Never Surrender to a Scoundrel (13 page)

Clarissa sat straight up in the bed. How mortifying. Her husband had kissed her so senseless, she'd forgotten Miss Randolph was even there. Her cheeks burned with embarrassment.

“Indeed,” answered Clarissa, sinking back onto the pillows and flinging her arms wide. She could not recall ever having experienced anything so exhilarating. No, not even with Lord Quinn—

Her hand rested upon something soft and damp.

Mr. Blackmer's towel.

Two days later, the carriage bounced and rattled, the road having turned into an abomination some four hours ago, so much so that it felt to Clarissa as if her bones were no longer in their proper sockets.

“Are you all right, Mrs. Blackmer?” Miss Randolph peered at her wearily. “Should I ask the driver to slow our pace?”

“No, Miss Randolph, I am well, and would rather arrive at the inn sooner than later.”

“I as well, madam. I as well.”

Fortunately, her condition thus far had not caused her to suffer any morning or motion sickness, unlike Sophia, whose first weeks
enciente
had been spent with her head bent over a pail.

The air had grown progressively chillier, and though there was no need for warming pans or blankets yet, she and Miss Randolph wore wool dresses beneath lined pelisses instead of muslin. There was nothing to do to pass the time except grit one's teeth and anticipate the next sudden jolt.

Just then a dark blur streaked past the window. She leaned to peer out, her gloved hand on the cool glass. It was Mr. Blackmer, of course, atop the horse he had won in a card game the night before. He looked very fine in the saddle, his cheeks ruddy with vigor and health, despite having passed the night in the common room as the inn had been able to provide only one room to their party.

Miss Randolph watched her from across the carriage, clear-eyed as an eagle. Clarissa stiffened, realizing the obviousness of her actions, and drew away.

“Why, just look at the sky,” she said, peering out and upward. “I hope it doesn't rain.”

“Hmmm. Rain. Yes, my dear.”

Miss Randolph smiled, clearly not fooled by Clarissa's claim of interest in the weather, though it did look like rain.

Why she felt the need to hide her newfound fascination with Dominick from the older woman, she could not precisely explain even to herself. Miss Randolph had already made it clear she wished for them to be happy together. Indeed, this morning her maid had vehemently insisted that if accommodations were limited at the next inn, as they had been the night before, Clarissa must insist her new husband share her bed while she, the servant, would make do with whatever else.

Clarissa knew Miss Randolph was right. She should concern herself with her husband's rest and comfort. They should learn to care for one another. That could only occur as they spent more time together. Which was why she felt so exceedingly relieved that after that first night in the inn, there had been no more passionate exchanges, no visits to each other's rooms…no bone-melting kisses. Yes, relieved. Their relationship would take more than a day or two to build, and she wanted to proceed more slowly, so there would be no disappointments for either one of them and no regrets.

She suspected Mr. Blackmer felt the same because he had ignored her almost completely since. Things weren't unfriendly between them, not by far. They had exchanged pleasantries each morning and each night, and had even shared a meal together, where they'd conversed about nothing much of substance. Which all suited her just as well, because the quiet between them had given her the time she'd needed to
ponder
and
dissect
and, yes,
accept
the events that had occurred in London.

The carriage sprang sideways, creaking and rattling.

“Oh!” exclaimed Miss Randolph, pitching backward into the seat. She snatched for her book and spectacles, which in that moment became airborne.

Clarissa seized hold of the iron door handle and planted her boots against the floor. The carriage bounced and leveled and continued on, as did the train of her thoughts.

If she'd feared she could never feel for another man after Lord Quinn's betrayal, Dominick's kiss had proven that false. For that she could only be grateful to her new husband for helping her understand the capabilities of her heart. Each time she remembered the first night as he'd crouched over her in her bed—

The smell of him…the taste of his mouth and skin…

She closed her eyes.

—her blood went instantly hot, as if from a fever. Every time he appeared at the bottom of the inn stairs, looking up at her, or striding across a muddy courtyard, her heart leapt with interest.

