by Lily Dalton
Suddenly she pressed against his chest and broke away, again climbing several steps to stand out of his reach. He clenched his teeth, biting back a growl of disappointment.
“I can’t think when we do that,” she whispered, her eyes bright and aroused.
“That’s what I was hoping for,” he muttered.
“Dominick, there can be no more secrets between us,” she said. “Is there anything else you haven’t told me?”
He rested his hand on the banister. A cold numbness spread through his veins, slowing his heartbeat. She didn’t realize what she asked. Her innocent mind couldn’t even imagine the things he held inside, nor would he ever want her to.
“Secrets,” he answered quietly. “Oh, yes, I’ve got more of them.”
In his prior life, he had worn them with pride, like jewels in a crown. He was tired of apologizing for them.
“You married an agent in the bloody secret service, Clarissa,” he replied, standing taller…and prouder. “Do you truly believe that by marrying me, you’re entitled to hear them all?”
There was so much he couldn’t reveal to her or to his family. Not to anyone. Things he had accomplished and survived that made him proud. Things that he’d witnessed that still hurt and haunted him. Most especially, the night Tryphena had died.
She swept higher, to the landing, and turned to look down at him. “Claxton said you were a security agent, describing you as—as…well, he said you were just a step above a Bow Street Runner. What sort of secrets would such a lower-echelon agent have?”
His eyebrows went up. “Is that what he said?”
He’d known Wolverton had understated his role in the service so as to downplay the ongoing mission in his household and to squelch questions. Still, the words pricked. They were an offense against his years of sacrifice for England and the many times he had faced danger, risking his life on his country’s behalf.
He smiled, but without humor. “Well, by all means, believe him, if you like.”
His innocent wife stared at him, her cheeks flushed. “Blackmer, you were a lower-level agent, weren’t you? Or were you…something else?”
Something dangerous. That’s what she wanted to know.
Something else—yes, that would be him.
“I’m your husband now.” He approached her, his palm skimming over the banister, wishing it was her bare skin. “That’s all that matters.”
“You are my husband.” Her eyes widened, glazing over with tears. “And yet I feel as if I don’t even know who you are.”
He halted, her words echoing inside his head. A long moment of silence passed between them.
“I don’t know if that will ever change,” he said.
She shook her head. “Well, it must. Please understand, I don’t want or need to know England’s secrets—but I won’t be kept in the dark about you. I need you to be my friend. My husband. My confidant. Not immediately, of course, but I should have some hope of your becoming so. Is it so wrong to want to be the same to you?”
He stared at her solemnly. “I understand that’s what you want.”
“But you don’t know if you can give it to me,” she whispered.
He did not answer, because he wouldn’t ever be able to confide the one secret that bled from his past into their present, tainting each moment between them, so much so that last night he’d lain awake almost until dawn, certain he’d seen a ghost outside his window. All for the better. If she knew the truth, it would only tear them further apart.
“It’s obvious, what you think about me,” she said, her eyes going hard but sparkling with tears.
“What’s that?”
“Not very much,” she alleged. “That’s what.”
“That’s not true—” he countered, stepping higher.
She gathered her skirts in her hands and backed away. “That I’m some silly child that you’ve been saddled with, unworthy of your thoughts and cares because most certainly they are too deep and complex for simpleminded little me to understand.”
He stepped onto the landing and exhaled through his nose. “You’re wrong.”
She stood with the shadows of the long corridor at her back, untouchable, but so beautiful his fingertips throbbed from the desire to touch her.
“That a spoiled young woman like me is only good for shopping on Bond Street—” Her voice was thick with equal parts emotion and sarcasm. “—and going to parties and gossiping and wearing pink. Not to mention kissing and petting and sleeping with, now that we’re married of course.”
“Why would you say such a thing?” he demanded, furious and dismayed that she should perceive his feelings toward her in such a negative light.
