Never Surrender to a Scoundrel (11 page)

In the next moment, her fears eased. Certainly not. He hadn't even been able to suffer being in the carriage with her for more than five minutes.

Just as Miss Randolph finished tying on her own hat, the door handle turned. Clarissa froze, her breath caught in her throat. Mr. Blackmer stood there, beside the carriage, his expression shrouded in shadows and inscrutable.

Behind him, two hounds circled and whined with excitement over the newly arrived visitors, their feet caked in the churned-up mud of the inn's yard. Stable-helpers rushed to assist with the horses.

“We'll pass the night here,” her husband said quietly.

C
larissa emerged to stand on the metal carriage step and perched there, considering her next move. Several boards lay strewn across the courtyard. She pondered which were closest and which looked stable enough for a foray across the muck.

Yet in the next moment, a strong arm came round her waist and the evening sky turned, as Mr. Blackmer lifted her easily, another arm sweeping up under her knees. By necessity, her arms went round his neck. A whirl of movement followed, then several powerful steps, whereby he deposited her on the wooden platform at the front of the inn. She stood, breathless, not only because he'd squeezed the air from her lungs, but because she hadn't been prepared for his touch.

“Go on inside,” he instructed. “A Mrs. Harris will receive you.”

He turned back to Miss Randolph, who had already stepped down onto one of the boards and wobbled while considering her next step. He extended his hand to help her across. Clarissa could only stand, watching the way his coat tightened over his back and shoulders when his muscles flexed. But she didn't wish to be caught staring. Admiring. So she turned and went inside, where a low-ceilinged room awaited, filled with shadows except for a fire that burned on the hearth. Once her vision adjusted, she saw several tables against the walls, and at one, a well- dressed older gentleman and two young boys conversed quietly, over a platter of victuals, the specifics of which Clarissa could not discern other than a flavorful aroma that wafted through the air. A young woman polished silver in the corner, and another, beside her, folded linens.

A third woman, older than the others, and wearing a lace cap and apron, stood near the stairs, wearing a polite smile of welcome. Blackmer entered the room and removed his hat and gestured that she should follow.

She did so—but noted that he did not. Admittedly, this relieved her. If they were to share quarters, she would need a moment or two to compose herself. To prepare herself emotionally for the intimacies that might very well follow, even if those intimacies did not involve lovemaking. Simply the thought of lying next to him in a bed, waiting for sleep to come, sent her stomach spiraling with anxiety.

Upstairs, Mrs. Harris led her into a room crowded with a large bed, two chairs, a chaise, and a dressing table. Though small, everything appeared clean and comfortable.

Mrs. Harris lit a second lamp and adjusted its position on the dressing table. “I hope you find your accommodations sufficient, Mrs. Blackmer.”

Would it ever feel natural to answer to that name? Before, she had always traveled in the company of her mother, and innkeepers and servants had always addressed Her Ladyship as to whether their comforts were being met. Now she was a married lady, traveling with her husband, and Mrs. Harris welcomed her. There was something very satisfying about that.

“Everything is very nice, thank you,” Clarissa answered, her gaze returning to the bed. There were numerous pillows and a rich scarlet coverlet with gold cording. Her cheeks warmed, imagining herself there with Blackmer, tangled in the bedclothes, their bodies intimately entwined.

Two of the young women from belowstairs delivered the smaller of her two trunks, the one packed with sleeping and traveling clothes and other assorted whatnot, which Miss Randolph instructed them to deposit beneath the window. Another appeared with Miss Randolph's large, embroidered valise.

Mrs. Harris opened a door beside the bed. “There is a dressing closet here, where your maid can sleep.”

Miss Randolph crossed the room and peered inside assessingly.

“My husband's things—” Clarissa began.

“Have been placed in the room next door. There's another door in the dressing closet that adjoins the two.”

So they would not be sharing a room. A rush of relief washed over her, and she exhaled.

“Would you care for a bath, madam?”

Despite her nap in the carriage, she still felt very tired. She thought she might just go to bed and read. “Perhaps just a basin of warm water, if you please.”

She removed her hat and set it on the table.

A half hour later, Clarissa sat at the dressing table brushing her hair while Miss Randolph folded the garments she'd worn that day and placed them in the trunk.

A scuffling came from the hallway, along with stifled giggles and the sound of sloshing water.

In the mirror's reflection, Clarissa saw Miss Randolph straighten from where she bent over the trunk. “It sounds as if Mr. Blackmer will be enjoying a bath.”

“Hmmm, yes.” Clarissa rubbed a dab of fragrant skin cream onto her forehead. “Good for him. He must be very dusty from riding atop the carriage all day long.”

