by Lily Dalton
“But it’s not a damn reassignment. It’s not even a demotion. You said I’m out,” he snarled bitterly. “What in the bloody hell about this arrangement benefits me?”
Other than marrying the beautiful but painfully naïve Miss Bevington, who loved another man and even carried that man’s child, one he’d now be expected to raise as his own? He might as well go out tonight and leap into the Thames for all the joy that future would bring him. He felt sick about all he had lost. He could not even think beyond the moment to imagine what tomorrow might bring. For so long, service to his country had been his purpose and salvation. Now he had nothing.
“I’ll see if I can secure your pension from the Exchequer.”
“Oh, that’s prime.” Dominick let out a bitter laugh. “My country’s generosity, after my thirteen years of service and sacrifice, astounds.”
“Pardon me for daring to tread on the sanctity of your personal tragedy, but if you don’t mind me saying, you’re looking at all this in the wrong way.” His handler stared at him, his lips drawn into a solemn line.
“How then should I be looking at things?” Dominick answered angrily.
His companion answered quietly. “I understand that you take great pride in your service for England, but any other rational fellow would consider marriage to the Earl of Wolverton’s granddaughter to be a magnificent gift.”
Dominick laughed bitterly. “I’m so very lucky.”
Twin nostrils flared their displeasure. “It’s not as if Miss Bevington is a terrible match. For one thing, she’s lovely, both inside and out, and I don’t have to tell you that’s rare. But more important, I’m certain she will come with a respectable marriage settlement. Perhaps not immediately, but at some time in the future when the turmoil has calmed down. You’ll have married into one of the most respected families in England.”
As simple as it all sounded, spilling from his handler’s lips, Dominick knew marriage wasn’t that tidy. There were emotions involved. Expectations of love. But he had loved his once-in-a-lifetime love, and she—Tryphena—had nearly destroyed him. His soul was scarred. Incapable of the intimacy. He couldn’t fathom the idea of marrying ever again.
Dominick gritted out, “I don’t want marriage, or wealth or connections. I want my life back. The one I worked so hard to regain. Is that so difficult to understand?”
“No, it’s not. But I hope, given time, you’ll change your mind.”
Dominick narrowed his eyes. “If she’s such a prize, why don’t you marry her?”
“I can’t.”
“Why not?”
He chuckled, without humor. “Because I wasn’t fool enough to get caught in your situation. What’s done is done. Given the sensitivity of the matter, no one else can be brought in. We can’t take the chance someone will talk. It has to be you.”
“Hmmm. Clarissa Bevington. Mine, all mine. Lucky me.” Dominick steepled his fingers together and, with no small amount of dramatic flair, peered ceiling-ward as if greedily pondering the idea of a grand fortune, then dropped his arms to his side. “Not only have I lost everything, but her family will make me miserable for the rest of my life. They’ll forever despise me, believing I betrayed their trust and seduced their angel.”
“They’ll forgive in time.”
“I wouldn’t,” he bit out. He imagined Quinn’s aristocratic features then and thought how nice it would be to smash them with his fist. “Not if she was my daughter.”
“No, I don’t think you would. One suggestion…”
“A suggestion?”
He shrugged. “Call it a parting order, if you prefer.”
Dominick’s eyes narrowed. “What’s that?”
“Get her away from London as soon as you can, away from the questions and scrutiny. And when I say scrutiny, I mean it is best that people don’t have the opportunity to ask questions about you, other than what we will allow them to know. It’s for your safety as well as hers and the child’s. Live a quiet life, away from here for the first few years. By then any interest will have died down. Do you have somewhere you can go?”
“Perhaps.” Dominick paused in front of the fire. “I’ll…find somewhere.”
Again the anger returned. This had never been part of his plan. He was supposed to be embarking on a thrilling mission tomorrow. Returning to stand shoulder to shoulder with his peers. Not shrinking into obscurity.
“Good.”
