Chapter 6
With a surreptitious tug, Clarissa adjusted her bodice, exaggerating the swell of her breasts over the trim of her neckline. Less than a week ago, she’d been horrified to wear a gown that revealed so much flesh. But if she wanted Christian to help her she had no choice. Shehadto make him fall in love with her using whatever tools were at her disposal, including her bosom.
Sighing, she shifted on the old trundle bed, trying to get comfortable—although most of her discomfort sprang from her guilty conscience. She hated that she had to be so ruthless. But Christian was the only person who could assist her in clearing Jeremy’s name, and clear it she would, no matter the cost. But first she had to entice him to disobey his orders and search for the information she needed. If she could transform his passing infatuation with her into something he believed was real, he might then be persuaded to help her.
There would be consequences when Christian learned the truth about her actions, but she couldn’t think about that now or she’d lose her nerve.
Sitting cross-legged on the floor of the attic, Christian glanced up from the battered trunk in front of him. Sunlight slanted through the window at the south end of thelow-pitched room, gilding his thick hair with glints of amber and casting a glow over his rugged, handsome features. His heavy-lidded gaze skimmed over her figure, lingering on her breasts.
A forbidden thrill rippled through her. It didn’t matter how many silent scolds she gave herself every night as she tossed restlessly on her crisp linen sheets. Whenever he looked at her that way—whenever she remembered his impassioned kiss—her insides quivered.
He cast a lazy smile that made her want to purr like a kitten. “Did you say something, Clarissa?”
“Ah, no,” she replied. “I simply cleared my throat. It is rather dusty up here.”
He arched a brow and glanced around the tidy, well-dusted room that made up the attic of the Archer country manor, but forbore to comment on the idiocy of her remark.
“Would you like to go back downstairs?” he asked politely. “I’m beginning to suspect Lillian is leading us on a wild goose chase, although I can’t imagine why. I’m fairly certain that if there were love letters from Charles II to one of my ancestors, someone would have found them long before now.”
Clarissa choked back a dismayed groan. This was the first opportunity she’d had to get Christian truly alone since they’d arrived at Rosedell Manor yesterday. It was during the short journey into Kent that she’d hatched her desperate plan, but she could hardly launch it with Lillian sitting in the same carriage, right next to her brother. And since then, her friend had stuck to her like glue, clearly trying to distract her by telling one amusing story after another until Clarissa wanted to scream.
Fortunately, while they were lunching this afternoon, Lillian had mentioned an old family tale regarding an ancestral Lady Archer, and her association with the great Stuart king. Letters from the king had apparently survived, but noone had seen them in years. Lillian had mused that they were likely buried somewhere in the attic.
With an inspired flash born of desperation, Clarissa had asked Christian to help her search for the letters. Feigning a boldness that made her stomach hurt, she had pointedly neglected to include Lillian in her invitation. To her surprise, her friend had simply shrugged, claiming she had errands to run in the village.
Clarissa stared morosely at the whitewashed floorboards of the attic. Lillian would be furious that she was manipulating her beloved brother. God only knew if their friendship would even survive.
She sucked in a huge gulp of air as remorse squeezed her heart in an unforgiving grip. Christian looked up from a pile of documents in his lap.
“You need a rest,” he said, looking worried. “We can do this later, after you’ve had a nap.”
She scowled. “I’m not an old lady who needs her afternoon nap.”
A muscle pulsed in his cheek, and she could tell he was trying not to laugh.
“That’s what I’ve been saying all along, Ladybird. But, very well. Since you’re intent on doing this, why don’t you come over here and help me go through this bloody great trunk. It’s full of documents, although I have my doubts we’ll find any love letters.”
She started to comply when a better idea popped into her head. Sinking down onto the bed, she threw him what she hoped was a sultry look.
“You don’t really expect me to sit on the floor, do you? Why don’t you drag the trunk over here and sit on the bed beside me?” she said.
His chin jerked up, and he studied her for a long moment. She held her breath, hoping her smile didn’t look as false as it felt. God help her if he said no.
Relief coursed through her when he finally gave a slow nod and unfolded his long legs. He rose, then dragged the heavy trunk across the floor to the bed. He loomed over her, his face guarded, the wings of his eyebrows pulled together in an aggressive, masculine slash.
She patted the mattress and gave him an inviting smile. “Sit.”
He hesitated, then came down beside her, careful to keep several inches between them. The bed creaked, but the sturdy old frame accepted the added weight of his brawny physique.
“Now,” she murmured, “let’s see if we can find those love letters. If we do, perhaps I can read them to you.”
He blinked and a light flush glazed his cheekbones. “I wouldn’t get your hopes up,” he replied in a puzzled voice.
She wriggled across the mattress, closing the gap between them. He tensed, muscles flexing in his broad shoulders.
“But wouldn’t it be fun if we did?” she prattled, trying not to show her nervousness. “One can only imagine what the king wrote. He was apparently quite a romantic and imaginative lover.”
He shot her a startled glance. “Where the hell would you learn about something like that?”
