Never Surrender to a Scoundrel

by Lily Dalton

  She stared at the door, wickedly curious but afraid of what she might see.

  “Go on,” urged Miss Randolph. “What are you waiting for?”

  Dominick closed his eyes and eased into the hip bath. Hot water enveloped him to his abdomen. Groaning in pleasure, he raised two handfuls to his face. Four hours of riding atop with the driver, clenching onto the rail at every bounce and turn, had left his muscles sore and his skin covered in dust.

  “May I assist you, sir?” said a female voice, husky and sweet.

  The inn’s servant. He’d almost forgotten about her.

  He lowered his hands from his face and shook his head. “My thanks, but no. You may go.”

  “Are you certain?” she asked seductively, her dark hair draped fetchingly over one shoulder. “I could…rub your back…or anything else you like, with that very nice gentleman’s soap on the tray.”

  “Yes, I’m certain. But thank you again.”

  “Very well.” She pouted. “I’ll turn down your bedclothes and be on my way.”

  She’d watched him undress with unconcealed interest, staring raptly at his shoulders, his chest, and yes, his manhood, until he’d lowered himself into his present position, which at least concealed that part of him from her view. He’d traveled much in his thirty-two years of life and often encountered women eager to earn an extra coin. Some just wanted a man’s companionship. He did not know the motivation of the maid who stood smiling at him, her hand on the coverlet of the bed she’d just turned down, but the invitation was clear. Her breasts strained against the bodice of her dress, more so than he’d noticed a moment before, which suggested she’d purposefully adjusted the garment for effect.

  Yet her efforts did not have the desired result. Yes, he wanted a woman’s hands sliding over his skin, but not hers. He wanted to make love tonight, but not to a nameless servant girl in the inn, who had likely seduced scores of others before him.

  As emotionally distant as he felt toward Clarissa, he found that, to his surprise, he wanted her. He wanted his wife. Hell, he’d been forced to marry her. There ought to be some reward.

  If only he could let go of his anger and the inner voice that kept reminding him he shouldn’t be here at all, that he ought to be on his way to France, where, at last, he would do what he did best, and that was to spy on wicked people who deserved to be spied upon.

  He was no good at being a husband. He’d learned that once before.

  But he was a husband again, and one who had not made love to a woman in a very long time. Not since Tryphena.

  Until today, he’d always somehow considered himself still married, if only to her memory. He’d remained faithful to a ghost, feeling he owed her that. Did his marriage to Clarissa mean that at last he could say good-bye? Perhaps he wished that. Yes, he thought he did, at last.

  But it had been a mistake to kiss Clarissa after the wedding, in his quest to provoke Lord Quinn. Indeed, the memory of her lips against his, and the way her body had felt in his arms, had teased and tormented him ever since, which had left him exceedingly ill-tempered, because he didn’t want to feel anything too deep for a young woman who didn’t love him and likely never would.

  How could he begrudge her for loving Quinn? He couldn’t. She was young and in love and too trusting. She certainly hadn’t imagined the young lord would ever betray her. Just as he’d never imagined Tryphena would betray him.

  They’d both been hurt. They were very much equals in that way. But he was old enough and experienced enough to know it wouldn’t do either of them any good to rush into anything too quickly or try to force feelings that simply weren’t there.

  Which was why this lingering desire he felt for Clarissa after their kiss troubled him so. All afternoon since his mind had buzzed with thoughts of her, and his blood went hot each time she came near. He had gone too long without a woman, and suspected his mind and body simply leapt hungrily at what it had not experienced in so long. Otherwise why the drastic change? Just hours before he’d believed her to be just another pretty face. Which was why he doubted the authenticity of his reaction to her and pulled away, not wanting to hurt or mislead her.

  As a result, he feared he’d behaved boorishly after the wedding by scowling at her at every opportunity and then vacating the carriage when he found himself thinking about how brave and pretty she was, instead of how she’d ruined his life.

