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The Wicked Lord Rasenby
Marguerite Kaye


A scandalous proposition only a rake would accept!The Honourable Clarissa Warrington despairs when her beautiful, foolish sister becomes the latest female to set her cap at the ton’s most notorious rake. For Amelia’s sake, Clarissa must act fast…The devastatingly attractive and wealthy Kit, Lord Rasenby, is bored. London society holds little excitement for him, so the incurable womaniser is tempted by a most unusual offer.If he can provide the intriguing Clarissa with the adventure of a lifetime, she will provide him with – herself! No self-respecting rake could turn such an offer down!







Kit stood and raised a hand to helpClarissa out of her seat.



Taking her by surprise, he pulled her close, one arm around her slim waist, cool on her skin through the thin fabric of her dress, the other tilting her chin upwards.



‘No women other than you? You ask a lot of me. I think a sample of the merchandise would be appropriate, don’t you agree? Just to prove you are worth the sacrifice. I warn you, my fair Clarissa, I won’t be cheated, and I won’t let you go back on your bargain. You do realise that?’



Clarrie licked her full bottom lip nervously, but made no move to escape. The sensation of his hand on her body was sending shivers up her spine. She had never been so close to a man before, and had had no idea that it could be so very exciting.



‘A kiss to seal a bargain then,’ she whispered.



Kit laughed, low and aroused.



‘You are sealing a bargain with the devil.’



His lips brushed hers, smooth and cool at first, a feather-light touch at the corners of her mouth. He ran his tongue over her full bottom lip. She smelled of roses and vanilla, and tasted sweet and hot. Her breath was warm, her breathing shallow.



Clarrie sighed at his touch. She could feel the heat from his body building a slow fire somewhere deep inside her.



She wanted more.


Born and educated in Scotland, Marguerite Kaye originally qualified as a lawyer, but chose not to practice—a decision which was a relief, both to her and the Scottish legal establishment. While carving out a successful career in IT, she occupied herself with her twin passions of studying history and reading, picking up a first-class honours and a Masters degree along the way.



The course of her life changed dramatically when she found her soul mate. After an idyllic year out, spent travelling round the Mediterranean, Marguerite decided to take the plunge and pursue her life-long ambition to write for a living, a dream she had cherished ever since winning a national poetry competition at the age of nine.



Just like one of her fictional heroines, Marguerite’s fantasy has become reality. She has published history and travel articles, as well as short stories, but romances are her passion. Marguerite describes Georgette Heyer and Doris Day as her biggest early influences, and her partner as her inspiration.



This is Marguerite Kaye’s debut novelfor Mills & Boon® Historical Romance




THE WICKED LORD RASENBY


Marguerite Kaye




www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk/)



THE WICKED LORD RASENBY


For J always. Just love




Prologue







1798—Sussex coast



As the clouds cleared, revealing the moon shining high in the night sky, Kit cursed under his breath. He had counted on the cover of darkness until they safely made landfall. Under the relentless beam of the nearly full moon, the Sea Wolf would be in full view as she stole into the remote cove, and that was the last thing he wanted. Surely his luck would hold. After all, it always had until now.

Casting a glance over his shoulder at the two huddled figures on deck, he gestured them to go below. ‘Allez,vite’. Placing a finger over his mouth, indicating silence, he returned his anxious gaze to the shore line. No sign at present of the Revenue cutter, but there was time yet. He knew he was under surveillance.

‘All quiet for the moment, John.’ Kit’s voice was barely a whisper, showing no signs of the tension and mounting excitement he always felt when they neared home with a cargo. He almost wanted to be pursued. Faith, at least it made him feel he was alive.

Even as he spoke though, he caught a glimpse of a sail just off to starboard, approaching fast. ‘I think they’re on to us, John.’ Kit felt the rush of excitement in his blood as the Sea Wolf wheeled hard. ‘We have the wind in our favour, we can still make it.’

John, Kit’s captain, and only companion on these night runs, peered anxiously through his spyglass. ‘They’ve spotted us, Master Kit.’ Keeping his eyes firmly fixed on the course, John showed no outward sign of worry—Kit would get them out of it if the worst happened and they were boarded. The greatcoat his master wore did nothing to hide the muscular strength of the man underneath, but it wasn’t just Kit’s height that gave him that air of command. It was the piercing blue-black eyes under those formidable black brows, the thin-lipped determination above that strong jaw that made John fear for any of Kit’s foes. He was not a man to cross, that was for sure. Almost, John could pity the cutter’s crew. ‘They’ll know where we’re headed.’

Kit laughed softly, viciously. ‘Of course they know. But we’ll have time to unload before they reach us. I’ll go and make sure our French friends are ready.’

The revolution in France was over, and the Terror, the mass slaughter of the French aristocracy, which had included King Louis and his queen, Marie Antoinette, was over too. But the émigrés, seeking shelter from the new regime, continued to flee to England.

The killing was not yet finished. It would go on, under one banner or another, for years. War was inevitable, and likely to be waged with England again, as anyone who even half-understood the volatile new French state could see. War would signal an end to these trips. But in the meantime, Kit was happy to do what he could to rescue those émigrés who made it to the French coast. He took no political sides, but believed one should live and let live.

It took but a brief moment below decks to address the two refugees. The Frenchmen listened with due respect. Kit was well known amongst what was left of the aristocracy as an efficient and courageous rescuer. Well known, also, for taking no payment, accepting no thanks. Addressing the men in flawless, if curt, French, Kit told them to be ready for a quick getaway. The thrill of the chase, the need for speed, the challenge of outwitting the customs men, gave a glow to his hard, handsome countenance.

He was as dismissive of the threat as he was of the men’s attempts to thank him. Kit prided himself on doing this job well, down to the last detail. He had promised them safe passage and no one was going to prevent him keeping that promise. In this secret life, Kit allowed himself a sense of honour that his public persona had no part of.

A post-chaise would be waiting to take the émigrés to London. They would be off his hands, and it was unlikely that he’d ever see them again. The thrill was in the rescue, that was enough. They would have to sink or swim without him once he had safely landed them in England.

As he had predicted, the wind was in their favour, and the clouds too, played their part, scudding back across the moon to hide the yacht as she closed in on her berth. By the time the customs cutter came close enough to hail them, the émigrés were dispatched, with haste and brief adieus, to the waiting chaise. A final reminder from Kit that, should they happen to meet again, under no circumstances were they to acknowledge him, and the Frenchmen were gone. Keeping his smuggling life separate from his life in London was more important to Kit than he cared to admit. As Kit, he could be free. In London, he was somewhat more constrained.

The other cargo, a mere half-dozen kegs of French brandy, was safely stowed in the false floor of the boat house. Kit took his time responding to the hails from the Revenue ship.

‘Well, Lieutenant Smith, we meet once more.’ His smile was sardonic. He knew he’d won again, and he knew too, that the Riding Officer would make no move to search the Sea Wolf now. Lieutenant Smith would need more than a suspicion of smuggling before taking action against the Earl of Rasenby, owner of almost all the land in the surrounding area.

‘Another night-fishing expedition, Lord Rasenby?’

‘As you see, Lieutenant.’ Kit indicated the box that John was unloading. ‘May I offer you something to keep out the cold? Or perhaps a share of my catch for your supper?’

Lieutenant Smith bit down a retort. No benefit, he knew, in riling his lordship. It was more than his job was worth. ‘Thank you, my lord, but I have a job to do. No doubt we’ll meet again one fine night.’ Lieutenant Smith consoled himself with the knowledge that at least his informant had been reliable. Next time, mayhap, Lady Luck and the weather would be on his side.

‘No doubt.’ As he turned to give final instructions to John, the sparkle died from Kit’s eyes, and a slight frown marred his handsome countenance.’ Twas always thus. The thrill of the chase made him glad to be alive, but after, he felt drained of energy, listless, and reluctant to return to the tedium of his other life.

It had been close tonight, perhaps too close. It wasn’t fair to continue to expose John to such danger, and, if he was honest, the excitement was beginning to pall. Kit had been smuggling for years, for the fun of it—brandy usually, silks sometimes. The human cargo had been a more recent addition, but the smell of war was in the air now, and the scent of change for France in the wind. The need for his services was coming to an end.

Nodding absently to John, and slipping him the usual douceur, Kit saddled up his patient horse and headed back across the marshes to his estate. One more run, he promised himself, then he would have to look for distraction elsewhere. One more run, then maybe he would take up his sister Letitia on her offer to find him a suitable bride, and settle down to a life of domesticity.

Lightly touching the sides of the black horse with his heels, Kit laughed out loud. He didn’t know which he found funnier. The thought of Letitia’s face at being asked to supply a willing bride. Or the thought of the poor, faceless bride, at being asked to wed and bed the most notorious rake of the ton.


Chapter One






Two weeks later—London



‘You’re surely not going out in that attire, Amelia?’ The Honourable Clarissa Warrington looked aghast at her younger sister. ‘You’re positively indecent, I swear I can see through your petticoats.’

Amelia, the younger by six years, and at eighteen in full possession of her glowing beauty, simply laughed. ‘Don’t be such a frump. It’s all the rage, dampening your petticoat a little. You’d know that, Clarrie, if you got out once in a while.’

‘I’ve no wish to go out in the company you keep, Amelia. And if you’re not careful, you’ll find that you soon get the sort of reputation that goes with dampened underskirts. To say nothing of the fact that you’ll likely catch cold, too.’

