Never Surrender to a Scoundrel

by Lily Dalton

  No. Certainly not, because he’d been compelled to follow her and kiss her so thrillingly that first night, which meant something. He had wanted to kiss her, and he had reacted with passion when she kissed him back.

  Perhaps, then, the key to understanding his behavior tonight lay in how he believed she felt toward him.

  Of course. That was it. He thought she was unhappy. That she saw him as her consequence, not her choice, which, in a way, was true. She wouldn’t have chosen him, but she was a different young woman now than even three days ago. She’d grown up and become wiser. She better understood the measure of a man.

  She hadn’t had a choice in marrying him. But she did have a choice now.

  Earlier, she’d convinced herself they could learn to care for one another slowly and over time. That their respect and affection for one another would develop over the months and years.

  But he’d kissed her with such passion, which meant…Mr. Blackmer was a passionate man.

  How naïve she’d been to think it. If she wanted to ensure the future of her marriage, “slowly” would not do at all.

  Dominick stood under the overhang of the stables, a gusting wind and downpour at his back, observing as his coachman and the inn ostlers secured the horses for the night. He’d lit a cigar, his first in years, and had just taken the first long nerve-settling draw when his hired footman straightened from where he stacked the ladies’ trunks against the wall and peered with sudden interest toward the courtyard. He raised his hand to point.

  “Mr. Blackmer,” he said. “Your wife—she is there, out in the storm, do you see?”

  Dominick glanced over his shoulder and instantly caught sight of Clarissa, a slender shadow in the dark, clutching what he assumed to be her valise against her chest. All the muscles along his shoulders clenched as, slowly, he turned.

  Upon arriving at the carriage, she flung open the door and climbed inside.

  What in bloody hell was she doing?

  For a moment he experienced bewilderment. Ladies—most especially those of her ilk—did not willingly step foot into a downpour, let alone a thunderstorm, yet he could think of no rational answer why she would do such a thing. There, inside the conveyance, she would at this moment be shivering and completely drenched through.

  The next moment brought a blast of anger. Had she no concern for herself or the baby she carried, his only real hope for ever becoming a father—something he did not realize he needed so desperately until now.

  Throwing his cigar down, he crossed the yard in long strides, rain driving down upon his hat and his shoulders, his boots splashing in the mud to wrench open the carriage door handle. Only the handle did not turn, because it was locked. He pounded his fist on the door and peered into the window.

  Rain saturated his hat so heavily the brim drooped low. A wide rivulet found the crevice between his coat and shirt, and chilled his spine.

  “Open the door,” he shouted, half enraged.

  Her pale face appeared on the other side of the glass, framed by a wet and droopy straw hat and ribbon. Yet her eyes flashed bright with challenge. “If you won’t sleep in that perfectly good room, then neither will I. Good night, Mr. Blackmer.” She yanked the curtain closed, making it impossible for him to see inside.

  “You open this door right now.” He pounded again and tested the handle, to no response or avail.

  He felt a tap on his shoulder. His coachman stood there, water streaming off the brim of his hat like a waterfall. Bizarrely, the man winked and laughed.

  “And why are you so amused, Mr. Smythe?” Dominick half snarled.

  “Locked ye out has she?” the man said, rocking back on his heels, which caused a sucking sound in the mud.

  Dominick’s eyes narrowed and he seethed. “It appears so.”

  Mr. Smythe made a clicking sound with his tongue. “Can’t say that ’asn’t ’appened to meself a time or two. It’s this job, y’ see.” He gestured toward the driver’s seat. “Gone weeks at a time, and time apart always seems to lead to misunderstandings with the ladies.”

  “Time apart,” Dominick repeated. “Certainly a difficulty for a traveling man.”

  Time apart working on different assignments had only made a bad situation worse when he was married to Tryphena.

  But he and Clarissa had never been together. Except for one moment in the dark, and for the three days since he had needed time away from her to assert control over himself and his growing desire for a young woman who carried another man’s child, and who certainly wouldn’t understand.

