Licking her dry lips nervously, Clarissa forced herself to relax against the cushions, feigning an indifference she was far from feeling. He had no intention of letting her go, and would insist on their union here in this house, and soon. For all she knew they were alone, although common sense told her there must be servants around somewhere. But servants in Lord Rasenby’s employ were not likely to come to her rescue.
Rising to make the tea, Clarissa noted with relief that at least her hand did not betray her as she carefully measured out the delicate bohea from the wooden chest and poured the hot water from the little copper kettle into the delicate Chinese porcelain pot. Handing Kit a dish and settling gratefully to sip on her own, Clarissa frantically reviewed her options. They numbered two in total, and she was not confident of the likely success of either. She could stall, persuade Kit to postpone their union until some later point, and then somehow manage never to see him again. Or she could simply tell him the truth, and beg him to release her from her promise.
Actually, there was a third choice. She could submit. The thought brought a flush to her cheeks. To experience true passion just this once. To succumb to Kit’s love-making. To bring this flame lit by Kit’s kisses to a fire. To know real fulfilment. Oh God, it was tempting. Clarrie shivered at the thought.
But it was a fantasy. Impossible. For she knew that one taste of Kit would leave her desperate for more. One slip and she would be wholly in his power, incapable of refusing him aught. Kit would use her and discard her, of this Clarissa was certain. She had to refuse him at any cost, no matter how much her body begged her to say yes to him.
Postponement, then, is what she would aim for. Taking another sip of the beautifully scented tea, Clarissa tried to relax. ‘Do you think the Renauds will be safe, now? Monsieur told me a little of their troubles. Despite all he has been through, he seemed to me a kind man. He looks for good in everyone, even his enemies. I am not sure I could be so forgiving.’
‘No? You surprise me, I thought that seeing good in people, despite ample evidence to the contrary, was something you took pride in doing yourself. Your determination to cast me in a positive light, for instance?’
She was nervous, Kit realised, looking for a way out, that much was obvious. Like a cat toying with a mouse, he decided to humour her. The outcome was inevitable—why not enjoy seeing her writhe in his clutches?
‘That’s different,’ Clarissa replied. ‘I merely pointed out to you that you have good qualities as well as bad. That is not at all the same thing as believing in goodness when faced with true evil, as Monsieur Renaud must surely have been. Were it my husband locked in a prison, condemned to death for no reason other than his birth, I would not be so forgiving.’
‘Would you not? And what, fair Clarissa, would you do?’
‘I have no idea. It would depend on the circumstances, I suppose. But if I found harm had been done to the man I loved, I would seek revenge.’
‘I’d like to see it. I had no idea you could use a sword. Or would you choose pistols at dawn?’
‘Of course not, I did not mean a duel. I meant—oh, you are infuriating! You take nothing seriously, there is no point in this discussion.’ Petulantly, Clarissa placed her tea dish on the side table. So much for trying to involve him in conversation. All he seemed to do was aggravate her.
She took a calming breath and tried again. ‘This is a lovely room. Is it a large house—Thornwood Manor, I think you called it?’
Only the slight twitch of his sculpted mouth betrayed Kit’s amusement at this latest sally. ‘Not large by the standards of my other properties—a mere cottage, some would say—with only ten bedrooms, and really quite small grounds.’
‘And do you stay here often?’
‘Not as often as I’d like. I spent my youth here. Nowadays I come when I want to sail, or to escape the tedium of London for a spell.’
‘Oh.’ The silence grew as Clarissa searched her mind desperately for another topic.
‘You could always ask me about the weather.’
Looking up at this taunting remark, she could not help but smile, acknowledging the hit. ‘Oh, no, for I feel I have not yet exhausted the possibilities of asking about your other residences first. The weather is far down the list. I’d be surprised if we reached that topic before we returned to London.’