Only one thing troubled her. Just four days ago, that same heart had leapt with interest for Lord Quinn. There was something very uncomfortable about acknowledging that.

At last, when she believed she could endure no more carriage-bound purgatory, they arrived at an inn, which she hoped would be the final lodging on their journey before arriving at Mr. Blackmer's home.

The wind blew so hard, the carriage rocked. Having glanced at the timepiece that hung from the simple chatelaine at the front of her pelisse more times than she would care to acknowledge, she'd anticipated the stop and had gathered her things and waited, hat on and redingote buttoned. The building's stone façade looked much like the one the night before, but gone were the green fields and trees that had softened the landscape. Here, stone and hardscrabble earth spread as far as her eye could see, overshadowed by dark gray skies and the scent of ocean brine intermingled with impending rain.

Her husband did not open the door, but rather the footman, which she noted only because Mr. Blackmer's face had always been the first she saw each time they disembarked for a meal, a roadside pause, or to pass the night. It surprised her how disappointed she felt not to see him. She descended and, followed by Miss Randolph, both women crossed the narrow courtyard against the wind, followed by the footman, who carried their belongings.

Just then she glimpsed Blackmer's tall figure, his broad shoulders and his flapping coattails as he disappeared inside the front door. She noted then what she'd noted countless times since the day of their wedding. Mr. Blackmer was quite simply magnificent, in a way Mr. Kincraig had never been. It was in the way he moved with such purpose, his eyes piercing and so perceptive to everything around him. When he spoke to people, they paid attention. He could indeed be imposing, but not in an arrogant way. Rather, he quietly impressed.

A moment later she passed through the same door just in time to hear an elderly man in a dapper suit, whom she supposed to be the innkeeper, say, “My sincerest apologies, sir, but we have only the one room. Your lady's maid there is welcome to sleep in the storeroom, which is secure and private, and there is a fine pallet. I believe she would find it most comfortable.”

Miss Randolph's lips thinned. Clarissa knew her servant had always taken excessive pride in being employed by the Earl of Wolverton and had her standards. Still, the woman closed her eyes and exhaled before nodding in assent. “I would sleep on the floor in the corridor if it meant not getting back in that carriage.”

Her maid gestured to the footman to deposit their valises onto the floor beside her, which he did before returning outside.

However, Dominick frowned, his cheeks darkly flushed from his ride in the elements. Yet dark hollows showed beneath his eyes, evidence of his exhaustion. His hat, now removed, revealed a windswept head of shining dark hair. Clarissa's fingertips throbbed, remembering its thick yet silken texture.

“I'm sorry,” he said. “But one room simply will not do. Is there another inn nearby that we might make before nightfall?”

Clarissa's mood fell. Like Miss Randolph, she had no wish to return to the carriage and that terrible road, especially not when the night grew dark and cold and the skies threatened rain.

The innkeeper shook his head sympathetically. “Another hour's travel, at least, and of course there is no way to guarantee empty rooms. My apologies, sir, the week has brought a constant stream of carriages, with so many leaving London at the close of the season.”

Clarissa exhaled. An hour? The man may as well have said twelve.

“Please no,” Miss Randolph murmured beneath her breath.

They were all road weary and exhausted. Another inn would not do. Clarissa and her exhausted husband would simply pass the night together in the available room.

“Mr. Blackmer, one room will suffice,” Clarissa said, stepping nearer to his side.

Speaking the words sent an unexpected thrill fluttering through her. She'd just invited her husband to share her bed. They were both too tired for anything but sleep, but the idea of lying beside him both terrified and excited her. But it would be these sorts of circumstances that would serve to bring them closer together, and that wasn't a terrible thing, being that tomorrow he would introduce her to his family as his wife.

Yet at her words Dominick looked sharply toward her—a distancing and almost angry glance.

“It's too far to the next inn,” Clarissa said firmly. “No one wants to travel on.”

“Does it seem strange to you that I would like to sleep in a bed tonight?” he retorted.

