Never Surrender to a Scoundrel (12 page)

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
whoosh
ing 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.

C
larissa 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 asked.

“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.”

He spoke the words without passion. She could only assume he'd had enough talking and wanted her to leave. The night air chilled her skin, and she wrapped her arms around her waist for warmth. She felt rebuffed by him. Stung. Her husband, the man with whom she would spend the rest of her days, did not have the slightest interest in spending a moment more in her company.

She knew she ought to calmly say “Very well then, I bid you good night,” and quit the room, but she feared with a certainty that if she opened her mouth and attempted to utter a single syllable, her voice would falter and reveal the confused tumult of her emotions.

Not because she cared for him. Of course she didn't. Clearly he did not care for her.

They'd been thrown together, and no amount of wishful thinking or good intentions would create a spark between them, when such a spark was never intended to be. She blinked away tears. Foolish tears! As if he had hurt her, but he hadn't.

It had just been a long day, and a long night before that, and she'd made a terrible mess of everything, and she hated Quinn. And perhaps still loved him. And she was lonely. So very lonely and frightened of what the future held.

So instead she nodded jerkily, her chin outthrust, and turned on her slippered foot to escape into the dark dressing closet, taking care to close the first and the second door firmly behind her. Miss Randolph reclined in her sleeping gown and robe on the chaise with her book open and steepled across her forehead, snoring, which was just as well because Clarissa could not face the woman's questions or her pity.

She doused the lamps and, in darkness, with only the scant light from behind the fire grate to see, crawled into bed and lay on unfamiliar sheets, her mind tangled with thoughts of… Mr. Blackmer.

Suddenly the door swung open and a shadow moved toward her, stealthily and swift, with only the faint white swath across his hips visible in the night. She recognized Blackmer instantly, and desire ignited inside her.  He crouched above her, breathing hard, his skin still damp and the tight flex of muscles in his shoulders darkly illuminated. The scent of the soap from his bath filled her nostrils. Her pulse raced, her heart near exploding.

“You,” he growled deep in his throat, “are my preference.”

A second later, he kissed her hard, pressing his thumb against the side of her jaw, commanding her lips to part while his tongue boldly entered and teased. She gasped for breath, stunned into half senselessness…and surrendered, her mouth opening fully to accept each deep, possessing stroke.

He gave a husky groan. His large hands caught hers by the wrists, pinning her to the mattress. She squirmed beneath him—but with no intent to escape.

Moments before he had dismissed her coldly and made her feel invisible and unwanted, and yet in this moment he revealed his true feelings, ones he'd tried to conceal. She knew without a doubt that her husband desired her. Something about that made her weak, and—

His mouth moved to her cheek…her neck, leaving her skin hot and awakened wherever his lips touched. Sensations she'd never experienced spiraled up from inside her, delicious and achingly sweet, awakening a need in her body and rendering her unexpectedly wild.

God help her, she didn't understand, but she wanted him as well. The moment he released her hands she moaned and seized his shoulders, sliding her hands upward over his neck, finding unexpected appreciation in the powerful contraction and flux of his muscles beneath her palms. He exhaled, filling her mouth with his breath, and sucked her bottom lip—

Only to groan and twist away.

No. She reached, her hands trailing over his shoulders and his arms, desperately wanting more. More of his kiss, and his warm, firm skin. And yes, for him to ravish her so she would forget—

Then nothing.

The bed creaked, relieved of his weight. She heard his sharp exhalation of breath—a laugh, perhaps?

“Good night then, Mrs. Blackmer,” he murmured.

Silence filled the room.

“Good night,” she answered breathlessly.

He crossed the room, disappearing into the dressing closet, gone the way he had come. She heard the door close.

After a long moment of silence, Miss Randolph's voice came from the direction of the chaise. “Well,
that
was rather thrilling.”