Never Surrender to a Scoundrel

by Lily Dalton

  But was he ready to go home? It had been some three and a half years since the last time, when between assignments he’d gone only to dutifully introduce Tryphena to his family, at their insistence. The visit had not gone well. Tryphena, never one to soften her manners or to curb her tongue, had not gotten on with his parents at all, while she had gotten on all too well with his younger brother, Colin. He closed his eyes, remembering, and still not understanding why she’d seemed so determined to hurt him.

  What a miserable time that had been, the true beginning of their end. Later he had written his parents informing them of her death and had received a polite reply in his mother’s handwriting, offering condolences. In it he could practically hear her and his father’s unified sigh of relief that he was no longer attached to such an unsuitable woman—and their expectation that might come to his senses and at last return home. Viewed by his family as a prodigal son, his father wanted him returned to the fold. And yet he couldn’t return home.

  He didn’t hate his family. He loved them, but in a very different, more complicated way than Clarissa loved hers. He just couldn’t live with them, and they knew why—he had never shied away from making that clear.

  As a young man, he’d craved adventure and had no other choice but to make his own way in the world. He’d been proud of his independence and that he’d supported himself every step of the way. Returning home now, after so long, with his tail between his legs—or so it felt—and asking any favor of his father would be difficult to stomach, but he would do it for Clarissa and the child.

  Just then, the common room grew silent. Looking up, his heartbeat arrested. Clarissa made her way toward him, dressed in a simple blue traveling pelisse. Behind her, Miss Randolph waited near the vestibule with their valises.

  He stood, forgetting his family troubles, forgetting his breakfast. Forgetting everything but her. Because even ill, with her skin pallid and her features drawn, his wife was heart-stoppingly lovely. God help him, despite everything that had happened with Tryphena, despite all his efforts to guard his heart against his new young wife, he was smitten.

  He strode toward her, extending his hand, into which she placed her gloved one. Leading her to his table, he lowered her onto the bench beside him, because, yes—he wanted her near. Looking at his plate, she quickly glanced away. Her skin, he felt quite positive, went several shades paler.

  “Good morning,” she said weakly.

  “And a good morning to you,” he said with a chuckle.

  Clarissa looked into Dominick’s eyes, doing her best to ignore the plate of half-consumed eggs beside him. “I’m sorry to have caused such a delay.”

  “You did not,” he replied easily, seeming very large and masculine beside her. His dark eyes peered into hers, bold and interested, and she blushed, remembering the intensity of their lovemaking before she had suddenly become ill. “The roads have been impassable until today.”

  His smile broadened a degree—just a small, teasing turn at the corners of his lips—and he slid the plate to the distant end of the table. Bless him. He’d realized how miserable the presence of his plate had made her. Perhaps she could indeed fall in love with this man.

  Perhaps she already had, just a little.

  Her gaze skimmed over the strong line of his jaw, and his lips.

  Perhaps more than just a little.

  She remembered the urgent way he had kissed her, and touched her, as if he needed to be close to her, just as she needed to be close to him. She exhaled, feeling shaky just being near him again. She didn’t know why her heart had opened to him so quickly, but it had. Though she was grateful that he’d married her to spare her and her child from scandal, the feelings she experienced went much deeper than that.

  The weather. They’d been talking about the weather, hadn’t they?

  “I’m afraid I have been so confined by my ailment that even if Miss Randolph told me about the rain, I don’t remember.”

  “I’m sorry you feel so badly. I fear that once we resume our travel, you’ll only feel worse again. Are you certain you don’t wish to stay here and rest another day?”

  There was an intimacy to his tone that hadn’t been there before, one that made her feel as if she belonged here sitting by his side, not as an obligation but because he wanted her there.

  “No, let’s go on,” she said resolutely. “Are you ready to see your family? Are you ready to go home?”

  “As ready as I can be,” he answered wryly.

  “Maybe things will be very different than you expect.”

  “They won’t be. Clarissa, just—”

  “Just what?”