‘We are not returning to London for a while yet; you really must resign yourself to that fact. We are staying here, Clarissa, in the solitude of this ten-bedroom house with its small but beautiful park, until I have received my payment from you. To return to London without it would, I very much fear, be to give you the chance to disappear while still in my debt. And I have no intention of allowing that. You should not play if you cannot pay. Every gambler knows that.’
Would that her mama had followed that advice, Clarissa thought bitterly. But Mama and her debts seemed so far away. And unless she could escape from Kit, and soon, Clarissa was not sure she would ever be able to face them again.
‘I can’t stay here, it’s not practical. I have nothing with me but what I stand in. No clothes, not even a toothbrush. No, no, Lord Rasenby—Kit—I must beg of you to return to London. I will pay you, but not here.’ She was frightened, but it was tinged with a strange excitement. She did not fear hurt. He was making her suffer to tease her, perhaps even frighten her a little bit. But he would let her go, surely? He would not really make good his threat to keep her here against her will?
‘A toothbrush I can supply you with. As to clothes—what need will we have of those? You need no adorning other than the glow of love-making. Lying naked in my arms, I have no doubt you will look your most beautiful.’
‘Oh!’ The thought was shocking, but the picture it conjured up, crystal clear in its detail, was more shocking still. A flush stole across Clarissa’s pale cheeks at the idea of Kit naked beside her, his hard masculine body starkly contrasting with her own feminine curves. She felt a slow burning heat suffuse her. A rhythmic pulse picked up an insistent beat deep within that refused to be dispelled. Shaking her head in an effort to clear the fog clouding her brain, Clarissa looked up to find Kit watching her knowingly, perfectly well aware of the direction he had given her mind.
‘Well, Clarissa? Have you any other objections? If so, I would prefer that you raise them now, for pleasant as I find it to talk with you, there are other more—pressing—things we must do together. I find I am growing impatient with waiting, and wish to conclude our bargain.’ Kit rose and crossed the room to stand before her. ‘Come, Clarissa, enough of your excuses. You have a promise to fulfil.’
‘I can’t, I…’
‘You would do well to co-operate, you know. I have no wish for an unwilling partner.’ His words were spoken low, but the threat and the iron will behind them were unmistakable. Kit was annoyed at this show of reluctance, and could not understand it. She had never intended to pay at the start, that much was certain. But she wanted him now, he could not have mistaken her response to him. So why this pretence of reluctance? Surely she could not be planning to trap him into a commitment?
The thought gave Kit sudden pause, for it had never occurred to him that this could be her purpose. That she had some secret scheme he doubted not, as he doubted not that this maidenly modesty of hers was a ploy. But that the plot could have been a honey trap! No, he could not believe it. ‘Come, Clarissa, it is time. I know not why you are feigning reluctance, you were eager enough in the cabin last night. You know full well this will be no ravishment, nor seduction even. Better to show good grace in defeat. You will enjoy yourself with me, I promise.’ This time his smile was wolfish.
Taking his hand reluctantly, Clarissa stood. She was trembling, a combination of fear and anticipation mixed with desire making her unsteady on her feet. She stumbled, clutching Kit’s arm to steady herself, and found herself drawn close when she would have made to pull away. ‘No, no, I can’t, I—’
‘Oh, I think you’ll find that you can.’ His arms were aro
und her, pulling her tight to his chest. His breath was on her face, and his lips captured hers in a sweet, tempting kiss before she had time to reply.
It was a kiss that promised of delights to come. A prelude, an appetiser of a kiss, softening her lips, forcing her mouth gently open, making her sigh softly as she melted.
Anchoring Clarissa to him with a hand placed firmly in the small of her back, Kit carefully stroked the soft curls on her forehead with the other, soothing, caressing away her resistance. His mouth left her lips to nibble gently on her ear lobe, and then to whisper light kisses on her brows, her eyelids, down to the swan-like line of her neck, licking the tender hollow of her shoulder.
