The Wicked Lord Rasenby

by Marguerite Kaye

  ‘Clarrie. I’m not asking you to be my mistress.’ As she turned to open the door, Kit grabbed her wrists, only to drop them as Clarissa stared haughtily at him.

  ‘You said you wouldn’t touch me.’

  He flushed and loosed his hold. ‘I’m sorry. Don’t go. God, I’m making such a mess of this. Clarissa, I’m trying to ask you to marry me.’

  ‘Don’t be silly, Kit, it’s the last thing you want, and there’s really no need.’

  ‘There’s every need. I want you. I don’t want you to go off and be a governess somewhere.’

  ‘How did you know that was my plan?’

  ‘What? I don’t know. My sister may have mentioned it this morning, I don’t know. Does it matter, for God’s sake?’

  ‘What has your sister to do with all of this?’

  Too late, Kit remembered that Clarissa knew nothing of Lady Constance’s visit to Letitia. Too late, he realised just how Clarissa would interpret his proposal in the light of this knowledge. Foolishly, for almost the first time in his life allowing his emotions to get in the way of his logic, Kit tried to brush aside the facts. ‘My sister has nothing to do with this. I just—she called on me this morning.’

  ‘Why? Why should your sister take an interest in my affairs? She knows nothing of me. What is going on, Kit?’

  ‘Your aunt and my sister are good friends,’ Kit blurted out. ‘Your aunt confided some of our affairs to my sister. My sister was mightily displeased with my behaviour. She came this morning to inform me of such.’

  ‘My aunt is acquainted with your sister? Yes, now I remember, she mentioned it; I had forgotten. But I swore my aunt to secrecy. I thought Aunt Constance of all people would have wanted to keep the whole thing as quiet as possible. This is dreadful.’

  ‘Clarissa, your aunt quite naturally wanted to make me, through the medium of my sister, feel a little of the guilt I sorely deserve for the grievous hurt I inflicted on you. She is angry at me on your behalf, and wants me to suffer. Do not blame her for that.’

  ‘But I told her it was not your fault. I told her I did nothing I didn’t want to. I told her to keep it to herself.’ Clarissa left the doorway to take a quick turn about the room, her brain in a turmoil. ‘And what has any of this to do with you asking me to marry you? You were certainly not of that inclination yesterday, as I know only too well. Tell me, Kit, what has changed your mind today?’

  ‘Yesterday I was not myself. I didn’t see things as clearly. I want you more than anything in the world, I see that now. I know you want me.’

  ‘You said yourself, Kit, that passion fades.’

  ‘I was wrong, Clarrie. What exists between us, I’ve never felt that before, never.’

  ‘Well, but that doesn’t mean you’ll feel the same thing in a month, a year, ten years hence, does it? And your track record, you know, is not in your favour—two months, I believe, is the longest period you have ever managed to remain faithful.’ She felt as though the pain would prevent her speaking, but she was determined to finish things while she retained some dignity. So easy it would be to give in. But so painful it would be to watch Kit spend his life regretting.

  ‘You’re different, Clarrie,’ Kit said desperately. ‘I’m different now, you’ve changed me. And I know the truth about you. I’m so sorry I didn’t believe you.’

  ‘That’s just it, Kit, you didn’t believe me yesterday, you wouldn’t believe me today, or tomorrow either. It’s your sister you believe, your sister who enlightened you, and it is due to your sister that you are here now. In fact, were it not for your sister, you would still be at home, and no thought of marriage would have crossed your mind.’

  ‘No, that’s not it—well, not precisely. I would have realised, sooner or later, Clarrie. Surely the only thing that matters is that I have come to my senses now?’ Kit could see her retreating inside herself with every word, and felt helpless to stop it. This was all going horribly wrong. ‘Clarissa, I want you to marry me. I’ve never offered that to anyone before, I’ve never wanted to. But I want to offer it to you now. Say yes, say you will be my wife.’