  Dominick closed his hand over hers and squeezed. “Just know that my family does not define me. They haven’t for a very long time now. Don’t…judge me by them.”

  “I won’t.”

  “The house…everything might be…startling. I just don’t want you to be overwhelmed when we arrive. They aren’t like your family at all.”

  He had mentioned difficulties with his parents. Disagreements and old grudges, he’d said. But…was he also embarrassed of them? Did he fear that his new wife, the granddaughter of a wealthy earl, would find his country gentry family too simple in manners or dress or their dwelling too crude? She truly hoped not. She hoped he already realized she was not the sort of young lady to look down on someone because of a difference in social standings.

  Just then, a redheaded kitchen maid approached the table and, with a saucy, intentional smile at Clarissa, very deliberately placed a steaming plate onto the table in front of her, one containing an oozing mass of beans and kidneys in red gravy. The smell filled her mouth and nose.

  “Enjoy breaking your fast, madam,” the girl said cheerfully, before winking at Dominick and flouncing off again.

  “Did she just wink at you?” Clarissa choked out, barely able to breathe for the smell of the food pressing into her nose.

  “Did she?” He shrugged. “I did not notice.”

  “I’m sorry.” She lifted a hand to her nose and mouth. “I can’t stay here. It’s the smell.”

  He grinned. “I understand. Go on then, and wait with Miss Randolph. I’ll be out momentarily after settling the bill.”

  She nodded and stood, as did he. But then she observed the redheaded girl peek out from the kitchen wearing a big smile, unabashedly jubilant at seeing her flee the common room.

  Clarissa turned back, touching his forearms.

  “Dominick.”

  Speaking his given name sent a jolt through her.

  “Yes?” he answered in a low voice. His hands came up to rest familiarly underneath her elbows and their eyes met. “What is it?”

  In a rush, all the heat and passion that had taken place between them two nights before and the memory of his body against hers returned clear and exciting, as if the room full of people around them did not exist.

  “I’m very sorry for what happened the other night. The way things ended.”

  Did he blush? She thought so. Just a little.

  “You needn’t be,” he replied. “It’s not as if you could help it.”

  “I wish it wouldn’t have happened. Everything was lovely until then.” She smiled ruefully. She reached between them to touch the buttons at the front of his greatcoat. He stared down at her hands while she did this. “More than lovely, it was perfect.”

  In the next moment, his gaze snapped up, meeting hers. “You’ll feel better soon, I hope.”

  A fire burned in his eyes, one she understood without needing explanation.

  “Miss Randolph says I will. Sophia’s difficulties lasted only a week or two, and I pray for the same, because, Mr. Blackmer…”

  His eyebrows went up. “Yes, Mrs. Blackmer?”

  “I should like to resume where we left off.”

  How bold. Had she truly said it? Her cheeks flooded with color. To her great pleasure, his did as well.

  “As would I,” he replied, his eyebrows raised and his to
ne a degree huskier than before.

  Oh, but she wasn’t finished.

  “One more thing.” She leaned closer.

  “Yes?” His head bent, bringing his ear nearer to her lips.

  Quite intentionally, she turned her placid smile upside down into a scowl.

  “That girl over there did wink at you, and I suspect she brought me that horrid plate of muck on purpose, to make me feel worse. Why would she do something like that unless she has developed an inappropriate fascination with you?”

  His eyes widened in surprise. “You’re…jealous?”

  “Jealous, no,” Clarissa answered firmly. “Attentive, yes.”

  “Attentive is…good. But as for that girl, I…ah…” He stammered and shifted stance. “No. Of course not. I haven’t encouraged any such thing.”

  “And yet she is standing there watching us right now. Smiling even. Not a friendly sort of smile, I must say.” Clarissa looked at the girl and narrowed her eyes. “Do you know, I think I’d feel better if I spoke to her at once.”

  She turned on her heel and set off across the room. The girl straightened and her eyes widened, as she scooted backward toward the kitchen.

