hardly in vogue though. Clarrie’s dreams were out of kilter with the ways of the real world. Marriage vows were taken very lightly these days—once an heir had been delivered—with affection provided by a lover rather than a husband. Clarissa couldn’t help but find such attitudes abhorrent, even if it did mean being mocked for her prudishness.

Reconciling these two sides of her nature, the practical and romantic, was difficult. Even when embroiled in reading one of the Gothic romances she adored, Clarissa found herself thinking that her own good sense would be of a lot more use in assisting the hero than the tears and fainting fits of the heroines. But resourcefulness was not a quality valued in a female, real or imaginary, nor was it much sought after in a wife. Since it seemed unlikely, in any event, that she would ever be given the opportunity to play the heroine, Clarissa had resigned herself to becoming a governess, a role which would certainly require all her resourcefulness. On that determined note, she finally fell asleep.

At breakfast the next morning, Amelia was all yawns and coy giggles. ‘Oh, Mama, we had such fun, and my new dress was much admired.’ This, with a sly look at Clarissa.

Clarissa was in no mood for Amelia’s games, having woken this morning resolved to remove her sister from the clutches of the Earl of Rasenby. By force, if necessary. ‘I can well imagine that you were admired in that dress, Amelia, for it left little to the imagination.’ Her jibe was, however, low enough to avoid being heard by Lady Maria, now deep in this morning’s post.

Amelia, predictably, pouted, and ignored her.

‘And did your beau turn up, then?’

‘Can you doubt it? He can’t keep away, I told you. He didn’t leave my side all night, and everyone noticed.’

‘Amelia, that’s not necessarily a good thing. Everyone will be talking about you being so singled out. In fact, it seems to me that by making you so conspicuous, it is less likely that the Earl of Rasenby’s intentions are honourable. What can Mrs Barrington have been thinking, to allow it? She cannot be a suitable escort. I must speak to Mama.’

‘Clarissa, if you do any such thing, I swear, I will make you pay.’ Cornflower-blue eyes bright with intent locked on to emerald-green. ‘I don’t care what you think of Mrs Barrington, she’s all I’ve got, since you and your precious, snooty Aunt Constance are so determined not to escort me. And our dear mama won’t move beyond her drawing room, unless there’s a card table to tempt her.’

Seeing her sister’s stricken look, Amelia relented. No sense in getting Clarissa all worked up and on her high horse. ‘You know I wouldn’t do anything silly. Mrs Barrington is perfectly respectable, I promise you. And besides, for the next couple of days, I won’t be seeing Rasenby. You’re right, it won’t do to grant him too much attention, I have to keep him keen.’ And in any case, Clarrie didn’t need to know that a certain Edward was really a far more attractive companion than Kit Rasenby. Kit Rasenby was rich and powerful, but he didn’t cause her heart to flutter the way Edward did. In fact, Amelia was finding herself quite distracted by Edward, whose youthful good looks appealed so much more to her than Rasenby’s striking countenance, which could be rather intimidating. Rasenby’s wealth was losing a little of its attraction—but she was determined to give it every chance to succeed. Edward would always be there, of that she was already sure.

‘Amelia, you must know that the Earl of Rasenby won’t offer marriage. His reputation, his feelings about the state of matrimony, they are all against you. And even if he did intend to marry, it wouldn’t be to the penniless daughter of a cast-out younger son. It would be to someone with influence and money. Amelia, are you listening at all?’

‘Lord, Clarrie, you know nothing.’ Abandoning her attempt to soft-soap her sister, Amelia’s voice hardened. ‘You’re right—perhaps Rasenby’s intentions aren’t marriage.’ Well, in fact Amelia knew they weren’t, for he had already intimated his offer of a carte blanche. She had put him off, unwilling to take so irrevocable a step just yet. ‘But he’s wild about me, I know. And with a bit of luck, marriage it will be, whether he wants to or nay.’

‘What do you mean? What have you done?’

‘Why nothing, sister dear, as yet. I don’t have to. I merely have to click my fingers and he comes running. And if I click and he runs into a—well, shall we say, compromising situation?—then that’s his misfortune. And best for me, too.’

‘Amelia! The Earl of Rasenby is highly unlikely to fall for that. Why there must have been countless such traps set for him over the years, and never a whiff of him anywhere near wed. Please, I beg of you, stay away from him.’

‘Well, I won’t. At least, yes, I will, for a couple of days. Just to keep him on tenterhooks.’ Amelia slanted another glance at Clarrie’s face. Her sister really was such a prude.

‘Do you love him? Is that it?’ Clarissa was struggling to come to terms with this new, hard Amelia. She had always been determined to have her own way, but she had never before been so openly scheming. If Clarissa had known that her sister was trying desperately to suppress her feelings for Edward Brompton, she would have been less concerned.

‘Life isn’t one of your romances, you know. Love is such an outmoded emotion when it comes to marriage. I can stomach him well enough to bed him, if that’s what you mean. And, of course, his money makes him more attractive than he would be under other circumstances. After all, he’s quite old.’

‘Old? You talk about him as if he’s in his dotage. Why, he can’t be more than five and thirty. And if you loved him, his age would mean nothing. Now tell me straight, do you love him?’

‘Clarrie, I tell you straight, I do not.’ Amelia was enjoying shocking her sister. ‘Love, I will save for my beaux after we are wed. It’s what everyone does. Rasenby will no doubt carry on with his lightskirts, so why should I not do the same? I shall take great pleasure, though, in ousting that supercilious Charlotte du Pres from her position as his mistress. And I suppose I’ll need to provide an heir first.’ Realising she’d gone a bit too far, Amelia patted Clarrie’s hand in a conciliatory way. ‘I’m not a little girl any more. I can look after myself. And I know what I’m doing, I promise.’ No need to let Clarrie know that the carte blanche would still be considered if her other plan failed. One way or another, she’d get her hands on a large part of Rasenby’s wealth. But for now, she wanted to think only of the thrill of meeting Edward again. ‘Let us find out what Mama has found so distracting that she has paid no heed at all to our conversation.’

Lady Maria was certainly absorbed in her post, one letter in particular holding her attention. There were plenty of others, but they were all bills. Bills that she had no means of paying. Those relating to the house and to Amelia’s dresses she would hand over to Clarissa to deal with. But they were insignificant compared to her mounting gambling debts—and of these, Clarissa must be allowed no inkling. She returned again to the note from the owner of the discreet gaming house she had been frequenting of late. The sum that she owed frightened her. The letter was subtly threatening.

‘Mama, what is it that you find so interesting in that letter? Clarrie and I have been plotting away, and you haven’t even looked up.’

At this, Lady Maria gave a nervous start. ‘What? Oh, nothing, nothing. No indeed, nothing for you girls to worry about.’ Her slightly protuberant blue eyes blinked out at her daughters. Nervously, she licked her lips, and produced a somewhat ragged smile. ‘Now, dears, what is it you were plotting?’

‘Silly Mama, only what I would wear to the theatre tonight. For I’m going out with Chloe you know, and her mama, to the new farce. Chloe’s brother and that nice Mr Brompton are escorting us.’

‘Will they be calling for you here, dearest?’ Lady Maria had just remembered a hint from Mrs Barrington, that there were means of paying a lady’s debts that she could help—discreetly—with. ‘Then I’d like a word with her myself. Just to thank her for her attentions to you, Amelia dear. She’s been so good taking you out to parties when my health won’t hold up.’

Lady Maria gathered together her post. ‘Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m afraid I have one of my heads. Clarrie, do give my regards to your Aunt Constance, I know you’ll do all that is right.’ And with that, she left for the sanctity of her bedchamber with its carefully drawn blinds, and the ministering of her dear, faithful maid.

‘Are you going to see Aunt Constance, then? Rather you than me, I can’t abide her sermonising. I’m off for a walk in the park with Chloe.’ Looking back at her sister, still seated at the table, Amelia laughed once more. ‘Clarrie do stop looking so serious. I know what I’m doing, and that should be enough for you. You should get out more yourself, you know. Even at your age, your looks are more than passable, as long as you don’t stand too close to me. I could find you someone suitable.’

‘Thank you, Amelia,’ Clarissa responded drily, ‘but I’m quite content as I am.’

The visit to her aunt only confirmed Clarissa’s worst fears. Lady Constance Denby lived semi-retired from society, but this didn’t stop her keeping close tabs on the latest on dits, and today one of them concerned Amelia.

‘Well, my dear, I am sorry to have to tell you that your sister is raising a few eyebrows.’

They were settled in Lady Constance’s breakfast room, taking morning coffee. Clarissa loved this room, with its beautifully polished rosewood tables, the cabinets crammed with her aunt’s collection of delicate porcelain. The loud ticking of the clock on the mantel, and the scent from the apple wood burning in the hearth were deeply comforting.

Her aunt had been widowed very young—before Clarissa ever remembered an uncle—and, despite numerous offers, had never married again. Her beloved husband had been a rising star in the House of Lords, and Constance had remained faithful to his memory in retaining her widowed status, as well as her avid interest in current affairs. Lady Constance was a beautiful woman, with a little of Clarissa’s colouring, although the vivid auburn of her hair had faded now, and was confined beneath her habitual widow’s cap. She had been formidable, too, in her brief time as a political hostess, although that, also, had been given up upon the occasion of her husband’s death. Having shared something so special, she had told Clarissa once, even for so brief a time, had been enough.

Tact, and a natural reticence, prevented Lady Constance, over the years, from being too critical of Clarissa’s mother and sister. She was all too aware of how badly her own family had treated them when James, her dear brother, had died. She found Maria tedious, and Amelia wilful, but she was very fond of Clarissa, and hated not being able to do more for her than provide this sanctuary whenever her niece paid her a call.

And today the talk would be upsetting—but that couldn’t be helped. ‘I’m not sure if you’re aware, but Letitia Marlborough, Kit Rasenby’s sister, is one of my friends. A flighty thing before she was married and produced that brood of hers, but still, I’ve known her for ever, and keep on good terms with her.’ Lady Constance waited, but Clarissa had no comment to make.

‘Well, Letitia has it on the best of authority that your sister is Kit Rasenby’s latest flirt. In fact, she believes he intends to set her up as his mistress.’

Lady Constance sipped her coffee, and considered Clarissa’s reaction. No surprise there, only worry. So, there was truth in it. Well, she needed to warn Clarissa in plain language. Amelia was heading for a fall, and Lady Constance could only do her best to ensure that Clarissa was not to be tainted by association. Amelia would go to the bad, she was sure of it. But Clarissa deserved better.

‘I take it that this comes as no surprise to you, Clarissa dear? Has Amelia mentioned Lord Rasenby then?’

‘She has, Aunt. As a—an admirer.’

Lady Constance gave a bark of laughter at this. ‘Is that what she called him? Your sister, my dear, seems determined to take the road to ruin. And if you don’t take me up on my offer to come and live here, she’ll take you with her.’

‘Aunt, please, let us not discuss this again at present. I am overwhelmed at the generosity of your offer, indeed I am. But until Amelia is settled, and my mama with her, I can’t desert them.’ Green eyes pleaded for sympathy. ‘Aunt Constance, you do understand, don’t you?’

Clarissa was so very much like her papa when she looked up, that Lady Constance caught her breath for a second. Those huge eyes set in her heart-shaped face were all feminine, but the appeal, and the colouring, they were so like James. If only he had been of a stronger constitution—and a stronger character—then perhaps they wouldn’t be in this mess. But to have eloped with Maria, a mere nobody, when he should have made a good match! Well, it was done now, and James long dead. All she could do was protect his child from some of the harshness of the world.

But to do that, she had to save her from her sister and her mama. Lady Constance patted Clarissa’s hand reassuringly. She was four and twenty, but had seen so little of the world. ‘Of course I understand, my dear, you must know that you will always find a home here, no matter what.’

‘Thank you, Aunt Constance, that means a lot to me.’

‘But to return to the subject of Amelia, as unfortunately we must, I have to tell you, Clarissa, that I am very concerned.’ Lady Constance was brisk now. Straight talking was required, although she was loath to do it. ‘The Earl of Rasenby’s reputation is extremely bad, you know.’

‘I am aware of Lord Rasenby’s reputation, ma’am, but surely he cannot be as bad as they say?’

‘Child, I know not what you have heard, but believe me, whatever it is, Kit’s behaviour is worse. He has been one of the ton for nigh on fifteen years, and master of a huge fortune for longer, his papa having unfortunately died when he was still at school. His papa, such a very dreadful man, broke his neck when he was thrown from his horse riding to the hounds. He was a bruising rider by all accounts, but they say he was in his cups at the time. Mind you, there was rarely a day when he was ever anything else. Hardly a role model for his only son. Although, to be fair, Kit seems to be rather more sober and certainly more discriminating than his father. But there is no getting away from it Clarissa, his tastes are still very, very low!’

With pursed lips, Lady Constance poured herself another cup of coffee. ‘I will not sully your ears with the details, there is no need for that. But this I will say. It is not just the usual, opera dancers and mistresses. He is wild. Too quick to quarrel and too slow to make up. If you ask me, he has too little to occupy him. I have often thought he could make a most excellent politician.’

Lady Constance paused to sip her coffee, gazing into the fireplace. It was her one regret, not having a son. Not for an instant would she have wished a Kit Rasenby on herself, but a child in the image of her dear husband would have been a precious gift. Still, it had not happened. And here was Clarissa, someone who did need her help and protection. Lady Constance brought her attention firmly back to the matter in hand. ‘I beg your pardon, Clarissa, we were talking of Kit Rasenby. Despite all I have said, he is still seen as a good catch by some. Yet he has avoided matrimony until now, and is like to continue to do so. Letitia tells me he is happy for Jeremy, her son, to inherit, and cares naught for the line continuing from him. It is perhaps as well.’

Lady Constance paused, once again assessing the effect on her niece. Clarissa was looking thoughtful rather than shocked.

‘Aunt, I am aware of much of what you have told me, although I do truly find it hard to believe that anyone could be all bad.’ She held up her hand and gave her aunt a small smile to forestall any intervention. ‘I know, you think I’m naïve, but I do like to think there is some good in everyone. However, that is not the point, since I have never met Lord Rasenby.’

Clarissa thought over her next words carefully. ‘There is some truth in the rumours, I’m afraid. Amelia has been much in Lord Rasenby’s company, and I fear his intentions cannot be honourable, no matter what Amelia may believe. She has no love for him, but I think she is deeply flattered, and is fooling herself into thinking he may offer matrimony. I think that she must come to accept that it cannot be so.’

‘My dear Clarissa, you underrate your sister. She is, I have no doubt at all, fully aware that Kit Rasenby can intend only a carte blanche. Which she will accept, should no other more honourable offer come her way. Your sister, whether you want to believe it or not, is avaricious before anything else. There, plain speaking indeed, but you must be made to realise it.’

‘Aunt, I know you think no good of Amelia.’ Clarissa blinked, trying to quieten the little voice in her head that told her Lady Constance was articulating Clarissa’s own fears. Lady Constance had said only what she already knew. ‘Perhaps what you say is true. But I am certain that I can prevent her ruining herself with Lord Rasenby. She is a child, she is simply beguiled by his charm and his wealth.’

‘You’re not thinking of doing something foolish, Clarissa?’

‘No, no. No, of course I won’t be foolish.’ The slight laugh with which she attempted to carry off the denial fell rather flat, and Clarissa bit her lip. She could never lie. She had the makings of a plan which Aunt Constance would certainly call foolish, but she needed to think it through.

‘Enough of my imprudent sister, I have to tell you that I am not at all impressed with Udolpho.’ Clarissa rushed into a dissection of Mrs Radcliffe’s novel in an effort to distract her aunt from further enquiries. Lady Constance was, rather to her shame, an avid fan of Mrs Radcliffe, and allowed herself to be diverted into a spirited defence. The two parted on excellent terms.

Mulling over her aunt’s words later, however, confirmed Clarissa in her resolution. She must separate Amelia from Lord Rasenby, and that would require desperate action, for Amelia must not know that she was being thwarted. Amelia would accept a carte blanche from Lord Rasenby, Clarissa no longer doubted it. And she knew, in her heart, that whatever plan Amelia had to trap him into marriage would fail. Aunt Constance would not have been so blunt with Clarissa had she been less sure. So she had to prevent both Amelia’s plot and Lord Rasenby’s offer.

A flicker of excitement rippled through her at the thought of taking action. It was as if she was waking from sleep, preparing for the challenge to come. Telling herself that it was the thrill of rescuing her sister, and nothing to do with meeting so notorious a man, Clarissa started to formulate her plan. The first requirement was to meet with Lord Rasenby in order to determine for herself just how much danger Amelia was in. And Clarrie knew just how to effect that meeting.

With a fast-beating heart, she flicked through the pile of invitations on the desk in the morning room. Yes, there it was, discarded at the bottom of the pile. Lady Teasborough was a friend of Aunt Constance, and had no doubt sent the invite at her request. A masked ball. Clarrie would go—incognito, and on her own.

Chapter Two

Kit, Earl of Rasenby, stared down into the limpid blue eyes of yet another eligible young lady, and tried to suppress a yawn as a wave of boredom washed over him. He should never have given in to his sister Letitia’s entreaties to escort her to the ball. He had planned a quiet dinner followed by a hand or two of whist at his club, instead of which, here he was at one of the society crushes he so abhorred. With the added, and completely pointless, inconvenience of having to sport a domino and a mask.

Lady Teasborough had thought to introduce a slightly risqué element with this masked ball, but Kit was finding it every bit as tedious as any other social event. The heat in the room was overpowering. The candles from the huge chandeliers, the fires lit—unnecessarily, in his view—in the enormous grates at either end of the ballroom, and the crush of too many people in too little space made Kit want to fight his way out into the relatively fresh air of the terrace. He was bored. He had no interest in the latest crim. con. story, nor in taking part in the speculation as to who had fathered his hostess’s latest brat. If his host—closeted, no doubt, in one of the card rooms—didn’t care, why should he? God, he was bored. Despite the concealing cloaks and masks, he recognised almost everyone here. Including Miss Pink Domino, being presented to him now by Letitia.

Kit sighed, bowed over Miss Pink Domino’s hand, and led her out reluctantly. His enthusiasm for fencing, which he practised regularly with the renowned Harry Angelo at his academy in the Haymarket, lent him an animal grace that singled him out on the dance floor. But his partner was, alas, unable to match him, and it would take a great effort on his part to ensure that they remained in step for the duration of the country dance.