  ‘You asked me to say yes yesterday, and I did. But I was sadly mistaken, wasn’t I? I don’t think I’ll make the same mistake again, Kit. Thank you for the honour, but I’m afraid I can’t accept.’ Clarissa blinked back the tears as she spoke, biting her lip to stop the words yes, yes, yes come screaming out. He did not love her. He was driven to propose by guilt, coerced by her aunt and his sister. She didn’t want him on those terms. In the end, wife or mistress, she’d still wake up every morning with that same feeling of impending gloom, wondering when he would tire of her. She would not let him grow to hate her.

  ‘But I thought you loved me.’

  ‘My aunt again? So I can add pity to your motivations now, as if I did not feel bad enough.’ Clarissa looked up at Kit, her eyes full of unshed tears. It was so difficult not to run to him, not to soothe away his pain, no matter how temporarily, with avowals of her eternal devotion. ‘What I feel is of no import, Kit. You don’t really want to marry me. You are merely trying to do the right thing by me, and there is no need. You say you believe me now you realise that I tell the truth. Well, if that is the case, remember what I said in the letter I left you. You did not take what I was not happy to give. You have no need to feel guilt.’

  ‘Clarrie darling, please. I know I hurt you, forced you, frightened you. And I’m sorry. I’ll spend the rest of my life feeling sorry. But I can make amends. Please, just listen to me. You must listen.’ Kit reached for her hand, but she wrenched free.

  ‘No! No, I won’t. I don’t want your pity or your apologies, I won’t listen any more, for you say nothing that I want to hear. Now please leave me alone, for I can’t take any more. I will deal with my aunt, and your sister will no doubt forgive you in time. It was a lovely adventure, Kit, truly it was, and I enjoyed every minute of it. But it is over.’

  ‘I see.’ His voice was cool, his mouth a grim line of anger and hurt. Bewildered and confused as he was by her rejection, he could think of nothing else to say, nothing else to persuade her. Letitia must have misunderstood Lady Constance. He had been too quick to make assumptions himself. She didn’t really love him. And it was no wonder, after the way he had treated her. He could not blame her. ‘Very well, I will relieve you of my company. Please be assured, however, that you can count on me in the future if you ever need anything—anything at all.’

  The touch of his lips on her hand was cool. He did not meet her eyes, but turned and left. It was almost too much to bear, knowing that she had caused such hurt. But it would be harder, so much harder, to see him repenting for his behaviour every day of their lives together, bound to her through obligation, tied to her side when all she wanted was for him to be free to be himself.

  Clarissa swallowed the protest that rose to her lips as he closed the door, and tottered into a nearby chair, her legs unable to support her. This time it was final. There would be no more Kit. She should be pleased that she had not given in, pleased she had not humiliated herself with an admission of love.

  Desperately reviewing his proposal, seeking some trace of emotion, some hint that he felt for her even a tiny part of the love that she felt for him, Clarissa had to admit defeat. He had asked her from a sense of duty, bullied into it by his family, no doubt relieved to have been refused. She could not build a future on such flimsy foundations. The thought was cold comfort. Distressed far beyond tears, Clarissa sat alone in the cold room, unable to move, lost in a world without Kit.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Robert, Marquis of Alchester, was also contemplating life without Kit Rasenby, but in his case it was a state of affairs much to be desired. In fact, he had been extremely busy making arrangements over the last twenty-four hours to bring about exactly that outcome. Envy of his childhood friend had turned over the years, like milk gone sour, into bitter hatred. Plotting Rasenby’s downfall consumed almost every waking moment. Not everything that was afoo
t was absolutely clear, but Alchester was satisfied none the less that at last he had enough information to put his plan into action. His network of spies and outlay on bribes was finally starting to pay dividends.

  The exact nature of Clarissa Warrington’s place in Kit Rasenby’s life still taxed him. The visits to his house in Grosvenor Square and the sojourn at Thornwood Manor, on each occasion without an escort, were not the actions of a respectable female. On the other hand, Rasenby was not in the way of asking his mistresses into his homes. There could be no doubt in Alchester’s mind that the pair were lovers, but what intrigued him was Kit’s intentions towards the wench. She was Constance Denby’s niece, not one of his common flirts. Rasenby had called on her today, leaving those showy chestnuts of his to be walked in the cold for more than an hour. It was not like him to be so careless of his horses. Whatever Rasenby’s ultimate intentions, Alchester had seen enough to know that Clarissa was important to him, and that would suffice. In Clarissa he now had a tool with which to extract his revenge.

