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