As they worked their way down the set, Kit’s mind began to wander. He knew Letitia’s game only too well. His elder by some years, his sister had just successfully married off the first of his five nieces, and was once again turning her attentions to his own marital state. It was his own fault for bringing it up earlier—even though it had been in jest. Kit’s reputation was too bad for him to be a great catch, of course, as Letitia took pleasure in reminding him. So Louisa Haysham, with whom he was now dancing, fell into the second-best category. A pretty little thing with an adequate portion who will cause you no trouble. He could hear Letitia saying it, and he knew exactly what she meant. Louisa Haysham was a nice, inoffensive, malleable female for him to trample on. She’d raise a brood of nice insignificant children for him, and he’d be bored within a week. He was bored now, and he’d been in her company for barely ten minutes.

Over and over again, Kit had assured Letitia that he’d be happy for her son, Jeremy, to inherit his estates. At thirty-five, he was surely entitled to be treated as the confirmed bachelor he knew himself to be. Lord knew, he’d made his views clear to both Letitia and his mother often enough. Matrimony simply had no appeal for him. Rather, matrimony, in the accepted form these days, had no appeal. Fidelity, even if he could find a woman he wanted to be faithful to, seemed not to be valued. And he had seen no evidence, not in his family, nor amongst his friends or acquaintances, that marriage had any rewards other than a string of brats that no one really wanted, and endless recriminations about money. Even his sister, who claimed to be happy, was, he knew, no more than content. Content, Kit was sure, wasn’t a big enough reward for the sacrifice of his freedom.

Returning Miss Haysham with a curt bow to her mother, and neatly avoiding catching his sister’s eye—he couldn’t bear her inevitable interrogation as to whether Miss Insipid Haysham was to his liking—Kit headed instead for the group of gentlemen congregated at the back of the room. His tall figure in a plain black domino and mask was easily recognisable in a crowd that favoured colour and decoration. He was in fact, infamous for refusing to decorate his well-favoured person with any of the fobs, frills and furbelows of the day.

A slight man in a deep scarlet cloak standing on the fringes of the crowd noted Kit’s attendance at the ball with some surprise—it was very unlike Rasenby to turn out at these formal affairs. Kit was not aware of the depths of contempt in which Robert, Marquis of Alchester, held him. Brought up as children together, since the estates of their fathers ran parallel, Robert had been forced to play second fiddle to Kit from the start. Kit was the ringleader in all their childish pranks. Kit was the best shot in the area, the handiest with his fists, the most skilled with a sword. And it was Kit who had first call on all the females. To add insult to injury, Kit’s estates continued to flourish under his generous stewardship, whereas Robert’s dissolute lifestyle drained every penny from his land, now in sad want of repair. All this bitterness Robert had suppressed over the years, but it was slowly mouldering. And now, he had a card worth playing. It was Robert who had been informing the customs men as to Kit’s activities. One day soon, revenge would be his.

Blissfully unaware of this enmity, Kit took a reviving draught of claret, a drink he much preferred to the ice-cold champagne cup being offered to the rest of the guests. Mindful of his resolution to give up smuggling, he mulled over, once more, the notion of matrimony. Letitia had made her point of view perfectly clear when he had raised the subject before dinner. A slight frown marred the perfection of his countenance as he thought over his sister’s words from earlier tonight. His handsome features were, in fact, a major bone of contention with Letitia, and had been the trigger for her latest tirade, turning his attempt at light banter into a more serious discussion.

‘What would you say, Letitia, if I asked you to finally find me a suitable bride? One who met all my needs, I might add.’ He had said this with a wicked grin, deliberately intending to annoy her.

Letitia sighed. Why should Kit have it all, when she didn’t? Of course, she was perfectly happy with her husband, but life wasn’t exactly stimulating. So it shouldn’t be for Kit, either. That wasn’t what matrimony was about.

‘For goodness’ sake, must you always harp on about your needs. With your looks, I’m sure that sort of thing won’t be a problem—ever.’ It was positively painful to Letitia that Kit was so very perfectly good looking. ‘It’s your duty to the family to bestow yourself on one of my sex for reasons of lineage, not for—not for the reasons you’re implying.’

‘On the contrary, Letitia, I feel it my bounden duty to bestow myself on as many of your sex as I can. And I do my best, you know.’ This was said with a rueful smile, for Kit knew that Letitia, despite her perfect breeding, liked to consider herself risqué.

‘Kit!’ She feigned shock, anyway. ‘I mean bestow yourself properly. I’m not referring to your mistresses, for Heaven’s sake.’

‘Tut, tut, Letitia, what can you know of my mistresses?’

‘Why, no more nor less than the whole of London society, since you flaunt them so brazenly at every opportunity. Only yesterday I saw you in a carriage in Oxford Street with that shameless hussy Charlotte—harlot, more like—sitting at your side. Draped in the most gorgeous furs, too. No doubt paid for by you.’ Letitia couldn’t prevent the bitter note of envy entering her voice, thinking back to how stunning Charlotte du Pres had looked. Providing her husband with six children in quick succession had taken a heavy toll on what little looks she herself had once possessed.

‘Yes, she really is rather lovely, isn’t she? But alas, I fear, becoming rather tedious. Her demands are endless, you know, Letitia, and the rewards less attractive each time. I think that Charlotte is coming to the end of her usefulness.’

‘Well, I can’t say I’m surprised. She’s been with you two months now. Don’t you ever find a woman diverting for longer?’

‘Alas, no. At least, not yet. And since I’ve been trying for more years than either of us, sister dear, would care to count, I’m afraid you really must resign yourself to my bachelor state. And incidentally, please don’t go breaking your heart over Charlotte, she’ll be more than adequately compensated for her loss.’

‘Yes, you’re very generous in that way, I know. But really, Kit, you’re so hugely rich that it means nothing to you. Not, I assure you, that I’m complaining myself, for you’ve been exceeding good to me and my children over the years, particularly Jeremy, who scarce deserves it. He may be my only son and I love him dearly but it’s plain the lad is a wastrel. I just wish you took your duty to marry and produce your own son and heir as seriously.’

‘Enough of this. I have no desire to be leg-shackled, it was a jest. I have no wish to be presented to yet another eligible girl who will drive me back into the arms of someone who at least can attend properly to my physical needs. And spare me your blushes, Letty, for you know perfectly well what I mean.’

‘No, Kit, I do not. There is no reason why you shouldn’t continue to tend to your physical needs, as you put it, outside of the marriage bed. But you must marry for the sake of the family. Jeremy is no fit heir for you. You need the stability of a wife. You need someone to care for you in your old age.’

Kit threw back his head and laughed again, running his fingers through his cropped, glossy black hair. ‘For God’s sake Letitia, I’m thirty-five, I don’t need a nursemaid yet. I’ll tell you what, the minute I show the first signs of contracting gout, I’ll start looking out for a wife to tend to me.’

‘By then, you’ll be too old to father children, and it will be too late. Kit, do listen, since you brought the topic up. I know your reputation is bad—and indeed, well deserved—but you’re still eligible. I could still find you someone suitable.’

Kit was now deeply regretting raising the subject. ‘Letty, enough. You know my views on matrimony, they are not likely to change. There are but two types of women on this earth, and they live in worlds that don’t mix. There are those who provide pleasure for a man, and who require payment, and there are those who provide a family—and they require payment in a different way. And I’m happy to pay for the former, if I get something out of it. But why should I pay for a family when I don’t want one? Have done.’

Letitia, silenced temporarily by the stern tone of her brother’s voice, had done. Reflecting on what he had said, she had to accept the truth of it, for Kit had no experience of any respectable female wanting to give more than she took from him. Starting with their mother—and, she had to admit, herself too. But Letitia wasn’t one to give up so easily, either. Her brother must have an heir. He must make some sacrifices. ‘Kit, let me see what I can do. I’ll see if I can provide you with someone who is at least good to look at.’

‘Enough. Let us forgo any further discussion. I must change for this cursed party of yours.’

Shaking his head to banish the memory of that uncomfortable conversation, Kit took another draught of claret, and cast an idle eye over the ballroom. So far, he had danced only with Miss Haysham, but he knew that he’d have to choose at least one other partner soon, or the world would think he had singled the fair Miss Haysham out. And Kit did not want that to happen. Really, the idea of matrimony was ridiculous. Apart from anything else, he had no desire to make his poor wife—whoever she might be—totally miserable. And since he could in no way promise liking, never mind fidelity, miserable she would be, and quickly. Best to focus on this last run with the Sea Wolf first, then think to the future after. For now, he needed to find another dance partner.

A brief flash of black domino lined with emerald green caught his eye in the far corner, and roused his attention. It was highly unusual for a female to wear black—in fact, he was the only man to do so tonight. And while he could have sworn he knew everyone here—despite the masks—she was unfamiliar. She was standing by the open window, and for some reason she seemed to be watching him. Her stance was alert, giving the impression of one on the verge of flight. Kit was intrigued. Retrieving two glasses of champagne from a passing waiter, he made his way over to the stranger.

‘I fear you are somewhat warm, Miss Black Domino—can I offer you a cooling drink?’

Clarrie gave a start, then tried, rather unsuccessfully, to regain her poise. The black domino, the only other one here, had been pointed out to her as the Earl of Rasenby. He had made the first move. She couldn’t believe her luck. Nor could she flee now, as she had been contemplating only a moment before. Fate had decreed that she must go through with her plan.

‘Why, thank you, sir. It is rather hot.’ He was tall, much taller than Clarrie, and despite the domino she could see he was exceedingly well built. Somehow, she had expected him to be more dandified. But the Earl of Rasenby was obviously of athletic inclination, and favoured a simple elegance that relied on his physique and the quality of his tailoring, rather than decoration. For the first time in her life, Clarrie experienced a strong gust of sheer physical attraction that was both unexpected and unwelcome.

Looking up, she could see little of his features behind the mask, only a pair of piercing dark eyes, looking into hers assessingly. So this was the man who wanted to steal Amelia’s virtue. This was the man who intended to sweep her sister—and with her, Clarissa and her mama—into a world of vice and degradation. Well, she could certainly see his appeal. What she needed to find out was just how serious he was in his intentions, before she decided to act. Clarissa still nourished a hope that Amelia had exaggerated—though in the light of Lady Constance’s revelations, it was but a faint one.

‘Do you not find these masked affairs somewhat tedious, sir? Why, I swear I know everyone here. ‘Tis but an excuse to allow those who are so inclined to flirt a little more openly, is it not?’

Clarissa’s voice, usually so low and musical, had assumed a slightly breathless quality. The combination of the role she had to play, and the physical awareness of this surprisingly attractive man, were already taking their toll. But she wouldn’t fail at the first hurdle, there was too much at stake. Under no illusions about her own attractions, she had studied Amelia closely, and she knew how to flirt—even if she was about to try it out for the first time.

Kit looked down into those vibrant green eyes, surprised at the tone. He could have sworn she was nervous when he first approached her. ‘And do you know who I am, Miss Black Domino?’ Of course she did, else why flirt so obviously unless she knew her target?

‘I will hazard a guess, my lord. You are the Earl of Rasenby, are you not?’ Those green eyes looked up into his, a shadow of a doubt clouding them. What if she had been wrong? A flush of embarrassment swept over Clarissa, most of it mercifully hidden by the mask.

‘And if I am not, would you be disappointed?’

‘Of course I would be disappointed.’ Clarrie shook out her chicken-skin fan with a flourish, partly to hide her eyes, but more practically in an effort to hide her overheated countenance, and to give her time to pull herself together. ‘I’d be very disappointed, since I’ve heard so much about your lordship, and was counting on meeting you here.’

‘Were you, now? And may I ask, are you here at the invitation of Lady Teasborough, or have you taken a chance to come uninvited?’ Surely the only explanation was that she was some member of the demi-monde with an enterprising turn of mind?

Clarissa, forgetting her part, was indignant at the accusation. ‘Of course I was invited, why would I be here otherwise?’

The genuine flash of anger from those green eyes took Kit aback. Despite himself, he felt a faint trace of interest. He didn’t believe her for an instant, but any new ploy, after all, was at least a refreshing change. ‘I do beg your pardon. It’s just that you have the advantage of me. To whom do I have the pleasure of speaking?’

‘That is not important for now. And besides …’ Clarrie allowed herself a peep above the fan into those dark blue-black eyes ‘… it’s so much more intriguing, is it not, to save a little something for later?’ Nothing Amelia had told her about Kit Rasenby had led her to believe that he was anything more than a rich provider. She hadn’t expected him to be quite so like the villains of her favourite romances—Clarrie always empathised more with the villain than the hero, although she never liked to ask herself why!

‘So, I’m not to know your name, then? Am I to know your purpose in seeking me out?’

‘Eventually, of course, my lord. But first, perhaps we should get to know each other a little. Tell me, the lady you were dancing with, what thought you of her charms? Did you not think she danced rather ill?’

‘You can do better than that, surely?’ He was sardonic. Praising or disparaging one female to another was not a sport that he enjoyed.

Closing her fan with a determined snap, Clarissa decided to go for the direct approach. The Earl was obviously not one for simpering females, and in truth, she didn’t do simpering very well. Perhaps if she played things her own way he would take her more seriously. ‘I know you not, Lord Rasenby, but you seem to me a man who prefers plain speaking. Mayhap we should dispense with the niceties and progress to my requirements from you?’

‘Much better.’ His tone remained sceptical, however. ‘Now you at least have my attention. Perhaps I should warn you, though, that if it’s money you’re after, I won’t be blackmailed. If you’ve come on behalf of one of your sisters in debauchery, you’ll find scant pickings here.’ Ignoring the gasp of indignation from Clarissa, he held his hand up to forestall interruption, and continued in the harsh voice of one used to seeing the worst in everyone. ‘I pay my debts direct. And there’s no use either, in trying to pretend that it’s you I owe—I may have sampled the wares of your like many times, but not enough to confuse me. I’d know you if I’d had you.’

‘Well, my lord! Well! Plain speaking indeed.’ Clarissa was completely unprepared for this turn in the conversation. He thought her a lightskirt. Well, that’s what she’d intended, but she hadn’t expected the flush of anger that such an assumption had caused. In fact, the more she thought about it, the angrier she became. The Earl of Rasenby was an arrogant pig, and he deserved to be put down.

Forgetting all about Amelia, Clarrie gave free reign to her feelings, her temper made worse by the need to continue the conversation, in the middle of the ball as they were, sotto voce. ‘I am amazed, sir, at your arrogance. And I am sorry, truly sorry, for any of my poor—sisters, as you call them—who would be reduced to pleading with you, for you are obviously a hard case. You tell me you pay your debts direct—well, I can only hope that you do, sir, and that you pay them fully!’

‘What on earth do you mean? I pay what is owed and am generous. I have a reputation of being generous. But I won’t be blackmailed, so whatever your pathetic plan, abandon it.’ Kit was now more angry than intrigued. He had little reputation, and all of it bad, but one thing he had always been proud of was that he compensated—generously—any woman who had provided her services to him. He ensured, too, that there were never any consequences. To his knowledge, he had no natural children. The irony of this—that he, who had the blackest of characters, had the cleanest of stables—contributed to his weariness of the world in which he lived. He was more fastidious in his habits, and more generous in his payments, than most of his peers. It struck him, suddenly, as a poor enough boast.

‘Has it never occurred to you that money may not be enough, Lord Rasenby? Has it never occurred to you that some of these poor creatures that you pay off may have feelings? That they may have hoped for more from you than a few jewels and furs?’

At this, Kit laughed. ‘It never occurs to me because there are no feelings in this world that cannot be compensated for financially. I should know.’ Looking down into those indignant green eyes, Kit felt a twinge of compassion. Perhaps, after all, there was some innocence there? But no, it was sure to be just another act—although a better one than he’d seen for some time. ‘I assure you, madam, the type of women I get involved with don’t have feelings. Simpering sentimentality appeals to me not. I trade in the more physical side of things, and that, if you don’t know already, is always short-lived. So, no, I don’t think I owe anything on account there to anyone.’

For some reason, this statement shocked Clarissa more than any other. More than the knowledge that her Aunt Constance had been right in her character assessment. More than Lord Rasenby’s outrageously blunt speaking. The man had no feelings at all. She wondered what had forged his deep cynicism. Through the mask, Clarissa’s green eyes hinted at tears. ‘I’m truly sorry for you, my lord, if you do feel like that.’ She touched her hand to his arm in a gesture of sympathy.

Kit shook her off, angry—unreasonably angry—at the gesture. Who was she to question his behaviour, and then to patronise him with her tears and sympathy? ‘Don’t waste your energy, madam. I fear that whatever it was you had planned to say to me is wasted, too, for we can have nothing in common. Now, I must go and dance with another partner, lest Miss Haysham—the lady in the pink domino, since you were so interested—has her hopes raised.’

‘Forgive me, Lord Rasenby, I spoke out of turn, it was not my intention to judge you. But please, do stay and hear me out.’ There was desperation in Clarissa’s voice as, emerging from her own anger, she realised he was walking away and she had found out next to nothing of his intentions towards Amelia. And she needed to know, in order to decide whether the risk was worth taking.

He turned at the appeal, unwillingly softened by it. There was something genuine about her, despite appearances, that still had him interested. ‘I don’t make a habit of ruining innocents, you know. I take only willing partners, who understand the game, and who don’t have any of these more tender feelings you refer to, I assure you. Come, what is it that you’re so determined I should hear, now that you’ve finished upbraiding me?’

‘Well, actually …’ Clarissa sniffed determinedly and took the plunge. ‘Well, I wanted to discuss a similar proposal with you myself.’ She glared at him through her mask, her expression anything but seductive. In fact, she was so far away from the flirtatious woman of the world that she had started out to be, she was questioning her own sanity. This was most definitely not going the way she had imagined it from the security of her bedchamber.

Kit stared at her speechlessly. This slim female, a complete stranger, had sneaked into a society ball and sought him out. First she had flirted with him, then she had launched into a tirade at him, had questioned his generosity and his feelings, to say nothing of upbraiding his morals—such as they were! And now she was telling him that she wanted to make him an indecent proposal. Of a certainty she was unhinged. No matter how attractive the form under the domino and mask—and what he could see he found extremely attractive, for though she was slender, she curved most appealingly in all the right places—it couldn’t be worth it.