  Faith, it was satisfying, the thought that he’d finally be taking something away from his enemy. Something so obviously highly prized. Something whose loss would definitely pain him deeply. Someone whose disappearance would cause him to suffer agonies. Alchester almost rubbed his hands together with glee at the thought, his weak mouth set in a malicious grin. When Rasenby found the chit had been abducted and seduced it would pay in some part for all the humiliations Robert had suffered at his hands over the years. It was perfect. With profound satisfaction, Alchester set about making his final preparations.

  Clarissa received his letter later that day. The Marquis of Alchester requested her presence at a meeting to discuss the settlement of her mother’s debts. An office in the city was named, and the time of the appointment given for early the following morning. Exhausted and heavy hearted from her interview with Kit, Clarissa looked at the contents dully, convinced that it meant her mother was doomed to an early death in prison. This terrible thought failed to shock—Clarissa was numb—and she merely noted the address and time and thought no more of it. So clouded was her mind that it did not even occur to her to wonder why the letter was not addressed to Lady Maria direct.

  She spent a listless day and could only toy with her dinner, scarcely aware of her sister’s unusually animated prattling to Mama beside her. The meeting between Lady Constance and Edward had gone well, it seemed, and Lady Constance had intimated that she would not be averse to pulling the strings necessary for Edward’s promotion. Amelia was transformed by happiness—although oblivious as ever to the cares of others.

  ‘And I must have a decent trousseau, Mama, for I am like to mix with many of Edward’s new clients, to say nothing of having to give my own parties as a married lady. Edward says that I must not expect too much, but with Aunt Constance behind him, I know it won’t be long before we are rich. Oh, Mama, I am so happy. Edward says—’

  ‘I am going to bed.’ Clarissa rose abruptly from the table, scarcely glancing at the two faces staring at her in consternation.

  ‘Yes, dear, but we were discussing Amelia’s trousseau. We would welcome your views.’

  ‘Your time would be better spent discussing how we are to pay the butcher’s bill, Mama. And as to Amelia’s trousseau—perhaps we should wait to see if Edward will actually propose before buying anything.’

  ‘Clarrie dear, that is most cruel and very unlike you. Are you quite well, dear?’

  ‘Oh, never mind her, Mama, she’s just jealous because I have a beau who wants to marry me and hers doesn’t. Even though she has tried quite everything to persuade him—is that not so, sister?’

  As she watched Clarissa turn pale at the remark, even Amelia realised she’d gone too far. ‘Clarrie, you mustn’t worry, must she, Mama? We don’t need Kit Rasenby or any of his sort now, do we? Perhaps once I’m married I’ll be able to help find someone for you.’

  ‘It doesn’t matter. I don’t care. I’m going to bed.’ With a shrug, Clarissa left. Almost nothing touched her. She felt as if she was seeing the world through a thick wall of glass, which naught could penetrate. Nothing mattered, save that she would never see Kit again. Blinking away a single lonely tear, she took to her bed and fell into a deep, haunted sleep.

  Awaking the next day, the future seemed bleaker than ever. Listlessly, she got ready for her trip to the city, barely glancing in the mirror as she thrust her hair into a simple knot and donned a cloak over her plain cambric gown, dressing rather for the weather than the vogue. Expecting to return before either Lady Maria or Amelia rose from their bedchambers, Clarissa decided against leaving any word of her whereabouts, for Mama would only get into a state. She left the house for her meeting with the Marquis of Alchester unnoticed even by the maid.

  Twenty minutes later the hackney cab deposited her in the busy animated bustle of the streets of the Fleet in the heart of the City. Clarissa stood, bewildered by the multitude of cries from the streetmongers offering up pint pots of ink, bundles of faggots or pecks of oysters for sale. Directly above her she spotted the sign of Coutts Bank, and remembered her father had once mentioned doing business there. She wondered if they served Kit, and reminded herself that it was none of her business who he banked with. All these people going about their business, making money, drawing up contracts, with hardly a glance at her. To the world, it’s as if I neither exist nor matter, she thought with unaccustomed bitterness. For one mad moment Clarissa felt an overwhelming urge to scream aloud, Does no one know or care that my heart is torn asunder! Repressing the thought, however, she instead stepped into the address she had been given, to be shown into a dingy office by a clerk.