  He followed her on long legs, chuckling. “No, I—ah, don’t think that’s a good idea.”

  She turned back to him, her eyes wide. “Why not? Is there some reason why you don’t want me to talk to her? Did you carry on a flirtation—”

  “Certainly not.” His hand found the small of her back, and he led her to the door. “Why would I, when it seems I am on my way to being a very happily married man?”

  Unfortunately, Dominick had been right. No sooner had they embarked a mile down the road when Clarissa’s sickness returned with a terrible vengeance. Yet she had stayed Miss Randolph’s hand away from the bell cord, because she wanted nothing more than to reach their journey’s end.

  “Please, try to eat the biscuit. Just a bite,” pleaded Miss Randolph.

  “I can’t,” Clarissa moaned, closing her eyes against the utterly disgusting sight of the hard square of shortbread in her maid’s hand, something she knew to be completely bland and tasteless under any other circumstances.

  “What about some tea?” Miss Randolph lifted up a corked jug.

  “Ugh.” Her stomach roiled in response. She pressed both hands over her nose and mouth and burrowed facedown into the bench. Miss Randolph tucked a blanket around her.

  For hours, Clarissa hovered somewhere between sleep and awareness, her mind crowded with a thousand jumbled thoughts. She missed her family. Most especially her mother. When would she see them again? Whatever the answer—it would be too long! She wished Dominick was here inside the carriage. His presence was so comforting. But she didn’t want him to see her like this. All she wanted now was privacy and for the world to not bounce each time a wheel went over a stone or rut.

  At last, feeling restive, she pushed up and pressed her head against the cold glass, finding the chill soothing, and stared dully outside.

  Here the climate was colder and harsher than London and the southern regions of England. She had never traveled this far north. Sophia had honeymooned north of the border with Claxton at his Scottish estate, and spoke of the wild beauty of the landscape and charm of the local people. But looking out her window now, Clarissa saw only wild, and not so much beauty. Cold crept into the cracks of the carriage and seeped through her traveling clothes. She shivered and pulled the wool traveling blanket over her nose.

  “What time is it?” she mumbled at Miss Randolph, knowing that any attempt to look at her own pocket watch would just make her dizzy.

  “Nearly four o’clock,” the woman answered. She too sat beneath a blanket and had wrapped a thick, gray wool scarf around her neck. “I do believe we may be getting close.”

  “I pray so,” said Clarissa, though she felt so poorly the announcement roused only the barest excitement.

  Dominick suddenly appeared, cantering alongside the carriage, his shoulders rigid. His greatcoat billowed out behind him as he urged his mount to go faster, and he traveled out of view. Clarissa sagged again into her seat.

  Soon she took note of a high stone wall that ran alongside the road and continued on for what seemed an eternity until at last the carriage slowed before an ornate iron gate, with large lanterns affixed to columns at either side as well as at the center, four bright orange spots at the twilight of a dark and dreary day. Two liveried servants stood vigil—and immediately leapt from their posts to open the gates.

  Which seemed to indicate they recognized someone, that someone most certainly being Dominick. Through the haze of her discomfort, Clarissa struggled to sit higher, and Miss Randolph bolstered her up. Once the carriage passed through, the gates were closed again, and they traveled up a long drive, at the end of which stood a sprawling fortress of ancient stone, against a barren, sea-swept ridge.

  “Blackmer has brought us to a castle,” she said, gripping the window frame. “I don’t understand why.”

  “This must be his family home,” Miss Randolph suggested in a hushed voice.

  “It…can’t be.” Certainly his family simply lived somewhere else on the grounds.

  Yet the conveyance traveled down a long curving drive and rolled to a stop directly in front of the towering pile. Window curtains moved and faces appeared. Doors opened and servants spilled out.

  Reality sunk in. “I do believe we are going in there.”

  “I do believe you are right.”

  “Oh, Miss Randolph. We should have…repinned my hair,” Clarissa whispered, suddenly panicked, her heartbeat jumping like a startled frog. “I ought to have worn something finer. Where is my tooth powder?”