Her shoulders stiffened. “Well, you can sleep alone. Forever, for all I care.”
His gut twisted, hating that he’d made her so miserable and feeling as if he couldn’t do anything about it. She turned away from him and escaped down the corridor toward her room. He wasn’t about to let her go. He followed, only to find her door shutting in his face. He flattened his hand against the wood, holding it open.
“Clarissa…” he gritted out, between his teeth.
She pushed back, her face pale and her eyes bright. “You can’t have it both ways, Dominick. Now let go of the door. Please.”
He lifted his hand away and stepped back, and immediately she shut the door. He stood in the shadowed corridor for a long moment, tormented by her rejection, before proceeding to his room alone. There, a sea gale rattled the windows, a lonely sound.
He unwrapped the scarf from his neck and threw it aside before pacing in front of the fire. Did she truly believe the things she’d said? Had he made her feel that inconsequential?
He removed his coat and his cravat. Sleep alone forever? No. That simply wouldn’t do. He wanted more from his marriage than separate rooms and a lonely bed.
Bloody hell, he wanted Clarissa.
He would…apologize in the morning. While he could not promise that everything would be perfect between them, he would do his best to reassure her of his intention to be a good husband and father and hope that eventually…that would be enough. He had been so impatient for her health to improve, knowing days would be better at Darthaven once he could see and talk to her again. Brighter for her presence.
Earlier tonight, dinner had been a silent, miserable affair, with only his mother prattling on about nothing in particular to fill the awkward silence. Afterward, restless, he’d walked the shore, allowing the cold and scent of brine to clear his mind. He looked toward the bed, with its fine linens and coverlet and hangings. Its comfort called to him, but he wasn’t sleepy. What the hell time was it? He went to the table where he’d left his watch—
But it wasn’t there. Instead, he found it on the windowsill. Odd, because he didn’t recall leaving it there. Indeed, he knew he had not left it there. As an agent, it was a habit he’d developed over the years, knowing with a certainty where his belongings were at all times. Had someone been in his room?
Just the maid, he assured himself. Or even Clarissa, before they’d found one another downstairs. Why would they have touched his watch?
The temptation to escape Darthaven’s walls called to him again, but he satisfied himself with the window. Unlatching the pane, he pushed it open and looked into the night.
A movement at the corner of the house drew his attention, an out-of-place shadow that on second glance he realized wasn’t a shadow at all. A tall figure stood in a long cloak and wide cowl.
The muscles in Dominick’s shoulders and his stomach clenched. Because of the distance, he could only discern a pale blur where the face should be. Yet he recognized something familiar.
Tryphena, his mind choked out.
No—it couldn’t be. Tryphena was dead. He knew that without a doubt, because he had been there when she died and held her for hours after, refusing to believe.
The night and the fog played tricks, because in the next moment he blinked, and saw her no more.<
br />
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
The next morning, Clarissa sat in her chemise at her dressing table brushing out her hair. Nearby a fragrant bath steamed, one she hoped would sweep away the lingering effects of fatigue before she went downstairs for breakfast to formally meet Lord and Lady Stade.
In addition to making the best impression possible, she had every intention of being pleasant to Dominick. She’d lain awake for hours the night before…eventually coming to the realization she’d overreacted. Just a little.
It was just that she had always wanted a loving marriage and her own family. Her ideal had always been her parents’ seemingly perfect romance and their happy, boisterous family, which had been changed forever by her father’s death when she was just fifteen. Perhaps somehow she sought to re-create that happy picture for herself. But it was wrong to place such expectations so soon on a marriage that had started so dubiously. Trust took time, and she reminded herself she must not be overeager or make unrealistic demands on a man who still, by all accounts, remained a stranger to her.
She opened the wooden trunk against the wall and peered inside where her dresses had been carefully stored between layers of scented tissue. From the first moment, something didn’t look right. She reached inside and, a moment later, let out an exclamation of bewilderment.
