‘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