Date with a Regency Rake. Marguerite Kaye
Читать онлайн книгу.
of warning. I will play these games only so far. You can abandon, once and for all, this pretence of innocent virginity, for the passion in your kisses prove you to be far from innocent.’ Looking down at her, he was taken aback to see a sheen of tears glazing her speaking emerald eyes.
‘Rest assured, your lack of innocence does your case no harm. Had you really been the virgin you claim to be, I would have hesitated. I need now have no scruples, and can consider your proposition with a clear conscience. The footman will call a hack for you. Good night.’
With a slight bow, he turned away from her, ringing the bell for the servant. Clarissa stumbled out to the waiting hack, her mind a swirl of abject confusion and unexpected hurt.
So distressed was she that she failed to notice the figure turning the corner into the street. Lord Robert Alchester, returning home early of necessity since his pockets were to let, from the tables of the hell in St James’s currently favoured with his patronage, was most intrigued. Well, well, the woman from last night, if he was not mistaken, and emerging alone from Kit Rasenby’s town house. This development was worth keeping an eye on.
Chapter Four
Clarissa rose heavy eyed the next morning, having slept only fitfully, haunted by the memory of Kit Rasenby’s kisses and her own shocking response. What was it about the man that made her act so out of character? Needing to clear her head, she eschewed her usual morning chocolate and settled instead for a brisk, invigorating walk around the park. This fever her body had succumbed to was but a passing fancy, surely. Triggered, like as not, by the novel experience of being kissed for the first time, and nothing more. It was not that Kit was irresistible at all. It was just that she had never had such contact with a man before. He was a novelty, that was all.
Entering the little breakfast parlour an hour later, she was grateful to find that both her mama and her sister were as yet abed. Resolutely putting all thoughts of Kit to one side, Clarissa partook of coffee and warm rolls, finally able to mull over the events of the previous night with something approaching her usual rational calm.
Kit’s ruthless assassination of her sister’s character she acknowledged to be sadly all too accurate. There could be no doubt that Amelia would accept whatever Kit Rasenby offered, proper or improper. What would count with Amelia would be the recompense in purely financial terms. And the higher the terms, the less Amelia would concern herself with the loss of her virtue. Kit Rasenby was right. Amelia would be plucked—she shuddered at the awfulness of the term and all it implied. If not by him, then certainly by some other opportunist with a large and generous purse and a taste for virgin flesh.
Ruefully, Clarissa realised she would not wish Amelia as a wife on Kit Rasenby even had he any such intentions. It would be the road to misery for them both. Not, she cautioned herself, because she had any feelings for Kit herself, mind you. No, it was merely that she was sure they would bring only unhappiness to each other. And even a rake, after all, deserved more from matrimony. No, Amelia and Kit must not—would not—marry.
Amelia herself put an end to these musings, storming into the breakfast parlour in a state of high dudgeon, bright flags of anger flying in her cheeks. She was not yet dressed, and though she had discarded her nightcap, her hair was hanging loose, and the muslin wrapper she wore over her chemise was only loosely tied.
‘Clarrie, there you are. I’ve been looking for you everywhere—where have you been? I’ve had the most dreadful night, I’ve hardly had a wink of sleep.’ Throwing herself into a chair, failing to notice that her sister looked singularly tired from her own restless night, Amelia’s mouth puckered in temper that boded a storm of tears in the near future. Reaching for a roll from the basket, she discarded it again petulantly. ‘These are cold. And I expect the coffee is, too! I want fresh. Where is that dratted maid, she’s never here when I need her? Honestly, Clarrie, is it too much to ask that we employ servants who can actually fulfil their duties? I swear that woman hates me. How I detest being poor!’
Pulling the bell to summon fresh coffee, Clarissa eyed her sister with an impending sense of gloom. The last thing she needed was one of Amelia’s tantrums, which were not only exhausting, but all-consuming. And unstoppable. There was no point in trying to do anything other than let them run their course, so she simply sat back and waited.
‘Don’t look at me like I’m some tiresome child to be indulged. I won’t be ignored! Oh, Clarrie, you don’t know—how can you know?—how truly dreadful it is to be me. Sometimes I almost wish I wasn’t so beautiful. If I was merely pretty, like you, then it wouldn’t be so bad.’
Clarissa, inured to such casual insults, continued quietly with her breakfast. Amelia slumped into her seat, causing her to hope that a full-blown tantrum was to be avoided, but this was dashed when, with a long drawn-out ‘Ohhhhhh’ of frustration, her sister rose abruptly, pushing her chair over, and started pacing in front of the fireplace. With a sigh, Clarissa gave Amelia her full attention.
‘Come Amelia, what ails you? Won’t you sit down and tell me?’ She patted the chair invitingly, but Amelia continued to pace.
‘I tell you, Clarrie, I am positively sick to my teeth of my life. Look at me!’ Pausing to inspect herself in the mirror above the meagre fire burning in the grate, Amelia looked temporarily gratified at what she saw. Really, she was simply beautiful, even with her hair uncurled and her nightwear in disarray. But that was just the problem. ‘I mean, I’m lovely. I’m not being vain, Clarrie, I can see it myself. And everyone says so—Mama, you, Chloe, everyone. I can’t be this beautiful if it’s not for a purpose, can I? I must be meant to marry well, I don’t want to be an ape-leader like you.’ Her breathing quick and shallow, Amelia paced, determinedly nursing her anger. ‘It’s my destiny, a good marriage. The end to all of my problems.’
Wryly Clarissa noted that Amelia concerned herself only with her own fate. No thought, as usual, for Mama. But then, when did Amelia ever think of anyone but herself? Last night Clarissa had accused Kit of escaping all responsibility by using his money to pay people off, everyone from his mother to his mistress. Sometimes she wished she had the means to do the same thing. Kit’s wealth would do a lot to ease the many responsibilities she carried on her slim shoulders. Her mother’s debts. A dowry for Amelia. Even enough to put adequate coals on the fire, or something other than rabbit and onions on the table for dinner.
Amelia unwittingly echoed her thoughts. ‘I need money. I was born for luxury. I can’t go on like this, I just can’t. I’m fed up with wearing the same old clothes all the time, and never having nice jewellery. I’m eighteen, for goodness’ sake, I’m practically on the shelf. I mean, look at you, Clarrie—what have you got in front of you except life as an old maid, or a governess, or married to some ancient old fossil and having to spend your days changing his gout bandages? I’ve got to get out of here. I’ve got to get married. I’ve just got to!’
Giving her temper full reign, Amelia’s voice rose shrilly. Her face became unattractively red and tears flowed rather unbecomingly down her cheeks. A bout of crying was one of the few things that drew attention away from her charms. For a few moments, there was silence in the parlour, interrupted only by hearty sobbing. Amelia cried with a passion, her shoulders heaving, her face hidden in her arms, as she sprawled once more on a seat at the table.
Eventually the tears turned to hiccups and she looked up, a sorry sight, hair tangled and lying damp on her cheeks, eyes puffed and red, to continue her lamentations. ‘And if I’m to marry without a dowry, then it stands to reason that I’ll have to resort to some underhand behaviour, as some people have called it. It stands to reason that I’ll have to be less than honest in my dealings, as some may accuse me. It’s just that fate needs a helping hand sometimes. And if some people can’t see that, well, that’s their problem, not mine. And what’s more, if that’s the way some people think, well … then they’ll find that I’ll refuse to see them again. Not ever! Then they’ll be sorry.’ The sobbing resumed, but more quietly now. The storm had almost worn itself out.
Smiling inwardly, Clarissa realised they had finally come to the crux