‘Typical Clarrie, ever practical—I never catch cold. Now do stop and fix my hair for me.’ Amelia turned the full force of her huge cornflower-blue eyes on her sister and pouted. ‘No one does it like you, and it’s so important that I look nice tonight.’

With a sigh, Clarissa picked up the brush. She could never stay angry with Amelia for long, even when she felt in the right of it. Amelia was attending yet another party with her friend Chloe and Chloe’s mama, Mrs Barrington. Clarissa received the same invitations, but almost always declined. Aside from the cost, she had no wish to spend the night dancing with dull men who bored her to death with their insipid conversation. Or worse, having to join in with the obligatory female bickering and simpering.

Amelia was different. The latest styles and colours, who was likely to marry whom, were to her of the greatest importance. And it was just as well, thought Clarissa wryly, deftly arranging her sister’s hair, that she found it all so entrancing. Marriage was the only thing Amelia was good for, really. Clarissa loved her sister, but she was not blind to her limitations. How could she be, after all? Amelia was exactly like their mama.

Marriage was in fact becoming a necessity for Amelia. Not, as their mama hoped, because she would make a fabulous match. With such a miniscule marriage portion, that was unlikely in the extreme. No, marriage was a necessity for Amelia because she had neither the skills nor the inclination to earn her own living. On top of which, Clarissa suspected that Amelia was falling into compromising company. If she was to reach the altar unsullied, a wedding must be arranged sooner rather than later.

‘Who are you so desperate to impress tonight then, Amelia?’



Amelia giggled. ‘I don’t think I should tell you. You’re so strait-laced, Clarrie, you’d be sure to run to Mama.’

‘That’s not fair!’ Clarissa carefully threaded a ribbon through Amelia’s golden locks. ‘I’m not a sneak, and you know it. I wouldn’t run to Mama.’ No, indeed she wouldn’t, she thought sadly. For Mama would be sure to say that Clarrie was a fusspot, and that Amelia knew her own business. In fact Mama, the widowed Lady Maria Warrington, would probably not even have the energy to say that much.

Lady Maria had been disappointed in life from an early age, and constant disappointment had taken its toll. Married to a younger son, then left a penniless widow not long after Amelia’s birth, Lady Maria drifted through life with as little effort as possible. Only cards, and the thought of the brilliant match her beautiful younger daughter would one day make, brought any animation to her face. At the slightest sign that any sort of effort would be required from her she wilted, and even on occasions took to fainting fits. Lady Maria had relied on her practical, pragmatic elder daughter for as long as either of them could remember.

Traces of Lady Maria’s beauty could still be detected beneath her raddled skin, but the years had not been kind. Amelia took after her, but Clarissa’s own deep auburn hair and vivid green eyes came from her father’s side of the family. Clarissa barely remembered Papa, and the little she knew came from Aunt Constance, his favourite sister. Questioning Mama simply brought on tears.

Aunt Constance, alone of Papa’s family, had never disowned them, and had always taken an interest in Clarissa. It had been Aunt Constance who funded Clarissa’s schooling, and encouraged her reading—histories, politics, and even romances. Aunt Constance could not like Mama, and had little success with Amelia, who refused to study anything beyond the pianoforte, but she doted on Clarissa, and was fond of telling her stories of Papa as a child.

A final twist to her sister’s coiffure ensured that one golden lock fell artfully over her shoulder. Amelia’s thin muslin dress was of palest pink, her little satin evening slippers dyed to match, as was the ribbon in her hair, dressed in the newly fashionable Grecian knot. Perhaps Amelia’s figure was a little too full to look its best in the high-waisted style, which still seemed so strange to people of their mother’s generation, but Clarissa could see that no gentleman would cavil at being faced with such a lush display of curves.

‘There! You look lovely, Amelia.’

‘Yes, I do, don’t I?’

Amelia preened in the mirror, and Clarissa sighed. Really, her sister was displaying all too much of her ample curves, even if the low décolleté was all the rage. ‘You don’t think that perhaps a fichu…’

The scornful look was answer enough. ‘Oh, very well. I hope you won’t get goose bumps!’ Clarissa tried to introduce a lighter note. There would be no getting anything out of Amelia if she was in the least lecturing. ‘At least tell me who your beau is. For you’ve made such an effort, there must be one.’

‘Well, I don’t know if I will, Clarrie; you’re bound to disapprove.’

The coy look that accompanied this challenge told Clarissa that Amelia was actually bursting to tell. Perversely, she decided not to pursue the matter. ‘Of course, Amelia, I respect your confidence.’ She turned to leave.

‘No, no, I’ll tell. Well, a little. Clarrie, you just won’t believe it. I think, I’m certain—well, almost certain—that Kit Rasenby is interested. What do you think of that then?’

‘Kit Rasenby? Amelia, you don’t seriously mean the Earl of Rasenby? Surely you are mistaken?’

‘Well, I’m not, actually.’ Amelia pouted. ‘He is interested. At the Carruthers’ ball last week he danced with me three times. That’s twice more than any other lady. And he sat next to me at tea. And then I met him at the theatre when we went to that boring old play you were so desperate to see. You know, the one with that old woman in it.’

‘You mean Mrs Siddons?’ Clarissa had been keen to attend the theatre that evening. Lady Macbeth was the part for which Mrs Siddons was most famed. But Lady Maria had had one of her turns, and Clarrie had to stay home to burn feathers under her nose and dab lavender water on her temples. Clarissa was used to self-sacrifice, even though she had long ceased to believe that these ‘turns’ of her mama’s were anything more than habit. But missing the great Mrs Siddons had been a trial.

Amelia had no further interest in Mrs Siddons. ‘Yes, well, Rasenby came to our box particularly to see me. And he spoke to no one else. Chloe said he had eyes only for me all night.’

‘You mean he was eyeing you from the pit?’ Clarissa’s tone was dry. Gentlemen did not eye respectable ladies from the pit. The type of ladies eyed from the pit were not likely to be those offered matrimony.



‘And then, today,’ Amelia continued blithely, ‘when he stopped to talk with us in the park, he asked most particularly if I would be at the Jessops’ ball tonight. So, of course, I know he has intentions.’

‘Amelia, you know what those intentions are likely to be? You do know of the Earl of Rasenby’s reputation?’

A toss of golden curls and yet another pout were the response.

‘Amelia, I’m serious.’ Clarissa might have spurned most of the invitations she received, but no one could be unaware of the reputation of the Earl of Rasenby. He was a hardened gamester and an incurable womaniser. He was enormously rich and famously handsome, although Clarissa was sceptical about this—in her view, the rich were invariably good looking. Lord Rasenby’s mistresses were notoriously beautiful and expensive, and, despite endless lures and traps, he remained determinedly unattached. Quite the perfect Gothic villain, now she thought of it.

‘For Heaven’s sake, Clarrie, do you think I’m stupid? Of course I know of his reputation. Better than you, I expect, since you’re such a prude no one would dare tell you the plain truth. But I know he likes me. A lot! I just know!’

Nothing more could be gained from Amelia, and Clarissa went to bed extremely worried. Her sister was both young and naïve, and could all too easily fall victim to the likes of Rasenby. The company Amelia was keeping, never mind her lack of dowry, was likely to ensure that any offer would be strictly dishonourable.

And if Amelia was offered a carte blanche by someone as rich as Rasenby, she would take it. Clarissa turned restlessly in her bed. It was so hard to be genteelly poor, she could understand the temptation. To a girl like Amelia, the choice between a brief career swathed in furs and silks and showered in diamonds, or a safe marriage with a no more than adequate income was an all too easy one. But life as Kit Rasenby’s mistress would be very short-lived. Amelia’s charms were those of novelty and freshness, not likely to entertain so jaded a palate as Rasenby’s for long. And who would have Amelia then? There was only one way to go, and that was down. Amelia must marry soon, preferably to someone who would take her firmly in hand. But such a person was likely to be too staid and too poor for Amelia. Even supposing she did meet this paragon, would she even look at him, when dazzled by Rasenby’s wealth?

If Amelia was ruined, Clarissa would be ruined by association. Even finding a post as governess, something to which she was daily trying to resign herself, would be difficult. At twenty-four, Clarissa had set her sights on self- sufficiency as the only way to give her some element of the freedom she craved. Aunt Constance’s offer of a home was tempting, but Clarissa knew in her heart that it would mean tying herself to another obligation, even assuming Mama was settled with Amelia.

Clarissa had always been the sensible one. Beside her sister’s vivaciousness and dazzling looks, which had been apparent from a very early age, she felt plain. Her green eyes and dark auburn curls were no match for Amelia’s milkmaid perfection. She had settled compliantly into the role of carer. When Amelia tore her dress, Clarrie stitched it. When Amelia fought with her friends, Clarrie played the peacemaker. And as she grew older, when Amelia wanted to attend parties and make her début, Clarrie scrimped and saved to provide her with the dresses and hats and all the other bits and pieces that she needed.

For years now, Lady Maria’s hopes had been pinned on Amelia making a match that would save them from poverty. Having no wish to become a burden on Amelia’s future household, and having no desire to find herself a suitable match, Clarissa had started, discreetly, looking around for a genteel position. Surrendering her own chance of matrimony was no sacrifice, for she had never met a man who had caused her heart to flutter. In fact, she had never met a man she had found interesting enough to want to get to know better in any way.

