Playing to Win by Diane Farr Page A

you,
after all your kindness."
    "Kindness?" The frown returned to Mr.
Whitlatch's features. He set down the spoon and hopped off the
countertop. "What kindness have I shown you? Don't talk fustian,
Clarissa."
    "It isn't fustian," she said
indignantly. She decided to pass over his repeated use of her
Christian name. "You have done me a great kindness, and I am
exceedingly grateful to you. This morning I was a prisoner in my
mother's house. I had no hope of escape short of a miracle. I must
tell you, Mr. Whitlatch, that I spent many hours earnestly praying
that God would send me such a miracle." She busied herself in tying
the apron behind her. "And He sent you."
    She marched over to the pantry and
began examining the contents of its shelves. "Are you fond of
pepper, Mr. Whitlatch?" she asked, holding up a small box for his
inspection.
    When he did not immediately reply, she
glanced inquiringly at him. He had a very queer expression on his
face, she thought. "It isn't red pepper, you know," she said
uncertainly. "It's black."
    Mr. Whitlatch looked at her. Just
looked at her. A slender, aproned girl, clad all in white, with her
head cocked inquiringly to one side, holding up a pepper box. The
fading sunlight gave her a golden halo and bathed the scene in an
other-worldly glow.
    He had never before pictured himself as
a response to someone's prayer. It was a humbling experience,
especially when he was uncomfortably aware of his own designs for
Miss Feeney's future. Looking at her, he felt almost as if he had
stumbled across some beautiful wild creature in a wood; she was as
lovely, as graceful, as fascinating, and as unconscious of her
charm as a wild thing would be. And he, the predator, planned to
ruin this trusting creature with no more regret than he wasted on
shooting a pheasant.
    It was not a comfortable thought. He
struggled to banish it. After all, if he failed to seize his
opportunity some other man would have her. A man who might mistreat
her, or eventually cast her off penniless. She deserved better. And
who better than Trevor Whitlatch? It was nonsensical for him to
suffer these qualms. Conscience be damned! The chit was completely
and utterly unmarriageable.
    Clarissa Feeney was born to be bachelor
fare, and by God, he was going to be the bachelor.
    "Do as you wish. I'll light the lamp,"
he said abruptly. He suddenly found he could no longer meet her
eyes, and turned away from the sight of her.
    They spent the next forty-five minutes
cobbling together a meal. Clarissa began by rather nervously
confessing that her only real talent in the kitchen was brewing
tea. Once it was clear she had no more notion than he how to cook a
dinner, Mr. Whitlatch unearthed a bread knife and decreed that
toasted cheese would be the order of the day. Clarissa, delighted,
expressed confidence that toasting cheese would not overtax her
culinary skills. She began slicing bread and carving cheese with a
will, and sent her host to forage in the larder. He emerged
victorious, triumphantly bearing a bowl of fruit, another of nuts,
and half of a large apple pie.
    Assembling a meal was a novel
experience for both of them. Since Mr. Whitlatch was uncommonly
fond of novel experiences, he tackled the project with an
enthusiasm that reminded Clarissa strongly of a puppy fetching
sticks. He was not offended by her stifled giggles—on the contrary,
her amusement seemed to please him. The funnier she found him, the
more outrageous he became, until the kitchen rang with their united
laughter.
    After an exhausting and increasingly
hilarious search, they found plates in the butler's pantry, silver
in a drawer of the adjacent dining room, and napkins in the linen
closet. The dining room was discovered to be cold and dark, and it
seemed silly to eat their humble fare in its arctic grandeur. They
rejected the dining room, therefore, in favor of the warm, lamplit
kitchen. Perching rather precariously on wooden stools, they spread
their feast on the deal