And now she was glaring at him, as if it was he who had made the proposal to her. ‘I don’t think, madam, that you can have meant what you just said? Surely, you are not suggesting that you want to become another notch on my notorious bedpost yourself?’

‘I—well, yes, I suppose I am suggesting just that. But subject to my own conditions, of course.’ Clarissa flushed once more with embarrassment. This was not going at all to plan. For a start, her proposition was to have been later, once she’d found out a bit more about what he intended for Amelia, not something she should have blurted out at this first meeting. She hadn’t even thought it through properly.

‘Ah, your conditions. And what would they be, madam?’ He couldn’t help but be interested. This was all so very, very unexpected. Kit was glad, for once, that he’d come along to the ball. Mentally, he thanked Letitia—although he didn’t expect she’d be too thrilled if she ever found out.

‘Well, I’m not going to tell you right now, this is hardly the appropriate place. I thought we could discuss that on another occasion. I was supposed to get to know you a bit first.’

Kit gave a sharp laugh. She was unhinged, but she was amusing. ‘Were you now? And who said you were to get to know me first? Who set you up for this, my little intriguer?’

‘No one, no one set me up, I’m acting on my own.’ The stamp of a little foot and the quick flush betrayed Clarrie again. Her temper, did she but know it, went with the auburn hair, and had been her father’s undoing. Normally it was easy to control, but there was something about this man that got under her skin. ‘I merely meant, Lord Rasenby, that I wanted to know a little more about you before we have such an intimate discussion. For a start, I wouldn’t want to make you any proposal if I’m mistaken as to your current state of attachment.’

‘Come now, I feel sure that someone as bold as you are would have done your research. Surely you are perfectly aware of my current state, as you call it?’

‘Yes, my lord, I am aware that you have an attachment to Miss du Pres, but I was more concerned with your intentions as to your immediate future. I have heard that you have been paying court to a Miss Warrington?’

‘You have been digging, haven’t you? And what have you heard about Miss Warrington and my intentions towards her?’

‘I have heard that you have been marking her out, my lord. I have heard that she has been the object of your affections for the last few weeks. I have heard that you have even raised expectations of a more honourable kind.’

Kit gave another bark of laughter at this. ‘Whatever you have heard, I have nothing honourable in mind when it comes to Amelia Warrington. And I cannot believe that Miss Warrington imagines any such thing either. That girl is a chit who knows only the value of my purse, and aims to dig as deep into it as she can. Can it be that it is she who has set you on to me?’ Behind the mask, Kit’s eyes narrowed. ‘No, she does have a close companion, an insipid, simpering miss, but she bears no resemblance to you. Her name escapes me.’

‘Chloe.’ Clarissa realised her mistake immediately; the black brows opposite her snapped together with suspicion. ‘I believe that’s her name. Although I don’t really know Miss Warrington personally—at least, not very well.’ After today, that at least was true. Amelia was becoming a stranger to her. ‘I am merely repeating the latest gossip. And the rumours are that you intend marriage.’

‘I assure you, madam, I have no plans to marry. My intentions in that direction are not yet fixed. Miss Warrington is attractive, I’ll grant, and more than willing, that I know. I may have a proposal for her, but it would not be honourable.’ Kit smiled rakishly. Seeing Clarissa flinch at his words, he narrowed his eyes. ‘Did you think her one of those innocent victims you were throwing in my face earlier? Amelia Warrington knows exactly what is on offer, I have made that perfectly clear to her. And if she thinks to hold out on me in the hope of more, then she’ll quickly learn the better of it. If I ever deign to marry, it would certainly not be to someone as easy to touch as Miss Warrington.’

Clarissa absorbed this assassination of her sister’s character with sadness, but a weary resignation. It was, after all, no more than what her aunt had said earlier. Even, although she hated to admit it, what she was coming to believe herself. But if Amelia could be prevented from making a fatal mistake with the Earl of Rasenby, if she could be prevented from ruining herself now, there would still be time for Clarissa to try, one more time, to establish her more genteelly. She had to secure this chance for her sister, even if it meant risking her own virtue.

‘I see. Very well, my lord, then I feel that the way is clear for you and me to discuss terms.’

‘You are either very naïve or very stupid. It is for the gentleman, you know, to make terms. And for the lady to accept. You cannot expect me to take you seriously.’ Lord Rasenby was by now, against his will, thoroughly interested. It was a trap, he had no doubt about it, but it was a good one, and merited his attention—at least until he discovered what it was.

Clarrie, braced for rejection, was yet determined to prevent it. She had to give her sister a chance of escape. She had to get Lord Rasenby away from her for just a few days, a few weeks, enough to let him cool off, and for Amelia to have her sights pitched at a more achievable and more honourable target.

‘I realise that I am being a little unorthodox. But I thought you would appreciate both directness and a change. You are, as you admitted yourself, a little jaded in your taste. Perhaps a freshness of approach would restore your appetites?’ Clarrie smiled in what she hoped was a coy manner, although the effect was ruined somewhat by the pleading in her eyes.

It was the pleading that succeeded. ‘I’ll give you a chance then, for your boldness, if for nothing else. But you must rise to the challenge, and prove your good faith to me first.’

‘How?’

‘I’ll listen to your proposal in private. Tomorrow, not now. That will give you time to cool your temper, and to make sure that you really want to go through with this.’

‘I will be just as determined tomorrow, I know I will. Name the place, Lord Rasenby, and I will be there.’ With a toss of her head, and a determined point of her little chin, Clarrie glared into those deep blue eyes. She was anything but propitiating, but she was learning, and quickly, that Kit Rasenby responded badly to anything other than direct dealing.

‘Will you? I wonder?’ The soft tone sounded just a little threatening. ‘I don’t take kindly to being deceived, I’ll warn you now. I’ll have no truck with games and trickery. Come and dine with me tomorrow evening. At my house. On your own.’

‘Oh, no, I couldn’t. Why, that would be shocking. Oh, no. Can we not meet in the park, or perhaps take a drive? I couldn’t dine alone with you.’

‘Ah, ‘tis as I thought. You are not nearly so bold as you promise. It was pleasant, exchanging views—’ his tone was heavily ironic ‘—but I’m afraid our acquaintance is now at an end. I bid you good evening.’

‘No! Wait!’ Once again, Clarrie was forced to take a dramatic—nay, huge—step forward. ‘I’ll be there. I’ll dine with you.’

He was surprised at her agreeing, for it was a mad suggestion, even for him. No one could be under any illusion about a single lady dining alone in a gentleman’s house—he had never invited any before now. But he gave no sign of his surprise. ‘Very well, until tomorrow evening. I take it you know the address?’

She nodded, mute at her own daring.

‘And am I to have a glimpse of the face under the mask before tomorrow? Perhaps even something on account?’

But Clarissa shrank back at this, unable to comply, even for her sister. And she had achieved her objective for tonight, after all. ‘Wexford, my name is Wexford. As to my face—tomorrow will be soon enough. Unless, that is, you have more than one masked lady coming to dinner?’

He laughed. Her humour had the desperate touch of the gallows about it, but she was game. ‘No, only you. Until then.’

And before he could bid her good night, Clarrie fled, removing her mask with relief, oblivious to Lord Robert Alchester, following discreetly at her back. A small exchange of coins bought him the address the footman had given to the hackney driver.

Back in the ballroom, Kit realised, with a curse, that he would need to find another dance partner.

Chapter Three

On her return from the ball Clarissa went straight upstairs to bed, but the long night brought her little comfort. She dreamt of surrendering to a passionate figure in a black domino, a dream that left her hot, flushed, and far from rested. Sitting up in bed to drink her morning chocolate—her one indulgence before facing the day—she tried to shake off the mists of sleep. Kit Rasenby, she reminded herself, was not a man to whom she should surrender anything, not even in her dreams! But the image of his strong, muscular body, his voice husky and flushed with passion, pressed naked against her own flesh, remained obstinately in her mind.

In person, Kit Rasenby had been completely unexpected. She had not counted on the strong pull of attraction she could feel between them, nor had she counted on him being so plain spoken. Amelia’s description had led her to expect a man of the world, that was true, but one like the rest of the ton. Instead, Lord Rasenby stood out from the crowd, and his attractions were not those of a primped and perfect macaroni, but of a clean-cut, athletic, very masculine man.

Clarissa reminded herself once again not to confuse the outer man with the inner. He only looked clean cut and honest. His bitter remark, that all women wanted to be recompensed for their favours one way or another, came from deep within. In many ways, Clarissa could empathise with this. In fact, thinking about her sister, she could understand completely why Lord Rasenby was so very cynical. She fought the urge, growing deep in the recesses of her mind, to prove him wrong. She was not such a woman. She could be his equal. Only by recalling her mission, to save her sister—and her virtue—from his clutches, did she remind herself that her interests in him as a man, a lost cause, or any sort of acquaintance would be of necessity of very short duration. When Kit Rasenby found her out as a deceiver, she had no doubt he would never forgive her.

But she couldn’t subdue the wistful thought that during their short time together, she might prove to him that women—or at least one woman—could be different.

Sitting in the small parlour after breakfast, Clarissa attempted to put together the week’s menus. Amelia’s seemingly endless requests for new dresses, new shoes, and new hats, made economy an absolute necessity, which meant that their meals were very plain fare indeed. Menu-planning was one of Clarissa’s most hated tasks. It was not surprising, therefore, that it took a while for Lady Maria’s strange behaviour to penetrate her consciousness. Eventually, though, Clarissa became aware that her mama was a little more animated than normal. Instead of occupying her usual position on the chaise lounge, she was sitting upright at the little writing desk, frantically scribbling in a notebook.

‘Mama, what is it that you are working on? May I help?’

Lady Maria jumped and tried, not very successfully, to assume an air of nonchalance. ‘Help? No, no, dear, not at all. I’m just doing some sums, trying to look at our expenses, you know. Amelia needs a new dress, she was saying just yesterday, and her dancing slippers are quite worn away again.’

‘Mama, you know that you have no head for figures. Here, let me help you.’ Wresting the notebook from Lady Maria’s grasp, Clarissa failed to notice her mama’s aghast expression. But looking at the vast sums that had been scribbled, in writing that became less legible with each number, she turned to her in dismay.

‘What on earth are all these numbers? These are far too large to be household expenses. Mama, what can they be?’

‘It’s nothing for you to worry about, Clarissa, dear. They’re just jottings. Give them back to me.’

Ignoring her mother’s desperate attempt to reclaim the notebook, Clarissa continued to look in confusion at the numbers. ‘Mama, please tell me what these are. Come, let us sit down and talk comfortably. Where is your tisane, for you look in need of it to me?’ As she spoke, Clarissa ushered her mother over on to her habitual seat, and, pulling up a stool, sat down beside her. ‘Now, what can be so awful that you can’t tell me?’

‘They’re my gambling debts.’ The bald statement was blurted out with relief. Surely, now that she had confessed, thought Lady Maria, Clarrie would fix it. She always did.

But for once her daughter, transfixed with horror, had nothing to say.

‘You see, I thought, if I could win, then I could help with Amelia’s gowns,’ Lady Maria explained. ‘For if she is to save our fortunes through a good marriage then she needs to be tricked out properly—even you would agree, Clarrie. And she says that she’s so close to finalising things with Lord Rasenby, I thought I could help. But I kept losing. And then a nice man at the party said he would assist me with my stake money, and I thought, surely I couldn’t lose for ever. But I did, Clarrie, I did. And now that nice man is dunning me, and I just don’t know what to do.’

‘Mama, don’t, please don’t tell me that you’ve actually borrowed money to gamble with?’

The abject horror in her voice made Lady Maria defensive. ‘What of it? Everyone does it, Mrs Barrington says, and why should I not do so, when I’m bound to win soon.’

‘Mrs Barrington? And what, pray, has she to say to this?’

‘Well, she first introduced me to the party where I’ve been playing. And last night, when I had a quiet word with her, she said not to worry, she’d speak to the young man who is dunning me. Except, Clarrie, I can’t help but feel I’d rather have you sort things out, you’re so very good at it. I’d rather not rely on strangers, even if Mrs Barrington is such a good friend to Amelia, when I know can rely on you. My own trusty Clarissa.’

Lady Maria beamed gratefully at her daughter. She felt hugely better, having relieved her conscience and passed the burden, as always, to Clarissa.

But Clarissa was flabbergasted. The sums she owed, if the notebook was accurate, were beyond belief. ‘Mama, you have not made any more arrangements for funds with Mrs Barrington, have you?’

‘No, no, I promise. I just mentioned it in passing last night, I haven’t exactly committed to anything.’

‘And this man who is dunning you, when does he expect payment?’

‘Well, as to that, I couldn’t say. He merely says that he wants something on account soon, if I am to rely on him for further stake money.’

‘Mama! You must not, under any circumstances whatsoever, take more money from him. You must stop this gambling at once. You won’t win, you know, you will only put us further in debt. Please, I beg you, promise me, Mama, that you will stop.’

‘Well, I—well, but do you think you can fix things, Clarrie? For Amelia must have her dress, you know. We can’t expect Lord Rasenby to put us in funds until after they are married, once a settlement is agreed. And that is probably at least a month or so hence.’

‘There is no question of Amelia marrying Lord Rasenby, absolutely none. We must sort out this mess ourselves, and you must refrain—Mama, you must—from further gambling in the meantime.’

‘But, Clarrie, Amelia assures me that Lord Rasenby is about to propose. And if he does not, where will we be? No, no, Amelia cannot be wrong. She was born to make a sensational match, and she will.’

‘Mama!’ Clarissa’s temper was rising rapidly beyond her control for the second time in two days. Taking a deep breath, knowing that harsh words would only give Lady Maria one of her turns, she tried once more for calm. ‘Believe me, Lord Rasenby’s intentions towards Amelia are purely dishonourable, no matter what Amelia may say. I know. Nay, I am certain of it. Amelia must be made to give him up, or she will bring us all to ruin.’

‘Well, dear, if you say so,’ said Lady Maria dubiously, torn between doubt and an unwillingness to give up her vision of Lord Rasenby as their saviour. ‘Perhaps, then, a carte blanche—strictly as a temporary measure, you understand—would be a good thing, Clarrie? Then we could see ourselves clear of debt, and after that, Amelia can still make a good marriage. What do you say?’

‘What do I say? Am I the only sane person in this family? Aunt Constance was right, we will be ruined.’

‘Oh, don’t talk to me about your precious Aunt Constance. She is so ridiculously strait-laced as to be positively old-fashioned. And anyway, she’s never been short of a penny, so what does she know? You take after that side of the family, Clarissa, I have always said so. Amelia is so much more like me, the darling girl.’

‘Thank you, Mama, but I am pleased to take after Aunt Constance, if it means I have some moral fibre! I beg you, please, leave this in my hands. Do nothing further to get us deeper in debt. And get it out of your head that Amelia will receive any proposal from Lord Rasenby, honourable or otherwise.’

Lady Maria was far too used to Clarissa sorting their problems to question her abilities to cope with such huge debts, so she sighed, tucked her scarf around herself more comfortably, and dozed peacefully for the rest of the morning. Clarissa retired to her room with her head spinning to try to make sense of the situation.

Amelia flounced in some time later, disrupting her meditations. ‘Why so glum, Clarrie? I hope you’re not still fretting over my virtue. It’s safe enough—for now at any rate.’

‘Did you have a nice night?’

‘Yes, I did, thank you very much, and as I promised, saw no trace of Rasenby. Mr Brompton was most attentive, though. I do like him.’

‘Do you, Amelia? Enough to marry him?’

‘Lord, Clarrie, not that again. I’ve told you, Edward is a clerk in a lawyer’s office, he can hardly keep himself in cravats, never mind marry me. Although, perhaps as a last little fling before I tie myself to Rasenby, he’ll do well enough.’ Amelia laughed contemptuously at Clarissa’s face. ‘You’re so easy to shock, sister dear. Provided that Rasenby gets no whiff of it, why should I not have Edward first? It’s not as if Rasenby would be coming to the marriage bed pure.’

Amelia paused for a moment to reflect. Really, it was too, too vile of Edward to be so poor. And virtuous into the bargain. She was not at all convinced that he would take her to bed unless it was as his wife—even if she paraded naked in front of him! He had found out from Chloe some of Amelia’s doings with Rasenby, and had had the temerity to lecture her. He could lecture her all he wanted if he had the funds. But he didn’t. Frustrated at the unwonted feelings of tenderness Edward aroused in her, and at the necessity of deceiving him, Amelia turned once more on her sister. ‘Yes, I warrant I like Edward enough to marry him. But he has not the means. It’s Rasenby or the poor house, and I will not be going to the poor house.’

Clarissa was shocked. She had not realised just how perfidious her sister had become. She was horrified, too, at how she planned to treat Rasenby. Even had she not already resolved to remove Amelia from his grasp, she would have been forced into warning Rasenby about Amelia! ‘Perhaps you may find that if this Edward is so much to your taste you may settle for him after all?’

‘No, I’ve told you, Clarissa, my plans for Rasenby are unchanged. A few more days and all will be resolved between us, one way or another.’

‘He won’t be trapped into marriage, no matter what your plan.’ Clarissa’s tone was dry. ‘He is far too clever for that. Are you so sure that he is as mad for you as you say?’

‘Of course he’s mad for me, I’m never wrong about these things.’ This with a determined toss of golden curls. ‘I have him wrapped around my finger. And there he’ll stay, be assured, Clarrie, until he puts a ring on it.’

‘That he will never do, I am sure of it. But what of you? How can you contemplate a life of matrimony based on deceit and trickery?’

A scornful laugh was Amelia’s reply to this. ‘Why do you care? It’s not you who’s being tricked. He deserves to be played at his own game, it will serve him well.’

‘No, he never relies on trickery, he is honest in that sense. Really, he does not deserve such treatment.’

‘What are you talking about, Clarissa Warrington? You’ve never met him—what do you know?’

The suspicion in Amelia’s voice reminded Clarissa of the need for secrecy. But it would seem that rather than save Amelia from Lord Rasenby, Clarissa was now intent on saving Lord Rasenby from Amelia. When had come about this switch in loyalty?