Clarissa’s pragmatic front concealed a deep romanticism that the practical side of her despised, but which she was unable to ignore. She longed for passion, love, ardour—despite trying to convince herself that they didn’t really exist! She dreamed of someone who would love her for herself, value her for what she was, not for her looks or her lineage—which was good, even if Papa’s family did refuse to own them—or even her dowry. Someone to pledge himself to her for always. Happy ever after was hardly in vogue though. Clarrie’s dreams were out of kilter with the ways of the real world. Marriage vows were taken very lightly these days—once an heir had been delivered—with affection provided by a lover rather than a husband. Clarissa couldn’t help but find such attitudes abhorrent, even if it did mean being mocked for her prudishness.

Reconciling these two sides of her nature, the practical and romantic, was difficult. Even when embroiled in reading one of the Gothic romances she adored, Clarissa found herself thinking that her own good sense would be of a lot more use in assisting the hero than the tears and fainting fits of the heroines. But resourcefulness was not a quality valued in a female, real or imaginary, nor was it much sought after in a wife. Since it seemed unlikely, in any event, that she would ever be given the opportunity to play the heroine, Clarissa had resigned herself to becoming a governess, a role which would certainly require all her resourcefulness. On that determined note, she finally fell asleep.



At breakfast the next morning, Amelia was all yawns and coy giggles. ‘Oh, Mama, we had such fun, and my new dress was much admired.’ This, with a sly look at Clarissa.

Clarissa was in no mood for Amelia’s games, having woken this morning resolved to remove her sister from the clutches of the Earl of Rasenby. By force, if necessary. ‘I can well imagine that you were admired in that dress, Amelia, for it left little to the imagination.’ Her jibe was, however, low enough to avoid being heard by Lady Maria, now deep in this morning’s post.

Amelia, predictably, pouted, and ignored her.

‘And did your beau turn up, then?’

‘Can you doubt it? He can’t keep away, I told you. He didn’t leave my side all night, and everyone noticed.’

‘Amelia, that’s not necessarily a good thing. Everyone will be talking about you being so singled out. In fact, it seems to me that by making you so conspicuous, it is less likely that the Earl of Rasenby’s intentions are honourable. What can Mrs Barrington have been thinking, to allow it? She cannot be a suitable escort. I must speak to Mama.’

‘Clarissa, if you do any such thing, I swear, I will make you pay.’ Cornflower-blue eyes bright with intent locked on to emerald-green. ‘I don’t care what you think of Mrs Barrington, she’s all I’ve got, since you and your precious, snooty Aunt Constance are so determined not to escort me. And our dear mama won’t move beyond her drawing room, unless there’s a card table to tempt her.’

Seeing her sister’s stricken look, Amelia relented. No sense in getting Clarissa all worked up and on her high horse. ‘You know I wouldn’t do anything silly. Mrs Barrington is perfectly respectable, I promise you. And besides, for the next couple of days, I won’t be seeing Rasenby. You’re right, it won’t do to grant him too much attention, I have to keep him keen.’ And in any case, Clarrie didn’t need to know that a certain Edward was really a far more attractive companion than Kit Rasenby. Kit Rasenby was rich and powerful, but he didn’t cause her heart to flutter the way Edward did. In fact, Amelia was finding herself quite distracted by Edward, whose youthful good looks appealed so much more to her than Rasenby’s striking countenance, which could be rather intimidating. Rasenby’s wealth was losing a little of its attraction—but she was determined to give it every chance to succeed. Edward would always be there, of that she was already sure.

‘Amelia, you must know that the Earl of Rasenby won’t offer marriage. His reputation, his feelings about the state of matrimony, they are all against you. And even if he did intend to marry, it wouldn’t be to the penniless daughter of a cast-out younger son. It would be to someone with influence and money. Amelia, are you listening at all?’

‘Lord, Clarrie, you know nothing.’ Abandoning her attempt to soft-soap her sister, Amelia’s voice hardened. ‘You’re right—perhaps Rasenby’s intentions aren’t marriage.’ Well, in fact Amelia knew they weren’t, for he had already intimated his offer of a carte blanche. She had put him off, unwilling to take so irrevocable a step just yet. ‘But he’s wild about me, I know. And with a bit of luck, marriage it will be, whether he wants to or nay.’

‘What do you mean? What have you done?’

‘Why nothing, sister dear, as yet. I don’t have to. I merely have to click my fingers and he comes running. And if I click and he runs into a—well, shall we say, compromising situation?—then that’s his misfortune. And best for me, too.’

‘Amelia! The Earl of Rasenby is highly unlikely to fall for that. Why there must have been countless such traps set for him over the years, and never a whiff of him anywhere near wed. Please, I beg of you, stay away from him.’

‘Well, I won’t. At least, yes, I will, for a couple of days. Just to keep him on tenterhooks.’ Amelia slanted another glance at Clarrie’s face. Her sister really was such a prude.

‘Do you love him? Is that it?’ Clarissa was struggling to come to terms with this new, hard Amelia. She had always been determined to have her own way, but she had never before been so openly scheming. If Clarissa had known that her sister was trying desperately to suppress her feelings for Edward Brompton, she would have been less concerned.

‘Life isn’t one of your romances, you know. Love is such an outmoded emotion when it comes to marriage. I can stomach him well enough to bed him, if that’s what you mean. And, of course, his money makes him more attractive than he would be under other circumstances. After all, he’s quite old.’

‘Old? You talk about him as if he’s in his dotage. Why, he can’t be more than five and thirty. And if you loved him, his age would mean nothing. Now tell me straight, do you love him?’

‘Clarrie, I tell you straight, I do not.’ Amelia was enjoying shocking her sister. ‘Love, I will save for my beaux after we are wed. It’s what everyone does. Rasenby will no doubt carry on with his lightskirts, so why should I not do the same? I shall take great pleasure, though, in ousting that supercilious Charlotte du Pres from her position as his mistress. And I suppose I’ll need to provide an heir first.’ Realising she’d gone a bit too far, Amelia patted Clarrie’s hand in a conciliatory way. ‘I’m not a little girl any more. I can look after myself. And I know what I’m doing, I promise.’ No need to let Clarrie know that the carte blanche would still be considered if her other plan failed. One way or another, she’d get her hands on a large part of Rasenby’s wealth. But for now, she wanted to think only of the thrill of meeting Edward again. ‘Let us find out what Mama has found so distracting that she has paid no heed at all to our conversation.’

Lady Maria was certainly absorbed in her post, one letter in particular holding her attention. There were plenty of others, but they were all bills. Bills that she had no means of paying. Those relating to the house and to Amelia’s dresses she would hand over to Clarissa to deal with. But they were insignificant compared to her mounting gambling debts—and of these, Clarissa must be allowed no inkling. She returned again to the note from the owner of the discreet gaming house she had been frequenting of late. The sum that she owed frightened her. The letter was subtly threatening.

‘Mama, what is it that you find so interesting in that letter? Clarrie and I have been plotting away, and you haven’t even looked up.’

At this, Lady Maria gave a nervous start. ‘What? Oh, nothing, nothing. No indeed, nothing for you girls to worry about.’ Her slightly protuberant blue eyes blinked out at her daughters. Nervously, she licked her lips, and produced a somewhat ragged smile. ‘Now, dears, what is it you were plotting?’

‘Silly Mama, only what I would wear to the theatre tonight. For I’m going out with Chloe you know, and her mama, to the new farce. Chloe’s brother and that nice Mr Brompton are escorting us.’

‘Will they be calling for you here, dearest?’ Lady Maria had just remembered a hint from Mrs Barrington, that there were means of paying a lady’s debts that she could help—discreetly—with. ‘Then I’d like a word with her myself. Just to thank her for her attentions to you, Amelia dear. She’s been so good taking you out to parties when my health won’t hold up.’

Lady Maria gathered together her post. ‘Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m afraid I have one of my heads. Clarrie, do give my regards to your Aunt Constance, I know you’ll do all that is right.’ And with that, she left for the sanctity of her bedchamber with its carefully drawn blinds, and the ministering of her dear, faithful maid.



‘Are you going to see Aunt Constance, then? Rather you than me, I can’t abide her sermonising. I’m off for a walk in the park with Chloe.’ Looking back at her sister, still seated at the table, Amelia laughed once more. ‘Clarrie do stop looking so serious. I know what I’m doing, and that should be enough for you. You should get out more yourself, you know. Even at your age, your looks are more than passable, as long as you don’t stand too close to me. I could find you someone suitable.’

‘Thank you, Amelia,’ Clarissa responded drily, ‘but I’m quite content as I am.’



The visit to her aunt only confirmed Clarissa’s worst fears. Lady Constance Denby lived semi-retired from society, but this didn’t stop her keeping close tabs on the latest on dits, and today one of them concerned Amelia.

‘Well, my dear, I am sorry to have to tell you that your sister is raising a few eyebrows.’

They were settled in Lady Constance’s breakfast room, taking morning coffee. Clarissa loved this room, with its beautifully polished rosewood tables, the cabinets crammed with her aunt’s collection of delicate porcelain. The loud ticking of the clock on the mantel, and the scent from the apple wood burning in the hearth were deeply comforting.

Her aunt had been widowed very young—before Clarissa ever remembered an uncle—and, despite numerous offers, had never married again. Her beloved husband had been a rising star in the House of Lords, and Constance had remained faithful to his memory in retaining her widowed status, as well as her avid interest in current affairs. Lady Constance was a beautiful woman, with a little of Clarissa’s colouring, although the vivid auburn of her hair had faded now, and was confined beneath her habitual widow’s cap. She had been formidable, too, in her brief time as a political hostess, although that, also, had been given up upon the occasion of her husband’s death. Having shared something so special, she had told Clarissa once, even for so brief a time, had been enough.