  He’d gone so long, feeling nothing, feeling numb, but that night the desire he’d felt for his lovely new wife, so deliciously innocent in her white sleeping gown, had shocked him with its power and knocked his world half off its axis. Ever since, his every thought and action had been off kilter.

  And now she sought to provoke him with childish theatrics. For what purpose? She did not seem the sort. It was damn cold and wet outside. Did she forget that she carried a child?

  He glanced downward at his smiling companion. “Mr. Smythe, being such a man of experience, have you any advice for another who finds himself in such circumstances?”

  “Oh, yes.” Mr. Smythe fished underneath his cape. “Be prepared.”

  He held up a key between them, and grinned.

  A warm rush of satisfaction washed through Dominick, and he nodded. “Ah. Very good. Thank you, good sir.”

  Taking possession of the key, Dominick squinted and poked until he found the lock. Once turned, he wrenched the door—

  Only to encounter resistance from the other side, so he wrenched it again.

  It flew open and he saw her gloved hands—then her body—retreat from the opening.

  “I locked that door for a reason,” she exclaimed in a high, cool voice from the shadows of the far corner. “The same reason most people lock doors. Because they wish to be alone.”

  After climbing inside, he brought the door shut and joined her in shadows, lowering himself to the same bench upon which she sat. Water dripped from his coat to the floor. With a thrust of his muddied boots, he slid closer, until their hips almost touched. She gasped, and crowded farther into the corner.

  He turned his face to consider her. “Mrs. Blackmer, I’m very tired and have little patience for this sort of foolishness, most especially on a night like this, which means you shall return inside where it is dry and warm, where you belong. Now. Without a moment’s delay.” He paused. “Do you understand?”

  Sitting rigidly, she stared back, her expression blank. “Of course I understand. I’m not an imbecile.” Water glistened on her skin and turned her eyelashes into dark spikes. “But I’m not going anywhere. I’ll be sleeping here where it’s perfectly comfortable.” She patted the upholstery upon which they sat. “If you like, you can have the other bench.”

  She waved in that direction.

  He reached for her hand, which she snatched away, to press between her breasts.

  He needed only to look at her to remind himself how young she was. He reminded himself that she must be afraid, having been taken from her family for the first time. He did his best to keep the surly growl from his voice.

  “I did not pay for a room so that it would go unoccupied for the night.”

  She shrugged and answered calmly, “I have already told you it is yours for the taking. I shall not be making use of it.”

  His gaze slid over her slim figure, buttoned up tight in her wet pelisse, all the way down to her mud-spattered hem and boots. The damp and enclosed space only intensified her perfume. The tantalizing scent filled his nose, dizzying him…distracting him from any hard feelings he may have had.

  A flash of light and a subsequent rumble reminded him where they were, and how ridiculous she was being.

  “You’re weary from the journey,” he said.

  “You are right, Mr. Blackmer. I think I’ll go to sleep now. If you’ll just give me my privacy, I can prepare to retire.” She re
ached for her valise on the floor.

  He snatched it up.

  “You’re being irrational,” he growled—yes, growled, because, damn it, he was being very pleasant while she persisted in being obstinate.

  “Of course I am,” she replied in a velvet voice, then leaned toward him in a provoking pose, her blue eyes flashing. “But then so are you.”

  Her hand came toward him, palm up…

  For a moment he thought she would touch his face, but with a flick of her wrist, she—

  Tapped her fingertips to the underside of his hat and flipped it off his head to land on the floor near the door.

  Dominick blinked in surprise. He stared at her.

  Her lips slowly assumed the shape of a smile.

  Blood thundered in his ears, more loud and dangerous than any sound coming from the sky. His temper exploded.

  “You should not have done that,” he uttered gutturally.

  Her eyes narrowed. “I’m glad I did.”

  He reached for her arm.