Dominick looked up at the ceiling, feeling caged, wishing it were the sky and that he could just fly away. “I don’t have to go through with this, you know. I could just leave. Disappear forever and make a life for myself on the other side of the world.” He crossed his arms over his chest and stared up at the plaster medallion on the ceiling. “I could just leave that chit to suffer her own consequences.”
“You could do that, indeed,” the man answered quietly. “But I don’t believe you will.”
“Who is that gentleman with Claxton and Raikes?” Daphne asked from the drawing room window, where she stood peering out through lace curtains.
“They’ve invited a friend to come along?” Clarissa started up from the chaise where she’d been sitting with Sophia.
Joining her sister, she peered down to the street where Claxton’s black town carriage had arrived. Footmen secured the door, and the three men who had emerged proceeded up the walk toward the house. Claxton led the way, his lips drawn into a scowl that still proclaimed blast you, Clarissa, followed by Lord Raikes, who, while less stern of countenance, tugged at the knot of his neck cloth as if it strangled him, as if he’d just suffered through the most unpleasant ride of his life. A third man followed, tall, erect, and solemn. Clarissa’s attention lingered on him momentarily, taking note of the figure he cut in his fashionable gray morning coat and the angular set of his jaw above a perfectly executed ivory silk cravat—
Her nerves already a tangle, she jerked the curtain closed. “I can’t believe they’ve brought a stranger, someone I don’t even know, to gawk through the ceremony. I thought it was understood that, given the circumstances, there would only be family present. Men can be just as terrible gossips as ladies and I would just like a small bit more time before news of my wedding is bandied around town.”
Sophia joined them at the window.
“Certainly they wouldn’t have,” replied Daphne in a soothing tone, reaching an arm to squeeze her shoulders. “Perhaps it’s the priest, and he’s not yet put on his vestments.”
Numerous vases filled with flowers brightened the room, sent by well-wishers and more than one hopeful suitor who had attended her short-lived ball. Stacks of notes had arrived by courier, inquiring about Wolverton’s health. By all accounts, London remained oblivious to the fact that in less than an hour’s time, Clarissa would become Mrs. Kincraig.
The inevitability of scandal weighed like a stone on her chest. Clarissa paced and fretted, wringing her hands.
“What does it matter if they did bring someone? Everyone will know soon enough that I’ve married the most unlikely candidate, in questionable haste, and wonder about the reason why. Perhaps we ought to have just invited the entire ton and gotten the whole sordid announcement over with.”
Sophia straightened suddenly, with a sharp intake of breath. “Clarissa, that’s no stranger. That’s Mr. Kincraig.”
Clarissa froze, hearing the words, but then shook her head.
“That’s not possible,” she replied. “Daphne and I know perfectly well what Mr. Kincraig looks like.”
She quickly returned to the window but caught only the briefest glimpse of wide shoulders and top hats as the men moved out of sight.
Which meant they were entering the house. She’d braced herself all morning for this moment, but still, the room spun around her.
If indeed the stranger was Mr. Kincraig, she hadn’t even recognized her own husband-to-be! Didn’t that only prove the folly of the situation at hand? This morning, after the physician had solemnly confirmed her condition,
she’d resolved to marry him. She’d convinced herself that Mr. Kincraig had agreed to the arrangement because he would most certainly benefit from the union, both financially and through the social and political connections he could make by association with her family. Lots of people married for those very same reasons, without ever thinking about love.
But now she doubted everything. Was she only being selfish? Had she and her grandfather imprisoned a man who had so kindly, in her time of need, tried to protect and comfort her?
“I don’t think I can marry Mr. Kincraig,” she announced quietly, her face and throat going hot and her palms humid. Suddenly the drawing room felt like a furnace.
“I know you’re afraid,” Sophia assured quietly, a look of pity in her eyes. “But it will all turn out for the best. It must, because, Clarissa, you don’t have any other choice. When there’s a baby, the father must take responsibility, and you must as well.”
She didn’t want to punish the baby by denying it a father, but neither did she wish to punish Mr. Kincraig.
“I can’t,” she said, this time a degree louder and more resolute. “I need to speak with Grandfather.”