Tact, and a natural reticence, prevented Lady Constance, over the years, from being too critical of Clarissa’s mother and sister. She was all too aware of how badly her own family had treated them when James, her dear brother, had died. She found Maria tedious, and Amelia wilful, but she was very fond of Clarissa, and hated not being able to do more for her than provide this sanctuary whenever her niece paid her a call.

And today the talk would be upsetting—but that couldn’t be helped. ‘I’m not sure if you’re aware, but Letitia Marlborough, Kit Rasenby’s sister, is one of my friends. A flighty thing before she was married and produced that brood of hers, but still, I’ve known her for ever, and keep on good terms with her.’ Lady Constance waited, but Clarissa had no comment to make.

‘Well, Letitia has it on the best of authority that your sister is Kit Rasenby’s latest flirt. In fact, she believes he intends to set her up as his mistress.’

Lady Constance sipped her coffee, and considered Clarissa’s reaction. No surprise there, only worry. So, there was truth in it. Well, she needed to warn Clarissa in plain language. Amelia was heading for a fall, and Lady Constance could only do her best to ensure that Clarissa was not to be tainted by association. Amelia would go to the bad, she was sure of it. But Clarissa deserved better.

‘I take it that this comes as no surprise to you, Clarissa dear? Has Amelia mentioned Lord Rasenby then?’

‘She has, Aunt. As a—an admirer.’

Lady Constance gave a bark of laughter at this. ‘Is that what she called him? Your sister, my dear, seems determined to take the road to ruin. And if you don’t take me up on my offer to come and live here, she’ll take you with her.’

‘Aunt, please, let us not discuss this again at present. I am overwhelmed at the generosity of your offer, indeed I am. But until Amelia is settled, and my mama with her, I can’t desert them.’ Green eyes pleaded for sympathy. ‘Aunt Constance, you do understand, don’t you?’

Clarissa was so very much like her papa when she looked up, that Lady Constance caught her breath for a second. Those huge eyes set in her heart-shaped face were all feminine, but the appeal, and the colouring, they were so like James. If only he had been of a stronger constitution—and a stronger character—then perhaps they wouldn’t be in this mess. But to have eloped with Maria, a mere nobody, when he should have made a good match! Well, it was done now, and James long dead. All she could do was protect his child from some of the harshness of the world.

But to do that, she had to save her from her sister and her mama. Lady Constance patted Clarissa’s hand reassuringly. She was four and twenty, but had seen so little of the world. ‘Of course I understand, my dear, you must know that you will always find a home here, no matter what.’



‘Thank you, Aunt Constance, that means a lot to me.’

‘But to return to the subject of Amelia, as unfortunately we must, I have to tell you, Clarissa, that I am very concerned.’ Lady Constance was brisk now. Straight talking was required, although she was loathe to do it. ‘The Earl of Rasenby’s reputation is extremely bad, you know.’

‘I am aware of Lord Rasenby’s reputation, ma’am, but surely he cannot be as bad as they say?’

‘Child, I know not what you have heard, but believe me, whatever it is, Kit’s behaviour is worse. He has been one of the ton for nigh on fifteen years, and master of a huge fortune for longer, his papa having unfortunately died when he was still at school. His papa, such a very dreadful man, broke his neck when he was thrown from his horse riding to the hounds. He was a bruising rider by all accounts, but they say he was in his cups at the time. Mind you, there was rarely a day when he was ever anything else. Hardly a role model for his only son. Although, to be fair, Kit seems to be rather more sober and certainly more discriminating than his father. But there is no getting away from it Clarissa, his tastes are still very, very low!’

With pursed lips, Lady Constance poured herself another cup of coffee. ‘I will not sully your ears with the details, there is no need for that. But this I will say. It is not just the usual, opera dancers and mistresses. He is wild. Too quick to quarrel and too slow to make up. If you ask me, he has too little to occupy him. I have often thought he could make a most excellent politician.’

Lady Constance paused to sip her coffee, gazing into the fireplace. It was her one regret, not having a son. Not for an instant would she have wished a Kit Rasenby on herself, but a child in the image of her dear husband would have been a precious gift. Still, it had not happened. And here was Clarissa, someone who did need her help and protection. Lady Constance brought her attention firmly back to the matter in hand. ‘I beg your pardon, Clarissa, we were talking of Kit Rasenby. Despite all I have said, he is still seen as a good catch by some. Yet he has avoided matrimony until now, and is like to continue to do so. Letitia tells me he is happy for Jeremy, her son, to inherit, and cares naught for the line continuing from him. It is perhaps as well.’

Lady Constance paused, once again assessing the effect on her niece. Clarissa was looking thoughtful rather than shocked.

‘Aunt, I am aware of much of what you have told me, although I do truly find it hard to believe that anyone could be all bad.’ She held up her hand and gave her aunt a small smile to forestall any intervention. ‘I know, you think I’m naïve, but I do like to think there is some good in everyone. However, that is not the point, since I have never met Lord Rasenby.’

Clarissa thought over her next words carefully. ‘There is some truth in the rumours, I’m afraid. Amelia has been much in Lord Rasenby’s company, and I fear his intentions cannot be honourable, no matter what Amelia may believe. She has no love for him, but I think she is deeply flattered, and is fooling herself into thinking he may offer matrimony. I think that she must come to accept that it cannot be so.’

‘My dear Clarissa, you underrate your sister. She is, I have no doubt at all, fully aware that Kit Rasenby can intend only a carte blanche. Which she will accept, should no other more honourable offer come her way. Your sister, whether you want to believe it or not, is avaricious before anything else. There, plain speaking indeed, but you must be made to realise it.’

‘Aunt, I know you think no good of Amelia.’ Clarissa blinked, trying to quieten the little voice in her head that told her Lady Constance was articulating Clarissa’s own fears. Lady Constance had said only what she already knew. ‘Perhaps what you say is true. But I am certain that I can prevent her ruining herself with Lord Rasenby. She is a child, she is simply beguiled by his charm and his wealth.’

‘You’re not thinking of doing something foolish, Clarissa?’

‘No, no. No, of course I won’t be foolish.’ The slight laugh with which she attempted to carry off the denial fell rather flat, and Clarissa bit her lip. She could never lie. She had the makings of a plan which Aunt Constance would certainly call foolish, but she needed to think it through.

‘Enough of my imprudent sister, I have to tell you that I am not at all impressed with Udolpho.’ Clarissa rushed into a dissection of Mrs Radcliffe’s novel in an effort to distract her aunt from further enquiries. Lady Constance was, rather to her shame, an avid fan of Mrs Radcliffe, and allowed herself to be diverted into a spirited defence. The two parted on excellent terms.



Mulling over her aunt’s words later, however, confirmed Clarissa in her resolution. She must separate Amelia from Lord Rasenby, and that would require desperate action, for Amelia must not know that she was being thwarted. Amelia would accept a carte blanche from Lord Rasenby, Clarissa no longer doubted it. And she knew, in her heart, that whatever plan Amelia had to trap him into marriage would fail. Aunt Constance would not have been so blunt with Clarissa had she been less sure. So she had to prevent both Amelia’s plot and Lord Rasenby’s offer.

A flicker of excitement rippled through her at the thought of taking action. It was as if she was waking from sleep, preparing for the challenge to come. Telling herself that it was the thrill of rescuing her sister, and nothing to do with meeting so notorious a man, Clarissa started to formulate her plan. The first requirement was to meet with Lord Rasenby in order to determine for herself just how much danger Amelia was in. And Clarrie knew just how to effect that meeting.

With a fast-beating heart, she flicked through the pile of invitations on the desk in the morning room. Yes, there it was, discarded at the bottom of the pile. Lady Teasborough was a friend of Aunt Constance, and had no doubt sent the invite at her request. A masked ball. Clarrie would go—incognito, and on her own.


Chapter Two






Kit, Earl of Rasenby, stared down into the limpid blue eyes of yet another eligible young lady, and tried to suppress a yawn as a wave of boredom washed over him. He should never have given in to his sister Letitia’s entreaties to escort her to the ball. He had planned a quiet dinner followed by a hand or two of whist at his club, instead of which, here he was at one of the society crushes he so abhorred. With the added, and completely pointless, inconvenience of having to sport a domino and a mask.

Lady Teasborough had thought to introduce a slightly risqué element with this masked ball, but Kit was finding it every bit as tedious as any other social event. The heat in the room was overpowering. The candles from the huge chandeliers, the fires lit—unnecessarily, in his view—in the enormous grates at either end of the ballroom, and the crush of too many people in too little space made Kit want to fight his way out into the relatively fresh air of the terrace. He was bored. He had no interest in the latest crim. con. story, nor in taking part in the speculation as to who had fathered his hostess’s latest brat. If his host—closeted, no doubt, in one of the card rooms—didn’t care, why should he? God, he was bored. Despite the concealing cloaks and masks, he recognised almost everyone here. Including Miss Pink Domino, being presented to him now by Letitia.

Kit sighed, bowed over Miss Pink Domino’s hand, and led her out reluctantly. His enthusiasm for fencing, which he practised regularly with the renowned Harry Angelo at his academy in the Haymarket, lent him an animal grace that singled him out on the dance floor. But his partner was, alas, unable to match him, and it would take a great effort on his part to ensure that they remained in step for the duration of the country dance.