  She bounded away, to sit on the opposite bench, just out of arms’ reach. He lunged across, only for her to duck under his arms and take the space he’d just vacated. Oh, she was quick and wily, while in such close confines he felt like a bull in a china shop. He twisted round to find her eyeing him warily.

  He hissed through his teeth. “Joy of all joys, I’ve married a monkey. Does the answer ‘no’ always make you behave so absurdly?”

  “Only since I married you,” she replied sweetly—but her eyes flashed blue fire. Breathing heavily, her breasts rose and fell, and her cheeks had taken on the most lovely blush hue.

  “I’m not going to argue with you a moment more.” He reached again, thinking simply to take her by the wrist, but she scooted to the other end of the bench to glower at him from against the upholstered wall like a surly, wet cat. Except she was prettier than a cat, and her damp pelisse clung so very nicely to her curves, making her look like a disgruntled mermaid. His mouth went dry, wondering what it would be like to peel off all the wet layers. He closed his eyes and anguished, mentally shook away the thought. “I’m no longer losing my patience, it is lost.”

  “Then you ought to go find it. I’m certain you left it out there.” She jerked her head in the direction of the storm.

  “Not without you. You’re cold and wet, and you’re going inside where it’s warm.”

  “I’m warm here,” she retorted, between chattering teeth.

  “Have you forgotten you are with child?” he accused.

  “Me? Forgotten?” She laughed loudly, a lusty yet comical sound he’d never expected to hear from her lips, and one so unexpected and unlike the young woman he thought he knew she almost made him laugh as well.

  “Clarissa—”

  “Who-ooo-ooo among the two of us,” she answered exaggeratedly, “could ever forget that I am with child? I might as well wear a sign, one that says ‘wed in haste to an innocent man who is not the father of my’—”

  He lunged, reaching for her mouth. “Don’t say it.”

  Her eyes widened and she ducked—

  He caught her around the waist, binding her in his arms, but not too tightly, because he didn’t want to hurt her.

  “Tyrant!” she exclaimed, her face smushed against his coat.

  “Hoyden.”

  Still, they struggled—

  She wiggled and he grasped. Her skirts twisted around them, tangling their legs. She reached up, grabbing a handful of his hair—and he broke free, turning, arms high—

  Only to catch her, his entire body coming around her from behind to cage her, with her face toward the opposite seat. Almost in an embrace. Her muscles eased and she exhaled.

  She began to shake.

  His heart sank. Damn, he’d made her cry. Clearly she suffered some sort of emotional breakdown for having been forced to marry him. But then, bending lower, he glimpsed her profile and the upward turn of her lips, and he realized she was laughing.

  All of his anger and exasperation evaporated. Relief bubbled up inside him, and he laughed too. Just a little, but God it felt good, like sunshine after the smothering tension and stress of the past three days. For a long moment, they simply embraced one another, gasping and breathing hard from the exertion of their physical wrangling, laughing into the darkness.

  Chuckling, he asked, “If I release you, will you allow me to take you inside?”

  She laughed again, emitting a husky sound. “No.”

  She went to squirming.

  “Oh, hell,” he muttered.

  He wished she wouldn’t move like that because he liked it too much.

  Damn it, he wasn’t even angry anymore, just…relieved to hear her express laughter and humor, things that had been painfully absent between them since the world fell apart. The weight in his chest became not so heavy. With a groan, he lifted her off the bench, his arm coming up beneath her knees, binding her against his chest.

  “Put me down,” she insisted, but her tone was subdued and…almost playful. She did not mean it. She was weary too, and wanted rest. He could tell now, by her voice.

  “No, but you could collect my hat.”

  He dipped low, and she caught it up with her hand and returned the wet wool to his head.

  “And your valise.”

  He bent again, and she lifted the case by its handle.

  He managed to get them out of the carriage and onto the ground. With a kick, he shut the door before making his way across the courtyard, doing his best to shield her from the downpour with his shoulders and his hat. Several yards ahead, Mr. Smythe clambered up the inn’s steps and opened the door.