Miss Randolph approached her from behind, eclipsing the light from the fire and casting the mirror into shadow. “Pardon my being so bold as to suggest it, but perhaps you should offer to assist him.”

“Assist him,” Clarissa repeated, taken aback. “With his bath? Why?”

Miss Randolph bent an inch and peered into the glass, meeting her gaze. “Because that is what wives do.”

Clarissa pressed the cap on the cream jar. “Perhaps later, when we know each other better. Miss Randolph, I'm not sure what you know about the circumstances, but—”

“I know he is not the man you love.”

Clarissa blinked, feeling strangled. “
Loved.
”

“But he is your husband. Did you not see the reaction of those girls downstairs when he entered the room?”

Clarissa paused. She hadn't. “How did they react?”

Something peculiar happened inside her heart. She experienced a pang of dismay, threaded with…jealousy? Perhaps not jealousy, exactly, but Mr. Blackmer was her husband. She didn't know how she felt about another woman “reacting” to him when he walked into a room.

“They took notice. He is a very handsome man. Certainly you noticed as well.”

“Yes,” Clarissa answered in a distant tone. She rearranged her brush and her hand mirror on the tabletop, setting one down in the other's place. “I've noticed.”

Of course she had. What woman wouldn't? Mr. Blackmer was indeed handsome—but in a very different way from Lord Quinn. Lord Quinn had to be at least ten years younger than Mr. Blackmer. Fine-featured and golden-haired, he wore his aristocratic title with ease. He might very well be a model for a gentleman's plate in Ackermann's Depository. He knew his horses, and his manners and never failed to charm everyone in the room.

Was it wrong that those were the sort of young men she'd always found attractive and with whom she'd expected to share her future? They were, she supposed, the sort of man society told her she ought to admire.

Mr. Blackmer, on the other hand, was the opposite side of the coin. His eyes and his hair were as dark and dangerous as the Devil's, and he exuded…

He exuded what?

Masculinity.
Where Quinn was barely more than a boy out of university, Mr. Blackmer, was a man with a lifetime of experience in his repertoire. He'd been in the secret service no less. He might very well be dangerous, but not to her—she didn't believe that for one moment. There was something undeniably thrilling in realizing that.

“So what are you saying?” Clarissa asked Miss Randolph, listening now.

“That if you don't offer to assist him with his bath, someone else will.” She lowered her voice and murmured, “I don't know if you understand my meaning but—”

“I do understand your meaning.” Clarissa looked about, scandalized. “That sort of thing happens here? I believed this to be a respectable inn, not a…well, you know. One of those sorts of places.”

“It happens everywhere, madam.”

“I see. But certainly all men don't…”

“Of course not. Only those with inattentive wives.”

Footsteps sounded in the corridor, light ones. Most certainly female. And the hollow sound of bumping buckets.

Miss Randolph glared at the door. “That's one leaving now.” Her eyes narrowed. “
One.
I'm quite certain there were two.”

Clarissa gasped and jumped up from the stool, nearly toppling it.

Miss Randolph pointed toward the dressing closet door. “See for yourself that I am right.”

“What? Peek through the door? Barge in and interrupt? No. I can't.” She stared at the door. “Mr. Blackmer and I barely know each other, Miss Randolph. What he does is his own affair.”

“Very well.” Her maid rested her fists on her hips. “Concede nuptial failure on the very eve of your wedding.”

“Nuptial failure?” exclaimed Clarissa, pacing the floor. “After only one day? Why are you doing this to me? I just want to go to bed.”

She had lost Lord Quinn in a blink. Was she destined to lose her husband too?

“Because I want you to be happy, Mrs. Blackmer, and I believe you can find happiness with the man on the other side of that door. But you must lay out the rules from the start, or else there will be misunderstandings and angry feelings that will only grow out of hand.”

“Rules?” she repeated. How could she make any demands whatsoever of Mr. Blackmer, after the sacrifice he had made for her? Whether he'd been willing or not, he'd remained silent and suffered through. Now, to imagine asserting control over his most private moments? His most private desires? She felt torn over what to do. “What makes you so knowledgeable on the state of marriage?”

“Oh, dear girl.” Miss Randolph sighed. “I've not always been a lady's maid. We are very different, you and I, but that does not mean you cannot learn from my mistakes.”

“Miss Randolph.” Clarissa reached to touch her arm. “I'm sorry.”

“You will be, if you don't do something, and quickly.”

Clarissa remembered the vow she'd made to herself, to try to make a life with Mr. Blackmer. She wanted…she
needed
things to be good between them, if she was going to face the future with any sort of optimism. But most of all, for the baby's sake. She wanted a father for the child. A father in truth. Not just a name.

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.