‘No, I don’t know him, except by reputation. But it seems to me that, rake as he is, he deals honestly with his conquests. And he does not deserve to be tricked into matrimony. It is a recipe for disaster. For all, including you, Amelia, don’t you see? Dearest, you’d be miserable.’

‘Lord, Clarrie, there’s no reasoning with you. You like to think you’re so practical, but you’re the most pathetic romantic, deep down. I won’t discuss it further. I merely came in to ask you to come for a walk with me. Edward gets an hour for luncheon, and he said he may take the air in the park, so I thought we might bump into him. Do come, Clarrie, you’d like him.’ Amelia’s tone was conciliating, but for once Clarissa was not to be won over.

‘No, I won’t be party to your assignations. It sounds like poor Edward is going to be another man let down by your plotting and scheming. Take Chloe, I’m sure you can persuade her easily enough.’

Amelia flounced out before Clarissa finished her sentence. It wasn’t like Clarrie to be obstinate. Well, she’d show her!

Alone, Clarissa resolved on action. She was sure that there was more to Amelia’s feelings for Edward, if only money were not the issue. If money, in the form of Rasenby, were removed as a temptation, Amelia would have a chance to see more of Edward. And he sounded like a determined young man; he would surely take the chance himself to secure Amelia. It wasn’t much to go on, but it was a start. And if Edward didn’t come up to scratch, she could always come clean with Rasenby, tell him her sister’s plan. She was not going to stand by and let Amelia trick anyone into marriage. And she was going to do all she could to give her sister a chance at happiness—virtuous happiness.

Only Rasenby stood in the way. And by now, Clarissa had a good enough idea of his character to guess at what would interest him. A challenge, that’s what he would like. And a bit of intrigue. She could do it. Clarissa turned her mind towards tonight, ignoring the thrill of anticipation she felt at the contest she was about to invoke. She was excited at seeing a means to save Amelia from herself, that was all. It was nothing at all to do with pitting her wits against such an opponent. Nothing to do with the charms of the opponent either. Certainly not!

Depositing her at the front door of Lord Rasenby’s mansion in Grosvenor Square, the jarvey slid Clarissa a calculating look. Single ladies visiting these mansions did not normally travel in hacks. Nor did they arrive after dark, alone and wearing evening dress. Giving up the attempt to square all of these things with his passenger’s cultured voice and genteel manner, he shrugged philosophically, and headed off into the night. She might be a toff, but she was up to no good, that was for sure.

As Clarissa tugged the bell and waited nervously at the front door, her thoughts mirrored those of the hackney driver. She felt like a woman of the streets. The look of contempt she received from the butler as he removed her cloak in the spacious hallway confirmed that he too shared this belief.

The hallway smelt of lavender polish, and was warmed by a huge fire burning to the left of the door. The rugs were Turkish, the large clock ticking softly against the panelled wall antique. There was a palpable air of wealth stretching back generations. Clarissa had no money, but there was nothing wrong with her breeding, and she had pride too. A martial flush gathered on her high cheekbones and sparkled in her eyes as she thanked the butler in frigid tones. Clarrie was getting ready to do battle, and she was not about to be put out by a mere servant.

As with the hackney driver, her cultured tones gave the butler a shock, confusing him. Handing her cloak over to the footman, his voice became more propitiating. ‘Lord Rasenby is expecting you, madam. I will show you to the parlour, if you’d be kind enough to follow me.’

A quick check in the mirror reassured her—she would do. Amelia’s gown of palest blue silk with an overdress of twilled sarsenet was a little too large for Clarissa’s more slender frame, and the décolletage way too low, showing far more of her creamy white skin than she had ever done before, but none of her own gowns were grand enough—or fashionable enough—to wear. Following Amelia’s example, she had dampened the skirt so that it clung to her long slim legs, making the gauzy material almost transparent in the candlelight. Her glossy auburn hair had been cajoled into a Grecian knot, the curls falling over her white shoulder, and her slim arms were covered by long kid gloves. She had forsworn any cosmetics, fearing that she had not a light enough touch, but there was an attractive natural flush across her cheeks.

It was now or never. Head high, Clarrie entered the room and glided gracefully over to Lord Rasenby, hand extended. He was standing with his back to the fireplace, dressed simply but elegantly in an impeccably cut dark-blue coat, his pantaloons of a biscuit hue and glossy Hessians adding a touch of informality. Taking her gloved fingertips, he pressed a whisper of a kiss on the back of her hand, then quite blatantly looked her over.

‘Well, Miss—Wexford, I think you said?’ A quizzical raised brow told Clarissa he knew perfectly well that she had given an assumed name. ‘You’ve surprised me on two counts.’

‘I have, sir?’ Clarissa retrieved her hand and, placing it behind her back, retreated a few paces, finding Lord Rasenby’s presence somewhat overpowering. The tilt of her chin, did she but know it, was challenging.

‘Yes, you have.’ So, she was a little on edge, the fake Miss Wexford. Well, he wasn’t surprised—it was a brazen enough act to dine with him, and he admired her courage, if not her honesty. ‘I wasn’t convinced that you’d come, for a start. And, seeing you without the mask for the first time, I’m also surprised at just what perfection you kept hidden from me.’

Clarissa flushed. Tricked out in Amelia’s finery, even she had to admit that she looked well enough. But having no great opinion of herself, she was inclined to dismiss his lordship’s compliment as flummery. ‘Thank you, sir, you are very kind.’ A small curtsy of acknowledgement. ‘At least I can be sure now that you will listen to my proposal without disgust.’

Kit laughed, finding himself once again confused by this woman. She was beautiful, although not in the common way. Her hair was not a fashionable gold, but burnished copper in the firelight, and the reddish flecks in it hinted at a temper. Those huge emerald eyes were too wide open, a little too perceptive, and had a disconcertingly honest look. Her mouth, with its full bottom lip, was not the cupid’s bow that society decreed beauty, but it was, to Kit’s eyes, far more sensual. And that chin—it was determined and defiant at the same time. Definitely not a simpering miss, but one with a real spark of fire.

He had been right to make this assignation. He was going to be anything but bored, dealing with the challenging Miss Wexford and her proposition, whatever that turned out to be. Having just this day made the arrangements for his final trip to France on the Sea Wolf, Kit was aware that he was in dire need of distraction. It pained him already, knowing this was to be the last of such adventures, and he knew he would miss it sorely. He worried that boredom would turn him to old quarrels and to new depths of depravity. And that thought, too, bored him.

Almost as an afterthought, he had paid off Charlotte du Pres. She didn’t know it, but Miss Wexford’s timing was excellent—she was just what he needed right now to take his mind off things. ‘So, madam, you have no taste for compliments. We shall deal well then, for I favour plain speaking myself.’

Handing her a small glass of Canary wine, Kit ushered Clarrie into a seat by the fire. ‘I thought we’d dine here, without the aid of servants. So much more comfortable, if you don’t object to helping yourself?’ Seating himself opposite her, he watched her take a nervous sip of the wine, and nod her assent. ‘I thought, too, that we’d postpone our discussion until after we’ve eaten. It would be nice to become better acquainted first, don’t you agree?’

Clarissa was staring into the flames, wallowing in the all-enveloping warmth, and only nodded, absently, at his words. The room was beautiful, in a restrained way. The furniture was light wood and highly polished, with a marked absence of the rococo gilt and ormolu currently so à la mode. With a sensuality she didn’t even know she possessed, Clarrie snuggled deeper into the chair, and stretched, her white skin picking up a glow from the flickering flames, the red tints in her hair alive with colour. A small smile curled up at the edges of her mouth, and she sighed, deeply.

‘Perhaps, you would prefer I left you to the comfort of the fire, and your own company?’ Kit had been at first beguiled, then disconcerted, at her behaviour. He was not used to being ignored. He was a little piqued, and more than a little aroused. She was like a sensuous cat, stretching luxuriatingly in front of him.

The sharpness of his tone recalled Clarissa to her situation. She sat up abruptly, spilling a little of her wine on to Amelia’s dress. ‘I am so sorry. It’s the heat, it’s a little overpowering.’ She rubbed at the dress with her handkerchief, but was succeeding only in making it worse.

‘Here, let me.’ Lord Rasenby bent over her, his own large handkerchief of white linen in his hand. ‘There, that’s better. Now, if you can force yourself to stay awake for a while, we’d better dine, I think.’

His touch, light as it was, made her shiver, and she drew back abruptly. ‘Thank you.’

Kit eyed her quizzically. She was as nervous as a kitten under that veneer of calm. More and more, he was intrigued. But he would let her set the pace. For now, he was content to watch—and be entertained.

Over dinner, of which Clarissa partook little, confining herself to the duck and peas, she set out to charm. She had a fair idea by now of Kit Rasenby’s preconceptions of her sex, and rather than make the expected idle small talk, conversed instead on the politics of the day. Her conversation was informed, thanks to her Aunt Constance’s tutelage, and she was not frightened of expressing an opinion.

‘I can’t help but feel that things in France are not as settled as they claim. It seems to me that there will be another war, do you not agree? And then, perhaps all the émigrés presently here in England will become our enemies?’

‘Yes, war seems to be inevitable. As to the émigrés I have no views at all. Some will turn, some—those who have found a home here—will not. ‘Tis human nature to follow the easiest path.’

‘That is a sadly cynical point of view, my lord. Do you grant no room, in human nature, for loyalty to a cause? Must everyone be so selfish?’

‘Do not tell me you are a do-gooder, for you are far too pretty. You are obviously an intelligent woman, and unaccountably well informed, but believe me when I tell you that the French are no different than anyone else. People do what is easiest and most lucrative for them, naught more.’

‘Well …’ Clarissa pursed her lips and frowned ‘… I think that we will simply have to differ on the subject. For I choose to believe there is some good in everyone that is not simply self-interest!’

The challenge was accompanied again by that tilt of the chin, and a flash from those green eyes. She looked so sure of herself that Kit almost laughed. He contented himself with an inward smile, however, and merely offered her a dish of cream. She helped herself with relish, blissfully unaware of her naïvety.

‘You sound like the heroine in one of those dreadful novels my sister raves about,’ Kit said. ‘Virtuous despite the overwhelming odds. How would you cope, I wonder, locked up in a castle like Udolpho, faced with the vile Signor Montoni?’

‘So you’ve read it, then, Udolpho, although you despise it? I’d like to think I’d have a bit more presence of mind, and would escape. And I don’t believe in blind virtue, just that there’s more to people than self-interest.’ Temporarily distracted, Clarrie wondered whether to continue this line of conversation, but quickly abandoned the idea. Ruefully, she realised that a discussion of virtue didn’t really fit with her proposition for his lordship. ‘We were talking of the French. Do you know anything of them, personally, Lord Rasenby—the émigrés, I mean? I have often thought that they must have such romantic tales to tell of escape. Far more exciting than Mrs Radcliffe’s novel.’

‘On the contrary, it’s not at all romantic. They escape with no wealth, often only the possessions they can carry. And they have to rely on the goodwill of friends and relatives in order to survive when they land abroad. To see it as romantic is to persist in holding an uninformed point of view.’

‘And yet, I cannot help but do so. I would so much like to see for myself what such rescues involve.’

‘I think you wouldn’t find it such fun if you were present. Have you eaten sufficient? I think it’s time we talked terms, as you called it last evening.’ Kit’s tone brooked no argument.

‘Yes. Yes, you are right.’ Now it came to the bit, Clarissa was more than a little apprehensive. She knew what she had to say, but she wasn’t convinced it would work. And if it did, she was worried it might work too well—for this man would want more than talk. How to go through with her plan and keep her own virtue intact? Especially when, it seemed, she was becoming less inclined to do so. Kit Rasenby was not just attractive, he was interesting. Becoming better acquainted was proving no hardship at all.

Taking a deep breath, Clarrie launched into her proposition with no thought for preliminaries, determined on seeing it through before her courage failed her—or her common sense intervened. ‘I think, my lord, that it would be no exaggeration to say that you are rather bored with your life? Well, I wish to offer you a temporary diversion.’

‘Bored? Well, that’s one way of putting it, yes. I think you should realise there’s not much you can offer that I haven’t tried, one way or another, though. You are no doubt aware, madam, of my very dreadful reputation when it comes to your sex? After all, we touched on it last night.’

‘Yes, and if you don’t mind me saying so, I think that you’re rather maligned by society, my lord.’

A cynical smile twisted Kit’s lips, as he looked down into her honest-seeming emerald eyes. Was she truly naïve, this woman, or was she just an excellent actress? ‘You know, if you hope to redeem me in some way, there’s no point. I am, according to my mother and sister, long past redemption.’

‘Oh, no, no one is ever past redemption. I can’t help but think, Lord Rasenby, that you cling rather too much to your reputation. You seem to actually enjoy being an outcast. By your own admission, you do have principles, although you keep them well hidden. You deal far more honestly than some, but you don’t like people to see that, do you? You like to be the bad Lord Rasenby. And I can quite see why that would be convenient.’

‘Pray do give me the benefit of your insight, then—why would my being bad be convenient?’

‘Why, it means people expect less of you, of course. They can’t rely on you, and therefore they won’t be likely to turn to you when they need help, will they?’ Clarissa held up her hand, as Kit tried to interrupt, too taken up with her line of argument to let him. ‘I know what you’re going to say, you told me yourself, that people do rely on you—for money. I’m sure that your mama and your sister and your mistresses all get plenty of that from you. But that’s easy. What you don’t give is anything of yourself.’

‘I’m not sure I follow. Is bleeding me dry not enough of myself to give?’ There was bitterness in the words. Kit was so wealthy that it would take more than his mama and Charlotte du Pres to ruin him, but they certainly tried. Paying Charlotte off had cost him a fortune and a diamond bracelet to boot, and his mother was hinting at new hangings for the Dower House. To say nothing of his nephew Jeremy and his regularly accumulated bad debts.

‘You understand me perfectly well, my lord.’ Clarissa’s voice was terse. She hated deliberate avoidance, and Lord Rasenby was no fool. ‘You substitute money for everything, and then you don’t like it when you get nothing back.’ Seeing his brow crease, she realised that she’d gone too far again. Lord Rasenby might like plain speaking, but he didn’t like home truths. Clarrie cursed her blunt tongue, it was always getting her into trouble. And it wouldn’t get her anywhere with this man.

Biting her lip, but failing to look totally contrite, she apologised. ‘I beg your pardon. I get carried away sometimes, and speak without thinking. Let us talk of more congenial matters.’ She smiled cajolingly up at him.

‘Yes, but you’re not truly sorry at all, are you—it’s just that you’ve realised you’ve angered me.’ With an effort, Kit dismissed the idea that she’d managed to see through him with ease—and that she’d echoed, almost to the word, his own thoughts. It was just luck. He wasn’t so transparent. He was more than ever sure she was playing some sort of game, but it was a deep, and therefore challenging, one.

‘Come clean, Miss Wexford. For a start, I know that’s not your real name. What can I call you? If we are to talk openly, I would like some element of truth in our conversation.’

‘Very well, you can call me Clarissa. Since we are to be informal.’

‘So we are to be informal, Clarissa? The name suits you. And will you call me Kit?’

‘Kit. It too suits you.’ The humour was reflected in her eyes as she echoed his words. ‘I think, since our relationship is to be both informal and of short duration, that we can manage on such intimate terms. It’s not as if there will be any witnesses.’

‘You intrigue me. I take it, then, that you do not aspire to Charlotte du Pres’s position?’

A flash of anger was quickly disguised. ‘No, I want no such relationship with you. Nor do I want any financial recompense, nor any presents nor anything at all of that sort. Let us be clear on that now, Lord—Kit, please.’ She reached out, touched his arm lightly with the tips of her fingers, then quickly withdrew. Even such a tiny touch sent tingles up and down her skin.

‘I can see you are serious. You are not someone who lies easily, are you? Whatever your game, you have honest eyes,’ Kit said wryly. ‘So, no presents. Well, it will be a refreshing change, certainly. But you are happy for Charlotte’s position to remain unchallenged?’ Kit had already decided she didn’t need to know that Charlotte was already history.

His question gave Clarissa pause. If he got rid of Charlotte du Pres, then it created a vacancy, and it was likely he’d offer it to Amelia. It had been no part of her plan to comment on his current mistress, but perhaps, now that the opportunity had arisen, it was worth while?

‘Are you contemplating a replacement? I thought you said last night that the rumours concerning Miss Warrington had no substance?’

‘I said she would not be my wife. I have no need of a wife, when I can take my pleasures outside the marriage bed. From what I have seen of matrimony, there are few pleasures to be had there. Daily, the scandal sheets give us another tale of adultery and bastard children. And behind it, heartbreak for someone—the children, at the very least. Matrimony does not require affection. I have no wish to sample the insipid and dutiful caresses of a virgin wife. There is naught to substitute for experience. But you already know my feelings on this subject. I’m more interested in why you bring Amelia Warrington into the conversation again. Has she put you up to this?’

‘No, no, I assure you she has not.’ At least that was the truth. In fact, if Amelia found out, she would never forgive her. ‘But I am a little acquainted with her, and I cannot feel she would make you a very good mistress. She wants to be your wife—she is hardly likely to be happy settling for less. No, on consideration, I think Charlotte du Pres is much more suited to your needs.’

Kit smiled, humour lurking deep in his midnight-blue eyes. Looking into them, laughing complicitly, Clarrie was suddenly breathless. His mouth, which he normally held in a firm, hard line, had softened, and there was a slight growth of stubble on his jaw. She had a sudden urge to run her hand along it, to feel the contrast between the roughness there and the smooth contours of his lips. Clarrie felt her mouth go dry at the thought, and licked her own lips nervously. She had never felt such blatant attraction emanating from a man.

Reminding herself that it was exactly this attraction he traded on, she looked away. ‘I didn’t come here to give you advice about your mistresses, but you did ask. I am aware that this is not really a conversation we should be having.’

Kit laughed out loud at this. ‘My dear Clarissa, you shouldn’t even be here, let alone discussing such intimate matters with me. But that hasn’t stopped you. However, I think you’re right about Amelia Warrington, I think she is likely to be rather too demanding. And virgins, you know, can be so unsatisfying. I prefer my women to know what pleasures a man.’

‘Oh! Well—well, I think then you can quite safely dismiss Amelia Warrington.’