Her cheeks burned that he would make it so obvious in a public place, before onlookers, that as man and wife they did not make a practice of sharing a bed.

Just then, a man bundled in a coat, hat, and scarf barreled inside, and with him came a gust of frigid air and a spattering of rain. Water drizzled off the brim of his hat and streamed in thick rivulets from his coat onto the wooden floor.

Clarissa shivered as the cold crept beneath her skirt and up her stocking-clad legs.

“The sky is coming down now,” the man exclaimed with a smile, shaking his sleeves.

A maid let out a sharp rebuke and rushed toward him with a rag, with which she proceeded to sop up the mess as he trundled past.

Mr. Blackmer muttered a low curse and closed his eyes, as if trying to rein in his temper.

Clarissa stepped closer to him and spoke in a low tone. “There is a bed, and there is no reason why we shouldn't both sleep there. As I said, one room will suffice.”

He answered with a curt nod and exhaled through his nose.

With a glance to the innkeeper, he said, “We'll take the room.”

Clarissa nodded, satisfied that her husband saw things as rationally as she did. She waited for instruction from the innkeeper.

Dominick, however, took a few steps toward the crowded common room, which was filled with gray tallow smoke and the scent of burned food. His jaw twitched and his eyes narrowed, revealing his dark mood. A sudden blast of thunder shook the walls and windows.

“Sleep well. I will see you in the morning,” he said to her, his eyes not even meeting her gaze.

Returning his dusty, wide-brimmed hat to his head, he turned as if to proceed to the door.

The innkeeper looked at Clarissa in bewilderment but then discreetly averted his attention. A surge of embarrassment shot through her at having been so publicly rejected. Yes, she and Dominick had kept their distance for the previous two days, but why should he now reject her offer of a comfortable place to sleep, when he wanted it so badly? Did he find the idea of passing the night with her so abhorrent?

Remembering the passion with which he had kissed her that first night in the dark, she knew he did not.
You are my preference,
he had said in such a seductive tone.

Moving quickly, she placed herself squarely in her husband's path.

“Mr. Blackmer, don't be stubborn. It is cold out there and only getting colder. We've traveled all day, you on horseback. Miss Randolph has already said she is agreeable to sleeping downstairs. There is no reason why you should not share the room with me.” She spoke in an even tone, because she wouldn't stoop to beg. “After all, I am your wife.”

“Only on paper,” he muttered so low that only she could hear. The brim of his hat threw a dark shadow across his face.

The words felt like a slap, despite her knowing them to be true.

“Which makes it seem very real, doesn't it?” she answered. “At least it does to me.”

D
ominick stared at her a long moment. “You ought not to keep that girl waiting any longer.”

A weary-faced servant girl in a white apron and lace cap stood at the landing, a glowing lantern in one hand and Clarissa's valise in the other. “This way, madam.”

With a sideways turn of his boot, he angled past her and, after pushing through the door, disappeared into the night. Rainfall and thunder muted his footsteps until the door slammed closed. The innkeeper rummaged in a cabinet, pretending not to have observed their tense exchange.

Clarissa's heart beat like thunder in her ears. Though exhausted, her husband had summarily refused her offer of a comfortable place to pass the night, preferring the dark, wet, and cold to her company. She rejected the hurt in her heart that accompanied his words and her dismay at being so soundly rejected. Things had not been unpleasant between them, so why had he responded so severely? There had to be a reason.

“Miss Randolph,” she said, turning back. “You might as well come upstairs with—”

But Miss Randolph was already on the far side of the common room, disappearing toward the kitchens.

Clarissa followed the inn's servant girl upstairs and politely declined all offers of assistance, evening victuals in her room, or a bath, instead asking to be left alone. Once the girl was gone, Clarissa stood in the quiet of the room, shunning the warmth of the fire, listening to the storm rumble and surge outside.

She tried to put herself into Dominick's mind, to imagine what he must be thinking and why he insisted on staying away.

How did he feel toward her? Did he dislike her personality? Did he find her unattractive? Perhaps…perhaps because she carried another man's child?

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 reached 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.