As they worked their way down the set, Kit’s mind began to wander. He knew Letitia’s game only too well. His elder by some years, his sister had just successfully married off the first of his five nieces, and was once again turning her attentions to his own marital state. It was his own fault for bringing it up earlier—even though it had been in jest. Kit’s reputation was too bad for him to be a great catch, of course, as Letitia took pleasure in reminding him. So Louisa Haysham, with whom he was now dancing, fell into the second-best category. A pretty littlething with an adequate portion who will cause you notrouble. He could hear Letitia saying it, and he knew exactly what she meant. Louisa Haysham was a nice, inoffensive, malleable female for him to trample on. She’d raise a brood of nice insignificant children for him, and he’d be bored within a week. He was bored now, and he’d been in her company for barely ten minutes.

Over and over again, Kit had assured Letitia that he’d be happy for her son, Jeremy, to inherit his estates. At thirty-five, he was surely entitled to be treated as the confirmed bachelor he knew himself to be. Lord knew, he’d made his views clear to both Letitia and his mother often enough. Matrimony simply had no appeal for him. Rather, matrimony, in the accepted form these days, had no appeal. Fidelity, even if he could find a woman he wanted to be faithful to, seemed not to be valued. And he had seen no evidence, not in his family, nor amongst his friends or acquaintances, that marriage had any rewards other than a string of brats that no one really wanted, and endless recriminations about money. Even his sister, who claimed to be happy, was, he knew, no more than content. Content, Kit was sure, wasn’t a big enough reward for the sacrifice of his freedom.

Returning Miss Haysham with a curt bow to her mother, and neatly avoiding catching his sister’s eye—he couldn’t bear her inevitable interrogation as to whether Miss Insipid Haysham was to his liking—Kit headed instead for the group of gentlemen congregated at the back of the room. His tall figure in a plain black domino and mask was easily recognisable in a crowd that favoured colour and decoration. He was in fact, infamous for refusing to decorate his well-favoured person with any of the fobs, frills and furbelows of the day.

A slight man in a deep scarlet cloak standing on the fringes of the crowd noted Kit’s attendance at the ball with some surprise—it was very unlike Rasenby to turn out at these formal affairs. Kit was not aware of the depths of contempt in which Robert, Marquis of Alchester, held him. Brought up as children together, since the estates of their fathers ran parallel, Robert had been forced to play second fiddle to Kit from the start. Kit was the ringleader in all their childish pranks. Kit was the best shot in the area, the handiest with his fists, the most skilled with a sword. And it was Kit who had first call on all the females. To add insult to injury, Kit’s estates continued to flourish under his generous stewardship, whereas Robert’s dissolute lifestyle drained every penny from his land, now in sad want of repair. All this bitterness Robert had suppressed over the years, but it was slowly mouldering. And now, he had a card worth playing. It was Robert who had been informing the customs men as to Kit’s activities. One day soon, revenge would be his.

Blissfully unaware of this enmity, Kit took a reviving draught of claret, a drink he much preferred to the ice-cold champagne cup being offered to the rest of the guests. Mindful of his resolution to give up smuggling, he mulled over, once more, the notion of matrimony. Letitia had made her point of view perfectly clear when he had raised the subject before dinner. A slight frown marred the perfection of his countenance as he thought over his sister’s words from earlier tonight. His handsome features were, in fact, a major bone of contention with Letitia, and had been the trigger for her latest tirade, turning his attempt at light banter into a more serious discussion.

‘What would you say, Letitia, if I asked you to finally find me a suitable bride? One who met all my needs, I might add.’ He had said this with a wicked grin, deliberately intending to annoy her.

Letitia sighed. Why should Kit have it all, when she didn’t? Of course, she was perfectly happy with her husband, but life wasn’t exactly stimulating. So it shouldn’t be for Kit, either. That wasn’t what matrimony was about.

‘For goodness’ sake, must you always harp on about your needs. With your looks, I’m sure that sort of thing won’t be a problem—ever.’ It was positively painful to Letitia that Kit was so very perfectly good looking. ‘It’s your duty to the family to bestow yourself on one of my sex for reasons of lineage, not for—not for the reasons you’re implying.’

‘On the contrary, Letitia, I feel it my bounden duty to bestow myself on as many of your sex as I can. And I do my best, you know.’ This was said with a rueful smile, for Kit knew that Letitia, despite her perfect breeding, liked to consider herself risqué.

‘Kit!’ She feigned shock, anyway. ‘I mean bestow yourself properly. I’m not referring to your mistresses, for Heaven’s sake.’

‘Tut, tut, Letitia, what can you know of my mistresses?’

‘Why, no more nor less than the whole of London society, since you flaunt them so brazenly at every opportunity. Only yesterday I saw you in a carriage in Oxford Street with that shameless hussy Charlotte—harlot, more like—sitting at your side. Draped in the most gorgeous furs, too. No doubt paid for by you.’ Letitia couldn’t prevent the bitter note of envy entering her voice, thinking back to how stunning Charlotte du Pres had looked. Providing her husband with six children in quick succession had taken a heavy toll on what little looks she herself had once possessed.

‘Yes, she really is rather lovely, isn’t she? But alas, I fear, becoming rather tedious. Her demands are endless, you know, Letitia, and the rewards less attractive each time. I think that Charlotte is coming to the end of her usefulness.’

‘Well, I can’t say I’m surprised. She’s been with you two months now. Don’t you ever find a woman diverting for longer?’

‘Alas, no. At least, not yet. And since I’ve been trying for more years than either of us, sister dear, would care to count, I’m afraid you really must resign yourself to my bachelor state. And incidentally, please don’t go breaking your heart over Charlotte, she’ll be more than adequately compensated for her loss.’

‘Yes, you’re very generous in that way, I know. But really, Kit, you’re so hugely rich that it means nothing to you. Not, I assure you, that I’m complaining myself, for you’ve been exceeding good to me and my children over the years, particularly Jeremy, who scarce deserves it. He may be my only son and I love him dearly but it’s plain the lad is a wastrel. I just wish you took your duty to marry and produce your own son and heir as seriously.’

‘Enough of this. I have no desire to be leg-shackled, it was a jest. I have no wish to be presented to yet another eligible girl who will drive me back into the arms of someone who at least can attend properly to my physical needs. And spare me your blushes, Letty, for you know perfectly well what I mean.’

‘No, Kit, I do not. There is no reason why you shouldn’t continue to tend to your physical needs, as you put it, outside of the marriage bed. But you must marry for the sake of the family. Jeremy is no fit heir for you. You need the stability of a wife. You need someone to care for you in your old age.’

Kit threw back his head and laughed again, running his fingers through his cropped, glossy black hair. ‘For God’s sake Letitia, I’m thirty-five, I don’t need a nursemaid yet. I’ll tell you what, the minute I show the first signs of contracting gout, I’ll start looking out for a wife to tend to me.’

‘By then, you’ll be too old to father children, and it will be too late. Kit, do listen, since you brought the topic up. I know your reputation is bad—and indeed, well deserved—but you’re still eligible. I could still find you someone suitable.’

Kit was now deeply regretting raising the subject. ‘Letty, enough. You know my views on matrimony, they are not likely to change. There are but two types of women on this earth, and they live in worlds that don’t mix. There are those who provide pleasure for a man, and who require payment, and there are those who provide a family—and they require payment in a different way. And I’m happy to pay for the former, if I get something out of it. But why should I pay for a family when I don’t want one? Have done.’

Letitia, silenced temporarily by the stern tone of her brother’s voice, had done. Reflecting on what he had said, she had to accept the truth of it, for Kit had no experience of any respectable female wanting to give more than she took from him. Starting with their mother—and, she had to admit, herself too. But Letitia wasn’t one to give up so easily, either. Her brother must have an heir. He must make some sacrifices. ‘Kit, let me see what I can do. I’ll see if I can provide you with someone who is at least good to look at.’

‘Enough. Let us forgo any further discussion. I must change for this cursed party of yours.’

Shaking his head to banish the memory of that uncomfortable conversation, Kit took another draught of claret, and cast an idle eye over the ballroom. So far, he had danced only with Miss Haysham, but he knew that he’d have to choose at least one other partner soon, or the world would think he had singled the fair Miss Haysham out. And Kit did not want that to happen. Really, the idea of matrimony was ridiculous. Apart from anything else, he had no desire to make his poor wife—whoever she might be—totally miserable. And since he could in no way promise liking, never mind fidelity, miserable she would be, and quickly. Best to focus on this last run with the SeaWolf first, then think to the future after. For now, he needed to find another dance partner.

A brief flash of black domino lined with emerald green caught his eye in the far corner, and roused his attention. It was highly unusual for a female to wear black—in fact, he was the only man to do so tonight. And while he could have sworn he knew everyone here—despite the masks—she was unfamiliar. She was standing by the open window, and for some reason she seemed to be watching him. Her stance was alert, giving the impression of one on the verge of flight. Kit was intrigued. Retrieving two glasses of champagne from a passing waiter, he made his way over to the stranger.

‘I fear you are somewhat warm, Miss Black Domino—can I offer you a cooling drink?’

Clarrie gave a start, then tried, rather unsuccessfully, to regain her poise. The black domino, the only other one here, had been pointed out to her as the Earl of Rasenby. He had made the first move. She couldn’t believe her luck. Nor could she flee now, as she had been contemplating only a moment before. Fate had decreed that she must go through with her plan.

‘Why, thank you sir. It is rather hot.’ He was tall, much taller than Clarrie, and despite the domino she could see he was exceedingly well built. Somehow, she had expected him to be more dandified. But the Earl of Rasenby was obviously of athletic inclination, and favoured a simple elegance that relied on his physique and the quality of his tailoring, rather than decoration. For the first time in her life, Clarrie experienced a strong gust of sheer physical attraction that was both unexpected and unwelcome.

