Date with a Regency Rake. Marguerite Kaye

And Mr Brompton, bless him for the honest man he must be, had obviously severely upbraided Amelia. The fact that Amelia had listened sufficiently to be able to quote his reservations back word for word this morning was evidence enough of her affections being engaged, would she just admit it. With satisfaction, Clarissa realised that Amelia was, rather astonishingly, falling in love with this sober and righteous young man.

      Trying to persuade Amelia that Edward and his reservations should be paid heed was, however, beyond Clarissa’s capabilities for the present. With resolution borne of experience, Clarissa decided to sit back and let Amelia cry herself out, inwardly calmer herself now in the knowledge that she was right to pursue a course of separating her sister from Kit Rasenby. And hopeful too that Edward had played a part in putting at least some obstacles in the way of Amelia’s plot to trick Kit.

      But it took the rest of the morning and well into the early afternoon for Amelia’s tears to run dry. Only then did she allow Clarissa to dose her with hartshorn and water, tuck her up in a darkened room, and leave her to sleep off the damage done to her complexion.

      Which left Clarissa with little time to continue her own reflections before having to ready herself for her assignation with Kit in the park. He would say yes, he had to say yes. And if he turned her down—well, that simply wasn’t an option. She told herself, with more bravado than conviction, that she would persuade him—somehow—to come round to her way of thinking.

      Had she been aware of just how Kit had spent his extremely busy morning, Clarissa would have been more than a little perturbed. As it was, she set out for the Green Park by hack, looking smart in a pale green merino walking dress and matching spencer, a gift from her aunt. Her feet were clad in boots of Morocco leather, and a reticule of her own design dangled from her wrist. A treasured pair of kid gloves and a simple poke hat completed the outfit. Clarissa was content with her appearance, and happy that she looked her best. She carried no muff, it was a luxury she could not afford, but the day was none too cold, and she was not anticipating being in the carriage for long.

      With a heart fluttering with anticipation, despite having given herself a stern talking to on the subject of attractive rakes, their kissing abilities, and the need to avoid all such intimate contact in the future—somehow or other—Clarissa paid off the hack, and stepped lightly through the park gates.

      Lord Rasenby was waiting in a high-perch phaeton to which two glossy, perfectly matched chestnuts were poled. They were restless, contained with some effort by the small tiger at their heads, and Clarissa looked up at their master, carelessly lounging in the seat of the vehicle, impossibly high off the ground, with some trepidation.

      ‘Don’t be alarmed, I assure you I have them well under control. Any rake worth his salt, you know, is an expert at mastering even the freshest of fillies.’ The sardonic look that always accompanied any mocking reference to his reputation was tempered by a slight smile. ‘It’s not so high as it looks, just place your foot on the step and I’ll help you up.’ Leaning over to take her hand, Kit pulled Clarrie easily into the carriage and briskly tucked a rug over her knees. His touch was cool and impersonal, but she flushed slightly all the same. With a curt nod of dismissal to the tiger, he jerked sharply on the reins, and the chestnuts set off at a brisk trot.

      The few moments it took to get the horses under control allowed Clarissa to rein in her own feelings at the proximity of this man. His thigh brushed hers through the rug, for the seat was narrow. She could not but be aware of that hard, muscled body which his caped greatcoat did nothing to hide. He was every bit as overpowering as she remembered. Every bit as attractive. And every bit as dangerous, she chided herself. Think only of what you have to achieve, and make sure you do it with regard to your own safety, Clarissa Warrington.

      ‘I congratulate you for your punctuality, Clarissa, it’s not a trait common to your sex.’

      His words startled her from her thoughts, and she replied with unthinking asperity. ‘As I believe I have been at pains to point out to you, sir, I am not inclined to be taken for the common herd. I pride myself on being punctual.’

      ‘And frank, too. You could not be accused of reticence.’

      She laughed. ‘Yes, that too. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to be rude. It’s just that—well, I hate being judged. I know you’ll think me foolish, but you’ve no idea how irritating it is when people assume you are just the same as every other young lady. I try not to be so predictable.’

      ‘You do me a disservice, madam. I sympathise with your frustration and assure you I understand only too well both your feelings and your reaction. But are you not being a little hypocritical, for did you not so judge me—as a rake—when first we met, in exactly the same way?’

      ‘Yes, I did, and it was wrong of me. Although I have to say that you’ve been at great pains to confirm me in my assumptions, have you not?’ A glance at him showed, from the lips firmly suppressed, that she had hit home. ‘And when I did point out that you were hiding behind your reputation, you were not best pleased.’ Another glance showed that he was not best pleased again. Oh dear, her unfortunate tongue—when would she learn to guard it? ‘I’m sorry. I fear I have offended you once more. And I so meant not to—offend you, I mean. I meant to be more propitiating.’

      A crack of laughter made her look up, an answering sparkle in her own eyes.

      ‘You think that’s funny. I know what you’re thinking.’

      ‘I doubt it. Pray tell me.’

      ‘That my behaviour is hardly conducive to achieving my goal. Getting you to agree to my proposition, that is. And I do most abjectly apologise, for contrary to what I may have said, and even with the benefit of a night’s reflection, I do want you to agree.’

      ‘Actually, I was thinking that you’re the most unpredictable woman I’ve ever had dealings with. And I was thinking that I would very much like to kiss you again. So you see, my fair Clarissa, you’re not as able to read my mind as you think you are.’ A smile, warmer than before, softened the words.

      ‘Oh.’ A blush stole across Clarrie’s pale cheeks, for his words roused such pictures in her head as she had been trying to suppress since last night.

      As she looked up at him, her eyes wide, her soft mouth trembling slightly, Kit was surprised at the sharp gust of desire that ripped through him. The combination of honesty—or the appearance of it, in any case—and the undercurrent of passion, the fiery nature that must surely accompany those auburn locks, was captivating. Once again he reminded himself that he was no doubt being embroiled in a plot of her making. Once again he decided that whatever it was, it was a small price to pay for the use of the exceedingly comely body being offered to him.

      Raising a dark winged eyebrow in query, he smiled. ‘Oh? Is that all you have to say? You are not normally so succinct.’

      ‘No. That is … well, Lord Rasenby—Kit, I mean, there must be no kissing yet, for we have not sealed our bargain. We were to discuss it further, were we not? Then, in case you need reminding, there was to be payment in advance on your part, in terms of our adventure, before any more such—intimate contact.’ Ignoring the blush that heated her face despite the cold wind, Clarissa tried to pull the conversation back on track. ‘So, there will be no more talk of kissing at the moment, if you don’t mind. We have other things to discuss.’

      ‘You would concede then that our kissing last night was exceptionally pleasurable?’ He was enjoying the act in front of him, she was squirming in seeming embarrassment. Really, the woman should be on the stage.

      ‘As I told you last night also, sir, having no other kisses with which to compare yours, I cannot say whether it was exceptional, or merely mundane.’ The sparkle in her eyes and the challenging tilt of her chin belied the put-down. Clarrie could not help it, she enjoyed sparring with this man. She ignored the added frisson of awareness that such very risqué subject matter aroused, deciding that since no one else could possibly overhear them, she had naught to be ashamed of.

      And she was rewarded for her barbed witticism with another burst of