Playing to Win by Diane Farr Read Free Book Online

Whitlatch's grip transferred itself to her shoulders. He
startled her with a rough little shake.
    "If you ever play such a trick
again," he thundered, "I'll teach you a lesson you won't soon
forget! What the devil do you mean by disobeying me? When I tell
you to wait somewhere, by God, you’d better stay put!"
    Shock drove the color from Clarissa’s
cheeks. Then humiliation, fear, despair and exhaustion suddenly
ignited her temper. Rage swept through her like a strong tonic.
With one fierce movement, she broke from his grasp and turned on
him, eyes blazing like coals in her tense, white face.
    "How dare you raise your hand to me? Do
not touch me!"
    Mr. Whitlatch stared. "Do not touch you? What the dev—"
    "And do not swear at me!" interrupted
Clarissa sharply, raising one hand as if to ward him off. "Your
entire manner toward me is intolerable! Your language is profane
and familiar. Your attentions are insulting! And your company, sir,
is repugnant!"
    Mr. Whitlatch was conscious of a strong
sense of unreality. The girl was addressing him in the ringing
tones of an outraged spinster. If he had not known better, he would
think she was a respectable female.
    His eyes narrowed in suspicion. Was
Gianetta capable of serving him such a trick? Would she
dare?
    "Who are you?" he demanded. "I was led
to believe-”
    "I know what you were led to believe,
thank you!" Her tone was bitter. The anger suddenly seemed to
abandon Clarissa, leaving her limp. She sank, shaking, into a
chair. "I know what you were led to believe," she repeated quietly.
"And I know who led you to believe it. I know whom I have to thank
for this deplorable situation. You are not altogether at fault. But
I charge you, sir, by all you hold holy—"
    A quick knock sounded, and the door
opened. "Beg pardon, but the chaise is ready, sir. You asked to be
called immediately."
    "Yes, thank you, thank you! You may
go," snapped Mr. Whitlatch. As the curious servant reluctantly
withdrew, Mr. Whitlatch looked back at Clarissa and
frowned.
    She appeared pale, tired and fragile,
but there was definitely some steel in that slender spine. She sat
straight in her chair as if by a supreme effort of will. Why,
anyone would take her for a lady of quality.
    He addressed her with his
characteristic abruptness. "You speak like a
gentlewoman."
    She lifted her chin at that, and
replied with dignity. "I was educated at a respectable seminary,
sir."
    Mr. Whitlatch's eyebrows shot up. "The
devil you say! How did Gianetta get her claws into you?"
    Clarissa blushed, and her eyes fell.
"That is a long story, sir, and painful to me. I beg you will not
ask me to relate it."
    "Good God!" Mr. Whitlatch rubbed his
chin, regarding Clarissa thoughtfully. "Well, I will deal with
Gianetta later. This is not the first time she has slumguzzled me,
but I promise you it is the last. In the meantime, if I have
offered you any insult today, ma'am, I heartily beg your pardon. As
you surmised, I was encouraged to think you were something you
clearly are not. I apologize."
    She looked up at him, startled. Sudden
civility was the last thing Clarissa had expected. His eyes were
very dark, and met hers with a directness she found rather
unsettling. She nodded, not trusting her voice.
    Her eyes flickered over Mr. Whitlatch’s
face for the first time. She noticed, with a detached sort of
surprise, that he was handsome. Why had she thought him
harsh-featured, swarthy and villainous? It must be because he had
figured in her mind only as the scoundrel who wished to steal her
virtue. Preoccupied with her troubles, she had never actually
looked at the man. He was dark, to be sure, but his rugged features
were more attractive than she had first thought.
    She wondered if the years at school had
made her overly accustomed to feminine standards of beauty.
Harshness in a male face was rather pleasing, she discovered. And a
large frame did not lessen a man's appeal. If anything, it enhanced
it. How strange.
    But Mr.