Date with a Regency Rake. Marguerite Kaye
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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