Looking up, she could see little of his features behind the mask, only a pair of piercing dark eyes, looking into hers assessingly. So this was the man who wanted to steal Amelia’s virtue. This was the man who intended to sweep her sister—and with her, Clarissa and her mama—into a world of vice and degradation. Well, she could certainly see his appeal. What she needed to find out was just how serious he was in his intentions, before she decided to act. Clarissa still nourished a hope that Amelia had exaggerated—though in the light of Lady Constance’s revelations, it was but a faint one.

‘Do you not find these masked affairs somewhat tedious, sir? Why, I swear I know everyone here.’ Tis but an excuse to allow those who are so inclined to flirt a little more openly, is it not?’

Clarissa’s voice, usually so low and musical, had assumed a slightly breathless quality. The combination of the role she had to play, and the physical awareness of this surprisingly attractive man, were already taking their toll. But she wouldn’t fail at the first hurdle, there was too much at stake. Under no illusions about her own attractions, she had studied Amelia closely, and she knew how to flirt—even if she was about to try it out for the first time.

Kit looked down into those vibrant green eyes, surprised at the tone. He could have sworn she was nervous when he first approached her. ‘And do you know who I am, Miss Black Domino?’ Of course she did, else why flirt so obviously unless she knew her target?

‘I will hazard a guess, my lord. You are the Earl of Rasenby, are you not?’ Those green eyes looked up into his, a shadow of a doubt clouding them. What if she had been wrong? A flush of embarrassment swept over Clarissa, most of it mercifully hidden by the mask.

‘And if I am not, would you be disappointed?’

‘Of course I would be disappointed.’ Clarrie shook out her chicken-skin fan with a flourish, partly to hide her eyes, but more practically in an effort to hide her overheated countenance, and to give her time to pull herself together. ‘I’d be very disappointed, since I’ve heard so much about your lordship, and was counting on meeting you here.’

‘Were you, now? And may I ask, are you here at the invitation of Lady Teasborough, or have you taken a chance to come uninvited?’ Surely the only explanation was that she was some member of the demi-monde with an enterprising turn of mind?

Clarissa, forgetting her part, was indignant at the accusation. ‘Of course I was invited, why would I be here otherwise?’

The genuine flash of anger from those green eyes took Kit aback. Despite himself, he felt a faint trace of interest. He didn’t believe her for an instant, but any new ploy, after all, was at least a refreshing change. ‘I do beg your pardon. It’s just that you have the advantage of me. To whom do I have the pleasure of speaking?’

‘That is not important for now. And besides…’ Clarrie allowed herself a peep above the fan into those dark blue- black eyes ‘…it’s so much more intriguing, is it not, to save a little something for later?’ Nothing Amelia had told her about Kit Rasenby had led her to believe that he was anything more than a rich provider. She hadn’t expected him to be quite so like the villains of her favourite romances—Clarrie always empathised more with the villain than the hero, although she never liked to ask herself why!

‘So, I’m not to know your name, then? Am I to know your purpose in seeking me out?’

‘Eventually, of course, my lord. But first, perhaps we should get to know each other a little. Tell me, the lady you were dancing with, what thought you of her charms? Did you not think she danced rather ill?’

‘You can do better than that, surely?’ He was sardonic. Praising or disparaging one female to another was not a sport that he enjoyed.

Closing her fan with a determined snap, Clarissa decided to go for the direct approach. The Earl was obviously not one for simpering females, and in truth, she didn’t do simpering very well. Perhaps if she played things her own way he would take her more seriously. ‘I know you not, Lord Rasenby, but you seem to me a man who prefers plain speaking. Mayhap we should dispense with the niceties and progress to my requirements from you?’

‘Much better.’ His tone remained sceptical, however. ‘Now you at least have my attention. Perhaps I should warn you, though, that if it’s money you’re after, I won’t be blackmailed. If you’ve come on behalf of one of your sisters in debauchery, you’ll find scant pickings here.’ Ignoring the gasp of indignation from Clarissa, he held his hand up to forestall interruption, and continued in the harsh voice of one used to seeing the worst in everyone. ‘I pay my debts direct. And there’s no use either, in trying to pretend that it’s you I owe—I may have sampled the wares of your like many times, but not enough to confuse me. I’d know you if I’d had you.’

‘Well, my lord! Well! Plain speaking indeed.’ Clarissa was completely unprepared for this turn in the conversation. He thought her a lightskirt. Well, that’s what she’d intended, but she hadn’t expected the flush of anger that such an assumption had caused. In fact, the more she thought about it, the angrier she became. The Earl of Rasenby was an arrogant pig, and he deserved to be put down.

Forgetting all about Amelia, Clarrie gave free reign to her feelings, her temper made worse by the need to continue the conversation, in the middle of the ball as they were, sotto voce. ‘I am amazed, sir, at your arrogance. And I am sorry, truly sorry, for any of my poor—sisters, as you call them—who would be reduced to pleading with you, for you are obviously a hard case. You tell me you pay your debts direct—well, I can only hope that you do, sir, and that you pay them fully!’

‘What on earth do you mean? I pay what is owed and am generous. I have a reputation of being generous. But I won’t be blackmailed, so whatever your pathetic plan, abandon it.’ Kit was now more angry than intrigued. He had little reputation, and all of it bad, but one thing he had always been proud of was that he compensated—generously—any woman who had provided her services to him. He ensured, too, that there were never any consequences. To his knowledge, he had no natural children. The irony of this—that he, who had the blackest of characters, had the cleanest of stables—contributed to his weariness of the world in which he lived. He was more fastidious in his habits, and more generous in his payments, than most of his peers. It struck him, suddenly, as a poor enough boast.

‘Has it never occurred to you that money may not be enough, Lord Rasenby? Has it never occurred to you that some of these poor creatures that you pay off may have feelings? That they may have hoped for more from you than a few jewels and furs?’

At this, Kit laughed. ‘It never occurs to me because there are no feelings in this world that cannot be compensated for financially. I should know.’ Looking down into those indignant green eyes, Kit felt a twinge of compassion. Perhaps, after all, there was some innocence there? But no, it was sure to be just another act—although a better one than he’d seen for some time. ‘I assure you, madam, the type of women I get involved with don’t have feelings. Simpering sentimentality appeals to me not. I trade in the more physical side of things, and that, if you don’t know already, is always short-lived. So, no, I don’t think I owe anything on account there to anyone.’

For some reason, this statement shocked Clarissa more than any other. More than the knowledge that her Aunt Constance had been right in her character assessment. More than Lord Rasenby’s outrageously blunt speaking. The man had no feelings at all. She wondered what had forged his deep cynicism. Through the mask, Clarissa’s green eyes hinted at tears. ‘I’m truly sorry for you, my lord, if you do feel like that.’ She touched her hand to his arm in a gesture of sympathy.

Kit shook her off, angry—unreasonably angry—at the gesture. Who was she to question his behaviour, and then to patronise him with her tears and sympathy? ‘Don’t waste your energy, madam. I fear that whatever it was you had planned to say to me is wasted, too, for we can have nothing in common. Now, I must go and dance with another partner, lest Miss Haysham—the lady in the pink domino, since you were so interested—has her hopes raised.’

‘Forgive me, Lord Rasenby, I spoke out of turn, it was not my intention to judge you. But please, do stay and hear me out.’ There was desperation in Clarissa’s voice as, emerging from her own anger, she realised he was walking away and she had found out next to nothing of his intentions towards Amelia. And she needed to know, in order to decide whether the risk was worth taking.

He turned at the appeal, unwillingly softened by it. There was something genuine about her, despite appearances, that still had him interested. ‘I don’t make a habit of ruining innocents, you know. I take only willing partners, who understand the game, and who don’t have any of these more tender feelings you refer to, I assure you. Come, what is it that you’re so determined I should hear, now that you’ve finished upbraiding me?’

‘Well, actually…’ Clarissa sniffed determinedly and took the plunge. ‘Well, I wanted to discuss a similar proposal with you myself.’ She glared at him through her mask, her expression anything but seductive. In fact, she was so far away from the flirtatious woman of the world that she had started out to be, she was questioning her own sanity. This was most definitely not going the way she had imagined it from the security of her bedchamber.

Kit stared at her speechlessly. This slim female, a complete stranger, had sneaked into a society ball and sought him out. First she had flirted with him, then she had launched into a tirade at him, had questioned his generosity and his feelings, to say nothing of upbraiding his morals—such as they were! And now she was telling him that she wanted to make him an indecent proposal. Of a certainty she was unhinged. No matter how attractive the form under the domino and mask—and what he could see he found extremely attractive, for though she was slender, she curved most appealingly in all the right places—it couldn’t be worth it.

And now she was glaring at him, as if it was he who had made the proposal to her. ‘I don’t think, madam, that you can have meant what you just said? Surely, you are not suggesting that you want to become another notch on my notorious bedpost yourself?’

‘I—well, yes, I suppose I am suggesting just that. But subject to my own conditions, of course.’ Clarissa flushed once more with embarrassment. This was not going at all to plan. For a start, her proposition was to have been later, once she’d found out a bit more about what he intended for Amelia, not something she should have blurted out at this first meeting. She hadn’t even thought it through properly.

‘Ah, your conditions. And what would they be, madam?’ He couldn’t help but be interested. This was all so very, very unexpected. Kit was glad, for once, that he’d come along to the ball. Mentally, he thanked Letitia—although he didn’t expect she’d be too thrilled if she ever found out.