  Still, here he was thinking about her. She was pretty, yes. More so now than yesterday. It was as if by marrying her and realizing they would spend the rest of their lives together in some form or fashion, he saw her through a different lens. Once his thoughts had started down that road, he’d noticed the charming freckles that dappled her nose and the way her hair always looked slightly mussed, but in the loveliest way, no matter how much attention her maid took with styling it. And she had the loveliest figure.

  Just knowing his young wife undressed and prepared for bed in the room next to his set his blood on fire. If he had no conscience…

  Oh, but he did.

  His conscience wouldn’t shut up. What sort of man was he to be having desirous thoughts about a young woman who had just had her heart broken by another man? No doubt she was crying into her pillow now over Quinn. He knew, better than anyone, that love didn’t just die. He owed her understanding, and time to adjust to his presence in her life. He owed the same to himself.

  Just then, in the mirror, he glimpsed something, the movement of the door adjoining his room and Clarissa’s. Through a sliver of a crack in the door, two pairs of eyes peered inward, revealing the intrusion of not only one eavesdropper but two: Clarissa and her lady’s maid, Miss Randolph.

  What a surprise. Clarissa wasn’t crying herself to sleep. She was spying on him. That knowledge pleased him so much he chuckled, amused by their attempt at subterfuge, which was no doubt undertaken because of the presence of Her Naughty Maidship, who leaned across the bed, pretending to neaten the bed linens until one round breast broke free of its confines to bounce about unencumbered as she moved.

  At this, the door jerked, and he almost laughed out loud—though he strongly suspected Clarissa’s interest in his private activities was not inspired by jealousy or a need to claim her territory, but rather in defense of propriety. The Earl of Wolverton’s youngest granddaughter would never suffer a husband’s adulterous escapades, at least not while she occupied the room next door.

  But he wasn’t an adulterer. He understood the sting of that betrayal, more than anyone.

  “Oh,” the dark-haired girl exclaimed with feigned modesty, cupping her breast before slowly tucking it into its proper berth. With wide, innocent eyes, she approached him. “Now, what about that back rub?”

  No, he wasn’t an adulterer…but he did have a wicked sense of humor, one he felt the sudden inclination to satisfy.

  “On second thought, I’m very sore from traveling and I would like one,” he answered, smiling.

  “I knew you’d change your mind.” Taking up a folded cloth from the nearby table, she approached the bath and sank to her knees. Dampening the cloth, she squeezed it free of liquid and rested the heated compress across the upper half of his face. “There, doesn’t that feel glorious? Just close your eyes and allow me to do the rest.”

  He almost felt the air leave the room, as Clarissa and Miss Randolph watched to see what would happen next. He did relax, easing deeper into the water as she rubbed soap over his chest and shoulders, until his skin and muscles were slick beneath her hands.

  “God, that feels good,” he said, in a voice loud enough for them to hear. “So damn good.”

  “I could…make you feel even better, if you desire for me to do so.” Her hands slid slowly down his stomach…seductively toward his groin.

  He hadn’t expected her to be so bold so fast. He tensed, his hand poised to stop her—

  But the door made the slightest whooshing sound. Though he couldn’t see anything, because of the cloth over his eyes, he heard footsteps
cross the carpet, and the maid let out a squeal of dismay. A moment later and he knew she had been dismissed. Now the scent of orange blossoms filled his nose.

  “What’s that? Did you say something?” he said, a smile turning his lips. His muscles tensed as he waited for what his bride would say or do next.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Clarissa stared down into the tub, at the unexpected wealth of male shoulders and sinewy brawn, and her mouth went dry.

  He bore scars. Two, one on his shoulder and a second lower…against the taut skin of his torso, just below his nipple. Both appeared quite neat, as if finished by a surgeon’s practiced hand.

  But that wasn’t all. Her gaze descended…

  Light from the fire cast shadow against every swell and indention, painting the athleticism of her husband’s body for her inquisitive eyes. Yet even in the dim light, she could see through the water, to his thigh and hip. If the tub wasn’t so restrictive and Mr. Blackmer’s long limbs so confined she might be able to see—

  Well, to see better.