It was a kiss that threatened to be her undoing. Clarissa unfurled like a spring flower in the bright March sunlight, slowly turning to the heat of the sun after the long cold winter. The defences she had thought so strong melted under this slow, sensual assault. As Kit slowly licked his way back up the white column of her throat to find her mouth once more, Clarissa sighed again, more deeply this time, surrendering to the inevitable. His tongue swept slowly along her lower lip, now pulsing with response, and she opened her mouth in anticipation of his onslaught.
To her surprise, it didn’t come. Kit pulled back, just enough to look into her face, but the break awoke her to the extreme danger of her situation. Once more, fear battled with desire. Once more, she tried to pull together the tattered shreds of her resolution.
‘No, you don’t, Clarissa.’ The arm around her waist tightened, preventing her from moving away.
‘Let me go!’
‘No. I didn’t stop in order to resume this tedious pretence of reluctance on your part. In fact, quite the opposite. I want you willing. I know you are willing, and you know it too. I have no wish to force you, but I think we both know I won’t have to. Admit it, damn you!’
‘No. I won’t. Let me go.’
‘Don’t make me lose my temper. I am fast approaching the end of my tether with you, I warn you. Now, admit that you are willing, for the love of God, woman, for in case it had escaped your notice, I am more than a little in need of satisfaction.’
Indeed, she could hardly be unaware of his arousal, pressed so close as she was against him. Clarissa shifted slightly, trying to move away from him, but succeeded only in rubbing herself more intimately against him, causing him to wince.
‘If you don’t stop struggling like that, we will not make it to the bedroom.’ Kit’s tone was urgent, his voice husky with passion, but his eyes were hard, dark pools of determination.
Clarissa knew she could not fight such a man with subterfuge any longer. If she was to escape from here with her virtue—what was left of it—she must confess all. ‘Kit, please let me go. There is something I must tell you.’
‘I thought I had made it singularly clear that the time for talk is over, Clarissa. I am not interested in words at present, I am more concerned with the other things our mouths can do. I need one word only from you, and that is yes. Just say it, Clarrie,’ Kit said urgently, ‘say yes.’
‘No! I won’t. Let me go.’ Her voice betrayed her desperation as she twisted in his grip. ‘Kit, you’ve got to listen to me. If you don’t you’ll regret it, I promise.’
‘The only thing I’ll regret is that I stopped when I did. I am tired of your tricks. I want to hear no more of your lies. Your kisses tell me clear enough that your answer is yes.’
Clarissa’s struggles became more determined. She felt the flounce on her petticoat rip as Kit held her effortlessly tight. One long curl escaped its pins, and she shook it impatiently from her face. Her heart was beating so fast she felt it must escape the confines of her rib cage, and she could no longer hide the apprehension in her eyes. ‘No! I am not who you think I am. I am not here for the reasons you believe. Kit, please, you must listen to me. Please!’
The single tear, the first he had seen her shed, was so surprising that he released her abruptly. Thrusting her back on to the sofa in confusion, Kit watched as she wiped it away. Even in extremes, it would seem, Clarissa was not a female to fall back on the traditional ploy of waterworks. Striding to the side table, he unlocked the tantalus and poured brandy into two glasses, downing his in one swift gulp before taking the other glass to Clarissa. ‘Here, take this.’
She pushed it away, still intent on regaining some measure of control over the panic that was engulfing her. ‘I don’t want that. There is no need to get me drunk, my lord, it will not make my consent any more forthcoming.’
‘I have no intention of making you drunk, damn it! You are upset. The brandy will calm you. And before you even think about it, no, it is not laced with any drug. I am not, after all, such a villain as Signor Montoni. Now drink up.’
The fiery liquid made her gasp, but it did help calm her. Trying rather ineffectually to push her hair back into its pins, Clarissa looked up to see that Kit was watching her, a grim look on his face. ‘I must look a fright.’ Her voice was shaky.
His hand reached out to grasp hers, his fingers wound round the curl, and tightened, just enough for her to sense the threat. Despite the concern he had shown, he had not softened towards her. Idly twisting her curl round and around those long, shapely fingers, Kit watched Clarissa, his eyes like cold chips of flint, a slight frown between his dark brows, giving her no hint of his thoughts.