Footsteps sounded in the corridor and Lady Margaretta appeared, her expression strained. At seeing her, a strong pang struck Clarissa’s heart. Her beautiful, loving mother had barely spoken to her since last night, nor had she offered a single word of comfort. No wonder. Clarissa had disappointed her terribly, destroying all the dreams Her Ladyship had held for her since her birth twenty years ago. She’d disappointed them all and shamed her beloved father’s memory. Clarissa’s only peace came from knowing her mother had found love again with the kind-hearted Mr. Birch, whom she liked very much. He had arrived at the house earlier that morning and had surely offered his support to her mother in his quiet way.
“Mr. Kincraig has arrived,” announced the marchioness, her voice tight with emotion.
So the stranger with Claxton and Raikes was indeed Mr. Kincraig. She tried to recall what she’d seen from the window. He’d appeared different, but why?
“We saw them arrive,” said Sophia, clasping her hands in front of her waist before throwing Clarissa a rueful glance.
To Clarissa’s mortification, Daphne chose that moment to burst into tears.
“I can’t believe this is happening,” she choked, pressing a hand to her face and fishing a handkerchief out of her pocket. Several fell out and fluttered to the carpet. Dearest Daphne. She must have anticipated a veritable river of tears and come prepared.
In the next moment, Clarissa forgot them both. An imposing shadow appeared behind her mother, a man whose features remained obscured by the half-light of the corridor. Her breath hovered in her throat, suspended in place, as the shadow emerged and transformed into a grim-featured gentleman in a dove gray morning coat and dark trousers. His black gaze swept the room touching momentarily on her sisters before focusing with excruciating exactness on her.
The Mr. Kincraig she’d known before had always kept to the shadows and the farthest corners of the room, rarely drawing undue attention to himself. He’d been reluctant to ever pay formal calls or involve himself in the polite conversations of a Belgravia drawing room. Yet in this moment he stood at the center of the room, the very picture of a gentleman.
“Good morning,” he said smoothly, with only the slightest edge of sarcasm.
Her mouth fell open in startlement.
Gone was the unkempt beard and mustache and unfashionable long hair. She felt quite certain she’d never even glimpsed his ears. The man she had come to know for the past nearly two years of her life—but apparently had never truly seen—stood proud and calm, his features laid bare for her viewing.
And what a shock it was to find that Mr. Kincraig had very fine features. Broad cheekbones, with down-swept hollows beneath and a Grecian nose that boasted a decidedly aristocratic bump. How had she never noticed that detail before, when certainly his nose had not been covered by his beard?
She’d fussed over his shabby appearance and retied his cravat countless times—a cravat that this morning was tied to perfection. Why did she now feel as if she were looking into the eyes of a stranger?
“It’s only me,” he growled, sounding very much like himself. His jaw tightened in annoyance. “You needn’t look so appalled.”
“I’m not appalled,” she answered. No, not at all. She couldn’t define how she felt at seeing him like this. Relieved? Breathless.
“It’s just that I’ve never seen you look so…so…” Clarissa’s voice faded away. Heat rose into her cheeks, and for a moment her hands gestured aimlessly, as if with a mind of their own.
“Clean?” suggested Sophia archly, one eyebrow raised.
“Shaven,” added Daphne, from behind her lace-edged handkerchief.
“—turned out.” Sophia’s gaze descended from his face to his shoes.
Daphne sniffed. “Sober.”
No. Handsome is what Clarissa had thought. Not to the same magnitude as Quinn, but handsome no less.
“Don’t let that fool you,” muttered the duke.
“Claxton.” Clarissa shot her brother-in-law a pleading glance, before her gaze veered back to Mr. Kincraig.
His eyebrows raised drolly. “Oh, that’s nothing. You should have been there for his diatribe in the carriage. Do I even have ears left? They may have melted off.”
“He didn’t deserve that,” Clarissa declared, glaring at her family.
“Quiet, all of you,” Lady Margaretta intervened, color rising into her previously pale cheeks.