‘You seem sure of her. She won’t be a virgin for long, you know. It may not be me, but she will be plucked soon. And likely not by a husband. She aims high.’

‘Is she really so bad? She is young, you know, but not—not calculating.’

‘You don’t know her at all well if you think so. She is a pretty and very ambitious young woman. Though in my experience, she has the kind of looks that fade quickly. Any man can see that he has no need to offer marriage to have her. It’s just a question of how high she’ll sell herself. I’m not personally convinced it’s a price worth paying.’ Looking at Clarissa, he was surprised to see the hurt on her face. He possessed himself of her hand. ‘It’s the way of the world. She will take me not because she likes me better, but because I have more money. You are wasting your energies, concerning yourself with such a one. She will go her own way, and no friend will stop her.’

Looking into Kit’s eyes, such a piercing, deep, dark blue colour, and for once showing such genuine concern, Clarissa acknowledged that he spoke the truth. But Amelia was her sister. She couldn’t give up on her, it wasn’t yet too late. And if nothing else, she could make sure that Amelia didn’t throw herself away on this man.

With a sigh, and a renewed determination to get her proposition finally out of the way this evening, Clarrie smiled up at Kit. ‘We’ve wasted enough time discussing other women. I’ve no aspirations to replace them in your affections. What I want from you is temporary.’

‘You’re frank, at least. Tell me then, precisely what is it you want me for—temporarily.’

‘I will, then. But you must hear me out without interruptions, for it is vital that I make the terms as clear as possible—do you understand?’

His lips twitched as he repressed a smile, but Kit simply nodded his assent and sat back to watch her. This was proving to be worth every minute. Not once this evening had he been bored.

‘I said I did not want to replace Miss du Pres, or anyone else—any of your opera singers or bits of fancy or whatever term you prefer.’ Clarissa looked up, flushing. ‘You’re laughing at me?’

‘No, no, I promise. I am merely impressed at your opinion of my prowess. Just how many of these bits of fancy am I supposed to be maintaining at one time? I am but a man, you know.’

A small gurgle of laughter escaped Clarrie. Shocking as this conversation was, it was more shockingly fun. ‘Well, you told me yourself that your reputation is very bad, so I naturally assumed that you would place quantity over quality.’

At this, Kit gave an amused chuckle. ‘No, I assure you, Clarissa, you are mistaken. I very much prefer quality, it’s just that it is so difficult to come by. However, I am interrupting you once again. Please do continue, this is most—most—intriguing.’

‘Well, I’m glad to hear you say that you would prefer quality, because that’s what I’m offering. I’m four-and-twenty, and it is way past time I was married. But marriage, as you’ve said yourself, is a lifetime commitment to boredom, and for a lady, especially, promises no real pleasure.’ A deep blush was stealing over Clarissa’s cheeks, but she was determined to get this over with, no matter how embarrassing it all was. ‘However, married I must be, and soon, or I will be too old.’

Looking up, Clarissa saw unease writ large on Kit’s handsome face. She hastened to reassure him. ‘Fear not, I have no matrimonial expectations of you. I am under no illusions there, and must aim rather lower, for I have neither dowry nor traditional beauty. I have someone in mind, you know, but the problem is that he is just a little staid and more than a little old.’ Ruthlessly thrusting her neighbour Bingley Smythington into the role to give her lies some authenticity, Clarrie shuddered effectively. Bingley had clammy hands, and such a bumptious manner, as well as being nearer fifty than forty, that she had no qualms about using him so ill. ‘So I thought, while I resigned myself to a life of propriety, that I might indulge myself first, and have one little adventure.’

Clarrie stopped talking, and looked at Kit, trying to assess his reaction to her words, but he merely raised an eyebrow, indicating that she should continue. She had thought through this approach so carefully, knowing she had to come up with something that would surprise him, that she forgot her modesty in her determination to make him agree.

‘So, you see, that is why our relationship would have to be kept very private. And of short duration. I must on no account be publicly compromised. And I picked you because you said you had no qualms, you see, about seducing virgins, provided that they were willing. And I am willing, provided that it’s fun. And of course, I know it will be—fun, that is—since your reputation as a ladies’ man must mean—well, you know what I mean.’ Clarrie paused, flushed at the path her thoughts had taken. Of course it would be pleasurable, sharing herself with this man, she had no doubt at all on that score. But she wasn’t actually going to go that far, she had to remind herself. So really, she had to stop thinking about it.

With a shake of her curls to dispel the images she had conjured up, Clarrie returned to her proposition, finding that Kit was watching her with an amused, and slightly bewildered, look upon his face. ‘I must insist that you promise to abandon—for just a little while—your pursuit of any other females. Indeed, I must make it a condition of your acceptance that you do so. What I want first and foremost is for you to surprise me. I want an adventure, not just a liaison.’

Once again, she held her hand up to stop him speaking. This was the tricky bit. ‘I know you said that lack of experience was not something you relished. And I can’t pretend that I have the skills of the likes of Charlotte du Pres. But I’m willing to learn, and I’m sure you won’t find me bashful or—or unsatisfying, if you’re willing to take a chance.’

She sat back, amazed at her own temerity. She had said it. She had been as blunt as she could be, and as clear about her terms. Surely he wouldn’t resist the challenge? This evening had shown to her, if nothing else, that he was ripe for a change, and surely she had offered just that?

‘Let me get this straight—for I have to tell you that I’ve never heard anything like it in my life.’ Kit ran a distracted hand through his hair. He didn’t believe her, but he was tempted, just to see how far she’d go. The claim of virginal innocence, he dismissed immediately. No virgin discussed such things so openly. It was a mere ploy to whet his appetite. And it was working. Virgin or no virgin, he wanted her.

‘I have to forgo all other women for the duration of our acquaintance. I must see you only in secret. And you want nothing from me other than this—no recompense, only my silence?’

‘Yes.’

‘Further, you wish what you call an adventure in my company. I take it you mean something other than the adventure of sharing our bodies?’

She was blushing furiously now, and managed only a slight nod. Really, she was an excellent actress.

‘And you cannot be more specific as to the nature of this?’

‘No. That is your payment, you see. You arrange something out of the ordinary, something illicit, something thrilling, something I can remember when I’m old. And something too that you will enjoy, of course. As a prelude. I thought that you’d relish the challenge, that it would help, for a while, to ease your boredom. I thought—well, I thought we could have some fun together.’

‘Fun? Good God, I don’t think I’ve ever had fun with a woman. I’m not even sure I would know what you mean by it.’

He was looking at her assessingly now, and Clarissa desperately wanted him not to turn her down flat. The whole idea of an adventure was just a delaying tactic. The longer he took to organise something, the more time she had to separate Amelia from him. And until he could arrange whatever he was going to arrange, Clarrie was free from any threat to her virtue. She also needed time to think over what she had done—for she really had no idea yet how she was to manage to pull this off.

‘Perhaps it would be best if I were to leave now, and we can discuss this further once you have reflected?’

‘You’re right, I need time to think. I’ll meet you in Hyde Park tomorrow at four.’

‘No, no,’ Clarrie said agitatedly, ‘that is the fashionable hour. We will be seen. I will meet you at the gates of Green Park—no one goes there at that time.’

‘Very well.’ Kit stood and raised a hand to help her out of her seat. Taking her by surprise, he pulled her close, one arm around her slim waist, cool on her skin through the thin fabric of her dress, the other tilting her chin upwards. ‘No women other than you? You ask a lot of me. I think a sample of the merchandise would be appropriate, don’t you agree? Just to prove you are worth the sacrifice. I warn you, my fair Clarissa, I won’t be cheated, and I won’t let you go back on your bargain. You do realise that?’

Clarrie licked her full bottom lip nervously, but made no move to escape. The sensation of his hand on her body was sending shivers up her spine. She had never been so close to a man before, and had no idea that it could be so very exciting. ‘A kiss to seal a bargain, then,’ she whispered.

Kit laughed, low and aroused. ‘You are sealing a bargain with the devil.’ His lips brushed hers, smooth and cool at first, a featherlight touch at the corners of her mouth. He ran his tongue over her full bottom lip. She smelled of roses and vanilla, she tasted sweet and hot. Her breath was warm, her breathing shallow.

Clarrie sighed at his touch, leaning closer in to the hard wall of Kit’s chest, inviting him to deepen the contact. She could feel the heat from his body building a slow fire somewhere deep inside her. Experimentally, she let the tip of her tongue run over Kit’s lower lip, mimicking his actions, feeling him groan in response. His lips took possession of her mouth fully, one hand on the sensitive nape of her neck, holding her carefully close, the other at her waist.

Clarrie surrendered to temptation and let an instinct she didn’t know she possessed take over. Tongues met in a kiss that took them both by surprise. In an instant, Clarrie moved from warm tingles to searing heat. Kit’s lips were soft and hard at the same time. He was kissing and licking her mouth in a way that left her weak with wanting. His tongue flicked to the sensitive corners of her lips, then back to tangle with hers. He licked along the length of her lower lip, then his mouth fastened fully on hers again.

She wanted more. She ran her hand over the nape of his neck and up into the short cropped hair on his head, relishing the rough feel of it, contrasting it with the soft, hard, smooth feel of his mouth on hers. Her nipples hardened as she pressed into his chest, rubbing against him, relishing the small shivers and the pleasure-pain feeling that the contact gave her, even through their clothes.

Kit groaned softly, and pulled back. His breathing slowed. He eyed her through heavy lids, careful not let her see how much she had aroused him. All her pretence of virginity must be at an end. This woman knew exactly what she was doing. ‘Enough. That is definitely enough for now, I think. You have proved yourself entirely, madam.’

Clarrie, still trying in vain to control her overwhelming and totally unexpected response to his kiss, could do no more than blink up at him, confused. ‘I—I—I’ll get better in time, sir.’

‘A word of warning. I will play these games only so far. You can abandon, once and for all, this pretence of innocent virginity, for the passion in your kisses prove you to be far from innocent.’ Looking down at her, he was taken aback to see a sheen of tears glazing her speaking emerald eyes.

‘Rest assured, your lack of innocence does your case no harm. Had you really been the virgin you claim to be, I would have hesitated. I need now have no scruples, and can consider your proposition with a clear conscience. The footman will call a hack for you. Good night.’

With a slight bow, he turned away from her, ringing the bell for the servant. Clarissa stumbled out to the waiting hack, her mind a swirl of abject confusion and unexpected hurt.

So distressed was she that she failed to notice the figure turning the corner into the street. Lord Robert Alchester, returning home early of necessity since his pockets were to let, from the tables of the hell in St James’s currently favoured with his patronage, was most intrigued. Well, well, the woman from last night, if he was not mistaken, and emerging alone from Kit Rasenby’s town house. This development was worth keeping an eye on.

Chapter Four

Clarissa rose heavy eyed the next morning, having slept only fitfully, haunted by the memory of Kit Rasenby’s kisses and her own shocking response. What was it about the man that made her act so out of character? Needing to clear her head, she eschewed her usual morning chocolate and settled instead for a brisk, invigorating walk around the park. This fever her body had succumbed to was but a passing fancy, surely. Triggered, like as not, by the novel experience of being kissed for the first time, and nothing more. It was not that Kit was irresistible at all. It was just that she had never had such contact with a man before. He was a novelty, that was all.

Entering the little breakfast parlour an hour later, she was grateful to find that both her mama and her sister were as yet abed. Resolutely putting all thoughts of Kit to one side, Clarissa partook of coffee and warm rolls, finally able to mull over the events of the previous night with something approaching her usual rational calm.

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.

Grasping her small determined chin, he moved closer, feeling her light breath on his hand, inhaling that alluring combination of roses and vanilla. His thumb stroked the corner of her mouth, and ran over her full bottom lip. She was staring up at him, those huge green eyes pleading, the lashes so dark and long that she must employ some artifice, no matter how natural they looked. He could drown in those eyes. For a timeless moment they stood thus, Clarissa silently pleading, Kit coolly assessing, implacable.

‘Kit, please take me home.’ Her words were spoken softly, a gentle request, for somehow she was no longer frightened.

‘I’m not planning to abduct you Clarissa, although I know you fear that is my intention. I have no need to take you by force. Anything we do together, you’ll do willingly or not at all. I would not have it any other way, and you know it.’ As he spoke, Kit pulled Clarissa to him, holding her with one hand lightly by the waist. ‘You can leave directly, only say the word. Ask me again, I’ll take you home and we can forget everything. Our adventure. Our kisses. The union of our bodies will be consigned for ever to our imaginations. It will be as if we had never met. We can forgo it all, Clarissa, if you tell me that is what you truly desire.’

The closeness of their bodies invoked memories of last night. His words were a whisper on her face. His mouth, his tempting, cool, hot mouth, was inches away. His thumb continued its slow, languorous caress as he spoke, the line of her jaw, back to her mouth, over the planes of her cheek. Brushing gently. Soothing her. Distracting her. Hypnotising her. But the clasp on her waist remained light. She could leave now, she believed him. Instead of turning away, Clarrie moved forwards, drawn closer as if mesmerised, casting aside all doubts and reservations, any sense of the danger of her situation, in the need to taste him once more.

Her tongue flicked over the tip of Kit’s thumb. And flicked over it again, her teeth just grazing the skin, before she closed her lips around it and sucked with a slow, sensuous and purely instinctive movement. She sucked harder, drawing the length of his finger into her mouth, closing her eyes to delight all the more in the sensations it was arousing all over her body. She moaned slightly as his finger was withdrawn, only to purr with satisfaction when it was replaced by the lips she craved.

Opening her mouth to receive his kiss, Clarrie gave a mewl of frustration as Kit’s lips moved slowly, deliberately, delicately, when she wanted hard, hot, fast. Reaching up to pull his head down more firmly, relishing the rough graze of his chin on her tender skin, Clarrie drew tight against his hard, aroused body, and stopped thinking. Their kiss deepened, rocketing her body temperature, causing the flames that had flickered somewhere in her belly to strengthen and focus lower down. She could feel the male hardness of him between her thighs through the delicate wool of her walking dress, and tilted slightly to press herself against him.

The action was too much for Kit’s self-control. Suddenly she was free, a cold distance between them, the room silent save for their ragged breathing. The flame of passion was replaced by a deep blush of shame.

Clarrie looked up to find Kit’s eyes on her, that sardonic, devilish look of his accentuated by his slightly raised brow, the half-smile on his mouth. ‘Well? Are you going to persist in your demands to be taken back to your mama? Have you decided, after all, that to deal with so notorious a rake as me is just a mite too dangerous? Speak now, Clarissa, or for ever hold your peace. Is it to be safe home? Or is it to be onwards into the unknown with me? Think carefully, for if you choose onwards, my bold Clarissa, your adventure begins this very day.’

Chapter Five

What on earth had she done? Clarrie wondered. Broken all her resolutions, and some she hadn’t even thought she’d need to make, for a start. Betrayed by her own body, tricked by her own desires, she had placed herself in a position of real peril. She had thrown herself—quite literally—at this man, when only moments before she had been terrified of abduction, and protesting her innocence. Clarissa turned to look bleakly out of the window. How stupid her plans had been. How poorly she understood her own true nature. A few hours in his company, and here she was launching herself at Kit like one possessed. If she persisted in such brazen behaviour, he would tire of her far too quickly and return to his pursuit of Amelia, and then she’d have sacrificed herself for nothing.

Leaning her hot cheeks against the cool of the glass, Clarissa realised that her scathing denunciations of romantic heroines had been naïve in the extreme. Here she was with a notorious rake, and succumbing to his charms—nay, hurling herself wholeheartedly at them— with nary a thought for the consequences. Stupid, stupid Clarissa!

As if that wasn’t enough, she had walked with eyes wide open into this impossible situation. A situation, she was forced to acknowledge, of her own making. She had asked for an adventure. It was natural to assume that adventures involved surprise, and foolish of her to suppose that one so impetuous as Kit would do anything other than rise immediately to her challenge.

What on earth was she going to do? Return home and forget her plan? Clarissa had no doubt that Kit would take her back if she wished. He might be a rake, but he was an honest one, she was sure of it. He said he would not abduct her against her will and she believed him. But to return home was to put an end to everything. She would have failed in her attempts to save Amelia. And she would never see Kit again. Never. At the thought, a huge chasm seemed to open at her feet. Never share a joke with him. Never test her wit against his. Never see that smile, so rarely given, of genuine amusement, which lit up his face, changing him from devilish to absurdly, overwhelmingly handsome. Never taste his lips on hers. Never feel his hard body pressed against hers.

Reminding herself that she had no intention of succumbing to more intimate advances did not prevent Clarrie from craving more of the forbidden fruit she had already tasted. Surely a few more kisses would be no compromise? Surely a few more hours, a few more days in his company, would satisfy her, and suffice to save her sister? Suffice to subdue this fire. Surely a better acquaintance with Kit would cure her of this irrational infatuation? A surfeit of his presence would ensure she saw him in a more rational light, and would have the happy consequence of doing Amelia good too.

Lost in her thoughts, Clarissa stared unseeingly out of the window. Kit watched, judging it best to give her this time to adjust her thinking, refusing to attempt further persuasion. She would come, of that he was certain. She would accede to his terms. He had neither the desire nor the need for an abduction. She would come. He was sure of it.

Checking his watch, he tugged the bell by the fireplace, summoning the landlady. ‘We will dine in twenty minutes. You’ll oblige me by bringing some writing materials immediately, and some brandy too.’ The woman curtsied and left.

‘Dine?’ The words startled Clarissa from her musings.

‘Yes. I know it’s early, but we have a long journey ahead of us. If you’re not hungry now, you should be. And I’m ravenous.’

‘But we can’t be much more than an hour from town. I’d rather wait if you don’t mind, Kit.’

‘We’re not going back to London. I had credited you with more wit than that, Clarissa. You demanded an adventure, but you also demanded secrecy you may recall. You may not be particularly well known in town, but I am. How can we conduct any sort of private liaison with the eyes of the world upon us?’

‘Yes, I suppose—that is, I had not thought …’

‘You had not thought? I find that difficult to believe. Well, you can think now. We are not going back to London unless it is to abandon all. And if we are to continue, we must dine. So Clarissa, for the last time, do you wish to continue?’ He was growing weary of her prevaricating. Had she not been so very tempting, he would have readied them both for the journey home with no regrets. But he was finding her inordinately tempting.