  A quick glance ensured the cloth remained over Mr. Blackmer’s eyes. His chest rose and fell steadily, he seemingly content and relaxed.

  Knowing Miss Randolph had closed the door a moment before so that they would have their due privacy, she squinted, shamelessly curious for a glimpse of his manhood, believing that curiosity served her best practical interests and Mr. Blackmer’s as well. That night at the Vauxhall gala, she hadn’t seen Quinn’s body for the jumble of their clothing and the urgency of his passion.

  As a newly married woman, she’d rather be shocked now, without Mr. Blackmer’s knowledge, than to react with surprise later when faced with her husband’s unfamiliar sex. She tilted her head and bit into her lower lip, thwarted. Fie on that floating jumble of bubbles swirling about and obscuring her view.

  Of course she’d gone with her mother and sisters to the museums and, like all the other young ladies in the viewing room, pretended very hard not to scrutinize the exposed genitalia of the ancient statues. She feared that in true life the reality of a man’s body might prove somewhat offputting, especially if she wasn’t wildly in love with that person.

  “Are you still there?” Mr. Blackmer inquired in a silky tone, one that plainly spoke of seduction. Not to her, but to the saucy maid she’d just pinched on the arm and sent out of the room.

  And on their wedding day! Mr. Blackmer proved himself to be a scoundrel after all.

  “Yes,” she peeped, doing her best to sound like the maid, who in her opinion had sounded like a yapping teacup-size dog. “I am here.”

  She knelt and seized up the cloth from where it floated in the water. For a moment, she considered cramming the soppy rag into his mouth. Instead, hesitantly, she rested the cloth against his skin and rubbed it over his shoulder and across his chest. Her mouth went dry like cotton and her heartbeat quickened. The warm water caught within fell in a sparkling waterfall against his golden skin…

  He exhaled through his nose and growled low in his throat.

  His white teeth bit into his lower lip.

  She stared, there, at his lips. They were nice lips. Masculine lips, with the lower being more generous than the top…

  “Well, don’t stop just yet,” he murmured in a teasing tone.

  Leaning forward, so that the vapor from the bath dampened her face, neck, and bosom, she rubbed again, this time in the opposite direction. Only his chest flexed beneath her hand as he placed his atop hers. She froze, paralyzed by the unexpected touch.

  “Lower, please,” he murmured.

  “Lower?” she whisper-squeaked, eyes widening to peer at the surface of the water, which from her perspective showed nothing, only a golden glare of firelight.

  “Yes, lower,” he drawled, pushing her hand downward.

  She jerked free.

  “Beast!” she cried, dropping, no, throwing the cloth into the water, which splashed his face.

  He pulled the cloth from his eyes.

  His eyes widened. “Oh, it’s you.”

  But then he smiled, looking amused.

  “Oh, yes.” Her sleeping gown had tangled about her legs, and she struggled to stand. She gripped the side of the tub for balance. “It is me. Just me. Your new wife. So sorry to disappoint you.”

  He grabbed her arm and tugged her back down. “I knew it was you.”

  “You did not,” she argued, knowing he lied. Didn’t he? “If I hadn’t arrived, you would have—you would have—”

  He grinned. “I would have what?”

  Her mouth snapped shut. She wouldn’t lower herself by saying the words.

  He released her, planting his hands on the sides of the tub.

  She only had a moment to brace herself because—

  He stood. Water sluiced off his nude body, splashing into the tub. Droplets landed on her face. Startled…shocked…she gasped, falling back onto her bottom, and crawled backward like a crab.

  Moving efficiently but unhurriedly, he lifted a folded towel from the washstand and stepped onto the thick rug on which the tub had been placed. He moved toward her, step by purposeful step, catching the cloth behind his hips and holding a corner in each hand. She held his gaze, refusing to retreat further, declining to look lower, but then…

  Her eyes defied her wishes, and she looked.

