Marguerite Kaye - Date with a Regency Rake

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.

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.’