And he wanted, more than he realised, for their liaison to continue. ‘Well?’

It was yes. It had to be yes, she knew that. But some instinct for self-preservation made her stall. ‘What about Mama? I can’t just disappear. She’ll be beside herself with worry.’ Actually, Mama would probably indulge in a fit of the vapours, then simply assume Clarissa had forgotten to inform her of a visit to Aunt Constance, but that was neither here nor there.

‘You can write her a note. You forget, I am already familiar with your ability to deceive. How else did you manage to escape your mama’s tender care for two evenings in a row, and on your own? I am sure you can think of something to allay her fears.’

‘Yes, but why the need for haste? I don’t understand, Kit, why could you not have informed me in advance of your arrangements, then I could have been prepared, packed a bag, told Mama some tale. Surely there was no need for such a rush?’

‘Where would be the adventure then? You wanted a surprise, something memorable—you were most specific. Isn’t the unexpected part of the thrill?’ Kit had been sitting by the fire, watching her from a distance, but now he moved to stand beside her at the window. His voice became huskier as he looked at the small, defiant, and strangely alluring woman at his side. ‘The kisses you bestowed so willingly a few moments ago, my lovely Clarissa, simply confirmed what I already knew. I wish to have the preliminaries of our liaison over as soon as possible in order to enjoy the fruits of my labour more quickly. Your charms, as I am sure you are perfectly well aware, are considerable, and I wish to wait no longer than necessary to sample them more fully. I was persuaded by our kiss last night you know, although your reminder was very pleasant—I thank you.’ A brief, ironic bow accompanied this last remark.

‘I’m sorry, I hadn’t meant to—I don’t know what came over me.’

‘No? Well, whatever it was, I’m grateful. But it might be best to save it until a more convenient time. You won’t have to wait long, Clarissa, never fear. Nor will there be any gainsaying me when it happens. Once I have fulfilled my part of the bargain, I won’t let you renege on yours.’

The glint in his eye was uncompromising. She had known it from the start, he was not a man to cross. Yet she had tried to ensnare him. He had pulled the ground from beneath her feet, but still she fought to recover it, as a general rallies his troops even at the eleventh hour. ‘You are premature, my lord. I won’t go back on my promise, but I must remind you that you have an obligation to fulfil first. My adventure, lest you need reminding.’

‘Strangely, Clarissa, I need no reminding at all. Your adventure has already started. Had you not realised?’

‘I had not mere abduction in mind, and well you know it. I particularly remember, for ‘twas but last night, that we said it should be fun. Lest it has escaped your notice, this is not fun for me, and I am not enjoying myself. So you must try harder, sir, or you will have failed.’

‘This is no mere abduction madam, I assure you. No matter what you may think of my morals, or lack of them, I pride myself on my finesse, as you will find out when the time comes for me to bed you. No, this is but the preliminary to the fun you are so intent on receiving.’

He was angry, frustrated at her refusal to give an inch, unused to being cross-questioned. It made him all the more determined that she would comply. With an effort, Kit bit down on his temper, deciding wisely that an explanation would be more likely to result in cooperation.

‘We drive tonight to the coast, and thence we board my yacht, the Sea Wolf. You seemed so interested in the plight of the French refugees that it seemed only fair to allow you to experience first hand the kind of daring rescue mission required to deliver them from the fate that surely awaits them. It is an illicit undertaking which I confess I am intimately familiar with.’

‘Why, Kit, I had no idea you were involved in such work when we discussed it last night. How exciting. And how very noble of you.’

‘Don’t be deluded, Clarissa, there is naught noble in my motives. ‘Tis a sport to me, is all, but I hope it will be an exciting adventure for you. Especially since we’ll be clapped in gaol if we’re caught. I trust you will find the experience fun enough. Now, you may write your note to your concerned mama to ensure you are not looked for. Then we must dine and be on our way.’

Silencing the words of protest forming on her lips with a swift, brutal kiss, Kit grasped Clarissa’s chin and looked straight into her troubled eyes. ‘I will brook no further discussion. Write your note and we shall dine. The innkeeper’s wife is famed for her table, we would not wish to disappoint her.’ A smile curled his sensuous mouth, but did not reach his eyes. ‘And you will need sustenance, my dear, if you are to make the most of your adventure.’

Clarissa vouchsafed no answer, but she sat obediently to write her note, consigning her worries about the future to the back of her mind. Her adventure was indeed about to begin. She might as well make the most of it, now that she was committed.

As Kit had promised, the landlady’s cooking was a delight, but the neat’s-tongue, the platter of delicate sole and the side-dish of artichokes sautéed in butter might as well have been cooked in ashes, for all Clarissa could taste. Conversation was desultory, both Kit and Clarissa being distracted by their own reflections.

Despite his earlier threats, Kit had no wish for an unwilling companion, and no taste for a resistant lover. Watchfully, he poured himself another glass of the excellent claret and waited for Clarissa to come to terms with the situation. She had been bested and she was not happy to have been forced to relinquish the reins, but she was yet determined on her course. She would go along with his scheme, he knew that, yet her real intentions were still unclear.

She was a puzzle, this beautiful woman before him, and one he wished to unravel. Her claims to virtue and the preposterous tale she spun him last night about wishing to enjoy herself before settling to the boredom of matrimony, Kit dismissed out of hand. She was no innocent, that was for sure. And if perchance there was some unsuspecting dotard waiting in the wings to wed her, he was sure she would continue in her scheming, wanton ways, whether she was married or no. Her plotting would come to light in the end, and he would deal with it then. For the present, he resolved simply to enjoy himself as much as possible.

Rather to his own surprise, Kit found himself reconciled to postponing their physical union for the present, content enough as he was with Clarissa’s company. She was challenging. Her habit of speaking without thinking, of never saying quite what he expected, even her frankness, all were a refreshing change. And she seemed to understand him too—her attack on his rakish reputation had so nearly reflected his own cynical view of himself as to make him wonder if she could somehow eavesdrop on his very thoughts.

To be plain, he wanted to know more of her. Once they were bedded, he doubted not, he would become bored. Putting Clarissa from him when their kiss got so out of hand, when she had rubbed so sinuously against the throbbing evidence of his desire as to almost overset him, had not been easy. But passion was enhanced by anticipation, so postponement there would be—for a day or so, at least. Pouring the last of the claret into his glass, Kit looked up to find Clarissa’s green eyes fixed on him with resolution. ‘Speak, fair Clarissa, I can see you are pregnant with words. I am, as they say, all ears.’

This was said with a lurking smile that she found reassuring, as he had intended. She was in no danger for the present. Returning the smile tremulously, Clarissa pushed aside her plate. ‘I take it, sir, that there is no point in my wasting time trying to persuade you to delay this undertaking?’

A shake of the head was her reply. Well, she had resigned herself to this. She knew she had taken a risk when setting out on this whole preposterous journey, and she had been foolish enough to ignore the warnings her Aunt Constance had delivered as to the perfidious nature of the man before her. Beguiled by his physical attractions, drawn on by her desire to know him better, Clarissa had fashioned her own fate. And now she would pay for it. But at least if Kit was aboard a boat sailing for France, he would not be in London waving his plentiful purse under her sister’s nose.

And, oh, she so much wanted to go! There, she had admitted it to her deepest soul. The Earl of Rasenby understood her desire for adventure very well. He could not, in fact, have selected a more enticing trip. To sail out to sea on his yacht, to be part of a rescue mission, perhaps to be chased by the customs men—it was so much like a romance she could not resist. And she would not, simply would not, behave like a simpering miss when faced with the challenge. If she must go—and she must, she must—then she would go with flags flying and battle colours held proudly aloft. Kit would not intimidate her. On the contrary, she would make sure to enjoy every minute of it.

Kit watched in amusement, reading Clarissa’s face fairly accurately, surprised and more than a little impressed at her courage in the face of adversity. He had thwarted her, but she would not submit easily to his will. ‘Well? Your eyes give your thoughts expression, but really I would rather have them spoke plain, lest there be any misunderstandings between us. Are you ready to commit to our adventure, Clarissa?’

An answering smile, tinged with something—fear? Again, he repressed the urge to reassure. She did not need it. He would play along with her only so far.

‘Yes. You give me no choice, Kit, but I will not pretend to go unwillingly when you are offering something that interests me so much. In fact, I’m already looking forward to it. How long shall we be gone?’

The question, almost casual, did not fool him. The lady was already planning her escape. ‘One night only, if the winds are with us—and they usually are. Two at most, I believe. Had you something of longer duration in mind?’

‘No, no, not at all.’ Short enough a time, but surely sufficient for things between Amelia and Edward to flower? Resolving to put Amelia and Edward and everything else aside for now, and to extract the most from the situation which would surely be the adventure of a lifetime, Clarissa gave Kit a direct and steady look. ‘You could not have picked anything more exciting for me, you know. I was not in jest last night when I told you that I find the idea of rescuing these poor émigrés completely enthralling. Since reading Mrs Wollstonecraft’s account of the revolution, their plight has moved me. I’ve never been to sea before, though—I hope I’m not taken poorly.’

He made no comment on her reference to the infamous and now dead Mrs Wollstonecraft, being unsurprised at her sympathies with that lady, but stored the information up with which to annoy her later. He enjoyed pitting his wits against Clarissa, so rare it was to find a woman with a brain worth testing. Sea sickness, however, had not occurred to him as a possible issue. Immediately it was brushed aside. ‘I am very sure, Clarissa, that if you decide not to be sick, then you will not be. I imagine there are few things—or people—you cannot subdue to your wishes.’

‘What a strange thing to say. If you knew more of me, you’d realise just how constrained and burdened with other people’s wishes my own life has been. I am not used to indulging myself, you know.’

‘Well, if I am your chosen indulgence then I am flattered. But be aware, Clarissa, that I am not an indulgence to be abused. Once and for all, I remind you of your promise. When we go forward from this inn, you are not just committed to a trip to France. You will pay for it with that delectable body of yours. And you will not pretend that the payment will be anything other than desired by us both. Are we understood?’

The urge to tell the truth passed fleetingly across her mind, followed quickly by the urge to admit that she would be delighted to pay with her body. Both urges were suppressed. There could be no question of it, and she would deal with denying him later. But the lie that her tremulous agreement required sat heavy on her conscience.

Kit noticed, but ignored it. Time was against them. Checking his pocket watch, he rang the bell and demanded the bill. Clarissa, clad once more in her less than adequate spencer and gloves, was ushered out through the passageway and into a closed carriage. A hot brick was placed at her feet, and a fur rug tucked around her legs.

‘I will ride alongside. There are not usually highwaymen on this stretch of road, but I prefer not to take the chance. Try to sleep for a while, we have a journey of some hours ahead of us.’

‘Kit?’

‘Yes?’ The terse voice was intimidating. He was impatient to be off.

‘I trust you.’

‘What am I to take from that?’

‘To keep me safe. To share the experience with me—properly, I mean, don’t just bury me below decks. To leave me unmolested for the while. I trust you.’

‘Then you are a fool. Rakes, my purported innocent, are never to be trusted. But I will allow you to be right, just this once. You may trust me thus far. But no more.’

‘Yes, but you will keep me safe. For now.’

Leaning back into the warmth of the carriage, Clarissa was unaware of the anger she had aroused in Kit. And confusion. The urge to tell her he would keep her safe always had been unaccountably strong. Once more, Kit’s instincts warred with his mind, as he told himself she was merely a very clever actress playing him like a professional. ‘For now’, however, was the only reply he vouchsafed.

The door of the chaise was banged shut. The ostlers let go of the horses, and the carriage leapt forward into the dark of the falling night, the tall man astride his powerful black stallion riding alongside. Clarissa was left to her own reflections, but the long day and her lack of sleep the previous night took their toll. Exhausted, the gentle rocking motion of the carriage soothed her and, to her surprise, Clarissa drifted into a sound sleep.

The carriage was stationary when she woke, and she could smell the salty tang of the sea air. Rubbing her eyes and casting off the rug, she descended to a scene of ordered but frenetic activity. They were at a small quayside. The boathouse, doors open and an oil lamp blazing inside, was waiting to shelter their carriage. There was a stable at the back for the horses, but no other sign of buildings, and the track they had come ran through deserted marshland.

On the quay she could see Kit, wrapped in an enormous black greatcoat, barking out orders to two men, one on the deck of the sleek yacht, and one beside him on the jetty. It was a cloudless night, and the stars were bright, much brighter than they ever were in London, where lights dimmed them to a soft glow. Here in the middle of nowhere they glared like so many burning braziers lighting up the heavens.

Shivering in the cold wind, Clarissa picked her way carefully down the jetty, avoiding the coils of rope and boxes of supplies stacked ready to be taken on board. Calling out a final instruction to the man on deck, Kit came towards her smiling, his eyes shining with anticipation as he trod with cat-like grace on the boards. He was obviously in his element here.

‘Take care not to trip on those nets. When we’re not out on these night runs, John and I—that’s my captain, on the deck there—take the Sea Wolf out on fishing expeditions. You’d be surprised at what we catch. And, of course, fishing provides an excellent cover, should we meet a customs cutter. Are you rested?’

Shivering now, for the cold was biting, Clarrie looked up into Kit’s face, her own eyes reflecting his gleaming anticipation. ‘Yes, thank you, I slept almost the whole journey. Please, will you show me around? And tell me everything? I want to make the most of this trip, for it’s unlikely I’ll ever get the chance of another. Tell me about your yacht.’

Laying a small gloved hand on his arm and making to urge him forward, she was treated to one of Kit’s rare, genuine smiles. ‘Very well. But wait here for a moment. You are ill equipped for the cold; I have a cloak in the boat house.’ Returning quickly, he fastened the enveloping wool around her throat. ‘There, that should keep out the chill, although you must take great care not to trip on it, especially when we’re on board. I would hate to lose you to the sea!’

Laughing as the wind whipped her hair from under her bonnet, she snuggled the soft folds around her and turned back towards the gangway. ‘Since I can’t swim I would be lost indeed, and you would lose out on your payment. Even I am not such a prize as to risk a wetting in a rescue attempt.’

‘I’m beginning to think that you’re more of a prize than I realised. But rest assured I wouldn’t get wet myself. I would send John in. Or more likely I’d pull you back with the boat hook I use to haul less alluring catch on board.’

‘Well, I’m flattered indeed to be held more attractive than a fish, my lord,’ Clarrie said with a grin, but her words were lost in the sudden gust of wind that swept in from the sea.

‘Tide’s on the turn, Master Kit,’ John said, ‘we’d best be going.’

The Sea Wolf, riding high against the jetty, was straining at the ropes that held her. The constraining hawsers creaked. John was looking anxiously at Kit, keen to be away. He had a bad feeling about this trip, and it wasn’t just because of the close call with customs a few weeks ago. Someone was informing on them, he knew that. Bringing a woman on board, obviously one of Master Kit’s flighty pieces, was a new departure, and one he could well have done without. He didn’t hold with women on board unless absolutely necessary. They got in the way, to say nothing of bringing bad luck.

Standing at the foot of the gangway, Clarissa was shaken by a sudden attack of nerves, unable to move, one hand on the rail, but both feet still firmly on shore. Boarding this ship was madness. What was she thinking? The wind ripped across the bay, making the yacht pull, anxious to get away now that the anchor was up. The riggings creaked and moaned, and the gangway shifted, to Clarissa’s eyes, treacherously.

‘Last-minute qualms, brave Clarissa?’ Kit’s words were mocking.

The taunt was sufficient to urge her to action. With a defiant toss of her head and a silent prayer, Clarissa put first one foot, then the other on to the slippery walkway, and boarded the Sea Wolf. Feeling none too steady, for the deck rocked and swayed even though they were still berthed, she stood still for a moment, trying to find her balance. Aside from a curt nod, Captain John ignored her, making his resentment at her presence clear.

Carefully clutching the cloak around her, and taking care to avoid the plethora of ropes, boxes, and goodness knows what else that made the deck an obstacle course, Clarrie found her way to stand by Kit at the wheel. A distracted smile was all she received, for they were in the process of putting to sea. John was casting off, making the ropes safe, loosing the sails, and in an instant the yacht responded to her freedom and leapt towards the open sea, riding the waves effortlessly.

As they left the cove behind, tacking to catch the wind, the waves rose higher, the spray soaking their faces, the Sea Wolf tilting up, then down, in a rhythmic, lulling motion that filled Clarrie with a wild joy. Lifting her face to the wind, she looked up at the stars with a strange, exhilarated expression on her face. This was what freedom must feel like. Freedom from all the trammels of her mundane life. Freedom from her mama, from Amelia, even from her staid Aunt Constance. Freedom from her past and her depressing future. There was only here and now. This man. This open sea. These stars.

A gust of wind blowing directly over the starboard side jolted the yacht, and would have knocked her over but for an iron grip on her arm. Looking up to thank Kit, Clarissa caught an unguarded expression of pure, unadulterated lust on his face and blinked at the sheer force of it. She blinked again and it was gone, replaced by his usual sardonic expression.

‘You should go below. The crossing is likely to be fast but vicious, and I have to give my full attention to the Sea Wolf—I have not the time to be constantly making sure that you are safe.’ Nor the time to be constantly distracted by the wild joy on the beautiful face beside him, if truth were to be told.

Deflated by his cold words, Clarissa turned to hide the hurt on her face. She had expected to stay above decks in order to see and experience everything to the limit. Being confined below was not her idea of an adventure. But she was too sensible to argue, for she could quite see that the stormy conditions were likely to be taxing. Quelling an instinctive protest at the command, therefore, she bit her lip and turned obediently towards the stairs.

Her obvious disappointment was too much for Kit to bear. He felt like an ogre stealing sweets from a babe. He had been watching her face more closely than she had realised, gratified to see the look of unadulterated pleasure that suffused it when the yacht set sail. Gratified and aroused to perceive his own feeling of joy at the freedom of the open sea reflected there. And disturbed, too, for it was not an emotion he had expected to share with a woman. And now she was thwarted yet uncomplaining.

‘Clarissa.’

She turned at his call, a hopeful smile curling her full mouth, her skin bright with the sting of salt, her curls entrancingly dishevelled around her heart-shaped face.

‘Kit?’

‘Once we are settled in to the journey, I’ll hand over to John, and you can come back up on deck, then, if that is what you wish.’