Claxton and Raikes exchanged a grim glance. Mr. Kincraig stood tall and still, and he held a box. Given the circumstances, she could not help but think him very brave. Remembering herself, she proceeded toward him, determined to salvage the moment.
“Good morning to you,” she said in a voice that came out regretfully wane. She cleared her throat. “Thank you for coming.”
She supposed that would have to do. She thought to reach for his hands, but no. Although she supposed they were betrothed, she could not bring herself to extend that degree of familiarity, especially now that he was outright glowering at her as if to say I had no choice.
He exhaled and closed his eyes.
Opening them again, he said, “I brought you flowers—”
He pressed the box into her hands, his gaze moving over her, as if he too saw her for the first time. She looked down at his swarthy-skinned hands against the ivory box, long-fingered and square at the knuckles, and imagined them touching her. She swallowed, instantly flustered and discomposed.
Unaware, he continued on. “—and a special license, which the duke was generous enough to exert every ounce of his influence to procure.” Even his voice, to her, sounded different. Deeper and more serious than the Mr. Kincraig she had known. Polished and clipped. Could the change also be the effect of sobriety? Before he had always appeared in a perpetual state of sottedness, to one degree or another. Now everything about him, from the clarity of his gaze to his dress and movements, spoke of precision and care.
“Thank you,” she said, accepting the box from his hands.
Around them, the room remained utterly silent. She knew everyone watched to see what would happen next.
“The least you could do is open them.” His jaw twitched, adjacent to a frown. As she held the box, he removed the lid and lifted out a small nosegay of roses, one that represented every possible shade of pink.
Her favorite color. It touched her that he’d noticed at all. Taking the box from her hands, he replaced it with the flowers and set the box aside. She looked up at him, and her heart softened a degree more toward him.
Which was exactly why she couldn’t marry him.
Voices sounded in the corridor and in the next moment Havering appeared.
“Good morning, everyone,” he said. “I’ve brought the priest, Mr. Woodcombe.”
Her cheeks warmed. Mr. Woodcombe had married both of her sisters to their husba
nds and had years of history with their family, and would undoubtedly be as perplexed over this marriage as anyone else. Her mother woodenly introduced Mr. Kincraig to the reverend, who only briefly raised questioning eyebrows at Clarissa before politely offering his congratulations.
“Wolverton is waiting, so let us proceed upstairs at once,” Lady Margaretta announced, her eyes bright.
Sophia and Daphne joined their husbands. Mr. Birch appeared in the corridor and smiled comfortingly at her mother.
“If you all don’t mind,” Clarissa said. “I’d like a moment alone with Mr. Kincraig.”
All conversation stopped and everyone turned to her. She gripped the ribbon-wrapped stems of her nosegay.
Lady Margaretta looked at her steadily. “We can’t keep your grandfather waiting, dear.” Her tone was not unkind.
“I understand,” Clarissa replied. “I ask for only a moment.”
Her Ladyship nodded. “We’ll wait for you in the corridor.”
Once the door was closed, he turned full on toward her, glowering. “What is it, then?”
He did not approach her. Instead, he seemed to prefer keeping the whole of the room between them, so distancing was his rigid stance and cold demeanor.
“I thought we should talk,” she said. “We haven’t really had a chance to do so.”
He exhaled through his nose, as if struggling for patience.
“Forgive me, but at present I don’t want to talk.” He bit out each word through his teeth. His eyes scalded her with their heat. “Not to you. Not to anyone. I just want to get this bloody ceremony over with.”
She swallowed hard, doing her best not to wither beneath the intensity of his displeasure.
“You’re angry,” she said. “You’ve every right to be. I understand.”
An angry smile turned his lips. “You understand? Oh, I beg to differ.” He did step toward her now, coming so close she smelled his shaving soap. Fury lit his eyes. “I don’t think you understand anything. Believe me when I say, my dear Miss Bevington, that it’s taking every fraction of my willpower not to break Claxton’s nose, or smash that vase of flowers, or throw that table upside down. Or reveal your secret.”