‘Well, I’m not going to tell you right now, this is hardly the appropriate place. I thought we could discuss that on another occasion. I was supposed to get to know you a bit first.’

Kit gave a sharp laugh. She was unhinged, but she was amusing. ‘Were you now? And who said you were to get to know me first? Who set you up for this, my little intriguer?’

‘No one, no one set me up, I’m acting on my own.’ The stamp of a little foot and the quick flush betrayed Clarrie again. Her temper, did she but know it, went with the auburn hair, and had been her father’s undoing. Normally it was easy to control, but there was something about this man that got under her skin. ‘I merely meant, Lord Rasenby, that I wanted to know a little more about you before we have such an intimate discussion. For a start, I wouldn’t want to make you any proposal if I’m mistaken as to your current state of attachment.’

‘Come now, I feel sure that someone as bold as you are would have done your research. Surely you are perfectly aware of my current state, as you call it?’

‘Yes, my lord, I am aware that you have an attachment to Miss du Pres, but I was more concerned with your intentions as to your immediate future. I have heard that you have been paying court to a Miss Warrington?’

‘You have been digging, haven’t you? And what have you heard about Miss Warrington and my intentions towards her?’

‘I have heard that you have been marking her out, my lord. I have heard that she has been the object of your affections for the last few weeks. I have heard that you have even raised expectations of a more honourable kind.’

Kit gave another bark of laughter at this. ‘Whatever you have heard, I have nothing honourable in mind when it comes to Amelia Warrington. And I cannot believe that Miss Warrington imagines any such thing either. That girl is a chit who knows only the value of my purse, and aims to dig as deep into it as she can. Can it be that it is she who has set you on to me?’ Behind the mask, Kit’s eyes narrowed. ‘No, she does have a close companion, an insipid, simpering miss, but she bears no resemblance to you. Her name escapes me.’

‘Chloe.’ Clarissa realised her mistake immediately; the black brows opposite her snapped together with suspicion. ‘I believe that’s her name. Although I don’t really know Miss Warrington personally—at least, not very well.’ After today, that at least was true. Amelia was becoming a stranger to her. ‘I am merely repeating the latest gossip. And the rumours are that you intend marriage.’

‘I assure you, madam, I have no plans to marry. My intentions in that direction are not yet fixed. Miss Warrington is attractive, I’ll grant, and more than willing, that I know. I may have a proposal for her, but it would not be honourable.’ Kit smiled rakishly. Seeing Clarissa flinch at his words, he narrowed his eyes. ‘Did you think her one of those innocent victims you were throwing in my face earlier? Amelia Warrington knows exactly what is on offer, I have made that perfectly clear to her. And if she thinks to hold out on me in the hope of more, then she’ll quickly learn the better of it. If I ever deign to marry, it would certainly not be to someone as easy to touch as Miss Warrington.’

Clarissa absorbed this assassination of her sister’s character with sadness, but a weary resignation. It was, after all, no more than what her aunt had said earlier. Even, although she hated to admit it, what she was coming to believe herself. But if Amelia could be prevented from making a fatal mistake with the Earl of Rasenby, if she could be prevented from ruining herself now, there would still be time for Clarissa to try, one more time, to establish her more genteelly. She had to secure this chance for her sister, even if it meant risking her own virtue.

‘I see. Very well, my lord, then I feel that the way is clear for you and me to discuss terms.’

‘You are either very naïve or very stupid. It is for the gentleman, you know, to make terms. And for the lady to accept. You cannot expect me to take you seriously.’ Lord Rasenby was by now, against his will, thoroughly interested. It was a trap, he had no doubt about it, but it was a good one, and merited his attention—at least until he discovered what it was.

Clarrie, braced for rejection, was yet determined to prevent it. She had to give her sister a chance of escape. She had to get Lord Rasenby away from her for just a few days, a few weeks, enough to let him cool off, and for Amelia to have her sights pitched at a more achievable and more honourable target.

‘I realise that I am being a little unorthodox. But I thought you would appreciate both directness and a change. You are, as you admitted yourself, a little jaded in your taste. Perhaps a freshness of approach would restore your appetites?’ Clarrie smiled in what she hoped was a coy manner, although the effect was ruined somewhat by the pleading in her eyes.

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.


Chapter Three






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.’

‘Mama, don’t, please don’t tell me that you’ve actually borrowed money to gamble with?’

The abject horror in her voice made Lady Maria defensive. ‘What of it? Everyone does it, Mrs Barrington says, and why should I not do so, when I’m bound to win soon.’

‘Mrs Barrington? And what, pray, has she to say to this?’

‘Well, she first introduced me to the party where I’ve been playing. And last night, when I had a quiet word with her, she said not to worry, she’d speak to the young man who is dunning me. Except, Clarrie, I can’t help but feel I’d rather have you sort things out, you’re so very good at it. I’d rather not rely on strangers, even if Mrs Barrington is such a good friend to Amelia, when I know can rely on you. My own trusty Clarissa.’

Lady Maria beamed gratefully at her daughter. She felt hugely better, having relieved her conscience and passed the burden, as always, to Clarissa.

But Clarissa was flabbergasted. The sums she owed, if the notebook was accurate, were beyond belief. ‘Mama, you have not made any more arrangements for funds with Mrs Barrington, have you?’

‘No, no, I promise. I just mentioned it in passing last night, I haven’t exactly committed to anything.’

‘And this man who is dunning you, when does he expect payment?’

‘Well, as to that, I couldn’t say. He merely says that he wants something on account soon, if I am to rely on him for further stake money.’

‘Mama! You must not, under any circumstances whatsoever, take more money from him. You must stop this gambling at once. You won’t win, you know, you will only put us further in debt. Please, I beg you, promise me, Mama, that you will stop.’

‘Well, I—well, but do you think you can fix things, Clarrie? For Amelia must have her dress, you know. We can’t expect Lord Rasenby to put us in funds until after they are married, once a settlement is agreed. And that is probably at least a month or so hence.’

‘There is no question of Amelia marrying Lord Rasenby, absolutely none. We must sort out this mess ourselves, and you must refrain—Mama, you must—from further gambling in the meantime.’

‘But, Clarrie, Amelia assures me that Lord Rasenby is about to propose. And if he does not, where will we be? No, no, Amelia cannot be wrong. She was born to make a sensational match, and she will.’

‘Mama!’ Clarissa’s temper was rising rapidly beyond her control for the second time in two days. Taking a deep breath, knowing that harsh words would only give Lady Maria one of her turns, she tried once more for calm. ‘Believe me, Lord Rasenby’s intentions towards Amelia are purely dishonourable, no matter what Amelia may say. I know. Nay, I am certain of it. Amelia must be made to give him up, or she will bring us all to ruin.’

‘Well, dear, if you say so,’ said Lady Maria dubiously, torn between doubt and an unwillingness to give up her vision of Lord Rasenby as their saviour. ‘Perhaps, then, a carte blanche—strictly as a temporary measure, you understand—would be a good thing, Clarrie? Then we could see ourselves clear of debt, and after that, Amelia can still make a good marriage. What do you say?’

‘What do I say? Am I the only sane person in this family? Aunt Constance was right, we will be ruined.’

‘Oh, don’t talk to me about your precious Aunt Constance. She is so ridiculously strait-laced as to be positively old-fashioned. And anyway, she’s never been short of a penny, so what does she know? You take after that side of the family, Clarissa, I have always said so. Amelia is so much more like me, the darling girl.’

‘Thank you, Mama, but I am pleased to take after Aunt Constance, if it means I have some moral fibre! I beg you, please, leave this in my hands. Do nothing further to get us deeper in debt. And get it out of your head that Amelia will receive any proposal from Lord Rasenby, honourable or otherwise.’

Lady Maria was far too used to Clarissa sorting their problems to question her abilities to cope with such huge debts, so she sighed, tucked her scarf around herself more comfortably, and dozed peacefully for the rest of the morning. Clarissa retired to her room with her head spinning to try to make sense of the situation.



Amelia flounced in some time later, disrupting her meditations. ‘Why so glum, Clarrie? I hope you’re not still fretting over my virtue. It’s safe enough—for now at any rate.’

‘Did you have a nice night?’

‘Yes, I did, thank you very much, and as I promised, saw no trace of Rasenby. Mr Brompton was most attentive, though. I do like him.’

‘Do you, Amelia? Enough to marry him?’

‘Lord, Clarrie, not that again. I’ve told you, Edward is a clerk in a lawyer’s office, he can hardly keep himself in cravats, never mind marry me. Although, perhaps as a last little fling before I tie myself to Rasenby, he’ll do well enough.’ Amelia laughed contemptuously at Clarissa’s face. ‘You’re so easy to shock, sister dear. Provided that Rasenby gets no whiff of it, why should I not have Edward first? It’s not as if Rasenby would be coming to the marriage bed pure.’

Amelia paused for a moment to reflect. Really, it was too, too vile of Edward to be so poor. And virtuous into the bargain. She was not at all convinced that he would take her to bed unless it was as his wife—even if she paraded naked in front of him! He had found out from Chloe some of Amelia’s doings with Rasenby, and had had the temerity to lecture her. He could lecture her all he wanted if he had the funds. But he didn’t. Frustrated at the unwonted feelings of tenderness Edward aroused in her, and at the necessity of deceiving him, Amelia turned once more on her sister. ‘Yes, I warrant I like Edward enough to marry him. But he has not the means. It’s Rasenby or the poor house, and I will not be going to the poor house.’