“What is it?” called Miss Randolph, rushing to her side.
Clarissa lifted the gown, which had been torn all to shreds.
Miss Randolph gasped. “Oh, my lady. What could have happened to it?”
It pained her to see the garment ruined. Her mother had chosen the dress pattern for her, with its pale pink tambour work on the bodice, sleeves, and hem, a month before her debut ball. Neither of her sisters had been invited along, because her mother had wanted them to have a special day together, just the two of them. In that way, each time she wore the dress, she relived that happy memory.
“I can think of only one explanation.” Miss Randolph’s lip curled with disgust. “Rats.”
“Rats?” Clarissa looked toward the corner of the room, almost expecting to see a swarm of furry backs and long tails scuttling to and fro. But would rats have gotten inside her trunk? While it wasn’t locked, the latches and lid were very sturdy and secure.
Miss Randolph scrutinized the destroyed silk. “Given the age of Darthaven, I suppose we ought not to be surprised…although it makes no sense, seeing the obvious attention Lady Stade gives her household. Nonetheless, I shall inform the upstairs maid in charge, so that the rat catcher can be summoned forthwith.”
Briskly she moved toward the bell pull.
Clarissa frowned. “But if it was rats, wouldn’t the rest of the dresses be disturbed? Wouldn’t there be signs of the creatures nesting inside the trunk and…” Her nose curled. “Other disgusting proof that they’d gotten inside? There is none of that.”
Miss Randolph drew her hand away from the bell pull without having touched it.
“You’re correct, of course.” Miss Randolph appeared doubtful. Again she took up the remnants of the dress and held them up to the light. “But what else could have done this? It almost looks as if a blade cut the fabric.”
Clarissa spoke her fear aloud. “It had to be a person, Miss Randolph. Someone did this deliberately. But the only people other than ourselves who have been in the room are Dominick and the maids. Why would any of them have destroyed my dress?”
Dominick wouldn’t have. She’d tried his patience more than once, but she couldn’t believe for even a second that he’d have done something so hateful. So disturbing.
“His Lordship should be made aware.” Miss Randolph removed the destroyed dress and folded it carefully on a nearby table. “I’ll have it here if he should wish to see it.”
“I’ll mention it to him this morning.” Clarissa looked into the trunk and considered the dresses remaining inside. “Hopefully I have something else to wear in there. Something warm. It’s so chilly here.”
“Let us see what we have.” Miss Randolph steered her by the shoulders to the dressing table and urged her to sit. Returning to the trunk, she removed several dresses and draped them over the nearby screen. “There is no damage to these. How very strange.”
“I can’t wear that one, I’m afraid,” said Clarissa, pointing to a white Grecian-styled morning gown. “The skirt is so slender. Perhaps that one, with the higher waist.”
Miss Randolph smiled at her dotingly. “I thought the same thing. We’re seeing the first subtle changes, aren’t we? Someone is already making himself known.”
Clarissa touched her abdomen, where a small yet distinct change had transformed her shape—a small but obvious swell of her belly, where despite her being so repulsed by all food and drink for days, the child apparently thrived. “Indeed, I’ve started to show.”
Her voice faltered with emotion. The baby that had turned her life upside down was very real now, and she couldn’t be more excited about its impending arrival, though she wondered how she would feel…and how Dominick would feel if the child looked like Lord Quinn. She put the thought out of her mind. None of that mattered. She would love him—or her—unconditionally. She wished her mother and sisters were here to share in her happiness, especially Sophia, who would be giving birth to her baby soon. But that just wasn’t possible, so instead she’d settle for writing them all letters this afternoon.
Miss Randolph’s eyes twinkled back in the mirror at her. “His Lordship will be so proud.”
“I hope he will be,” Clarissa replied wistfully.
“Do you know I heard him just this morning in the corridor speaking with Mr. Guthrie?”
“What did he say?” Clarissa tensed, waiting to hear.