She clapped her hands with excitement, leaving him in no doubt.

‘Contain yourself. If the weather worsens, you must stay below. Now go, before I change my mind.’ He turned from her as she made her way gingerly below decks, before he could call her back regardless of the danger. Having Clarissa by his side at the wheel felt just a bit too right for his own comfort. Some space between them was a sounder idea.

The spartan cabin was built on practical rather than luxurious lines, with few fixtures other than the bunks that doubled as seating. Not a place for seduction, that was for sure. In fact, Clarrie thought with wry humour, as the yacht rolled with the waves, they would like as not end up on the floor, even had they managed to cram two bodies on to the narrow bunk. Still, having nothing else to occupy her mind for the while, she gave some time over to imagining how such adversities could be got over. She had just concluded that with determination two people could overcome such difficulties as a narrow mattress on a heaving yacht, when the door opened and Kit entered, bringing with him a cold gust of air.

Blushingly thankful he was not privy to her thoughts, Clarissa stood rather hurriedly, her foot catching in an uneven board, and fell unceremoniously on to the opposite bunk. Lying sprawled there, presenting Kit with her deliciously rounded posterior, Clarrie managed a soft laugh at the indignity of the situation. Her attempts to scramble to her feet were hampered by the continued rocking of the boat, and her sense of humour finally got the better of her. She succumbed to laughter, and lay for a few moments helpless, face down on the bunk.

‘Kit, help me up, for goodness’ sake. Now I know you’re no gentleman, standing there and watching me.’ Another abortive attempt had her on all fours on the bunk.

‘You present such a very attractive picture that I’m loath to move, Clarissa. Your position may be uncomfortable, but I should tell you that it displays your curves very well.’ Extremely well, in truth. His body was reacting rather vigorously to the display. Had it not been for the circumstances …

Restraining an urge to lift her dress above the bottom so pertly presented and thrust himself into her sweetness there and then, Kit reminded himself that John was above decks, and they were in the middle of the English Channel in a storm. That there was a cargo awaiting them in Normandy. That there was likely to be an excise cutter waiting for them on their return. That Clarissa was a perfidious, scheming actress. That … None of it worked.

Like an automaton, he moved towards the tempting bundle sprawled in front of him and grasped her by the waist, pulling her rear into his hard body, noting her laughter change to a surprised gasp, and then a soft, accepting moan. Clarrie wriggled slightly against him, causing him to throb almost uncontrollably. His hands tightened on her waist to pull her close, and his breathing quickened, coming in harsh gasps in the confines of the cabin. Steadying his knees against the base of the bunk, he allowed one hand to trace the line from her tiny waist along the curve of her spine, and to cup one soft buttock through the wool of her dress, aware, from the soft panting of her breath, that she was as aroused as he. Bracing himself more securely, Kit moved to the hem of her dress, preparing to lift it up over her in order to grant him the access he craved. He met with no resistance.

The sea saved her. A violent movement that sent them both sprawling, as John called urgently for help. Kit was gone at once, leaving Clarrie alone again. Alone with her feelings—of despair at her easy submission, of anger at herself for her lack of resistance. But most of all, the one that really scared her, a feeling of deep frustration at the unconsummated act. Clarrie could fool herself no longer. When Kit decided to take her, there would be no question but that she would submit. No matter what the consequences.

Chapter Six

The tossing of the ship had become less violent, or perhaps she had simply accustomed herself to it. In any case, to stay below and nurse her feelings of frustration would, Clarrie decided, be as fruitless as it was a waste of the precious time she had on board the Sea Wolf. She prepared to brave the upper decks and to pretend that nothing of note had happened below.

The yacht was holding a steady course in the face of the wind. Kit had the wheel, idly maintaining conversation with John, whose talk was of the future, his plans for life once this last mission was completed.

‘I’ll not be sorry, Master Kit, I tell thee true. It’s old bones I’ve got now, too old to be chasing after them Frenchies and running away from the excise men. I’ve enough set aside to buy my own smack and do a bit of legal fishing for a change. Won’t net me a fortune, but it’ll keep us well enough, I reckon. I’ve my eye on a little beauty I spotted for sale down Romney Marsh way, fore-and-aft rigged like the Sea Wolf, but smaller, just big enough for me and a lad to handle. And Sal, she’ll be glad to have me home at night regular again.’

‘How is the lovely Sal, your good lady wife? The last time we met, she threatened me with a rolling pin for getting you into mischief.’

A gruff laugh greeted this remark. ‘Aye, you know her ways, Master Kit, she means no harm, just frets for my safety is all. She’s never liked me going off on jaunts like this, but she’s not one as would ever complain neither. A good woman, Sal, she knows her place. And she deserves some peace of mind, after all these years. She’s earned it.’

‘You both have, John. I really envy you, the way you’ve got your life all mapped out. I have no idea what I’ll do without these trips. My sister wants me to marry, but lord, what a dreadful husband I’d make. I’m afraid I’m destined to be the devil’s own, one way or another. I’ll miss these trips more than I can say.’

‘Aye, well, Master Kit, like as not summat’ll turn up, you’ll see. I’m a great believer in fate, myself.’ With this laconic reply, John turned his attention seawards, scanning the horizon for signs of sail, leaving Kit free to pursue his thoughts.

As if summoned by them, Clarissa appeared head first, ascending the cabin steps gingerly, struggling to contain the cloak that whistled around her in the wind. She had abandoned her hat, and her bright auburn tresses whipped around her face, temporarily obstructing her view. Tottering, she grabbed the rail and righted herself before smiling and offering a tentative greeting. ‘I thought I’d take you up on the offer of a tour. That is, if you are not otherwise occupied.’

A terse nod from John, who took over the wheel, gave Kit no option but to accede to her request. ‘We’re about an hour away from landfall, we’ve made excellent time. I’ll be happy to show you round—she’s small but beautiful, my Sea Wolf—and then you can stay on deck as we berth.’

The technicalities were lost on her, but she listened with intelligent interest as Kit explained everything from the rigging to the sleek lines of the yacht, comparing it favourably, and with obvious pride, to the slower, clinker-built cutters still used by the Revenue. Pointing out the key navigational stars high above them, he talked a little of his early sailing days, his fishing trips with John when he was no more than a child, sailing his first skiff and learning the hard way about the tides and vagaries of the coast line. That Kit loved the Sea Wolf and was an expert sailor, Clarrie had no doubt. That she too could learn to love sailing, she had no doubt either. At his side, with his tuition, she was sure she would quickly become adept.

Standing at the guard rail, watching the yacht cut cleanly through the waves and the coast of Normandy looming into view in the distance, Clarissa felt a rush of freedom like champagne fizzing through her blood. At home, so far away as it now seemed, freedom had meant her sister married, her mother comfortably settled and herself earning a living as a governess. Such a vision seemed merely a new set of fetters compared to this. How had she ever imagined that life at the beck and call of an employer would be any different to life at the beck and call of her family?

No point in thinking about such things now though, no point in spoiling this moment. Turning to Kit, standing so close she could feel the heat of his body even through the thickness of their clothing, Clarissa asked about the people waiting for them on the French shore.

‘We can never be certain that they’ll be there when we arrive,’ he explained. ‘There are so many things that can go wrong. On occasion we’ve had to wait—usually a few hours, but once it was a whole day and night. We went ashore, but John did not take to the French cooking!’ Kit laughed at the memory of John’s face when presented with a huge piece of beef, the blood pooling beside it on the plate. ‘Tonight, we’re to pick up a man and his daughter. Their name is Renaud. Madame Renaud is dead by the guillotine, and Monsieur Renaud and his daughter have been in hiding on a country estate in Burgundy. He is a classical scholar; of her I know naught more than that she is young and unwed. Needless to say, they are rich no more. They are alive, that is the main thing. Or they were when last I heard a few days ago,’ he added bitterly. ‘To come out of hiding and journey north to the ports is hazardous even after all these years. There are informants everywhere.’

‘They cannot have been in hiding all this time, surely? It is almost ten years since the revolution.’

‘Aye, ten bloody years. But remember, the Terror grew slowly at first. The wholesale slaughter only really started when Louis was beheaded, four years after they revolted. For many, especially those of the lesser nobility such as this family, it seemed possible to keep their heads down—if you’ll forgive the gallows humour—and survive the killing. Monsieur Renaud, whom you will meet tonight, God willing, is not himself of high rank, but his wife was the younger daughter of a duke. The blue blood was hers. And so, in the end, it was she who sealed the fate of the whole family. ‘Tis certain they would not have been spared had they been found.’

‘But is it not safe enough now in France under the Directorate? Are they not more tolerant? Surely it’s becoming possible to start again in their own country, rather than to take such a drastic step as these people make tonight?’

‘For some, yes, perhaps you’re right. But for others, those who have lived the life of privilege, to accustom themselves to the new regime seems unnecessary, when in England they can bear their titles proudly once more.’

‘With no money, how can that mean so much? Money is by far more important than a title, as I should know, Lord Rasenby.’

‘And what, Clarissa, do you know of such things?’

She shrugged. ‘My own father was titled, my widowed mother still bears his name. It means naught, for he was cast off and poverty-stricken just the same. At times, I would happily swap my birth right for the wealth of a merchant family—at least that way I wouldn’t have to worry about avoiding the coal seller at quarter time.’ An embarrassed laugh concluded this admission. She had not meant to say anything so revealing, being merely caught up in the need to understand more of the situation in France. But looking into those piercing eyes above her, Clarissa realised Kit had missed none of what she had said.

‘So you claim to be of noble birth? And may I be allowed to ask what this family name is, for I know—have known all along, of course—that the name you gave me is false.’

‘No, there’s nothing to be gained for either of us in that. Rest assured, my real name is Clarissa. That should suffice, for the duration of our brief acquaintance.’ Smiling nervously, for she had no wish to continue this turn in the conversation, Clarissa resolutely faced away from that all too penetrating look, back towards the approaching land. ‘You were telling me about Monsieur Renaud.

If he has no title and his poor wife is dead, I still don’t understand the need for him to leave France.’

Thrusting aside the urge to probe into Clarissa’s background—for like as not it would only lead to more lies—Kit focused instead on the Normandy coastline, anxious to catch the first glimpse of their destination, a tiny fishing village, where a beacon to guide them would be lit if all was safe. ‘The likes of Renaud leave because the future is still so uncertain. True, he has no title, but he has a daughter to protect. And he has the sense, as anyone who has studied the situation can see, to realise that this regime is every bit as volatile as the last. There will be war soon, do not doubt it. In England he’ll be sleeping with the enemy, but at least there is less chance there of invasion, more chance of a respite from bloodshed. France has not come to the end of its sufferings, mark my words. For all these reasons, and others, too, these trips on the Sea Wolf are, however, coming to an end. I must find some other occupation to sate my appetite for danger.’

The bleakness in his voice betrayed his true feelings. Giving up this life was hard for him. Having tasted the thrill of it for herself, Clarissa was not surprised. Laying a hand on his arm in an attempt to convey her empathy, her words were yet hesitant. ‘I can see that you’ll miss this life. But you must take comfort in the good you have done, the lives you have saved. All these émigrés, they must be so grateful. I expect, when you meet them in London, as you must often do afterwards, you are something of a hero to them.’

‘You are much mistaken, Clarissa, to set me up for a hero.’ The habitual cynical drawl had returned. ‘I don’t rescue these people for any more noble motives than a desire for adventure spiced with danger. I care naught for their fate. I take no sides in their politics. Their country can gnaw at its own entrails until it has consumed itself in the process for all I care. Do not attribute to me any heroic virtues, for you will find yourself far from the truth. These people are just cargo, like the silks and brandies we will carry tonight alongside Monsieur and Mademoiselle Renaud. And as to recognition from those I rescue? Never. They are under strict instructions not to acknowledge me once they leave the Sea Wolf. I am not, nor never will be, a hero.’

‘You may choose to deny it. Indeed, to do so is in your character for you are overly fond of your raking, care-naught reputation, Lord Rasenby, as I have pointed out to you several times now.’ His determined cynicism was having a rousing effect on Clarrie. She would not allow him to be so harsh on himself. He was not a complete villain, no matter how much he played the part.

‘I notice that I become Lord Rasenby and not Kit when you are lecturing me, madam. I do not take to it kindly either, for you have not the right to lecture. No one has that right but myself. And believe me, no one could be harder on me than myself either. But to no avail. I am destined for the devil. You would learn, if you chose to spend more time in my company, that I can neither be reformed, nor am in wont of it.’

‘No, you’re not in need of reform, because you’re not anything like as black as you paint yourself. You are not stupid, you told me so yourself. Well, neither am I! You would not have continued with these trips, which put John as much as yourself in danger, had you not felt they were worthwhile—and I don’t mean for the brandy. These rescues mean something to you, would you but admit it, if only to your own heart. To these people at least, you are a hero, I doubt it not. The only need you have of reform is to think as well of yourself as you are entitled.’

‘You persist in this belief at your peril, foolish Clarissa, but be warned. Such determinedly positive appraisals of my character will not change it one jot. Nor will you, by applying such soft soap, beguile me into releasing you from your promise. Now let us have an end to this conversation, for we have important work to attend to. Look straight ahead and slightly to starboard—there is our beacon. We are expected. You may watch, but you must keep silent and take care not to get in the way.’

With that he was gone, joining John at the wheel and leaving Clarissa to her reflections. Anger at his abrupt dismissal and pity for the contempt in which he held himself were foremost in her mind. But there was, too, a growing desire to be the one to bring him to a sense of his own worth. Not to reform him, that phrase he so despised, but to raise his sadly low esteem. She believed in him, and she could prove it to him, too, if only the situation was different.

But to wish things were different was to wish their whole adventure away. Increasingly all Clarissa wanted was for their time together to go on—and on. The thought of an ending to it was a thought she thrust firmly from her mind. A future without Kit Rasenby was not a future she wished to contemplate just yet.

John dropped the sails, and the ship glided smoothly into calmer, shallower waters, navigating by a beacon lit at the end of the harbour wall. Watching Kit’s face as he guided the yacht through the treacherous rocks that guarded the bay, Clarissa realised how truly handsome he was when his countenance was not marred by his habitual cynical frown. Kit’s eyes sparkled with anticipation as he steered the difficult course confidently. The gleam of excitement was contagious, stirring her own heart with a longing to be at his side, to face the danger with him. Here was a Kit released from the constraints of his London life. Here was the real Kit, the bold rescuer, not the dissolute rake. Like a shooting star brightening the cold, crisp night sky, Clarissa saw the truth. Here was her Kit. The Kit she had begun to love.

Breathless with the realisation, she clutched the rails, trying not to allow the elation that the admission brought reflect in her face. For just a moment, the thrill of finding herself truly in love was all-encompassing. She was soaring upwards towards the stars, the brilliance of the flame inside her outshining even the brightest of lights in the night sky.

But her spirits plummeted back down to earth all too quickly. That man standing so proudly at the helm of his yacht felt more for the ship shifting beneath them than he could ever feel for any woman, especially not the deceiver he believed Clarissa to be. He wanted her body, nothing more, a wish that would no doubt prove both fleeting and quickly sated.

Even Clarissa’s dauntless spirit was downtrodden by such a thought. For a moment she stared blankly ahead at the approaching shore. But long experience of coping in the face of adversity stood her now in good stead, and, ever the optimist, she resolved to enjoy the present, and to let the future take care of itself. It was enough for now to be here with Kit, sharing this experience. Enough to know that he desired her body, at least. With resolution renewed, Clarissa turned to the scene before her, determined to extract the last ounce of enjoyment from it. Enough to last her a lifetime.

They had reached the bay and were dropping anchor, the tide being too low for the yacht to pull alongside the jetty. The night was still, the wind almost gone, the only sound the gentle splashing of the oars from the small boat that was making its way towards them, two passengers huddled together in the bow. John was lowering a rope ladder over the side, and as the small dinghy neared, called a greeting in rough French to the oarsman, obviously a familiar face.

Responding to Kit’s nod, Clarissa moved to stand alongside him at the wheel, which he held steady with one hand, his other outstretched towards her. ‘Well? Are you enjoying yourself, fair Clarissa?’

‘Oh, yes, how can you think otherwise? It’s perfect.’

All enmity was gone from him, caught up as he was in the thrill of the rescue, the constant awareness of danger, the unaccustomed warmth of sharing the experience with this feisty, self-assured female at his side. One minute passionate wanton, next as curious as a child, and next again launching into a defence of his character like a lioness guarding her cubs. Nary a trace of fear at their situation, never a hint of a tear, not a single recrimination had he heard from her, only staunch fortitude and sparkling enjoyment. It was a potent mixture.

Clarissa was watching the small boat and its precious cargo tie up alongside. She was right, of course, these people were precious. Transporting émigrés to the safety of England’s shores was of deeper import to him than he cared to admit even to himself. Her hand remained tucked in his own as she watched, and she nestled close, the length of her body safe against him.

‘They look so frightened huddled down there,’ she said softly. ‘How much they must have been through to get here. It’s a humbling thought, but they must know they are safe, now you are here.’

She looked up at him with such trust that he could not restrain himself. Bending down, Kit kissed her softly on her lips. A gentle kiss without the heat of passion, a kiss one would give to a child, designed to—what? He wanted to keep her safe, not to betray the trust he saw writ in her eyes. She persisted in seeing him as a saviour. Fleetingly, he wished it could be so.

He was bewitched. She needed to be saved from nothing except her own wiles, and whatever this scheme was she had embroiled him in. Hardening his heart, Kit stepped briskly away. ‘Wait here. They’ll need help coming aboard, and John will need help with the rest of the cargo too.’

Left alone to watch, Clarissa could only admire the sleek process of loading from the tiny dinghy tied loosely to the Sea Wolf’s side. The men worked in silence, broken only by hushed instructions from Kit to John and the French oarsman, as Monsieur Renaud and his daughter were guided with care up the ladder and on to the deck. Several casks of brandy, boxes of tea, and bales of fabric—silk, she assumed—followed, handled by Kit and John effortlessly and with a practice born of familiarity. The cargo was stowed in a small compartment reached via a trap door on deck, which was hidden beneath some fishing nets. The émigrés were ushered to the cabin below. The dinghy cast off back to shore, the oarsman having received a generous douceur for his troubles. John and Kit were preparing to up anchor and away.