Clarissa was shocked. She had not realised just how perfidious her sister had become. She was horrified, too, at how she planned to treat Rasenby. Even had she not already resolved to remove Amelia from his grasp, she would have been forced into warning Rasenby about Amelia! ‘Perhaps you may find that if this Edward is so much to your taste you may settle for him after all?’

‘No, I’ve told you, Clarissa, my plans for Rasenby are unchanged. A few more days and all will be resolved between us, one way or another.’

‘He won’t be trapped into marriage, no matter what your plan.’ Clarissa’s tone was dry. ‘He is far too clever for that. Are you so sure that he is as mad for you as you say?’

‘Of course he’s mad for me, I’m never wrong about these things.’ This with a determined toss of golden curls. ‘I have him wrapped around my finger. And there he’ll stay, be assured, Clarrie, until he puts a ring on it.’

‘That he will never do, I am sure of it. But what of you? How can you contemplate a life of matrimony based on deceit and trickery?’

A scornful laugh was Amelia’s reply to this. ‘Why do you care? It’s not you who’s being tricked. He deserves to be played at his own game, it will serve him well.’

‘No, he never relies on trickery, he is honest in that sense. Really, he does not deserve such treatment.’

‘What are you talking about, Clarissa Warrington? You’ve never met him—what do you know?’

The suspicion in Amelia’s voice reminded Clarissa of the need for secrecy. But it would seem that rather than save Amelia from Lord Rasenby, Clarissa was now intent on saving Lord Rasenby from Amelia. When had come about this switch in loyalty?

‘No, I don’t know him, except by reputation. But it seems to me that, rake as he is, he deals honestly with his conquests. And he does not deserve to be tricked into matrimony. It is a recipe for disaster. For all, including you, Amelia, don’t you see? Dearest, you’d be miserable.’

‘Lord, Clarrie, there’s no reasoning with you. You like to think you’re so practical, but you’re the most pathetic romantic, deep down. I won’t discuss it further. I merely came in to ask you to come for a walk with me. Edward gets an hour for luncheon, and he said he may take the air in the park, so I thought we might bump into him. Do come, Clarrie, you’d like him.’ Amelia’s tone was conciliating, but for once Clarissa was not to be won over.

‘No, I won’t be party to your assignations. It sounds like poor Edward is going to be another man let down by your plotting and scheming. Take Chloe, I’m sure you can persuade her easily enough.’

Amelia flounced out before Clarissa finished her sentence. It wasn’t like Clarrie to be obstinate. Well, she’d show her!

Alone, Clarissa resolved on action. She was sure that there was more to Amelia’s feelings for Edward, if only money were not the issue. If money, in the form of Rasenby, were removed as a temptation, Amelia would have a chance to see more of Edward. And he sounded like a determined young man; he would surely take the chance himself to secure Amelia. It wasn’t much to go on, but it was a start. And if Edward didn’t come up to scratch, she could always come clean with Rasenby, tell him her sister’s plan. She was not going to stand by and let Amelia trick anyone into marriage. And she was going to do all she could to give her sister a chance at happiness—virtuous happiness.

Only Rasenby stood in the way. And by now, Clarissa had a good enough idea of his character to guess at what would interest him. A challenge, that’s what he would like. And a bit of intrigue. She could do it. Clarissa turned her mind towards tonight, ignoring the thrill of anticipation she felt at the contest she was about to invoke. She was excited at seeing a means to save Amelia from herself, that was all. It was nothing at all to do with pitting her wits against such an opponent. Nothing to do with the charms of the opponent either. Certainly not!



Depositing her at the front door of Lord Rasenby’s mansion in Grosvenor Square, the jarvey slid Clarissa a calculating look. Single ladies visiting these mansions did not normally travel in hacks. Nor did they arrive after dark, alone and wearing 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 cheek-bones 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 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 it would take more than his mama and Charlotte du Pres to ruin him, but they certainly tried. Paying Charlotte off had cost him a fortune and a diamond bracelet to boot, and his mother was hinting at new hangings for the Dower House. To say nothing of his nephew Jeremy and his regularly accumulated bad debts.

‘You understand me perfectly well, my lord.’ Clarissa’s voice was terse. She hated deliberate avoidance, and Lord Rasenby was no fool. ‘You substitute money for everything, and then you don’t like it when you get nothing back.’ Seeing his brow crease, she realised that she’d gone too far again. Lord Rasenby might like plain speaking, but he didn’t like home truths. Clarrie cursed her blunt tongue, it was always getting her into trouble. And it wouldn’t get her anywhere with this man.

Biting her lip, but failing to look totally contrite, she apologised. ‘I beg your pardon. I get carried away sometimes, and speak without thinking. Let us talk of more congenial matters.’ She smiled cajolingly up at him.

‘Yes, but you’re not truly sorry at all, are you—it’s just that you’ve realised you’ve angered me.’ With an effort, Kit dismissed the idea that she’d managed to see through him with ease—and that she’d echoed, almost to the word, his own thoughts. It was just luck. He wasn’t so transparent. He was more than ever sure she was playing some sort of game, but it was a deep, and therefore challenging, one.

‘Come clean, Miss Wexford. For a start, I know that’s not your real name. What can I call you? If we are to talk openly, I would like some element of truth in our conversation.’

‘Very well, you can call me Clarissa. Since we are to be informal.’

‘So we are to be informal, Clarissa? The name suits you. And will you call me Kit?’

‘Kit. It too suits you.’ The humour was reflected in her eyes as she echoed his words. ‘I think, since our relationship is to be both informal and of short duration, that we can manage on such intimate terms. It’s not as if there will be any witnesses.’

‘You intrigue me. I take it, then, that you do not aspire to Charlotte du Pres’s position?’

A flash of anger was quickly disguised. ‘No, I want no such relationship with you. Nor do I want any financial recompense, nor any presents nor anything at all of that sort. Let us be clear on that now, Lord—Kit, please.’ She reached out, touched his arm lightly with the tips of her fingers, then quickly withdrew. Even such a tiny touch sent tingles up and down her skin.

‘I can see you are serious. You are not someone who lies easily, are you? Whatever your game, you have honest eyes,’ Kit said wryly. ‘So, no presents. Well, it will be a refreshing change, certainly. But you are happy for Charlotte’s position to remain unchallenged?’ Kit had already decided she didn’t need to know that Charlotte was already history.

His question gave Clarissa pause. If he got rid of Charlotte du Pres, then it created a vacancy, and it was likely he’d offer it to Amelia. It had been no part of her plan to comment on his current mistress, but perhaps, now that the opportunity had arisen, it was worth while?

‘Are you contemplating a replacement? I thought you said last night that the rumours concerning Miss Warrington had no substance?’

‘I said she would not be my wife. I have no need of a wife, when I can take my pleasures outside the marriage bed. From what I have seen of matrimony, there are few pleasures to be had there. Daily, the scandal sheets give us another tale of adultery and bastard children. And behind it, heartbreak for someone—the children, at the very least. Matrimony does not require affection. I have no wish to sample the insipid and dutiful caresses of a virgin wife. There is naught to substitute for experience. But you already know my feelings on this subject. I’m more interested in why you bring Amelia Warrington into the conversation again. Has she put you up to this?’

‘No, no, I assure you she has not.’ At least that was the truth. In fact, if Amelia found out, she would never forgive her. ‘But I am a little acquainted with her, and I cannot feel she would make you a very good mistress. She wants to be your wife—she is hardly likely to be happy settling for less. No, on consideration, I think Charlotte du Pres is much more suited to your needs.’

Kit smiled, humour lurking deep in his midnight-blue eyes. Looking into them, laughing complicitly, Clarrie was suddenly breathless. His mouth, which he normally held in a firm, hard line, had softened, and there was a slight growth of stubble on his jaw. She had a sudden urge to run her hand along it, to feel the contrast between the roughness there and the smooth contours of his lips. Clarrie felt her mouth go dry at the thought, and licked her own lips nervously. She had never felt such blatant attraction emanating from a man.

Reminding herself that it was exactly this attraction he traded on, she looked away. ‘I didn’t come here to give you advice about your mistresses, but you did ask. I am aware that this is not really a conversation we should be having.’

Kit laughed out loud at this. ‘My dear Clarissa, you shouldn’t even be here, let alone discussing such intimate matters with me. But that hasn’t stopped you. However, I think you’re right about Amelia Warrington, I think she is likely to be rather too demanding. And virgins, you know, can be so unsatisfying. I prefer my women to know what pleasures a man.’

‘Oh! Well—well, I think then you can quite safely dismiss Amelia Warrington.’

‘You seem sure of her. She won’t be a virgin for long, you know. It may not be me, but she will be plucked soon. And likely not by a husband. She aims high.’

‘Is she really so bad? She is young, you know, but not—not calculating.’

‘You don’t know her at all well if you think so. She is a pretty and very ambitious young woman. Though in my experience, she has the kind of looks that fade quickly. Any man can see that he has no need to offer marriage to have her. It’s just a question of how high she’ll sell herself. I’m not personally convinced it’s a price worth paying.’ Looking at Clarissa, he was surprised to see the hurt on her face. He possessed himself of her hand. ‘It’s the way of the world. She will take me not because she likes me better, but because I have more money. You are wasting your energies, concerning yourself with such a one. She will go her own way, and no friend will stop her.’

Looking into Kit’s eyes, such a piercing, deep, dark blue colour, and for once showing such genuine concern, Clarissa acknowledged that he spoke the truth. But Amelia was her sister. She couldn’t give up on her, it wasn’t yet too late. And if nothing else, she could make sure that Amelia didn’t throw herself away on this man.




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