Date with a Regency Rake. Marguerite Kaye

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 cheekbones and sparkled in her eyes as she thanked the butler in frigid tones. Clarrie was getting ready to do battle, and she was not about to be put out by a mere servant.

      As with the hackney driver, her cultured tones gave the butler a shock, confusing him. Handing her cloak over to the footman, his voice became more propitiating. ‘Lord Rasenby is expecting you, madam. I will show you to the parlour, if you’d be kind enough to follow me.’

      A quick check in the mirror reassured her—she would do. Amelia’s gown of palest blue silk with an overdress of twilled sarsenet was a little too large for Clarissa’s more slender frame, and the décolletage way too low, showing far more of her creamy white skin than she had ever done before, but none of her own gowns were grand enough—or fashionable enough—to wear. Following Amelia’s example, she had dampened the skirt so that it clung to her long slim legs, making the gauzy material almost transparent in the candlelight. Her glossy auburn hair had been cajoled into a Grecian knot, the curls falling over her white shoulder, and her slim arms were covered by long kid gloves. She had forsworn any cosmetics, fearing that she had not a light enough touch, but there was an attractive natural flush across her cheeks.

      It was now or never. Head high, Clarrie entered the room and glided gracefully over to Lord Rasenby, hand extended. He was standing with his back to the fireplace, dressed simply but elegantly in an impeccably cut dark-blue coat, his pantaloons of a biscuit hue and glossy Hessians adding a touch of informality. Taking her gloved fingertips, he pressed a whisper of a kiss on the back of her hand, then quite blatantly looked her over.

      ‘Well, Miss—Wexford, I think you said?’ A quizzical raised brow told Clarissa he knew perfectly well that she had given an assumed name. ‘You’ve surprised me on two counts.’

      ‘I have, sir?’ Clarissa retrieved her hand and, placing it behind her back, retreated a few paces, finding Lord Rasenby’s presence somewhat overpowering. The tilt of her chin, did she but know it, was challenging.

      ‘Yes, you have.’ So, she was a little on edge, the fake Miss Wexford. Well, he wasn’t surprised—it was a brazen enough act to dine with him, and he admired her courage, if not her honesty. ‘I wasn’t convinced that you’d come, for a start. And, seeing you without the mask for the first time, I’m also surprised at just what perfection you kept hidden from me.’

      Clarissa flushed. Tricked out in Amelia’s finery, even she had to admit that she looked well enough. But having no great opinion of herself, she was inclined to dismiss his lordship’s compliment as flummery. ‘Thank you, sir, you are very kind.’ A small curtsy of acknowledgement. ‘At least I can be sure now that you will listen to my proposal without disgust.’

      Kit laughed, finding himself once again confused by this woman. She was beautiful, although not in the common way. Her hair was not a fashionable gold, but burnished copper in the firelight, and the reddish flecks in it hinted at a temper. Those huge emerald eyes were too wide open, a little too perceptive, and had a disconcertingly honest look. Her mouth, with its full bottom lip, was not the cupid’s bow that society decreed beauty, but it was, to Kit’s eyes, far more sensual. And that chin—it was determined and defiant at the same time. Definitely not a simpering miss, but one with a real spark of fire.

      He had been right to make this assignation. He was going to be anything but bored, dealing with the challenging Miss Wexford and her proposition, whatever that turned out to be. Having just this day made the arrangements for his final trip to France on the Sea Wolf, Kit was aware that he was in dire need of distraction. It pained him already, knowing this was to be the last of such adventures, and he knew he would miss it sorely. He worried that boredom would turn him to old quarrels and to new depths of depravity. And that thought, too, bored him.

      Almost as an afterthought,