“Mr. Guthrie was going on and on about how exciting it would be if the child was a boy, and therefore an heir, but His Lordship said he didn’t care if the child was a boy or a girl, that he would welcome either with equal enthusiasm because all children were treasures. You should have heard him, my lady, speaking so earnestly. I must confess it brought tear to my eyes.”
And to Clarissa’s as well. She could hardly speak for the emotions crowding her throat. Dominick had said those things this morning, even after they’d parted on less-than-ideal terms the night before. Miss Randolph lifted another dress from inside the trunk. “Why not wear the lavender today?”
She nodded. “The lavender will do nicely.”
Once bathed and dressed, she went downstairs. Wan sunlight illuminated the vestibule, enabling her to see the intriguing room in far more detail than she had the night before. Her nose caught the alluring scent of toasted bread and bacon, and she followed it past the large dining hall, to a more intimate room at the farthest corner of the house. For days, the slightest aroma of food had turned her stomach, but this morning she was ravenous. Tall windows, dressed in scarlet curtains, overlooked the craggy cliffs and the ocean beyond, but she barely had a moment to appreciate the view. Hearing a raised voice, she paused outside the open door.
“Belgium,” scoffed Colin. “Constantinople. How exciting and exotic. But all the while you should have been here. Home. Instead you shirked your duty to your family, leaving the full burden to Father and me.”
“And a slew of stewards and land managers,” Dominick answered calmly. “Duty to one’s country is just as important.”
A deeper, sharper voice responded now, most certainly belonging to Lord Stade. “For five years, yes. Seven, perhaps. But fifteen? No, I wouldn’t agree with that.”
Colin muttered, “It would be different if you were someone actually important, but I’ve not seen a single mention of your name in any of the papers. No treaties bear your signature. You never ascended to an ambassadorship. You just collected do-nothing appointments, as so many privileged elite do, and refused to come home.”
Clarissa bit her lower lip, waiting to hear Dominick’s angry response. How difficult it had to be for him to remain silent about his role in the secret service and not make them aware th
eir assumptions weren’t true.
Yet Dominick responded just as calmly as before. “I think you’re just angry because you wish you’d done the same thing.”
Clarissa smiled, relieved he remained unprovoked.
“It never bloody hell mattered what I wanted, did it?” growled Colin.
“You will mind your language in Her Ladyship’s presence,” Dominick’s father warned.
“Please,” begged Lady Stade. “All of you. Not in front of the servants.”
“I won’t be silenced,” Colin responded in anger. “After all this time, I’ve earned a say.”
Clarissa supposed that now was as good a time as any to enter the room. Besides, she was very hungry. Perhaps they’d all calm down once she entered.
“Good morning,” she said brightly, announcing her presence.
For a moment they all stared at her in surprise. Then Dominick leapt up from his chair and proceeded toward her, looking freshly shaved and handsome. Behind him, the elegantly dressed, gray-haired gentleman at the head of the table also stood. Colin rose more slowly, his lips never relinquishing their scowl. Lady Stade, whom she had only glimpsed on the day of her arrival, smiled reservedly and reached for her teacup.
“I’m so glad to see you are improved.” Dominick stepped closer, where he murmured more intimately, “Can you ever forgive me for last night?”
“Perhaps,” she answered in a quiet voice, smiling…just a little, relieved that he cared enough to say the words, because it meant hers had been taken seriously the night before. “But I might require some convincing.”
He exhaled, as if relieved by her words, and a heart-stopping, boyish grin turned his lips. Only he wasn’t a boy. Her husband was a full-grown, virile man. “Convincing. Yes, I owe you that much, don’t I, after being so—”
“Obtuse.” She lifted her eyebrows.
He bit his lower lip, but his eyes shone with humor. “Obtuse. Yes, I can certainly be that.”
“As can I,” she murmured.
“Then we are two of a kind.”
“A-hem,” interrupted Lord Stade.