Free Playing to Win by Diane Farr Page A

simply. Mr. Whitlatch leaned
back against the squabs again, crossing his arms across his chest.
He watched her from under hooded lids.
    Clarissa blinked at him. Her forehead
puckered. "Why should I?" she repeated. "What do you
mean?"
    "I mean what I say. Why should you? Why
waste your life toiling in a menial occupation?"
    She lifted her hands in a hopeless
little gesture. "What choice do I have?" she asked.
    A short bark of laughter escaped Mr.
Whitlatch. "Some women would have no choice," he agreed. "But you
are not among them."
    Clarissa bit her lip. "I understand
you," she said in a low tone. "But we will not speak of that
option, if you please."
    "Why not? You would be a thundering
success among the muslin company."
    Her nostrils flared with disdain.
"Thank you, I do not aspire to a life of harlotry—successful or
otherwise! I will take whatever respectable post you have
available. Or—" Her eyes brightened, and she leaned forward
eagerly. "Sir, do you have some friend, or relative, perhaps, with
children? Could you recommend me to a household other than your
own? If the children are young, perhaps they need a
nursemaid."
    Another flight of fancy. He kept his
face carefully bland. "What happened to your governess idea?" he
inquired politely.
    "Oh, that would be better yet!" she
exclaimed.
    "Would it?"
    "Of course it would. I enjoy teaching."
But now she appeared thoughtful. She glanced speculatively at Mr.
Whitlatch.
    "I daresay you think I am too
beautiful," she said.
    Mr. Whitlatch, startled by Clarissa's
prosaic reference to her own charms, waited for the
self-deprecating giggle, the disclaimer, or the explanation that
should follow such a remark. None was forthcoming.
    His lips twitched. "I do, actually," he
admitted, instantly joining in her spirit of frankness. "I’m afraid
you are completely unemployable in a private residence. No woman
wishes her sons—or her husband—to form a tendre for the
governess. Or the nursemaid, for that matter."
    Clarissa's hands clasped anxiously in
her lap. "But do you not think, sir, that if I dressed very simply,
and always did my hair in a knot—"
    He shook his head. "No good," he told
her firmly. "You are dressed simply now, and I promise you I was
not fooled for an instant."
    "Then what am I to do?" she demanded,
spreading her hands helplessly. "I had hoped to teach at the
Academy until I was old enough to seek employment as a governess.
No one will hire me now. I am too young."
    "Oh, no! Just too beautiful," he
corrected her, his voice quivering.
    She did not seem to notice his
amusement. The worried frown still puckered her pretty forehead,
and the blue eyes were anxious. "But I do not wish to be a
scullerymaid, after all. What should I do?"
    He pretended to ponder her question
seriously. "I think you should grow a beard."
    She stared at him. "What?"
    "If you wish to be a governess, grow a
beard," he said calmly. "I am sure it would answer."
    "But I cannot grow a beard!"
    "How about a mustache?" he suggested.
"I have seen the loveliest of females rendered hideous by a
mustache."
    Hiding his enjoyment, he watched the
emotions chasing across her face. Her baffled expression melted
into one of horror. She was plainly wondering if he were mad. Next
came an arrested look, as she noticed the devils dancing in the
back of his eyes. And then a wondrous thing happened: answering
laughter lit Clarissa's eyes, and she smiled.
    He had never seen Clarissa smile. It
took his breath away. Dear God. He had to remind his suddenly slack
jaw to stay put. He felt a schoolboy's silly grin split his face.
Such beauty could deprive a man of his senses. Even his hearing, it
seemed. She was speaking again, and he hadn’t heard a word she
said.
    "I beg your pardon?" he
managed.
    The smile still illuminated her perfect
features, but it had turned a trifle shy. "I had no brothers, you
know, and being at school so long—I am accustomed only to the
company of females. And the vicar, a little. But he