  She reached for her valise but Miss Randolph pushed her back against the seat.

  “It’s too late for any of that.” Popping the lid off a tin of peppermints, Miss Randolph frantically pressed several between Clarissa’s lips before producing a lint wand, which she brushed over the sleeves and lapels of her mistress’s pelisse.

  “I look like a bumpkin and I most certainly…smell bad.”

  With a jab of her elbow, Miss Randolph knocked open the window beside her and, in the next moment, dabbed Clarissa generously with perfume.

  Clarissa pushed her maid’s hands away. “Oh—that smells horrid.” One of the peppermints popped out of her mouth to roll across the floor.

  “Whatever you do, my dear, don’t retch on the stairs.”

  Retch! Oh, she just might. Clarissa’s heartbeat increased, for there out the window she saw her husband dismount—with the reverential assistance of two liveried footmen, no less—and turn on his heel toward her. With his face a mask of intensity, he strode toward the carriage. His coattails snapped in the wind.

  Her eyes widened. Her heartbeat stalled.

  He looked different than before. But why? He had always carried himself just so, with confidence and masculine grace.

  And yet here in this setting, with that palatial house behind him, she saw something she hadn’t seen before.

  Something, she now realized, that had been there all along.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Dominick walked toward the carriage. Behind him, a murmur rippled through the gathered servants. He heard boots on stone as one of them set off at a run toward the house. Darthaven loomed above him, as magnificent as in his dreams, its shining windows looking at him like expectant eyes.

  One of the footmen rushed ahead of him, pivoting smartly on polished boots to open the door. Inside Dominick saw Clarissa’s pale face.

  “What is this place?” she asked quietly from where she sat on the bench.

  “It’s Darthaven, my family’s home.”

  “I see,” she whispered.

  Looking closer, he saw she looked fragile. Even…distressed.

  “Clarissa, are you all right?” he inquired, leaning inward. With a sharp glance to Miss Randolph, he said, “You should have informed me she was this ill. We would have stopped.”
<
br />   “I forbade her from doing so,” Clarissa answered plainly, peering at him, intent. “Tell me…tell me who you are.”

  He knew what she meant.

  “I’m your husband,” he responded. “Dominick.”

  Miss Randolph diverted her gaze. Normally he wouldn’t speak with such intimacy in front of a servant, but he felt the need to reassure Clarissa that he was the same person he’d been before, just hours ago at the inn and in London.

  “Nothing has changed,” he added.

  The wind gusted strongly, causing the carriage to sway and creak. His gaze dropped to where Clarissa’s gloved hands gripped the seat, as if she might topple over at any moment.

  “Darling?” He reached for her, the endearment slipping from his lips before he could stop it, startling him, because it revealed his heart’s devotion to her, something he wasn’t yet ready to confess, even to himself. She appeared not to have even noticed, which relieved him.

  “Come with me,” he urged. “Let’s get you inside where it is warm.”

  She nodded jerkily and stood, placing her hand in his. Again she peered up at the house.

  “Don’t look so shocked,” he murmured. “It’s just an old pile of stones.”

  “You said I might find it overwhelming…this is not what I expected,” she whispered, looking up at his family home.

  At that moment there came the sound of boots crunching upon the pathway.

  “Lord Blackmer,” a deep voice boomed from behind. “Darthaven welcomes you home.”

  He did not have to turn to recognize the voice of Guthrie, his father’s butler—or majordomo—as his appearance-minded mother had always preferred to title him.

  Clarissa looked into his eyes. “Lord Blackmer.”

  “I’m afraid so,” he replied. “My father is the Marquess of Stade.”

  “You are an earl.” She stared at him, confusion dimming her blue eyes. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  Why hadn’t he told her? Perhaps because he’d feared that like so many she would fall under the spell of Darthaven’s magnificence, and he wanted to delay the moment it drove a wedge between them? Because he feared that, once they arrived, she wouldn’t understand why he couldn’t stay?