She shivered. She had badly miscalculated; he would not be swayed from his purpose. Her only hope was in making him listen to the truth before his temper took control. If she was going to speak, now was her only chance.
Clarissa took a deep breath. ‘Kit? I know you’re angry, but, please, won’t you listen, just for a moment?’ Forcing herself to look up into his face, she was taken aback at the bleakness there. His eyes were expressionless, his mouth a hard, grim line. His breathing was harsh and he trembled with a mixture of barely suppressed anger and frustrated desire. The urge to reach up, to place a small, soft hand against those grim lines on his brow, to try to smooth them away with her thumb, was irresistible.
Kit closed his eyes at the touch, but almost immediately swatted her hand away and sat back from her, as if the contact gave him pain. ‘Another of your tricks, Clarissa, pity? I have no need of that. If anyone is to be pitied, it is you.’
The frown deepened, the brows drawn together to meet in the middle, giving him a satanic look that made her retreat, truly afraid for the first time. Noting her reaction, Kit gave a harsh laugh. ‘Yes, now you see before you the real wicked Lord Rasenby. Just as I see before me the real, treacherous Clarissa. I have but one advantage over you, my sweet. At least I played fair.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I never pretended to be other than what I am. Whereas you… Well, I still don’t know what your game is, but I no longer care. I knew you lied when you sought me out. I knew you lied about your reasons for wanting this little adventure as you called it. But I thought—hoped—had come to expect, in any case, that you would play fair, that at least your more intimate dealings with me would be honest. It seems I was mistaken, and you are simply a better actress than I thought.’
Kit ran a hand through his thick black hair and shook his head in an effort to clear his brain. He was exhausted, had barely slept for almost two days. Against his will, he had begun to like this woman in front of him, to honour her for her courage and her quick wits. He enjoyed her company, but that made her treachery all the harder to come to terms with. Subtly but surely over these last few days, this woman had got under his skin, and he thought she felt the same. Now there could be no doubt that it had all been an act. This determined blowing of hot and cold, even the meagre tears, all were mere trickery, designed to make him take pity and to let her go. But he would not!
No longer caring about the means, Kit was determined that the end should be as she had promised. He would have her, and she would admit that she was willing, would admit that she wanted him as he wanted her. He had to have her, his blood would not be cooled without her. Th
en, thank God, it would be over. She would be out of his system, and he could go back to his life—whatever that turned out to be.
Kit stood to pour himself another measure of brandy. Looking over as he drained his glass, he saw she was crying, silent tears, which she was frantically trying to mop with her sleeve. Her shoulders were hunched, and her breathing uneven, and she looked so forlorn, with her crumpled dress and her hair in disarray, that he had to quell the urge to go over, to wrap her in his arms, and tell her no harm would come to her. Hardening his heart, reminding himself it was just another of her games, he returned instead to the armchair opposite, and waited for her to gain some control over herself.
A loud sniff and a final surreptitious wipe of her nose informed him that she was ready to speak.
‘I’m sorry,’ Clarissa muttered, ‘I don’t usually cry.’
‘No, and you wasted your effort, you know. Your tears move me as little as your protestations of maidenly modesty. Both are false.’
‘You’re quite wrong, Kit, but I can see that it will do me no good to protest.’ She had ruined everything with her lies, she could see that. What little trust there had been between them was spoilt. What tiny, faint fantasy she had clung on to for some kind of future happiness was an impossible dream. ‘I need to tell you the truth—will you listen?’
‘The truth? That will be a novelty.’ The harsh, cynical laugh, almost a snarl, with no trace of humour, proved she had lost him for ever. ‘I’ll listen, but it will make no difference. By the end of tonight, you will be mine. By the end of tomorrow, you will be gone and we can both say good riddance. I wish to get the whole thing over with, for this game begins to bore me—sooner than I had thought. So, please, tell me your tale and then let us talk no more.’
The Wicked Lord Rasenby Page 13