Rushed to the Altar by Jane Feather Page A

would you, my lord?” Her voice shook with fear-fueled outrage as she realized that in this house she could not stop him from doing anything he wished with her.
    His hands dropped from her as if she were a burning brand and he thrust her almost roughly away from him. “Don’t ever accuse me of that again.”
    Clarissa turned to look at him. His expression was dark, his eyes black and unreadable. “You frightened me,” she said softly. “Can’t you understand how helpless I feel, here alone with you?”
    His expression became one of acute exasperation, although his voice remained low. “Good God, woman, you’re a whore. How could I possibly have frightened you? You know what to expect. You signed an agreement; don’t tell me you expected that to include nothing more than pretty clothes in a pleasant house in exchange for a little playacting?”
    There was nothing to be said, given that the truth was an impossibility. She turned away, saying dully, “Is your uncle receiving?”
    Jasper didn’t immediately respond. He looked at her in angry puzzlement, once again wondering what it was about this young woman that set him back on his heels at every turn. He knew what she was, so why did her behavior seem to deny it? There was nothing to be gained by the denial, not in his company anyway. God’s blood, he’d seen the way she ate an oyster, the most seductive act he’d ever witnessed. She lived in a whorehouse, she’dsigned a whore’s contract. And the plain fact of the matter was that he wanted her. Perhaps she was holding him off in order to get more out of him. That was a whore’s trick, one he knew well. It had been played on him several times before—not with any success, mind you, but it had certainly been tried.
    That made sense of her paradoxical come-hither, go-whither behavior, and she’d learn soon enough that he was no gull.
    “He’s waiting for you,” he said, his tone curt. He went ahead of her to the far door that still stood ajar. “Allow me to introduce Mistress Clarissa Ordway, sir.” He reached for her wrist and drew her up beside him as he entered the chamber.
    Clarissa blinked in the dim light. The curtains were partially drawn across the long windows, shutting out the crisp autumn sunlight, and a fire blazed in the massive hearth. Wax candles burned around the room and the faint odor of a sickroom lingered in the stuffy air. An old man in a fur-trimmed robe, fur rugs wrapped around his knees, was ensconced beside the fireplace, a glass of wine held in a surprisingly graceful hand, the slender, white-skinned hand of a much younger man. He raised a quizzing glass and examined Clarissa as she stepped hesitantly towards him.
    “Well, come closer, girl, I don’t bite,” he rasped.
    Clarissa came within several feet of him and curtsied. “Good morning, my lord.”
    “Hmm.” He raised his quizzing glass again. “So,you’re my nephew’s latest piece. Not bad . . . not bad at all. Nice bubbies; a bit small, but shapely enough.”
    “La, sir, you flatter me. I believe them to be insignificant.” She curtsied again, flicking open her fan, smiling at him over the edge, fluttering her thick golden-brown lashes.
    He laughed. “Don’t shortchange yourself, girl. Which nunnery are you from?”
    “Mistress Griffiths’s, sir.”
    The old man cackled. “Nan’s still at it, is she? Well, she always did run a fine establishment. Jasper, over there”—he gestured with his head to where his nephew stood—“he lost his virginity in that house when he was a lad of sixteen. God alone knows how he managed to get to such an age with his cock untried, but that father of his was a namby-pamby, and as for his mother—”
    Jasper interrupted him, his voice mildly remonstrative. “You may cast as many aspersions as you wish upon my lamentable lack of physical education, sir, but I beg that you will leave my mother, at least, out of the conversation.”
    Clarissa was much amused. She ought to have