Clarissa watched all of this with fascination, taking in every detail while at the same time trying to reconcile Kit’s strange behaviour. He believed her to be a fraud, and did not trust her, that much was obvious. Nor did he believe her story—and who could blame him, for it was indeed flimsy. Yet he had gone along with her proposition, none the less, for reasons she could not fathom. He was bored, true. And he found her amusing, that was also true. And tempting. That, too, Clarissa knew to be true, although she found it harder to believe, so many real beauties had he had, and no doubt would continue to have. Yet he told her she was beautiful, and she believed him, for he did not lie.

Well, the novelty would no doubt wear off, but it was flattering all the same. Still, none of this explained why he went along with her scheme. He wanted her, but he trusted her not. He seemed, as when he kissed her just now, to be fighting against more tender feelings, but each time he pulled her close he pushed her away all the harder. He believed her to be false, and she had herself conspired to ensure that he would do so.

There was nothing to be done. The situation was of her own creation and she would have to accept the consequences. It had been no part of her plan to fall in love, but she could not regret it, even if Kit would never know how she felt.

The rocking beneath her feet told her they had turned back out to sea. Sure enough, the sails were set and the land was falling away behind them. Monsieur and his daughter were below decks. Clarissa decided the best way to assist was to provide what comfort she could to the French family on the long journey ahead. They would be chilled, and no doubt hungry. She could do something about that. She slipped away from the rail and was below decks before Kit had even noticed she had gone.

Monsieur and Mademoiselle Renaud were huddled together on one of the narrow bunks, fatigue etched on their wan faces. Mademoiselle was young, fifteen or sixteen, and bid fair to being a beauty, but at the moment all Clarissa saw was a girl at the end of her tether and in need of comfort. Pinning a bright smile to her face, and summoning up her schoolroom French, she set about providing it.

Warm blankets were retrieved from a locker beneath the bunk, and the supply box Kit had tucked into a corner was opened, revealing a ham, cheese, bread and wine. The émigrés fell on the food with obvious relish, and were considerably cheered by the time they had made a good repast. The sea was smoother for the return journey, and fortunately neither of the new passengers was subject to sickness. Clarissa poured herself a glass of burgundy and settled down to conversation with the father and daughter, keen to find out their story for herself. Keen also to discover their opinion of their rescuer without Kit himself being privy to it.

It was as sad, sordid and harrowing a tale as she had ever heard. Yet Monsieur emerged from it with a quiet dignity, a respect for life and a trust in humankind despite all his experience. He had no wish to dwell on the details of the past, the worst of times, when his wife was held in captivity, the only certainty that of her death by the blade. He focused instead on the goodness of the people who kept his daughter safe in the country while he pleaded in vain with the authorities in Paris. Of their kindness in providing him with a roof over his head, food, even some work tutoring the village children. And the generosity of the people who offered him a new home in England.

Monsieur spoke perfect English. ‘Over the years before the revolution, my studies led to friendship with some eminent professors at Oxford university. It is these very good friends who offered sanctuary to myself and Lisette, my daughter, as soon as we got word out that we were alive.’

‘So, you’ve been planning your escape for some time then, monsieur?’

‘Yes, for more than a year now. My wife, Lisette’s maman, was killed by the guillotine three years ago. Until she died, we had hoped to survive in France, to simply wait until this madness, this terreur, was ended. But when my dear wife was executed—murdered …’

‘Papa, we must think of the future now, it is what maman would want.’ Lisette’s gentle voice, full of compassion, roused her papa from his maudlin thoughts.

‘You are right, ma petite.’ Monsieur Renaud heaved a sigh, and, fortified with another draught of wine, resumed his story. ‘We heard of the English monsieur and his rescues through another of my countrymen, but it proved difficult and time-consuming to make contact and the necessary arrangements. Easy to understand, given the need for secrecy and the danger to all concerned. But now, thank God, we are finally here.’

‘The expense must have been a big problem for you?’

‘Oh, no, mais non, madame, there was no cost. Monsieur never takes a fee for his rescues, nor even a gift—and he has been offered many. Not once, in many, many attempts, has he been caught. Not one passenger has he failed, even when he had to wait in France, at great danger to himself. He is a hero.’

Clarissa smiled, wishing just for a moment that Kit was present to hear himself being described in the very terms he had denied so vehemently only hours before. She had been right about him, but it was reassuring to have it confirmed.

‘Yes, I believe he is a hero, monsieur, would he but admit it.’

‘We are not even permitted to know his name, madame.’ Lisette joined in the conversation now, her pretty face animated, the only traces of the frightened little girl who had boarded the yacht showing in the lines of exhaustion. ‘He is known as the Loup de Mer, the name of this yacht, and I think it suits him, non? He is just like a wolf, is he not, so dangerous, and so brave. But you, madame, you must know him well to be here on the boat with us. Tell me, is he of noble birth, as they say he is?’

Clarissa blushed, for Lisette was obviously curious as to her relationship with Kit, even if she was too polite to ask. ‘I think, mademoiselle, that if he wished his name to be known he would tell you. It is not for me to give away his secrets.’

‘Well spoken, my dear, my secrets are nobody’s property but mine.’

Kit entered the tiny cabin with his usual cat-like grace, making the room suddenly seem much smaller. The cynical smile was firmly in place, the slight frown drawing his black brows together demonstrating clearly that he had overheard enough of the conversation to know Clarissa had been asking questions.

‘My aunt always told me that listeners hear only ill of themselves, you know. You are fortunate you didn’t arrive any earlier.’

‘Ah, so you have an aunt, as well as a mother. Quite a little family gathering there will be awaiting you on your return from your trip. And what, pray, would I have overheard that would have been so unwelcome to my ears?’

‘Why, sir, only what I told you myself, and to your face. You are a hero. And it came this time not from my lips, but from those of Monsieur Renaud here.’

‘And, oh, monsieur, it is true. To us you are a hero, je vous promis.’ The worshipful tone of Lisette’s voice could not be ignored, but instead of taking umbrage with her, Kit laughed.

‘Merci du compliment, mademoiselle. But I didn’t come here to discuss my character, I came to remind you of your promises to me. We will be in England soon. A chaise awaits you, to take you to London and thence to Oxford. Once you are disembarked, you must not discuss this journey, nor may you tell any of your friends still in France how you came to contact me. From tonight, the Loup de Mer is no more. You have the honour of being my last passengers. And after tonight, even if we meet in the street, you must not recognise me. Is that understood?’

‘But why? Monsieur, I do not understand why?’

‘Lisette!’ Monsieur Renaud laid a constraining hand on his daughter’s shoulder. ‘Tais-toi. I speak for both of us, monsieur, when I say that it shall be as you demand. But I beg you, if you should ever be in need of a friend yourself, to consider me your eternally grateful servant.’

‘Thank you, monsieur.’ Only Clarissa realised that the curt tone hid Kit’s own pleasure at the compliment. ‘Now, I will bid you adieu. I will be busy on deck until we disembark. I am sure that madame here will look after you well. She is adept at it, I can vouch.’ A brief nod and a smile, and he was gone.

Clarissa settled Lisette down to sleep on the narrow bunk, letting her head rest on her own lap, soothing her into slumber by stroking her hair as she had done with Amelia countless times. After a while, Monsieur Renaud slept too, more fitfully, uncomfortably upright on the bunk opposite, and Clarissa sat watching over them, her own mind too tired to grapple with the travails that lay ahead when they arrived back in port.

Finally she too dozed off. She woke briefly to see Kit hovering over her, tucking a blanket round her, but he put a finger to his mouth and left as silently as he had arrived, so she smiled faintly, and turned to a troubled sleep once more.

When Clarissa next opened her eyes, the porthole revealed a choppy iron-grey sea rising to meet the pale dawn sky. It was morn, though she had no idea what o’clock. Even with a poor wind, they must be near home. Gently, so as not to disturb Lisette, still soundly asleep on her lap, Clarissa rose and stretched, stiff and sore from lying on the rough planks that passed for a bed. Her eyes felt gritty from the briny salt of the sea-spray, and she was ravenously hungry. She had not eaten since the inn, which seemed like long ago now, though it was only yesterday. But breakfast would have to wait until they landed, and she had a suspicion that once they were safely ashore, breakfast would be the last thing on her mind.

The yacht was slowing, but she could see nothing from the porthole to tell her their position. Steadying herself to go above decks, she was stilled by the sound of strange voices, and waited, suddenly alert to danger. The cabin door opened abruptly and John appeared, his face creased in worry.

‘Master says to stay down there, and make no sound. There’s a cutter coming alongside, they mustn’t find you.’

‘A cutter? Do you mean a customs ship?’

‘Aye. They’ve been tipped off, must’ve been, as they were lying in wait for us. I warned the master after the last time that someone was informing on us. And this time they want to board. They must be certain sure of their information.’

‘But can’t you prevent them boarding?’

‘Master Kit’ll try, lady, but they do seem mighty determined this time. And Master Kit, happen he’s riled that Lieutenant Smith once too often. The lad’s got summat to prove.’

Looking desperately round the tiny cabin, Clarissa realised there was nowhere for them to hide. The brandy casks were in the hidden compartment on deck, but no Riding Officer worth his salt would fail to discover the hiding place if he was permitted a thorough search. Looking anxiously at the still peacefully sleeping émigrés, Clarissa knew that if the customs men found the brandy they would almost certainly want to search the cabin too, where, unknown to them, a much more valuable cargo was stored. They must be prevented from searching or the game was up for them all. And if Kit couldn’t stop them, she thought, a plan forming in her mind, well, then she would have to.

Something of her thoughts must have shown on her face, for John was entreating her to remain in the cabin and stay quiet. ‘Do as Master Kit commands and don’t even think of doing anything silly or you’ll get us all hanged.’ With this, he closed the cabin door firmly on Clarissa’s face and returned above decks.

‘I must command you to allow us to escort you into port, Lord Rasenby. We have a warrant to search the Sea Wolf.’ Lieutenant Smith stood stiffly on the deck, his dinghy tied alongside in the calm waters of the channel, his cutter swaying a few yards off and behind the yacht.

‘This obsession with my night-fishing trips is becoming tedious, Lieutenant. I thought you would have better things to do with your valuable time.’

‘You have been less fortunate than usual, my lord, from what I can see?’

‘I don’t take your meaning.’ Kit’s temper, usually so cool under pressure, was frayed. Never before had they been unable to outrun the customs men, and he cursed the ill luck which had seen the wind drop suddenly. The thought of the Renauds and Clarissa hidden below decks made him nervous, more nervous than the thought of the cargo concealed in the secret locker. He had no clear idea of the law regarding the émigrés, but he had a very clear idea indeed of what would happen to his reputation if this story got out.

‘My meaning, my lord, is simple. Where is your catch?’

Cursing volubly under his breath, Kit turned helplessly to John, who shrugged in consternation. They had caught no fish.

‘As you say, I was unlucky last night, Lieutenant. Come now, we both know this is foolish. I am in need of my bed, as I’m sure you are of yours. Nothing can be gained from searching us, for there is nothing to be found.’

‘Perhaps your catch is below decks, my lord?’

‘Devil take you, Lieutenant, what are you implying?’

‘You know very well, Lord Rasenby. You are carrying contraband and this time nothing will prevent me from discovering it.’

‘I’m afraid you’re going to be disappointed all the same, Lieutenant.’ Clarrie’s husky tones, as she stepped boldly on to deck, startled the men into silence. John, standing behind Kit, looked on slack-jawed.

‘Lord, Kit, I thought we’d never get back to England. I’ve missed you, darling, it’s no fun below decks on my own.’ Laying a proprietorial arm on Kit’s, Clarrie pouted. Her hair was loosened to curl freely down her back, and her dress unbuttoned sufficiently to add to her air of abandon. There could be no mistaking that she had this moment arisen from a night of passion.

Lieutenant Smith’s jaw dropped in imitation of John’s at this lush display, but Kit, quick to take advantage, merely pressed Clarissa’s hand in acknowledgment of the ruse, and smiled tauntingly at the Riding Officer. ‘My cargo, Lieutenant Smith, as you see.’ Taking Clarissa’s hand in his, he raised it to his mouth and planted a lingering kiss on her palm. ‘Good morning, my love. I’m afraid this gentleman was rather intent on searching your quarters.’

‘Oh, please, Lieutenant, let me preserve some modicum of dignity. The cabin is—how can I put it delicately—a little untidy.’ There could be no mistaking her meaning. Lieutenant Smith blushed as scarlet as his uniform.

‘You can see now, Lieutenant, why I had no time for fishing last night. I was rather more agreeably occupied with this particular little piece of bait.’ A rather unnecessary pat on her bottom made Clarrie start.

‘Please, Kit, not in front of the gentleman. You can see he’s embarrassed.’ Indeed, the Lieutenant was playing with the collar of his coat as if suddenly finding it too tight. ‘I’m so sorry, Lieutenant—as you can see, I’m having a little difficulty in taming his lordship here. What he needs is his bed.’ This accompanied by a wink, which made even Kit raise an eyebrow.

‘I—well, I—yes. Excuse me, Lord Rasenby, it would seem that once again I was misinformed. Please accept my apologies, ma’am, for disturbing you—I mean, for disturbing your …’

‘My rest, I think you mean,’ Clarrie said with a saucy smile.

‘Yes. Your rest, ma’am. Of course.’

‘Lieutenant?’

‘My lord?’

‘A word, if you please, before you go. I would ask you to keep this encounter to yourself for all of our sakes. The lady, you understand, belongs to another, and it would grieve him greatly should he find out about this night’s fishing trip.’

Realisation dawned in the officer’s eyes, and they widened at the temerity of the man standing shameless in front of him. Lord Rasenby’s reputation was well known to those hereabouts, of course, but never before had Lieutenant Smith been faced with such blatant evidence of his raking. And she so young and pretty too! Nodding wisely in an attempt to pass off the encounter as he was sure a man of the world would do, Lieutenant Smith thrust the proffered note away in confusion. ‘My discretion does not need to be bought, Lord Rasenby. I am a man of honour. You can accept my word that I will not discuss this encounter.’

Kit’s brows rose in surprise. ‘You are a credit to your uniform, sir, and I honour you for it. And in return, I’ll tell you something to your advantage.’

‘Sir?’

‘It will perhaps relieve you to know that my night-fishing trips are at an end. You may wish to share that knowledge with the Marquis of Alchester, your informant.’ Raising his hand to forestall the confused denial, Kit continued. ‘I have been aware for some time that he has been keeping you apprised of my movements. Rest assured, I will be taking the matter up with Alchester personally. But for now, I trust, you take my meaning? The Sea Wolf will not be going fishing again.’

‘I thank you, sir. I take your meaning well. Now I must bid you good morning.” A blushing nod to Clarissa, and the lieutenant was gone, over the side to the waiting dinghy, and back to his cutter.

He was barely back on board before Clarrie turned, exultant and bursting with excitement, towards Kit. ‘Oh, Kit, I can’t tell you, my heart was thumping fit to burst. Just for a moment there I thought he—’

Kit cut short her excited torrent of words with an imperious wave of his hand. ‘You were told to remain below. Can I not trust you to follow even the simplest of instructions? I would have found a way to deal with Lieutenant Smith. John, make haste for the quay. We are long overdue. Clarissa, go below and make sure the Renauds are prepared to disembark.’

Curtly dismissed, Clarissa stumbled below, blinking back the tears. Kit turned to take the wheel, confused at his own sudden temper.

‘Don’t you think you’re being a mite hard on the girl, my lord?’ John asked gravely. ‘She got us out of a pretty pickle there and no mistake.’

‘I know, John, I know. Your point is well made.’ She had saved them all from a perilous situation with her quick thinking, cool head and bravery. So why, then, was he so angry with her?

Chapter Seven

‘Can you finish up here on your own, John? This way, Clarissa, we have unfinished business to attend to.’ Kit, his expression impassive, ushered Clarissa towards the awaiting chaise. His tightly reigned temper had been in evidence ever since the Sea Wolf docked. Monsieur and Mademoiselle Renaud were disembarked and dispatched in a separate post chaise with uncommon haste, allowing Clarissa time for only the briefest of farewells. John was kept busy amid a flurry of barked orders from Kit, unloading the remaining cargo, securing the yacht, and then finally the boathouse.

Aside from pointing Clarissa towards the chaise, Kit had said nothing to her. Deducing correctly that she was the source of his anger, although having no clue as to how she might have provoked it, Clarrie felt her own temper starting to rise, fuelled by a sense of injustice. She wheeled to confront him.

‘What have I done to incur your displeasure this time, my lord? At least have the decency to tell me to my face. I thought you would be impressed by my actions when we were boarded by the Revenue. My motives were of the purest, I did it only to protect all of us—you, me, John and the Renauds. Would you have me in the wrong for that, would you have me apologise for trying to save you? For it worked, didn’t it?’ She added proudly, ‘The look on poor Lieutenant Smith’s face was priceless!’

‘Yes, it worked. But you were lucky and, more to the point, extremely reckless, for things might easily have gone awry after your impulsive behaviour. This is not merely a game, some sport for your entertainment, Clarissa. Innocent people’s lives are at stake. Lives that you put at risk.’

‘I thought you cared naught for these people yourself. Did you not make me a pretty speech that it was all sport to you and you were indifferent to their fate?’

‘Well, I care for John, at any rate,’ was his lame response. Confound the woman, Kit thought, looking distinctly uncomfortable now. First she knows my thoughts, and now she seems able to look into my very soul and read what lies hidden within.

Clarissa pressed on, warming to the task, recognising that for once she held the upper hand. ‘As usual, my lord, you would be better served aiming your words at a more deserving target—yourself! Putting innocent lives at risk for sport and pleasure! For shame, sir, is that not exactly the fate you intended for Amelia Warrington?’

‘Her again,’ Kit exploded. ‘What is your obsession with that girl? As I’ve said before, I pride myself on amply rewarding those with whom I play such games.’

‘Indeed you do, Lord Rasenby. But have you ever considered that what you proudly call generosity is, in fact, conscience and guilt?’

Kit stepped towards Clarissa, grasping her by both elbows, looming over her threateningly. ‘That may be so, Clarissa, but we are embroiled in a game of our own, remember. One we both chose to play willingly and in which neither of us could be called innocent. A game that is about to resume.’

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