  As she sat opposite a desk, alone in the stuffy room, Clarissa grew ill at ease, realising for the first time that the requested interview was rather unorthodox. Why had the letter been addressed to herself and not Mama? Why was the Marquis of Alchester meeting her here, in this run-down office? And what could they have to discuss when the debt was not yet due? A slight tremor of fear ran through her. Something was amiss here. No one knew where she was. She should leave now and go home. But even as she rose to go the door opened and a man appeared, closing it firmly behind him as he entered.

  He was slight of build, seeming neither young nor old. His face showed signs of dissipation, his eyes hooded, the lids pulled downwards by an intricate network of lines. His nose was long and thin and his gaze darted this way and that even though there was no one else in the room. His skin was pale, the colour of one who does not often see the sun. His movements were nervous and fidgety. The Marquis of Alchester reminded Clarissa of nothing so much as a small rodent.

  But he was impeccably dressed and smiling, a tight smile, thinning his already narrow lips into a straight line. ‘Miss Warrington? Robert, Marquis of Alchester, your servant, madam.’

  The touch of his hand was cold as a corpse, his lips barely grazed her glove. Clarissa shivered, her fear taking shape as he bent over her. Whatever this man’s intentions, they were not noble. She must escape.

  ‘I am afraid there has been a mistake, my lord. I should not have come. Forgive me for wasting your time, but my mother is waiting for me outside. I came only to inform you to write to me with your terms that I may consider them on my mother’s behalf. Now, I must bid you good day.’ Clarissa gave a small bow and moved towards the door.

  ‘I’m afraid I must ask you to stay for a moment, Miss Warrington. I’m sure your mama can spare you.’

  ‘I’m afraid not, my lord. We have a morning call to make, we are expected, and I am late already.’ Her voice trembled, but she stood her ground.

  ‘Sit down, Clarissa. You are not going anywhere. You may spare me your pathetic attempts at lies. Your mama is not waiting for you outside. You are quite alone. You don’t think your arrival went unnoticed, do you?’

  His voice was cold, like a breath from a cadaver. Fear clutched her insides. She sat down, silent, unable to trust her voice, cursing her stupidity for not ha
ving informed anyone of her intentions.

  ‘Your mama owes me quite a little sum, doesn’t she? And I doubt she has the means to pay it, am I right?’ Robert Alchester looked at the woman before him. She was terrified, he had no doubt about that, though determined not to show it. He liked a bit of spirit in a woman—that augured well for later. She was not beautiful in the common way, but there was something about her, a challenging look, a tilt to her face, and a curvaceous body despite her slenderness—yes, he could see why Kit Rasenby found her to his liking.

  Clarissa cleared her throat to speak. Her voice was quiet, but resolute, despite the shaking that was threatening to prevent her from moving. ‘The debt is not due for some time. There is nothing to discuss at present. I must leave now.’

  ‘You are going nowhere, my dear. At least, not home in any event.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ Clarissa got quickly to her feet and tried to push past the Marquis, but he caught her arm in a firm grip, his bony fingers showing surprising strength. She stood without struggling, repulsed by his proximity, her breath coming in shallow, sharp gasps. ‘Unhand me at once, sir!’

  Robert Alchester merely laughed, a soft, low, vicious growl that made her skin prickle. ‘Very good, but you will learn to be more—accommodating—unless you wish to be harmed. I have no wish to hurt you, Clarissa, but I will do so if I need to.’

  His face was close to hers, those cold, icy eyes watching her like a hawk, his mouth a thin, sneering line. She had no difficulty in believing him. He looked like the type to inflict pain for pleasure, would no doubt enjoy seeing her suffer. The mixture of distaste and disgust showed clearly on her expressive face.

  ‘Yes, I can see you believe me. Now sit down and I’ll explain all.’