  She swallowed a gasp. Were all men that large?

  With a jerk of his muscled arms, he covered himself and knotted the towel at his hip.

  “Ahem,” he said, commanding her attention upward, this time to his smiling lips. “I believe you were about to inform me as to what I would have done if you had not interrupted.”

  “Something with that girl,” she blurted.

  He extended a hand to her. After a moment’s hesitation, she accepted, and he hoisted her up to stand in his shadow, so close she felt his heat, which for some reason…made her shiver. To her mortification, she felt her nipples harden into peaks, and she knew they jutted against the cambric of her sleeping gown. She prayed he did not take notice. But his gaze dipped. She forced herself to remain unmoving, allowing him to look his fill.

  “Would you care if I did?” he asked in a quiet voice.

  She hesitated, then told the truth. “Of course I would.”

  His jaw twitched. “Because we are married.”

  He spoke the word “married” with an edge of sarcasm.

  “We’ve spoken vows,” she answered haughtily. “I don’t take them lightly, and neither should you.”

  He laughed a strange, hollow laugh then shrugged and backed away, toward the bed where behind him his nightshirt had been laid out. “What makes you think I do?”

  “I don’t know.” She sighed, frowning. “That’s just it, I suppose, I don’t know you. While I admire you for your service to the Crown and for protecting Wolverton, I know less about you now than when you were Mr. Kincraig.”

  He stared at her for a long moment, and at last he replied.

  “I’m the eldest son in my family. I have a younger brother. I had a sister also, but she died, very young.” His eyes darkened at saying that.

  “I’m sorry to hear that. What about your parents? Are they both still living?”

  “As far as I know.” His eyebrows went up. “I left home a long time ago after years of quarreling with my father—”

  “About what?”

  “Many things. I had opinions. Ideas he did not wish to hear. Mostly…I wanted a different life than his. I wanted to see the world beyond England. To experience adventure and to know people who weren’t…just like me. My father has never understood that desire, and has always sought to punish me for seeking my own way. Suffice it to say we are estranged. Not hatefully, but disaffected all the same and have been for a very long time, although I have visited from time to time.”

  Clarissa knew there was much more to the story, but she did not press for more. But one question required answering.

  “Will they be happy to see us?” she aske
d.

  “I don’t know,” he answered, frowning. “We’ll find out, won’t we?”

  His words promised nothing but uncertainty, but at least he’d answered honestly.

  “How long were you with the secret service?” she asked.

  Another pause. “Almost thirteen years.”

  Thirteen years was a long time. Since he’d been a very young man.

  “Was my grandfather truly ever in danger?”

  “I can’t answer any questions about that, or any of my assignments. I’ve sworn not to. Perhaps that’s something you might wish to take note of. I keep my vows.”

  She felt the heat rising to her face. He referred to their marriage vows, of course. The moment suddenly felt very intimate again.

  “About that servant girl,” he growled.

  “Yes?” She frowned, just remembering the curvy temptress.

  “I wouldn’t have done anything, married or not.” He turned and took up his nightshirt. “She is not to my personal preference.”

  Her gaze moved over his back, and the muscles, and her mouth went dry.

  “What is your personal preference?” she dared ask in a whisper.

  Not her. She wouldn’t be. She wasn’t the sort she’d seen him with.

  She couldn’t deny having noticed Mr. Kincraig’s popularity with the ladies, at those events Wolverton commanded him to attend. Beautiful widows and those women of independent means who brazenly sought out intrigues with misbehaving and dangerous men. They’d fluttered round him like thirsty butterflies to nectar, while he’d brooded and scowled and not shown a preference for any one of them. Not in public. But what about in private?

  She had not married Mr. Kincraig. She’d married Mr. Blackmer. Could it be that some of their qualities were shared? That sort of magnetism wasn’t an act. She couldn’t help but wonder how many women there had been. But did she really have any right to know?

  He set the nightshirt back on the bed and spoke over his shoulder. “I think it’s time you returned to your room.”