  “Thank you, Mr. Smythe,” Dominick said darkly, upon passing through.

  “ ’Tis no trouble at all, sir.” With a jovial bow, the man tipped his hat.

  Upon their entrance, the same maid who’d sopped up the earlier mess cast him a sharp glare and again stormed across the room, “ ’ey there, wot about them boots?”

  Only to be silenced by a glance from the innkeeper.

  From the direction of the common room, several men shouted bawdy encouragements that, with a quick glance down, he saw inspired Clarissa’s cheeks to blush an even deeper hue. Somewhere inside, someone played a violin, and not very well. The haze of smoke blurred the air. Still carrying Clarissa, Dominick climbed the stairs.

  “Which room?” he asked.

  “As if I’d tell you,” she murmured.

  But just then, an upstairs maid rushed down the corridor and opened a door, gesturing for him to carry her inside.

  “Poor darling,” she murmured sympathetically, as they moved past.

  “Poor darling, my ass,” he murmured beneath his breath, so that only Clarissa could hear— which got him a sharp pinch on his shoulder.

  “Pardon me, sir?” inquired the maid from behind, apparently having heard him speak.

  “I said I hope this storm doesn’t last.”

  He sensed Clarissa’s eyes on him. Glancing down, he saw that she smiled.

  “Indeed, it came on suddenly.” The servant rushed across the room and turned down the covers, something that made his gut twist tight with discomfort and, yes, arousal, because in that moment, he imagined himself there with his wife.

  A fire blazed on the grate, casting light and shadows about the small room.

  The maid moved toward the door. “Would you like me to summon madam’s maidservant?”

  “No,” he answered forcefully—

  At the same moment Clarissa did the same. “No.”

  He felt certain, though he could not see for the shadows, that she blushed.

  “Supper then, and some nice hot tea?” she inquired as she backed toward the door.

  “Yes, please,” Clarissa answered softly. “Enough for two. And some Madeira, if you will.”

  He listened, liking the sound of her making arrangements for the two of them far too much. It had been so long since a woman had concerned herself with his comf
ort, though, truth be told, many had been willing.

  As soon as the girl was gone, Dominick moved closer to the fire and set Clarissa onto her feet.

  “Thank you.” She extended her hands toward the warmth. “Doesn’t that feel delicious?”

  “To think you would rather have stayed in that damp, freezing carriage.” He removed his gloves and laid them upon the mantel before warming his hands.

  Her gaze matched his unwaveringly, as she removed her hat and its droopy silk flowers and set it on a small round-topped table. Her blond hair clung damply to her head and her neck.

  “I think you know that’s not true,” she answered quietly, shivering.

  He touched her arm. “This has to come off as well.”

  She nodded and fumbled with the buttons, chuckling. “Except my hands are so numb from the cold they are useless.” In a quieter voice, she said, “Perhaps I ought to call for Miss Randolph.”

  “Come here.”

  Her eyes met his, hers open blue pools to her soul. She nodded, and her arms went to her side, a stance that said simply yes.

  And just like that, a dangerous fire burst to life inside his chest. Without a doubt, he could have her now, if he so wished. He could push her backward on the bed and push up her skirts and rut into her like the starved man he was. All night long, in every position, until his lust was slaked. He could see that in her eyes—she would acquiesce to his every demand, of this he had no doubt.

  His fingers moved to the row of shining military buttons at the front of her pelisse, bound by damnable little loops. “May I?”

  “Of course.”

  “You are drenched,” he chided softly, plucking the first button loose. “Why did you do such a thing?”

  “I couldn’t think of any other way to get you here, where I wanted you.”

  Again, he stared into her eyes and saw nothing but honesty there.

  “I do want you here, Mr. Blackmer,” she said. “Words didn’t seem to be working, so I tried something else.”

  “You mustn’t do such a thing again, be so reckless with your health and that of the child.” He focused his attention on the next button.

  “I know,” she answered quietly. “I shouldn’t have. I won’t again. But…you are here now.”