Never Surrender to a Scoundrel (17 page)

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.

D
ominick 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.”

“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?

“I did tell you. I told you my family and this place don't define me,” he answered. “And because you are married to me, neither can they define you. Please understand that. We won't be staying.”

“You've brought someone with you, I see,” came a different voice, female, and as smooth as silk. His mother's.

His hand closed firmly on Clarissa's, he turned to introduce her.

Lady Stade stood there, dark haired and striking, looking as if time had not touched her in the years since he had last seen her. Indeed, since he had been a boy. The tails of her fox fur cape flew on the wind behind her.

“Mother,” he said.

She frowned, as she always did when he or his brother called her that.

“Lady Stade,” he amended.

The frown eased.

“It pleases me to introduce you to Lady Blackmer.”

“You've married again,” she answered in a quiet voice, her countenance expressionless. “What a surprise. Oh, Blackmer, you might have written to let us know.”

“I'm so pleased to meet you,” Clarissa said in a clear if not completely steady voice. Her hand tightened on his, a small vise.

“And I you, dear.” His mother scrutinized Clarissa, and if he knew anything about his mother, he knew she was analyzing every detail of his new wife, from the embroidery on her cuff to the inflection of her voice to deduce where in the echelon of society her new daughter-in-law belonged and whether she ranked higher than herself.

“Lady Blackmer,” said the marchioness, taking a step closer. “Are you feeling unwell?”

Guthrie too stepped forward.

“Quick!” warned Miss Randolph from the carriage. “She's falling.”

“Oh, catch her,” urged his mother, her hand coming to her lips.

Guthrie and two footmen lunged, but Dominick was closer.

He turned just in time to catch Clarissa in his arms. He braced his boot against the carriage step, adjusting her against his shoulder, while Miss Randolph reached out to neaten her skirts over her boots.

A sudden fear struck him that she might be more ill than he believed, and in danger of losing the child. He would never forgive himself, because it had been he who had insisted they travel. Carrying her, he strode past his mother, who gathered her fur against her throat and peered into his face.

Guthrie shouted at the servants who had gathered. “Make way.”

“Please summon a physician,” Dominick said to him as he swept by.

“Yes, my lord, immediately.”

He climbed the endless rise of stairs to the front doors, which were held open on either side by servants anticipating their passage. Inside, more servants lined the entry hall, having assembled in mere moments to greet him.

“Thank you, all of you,” he said quietly, moving past them. He received a nearly in-unison reply of nodding heads as well as politely murmured words of greeting and concern for the lady in his arms.

High above, illuminated by blazing torchères, an immense gallery greeted him, hung with portraits of his ancestors and family, each face a window to the past. And just like that, the past pressed into his nostrils, his mouth and ears, smothering him, seeking to be the air he breathed when he had worked so hard to expel it from the man he was. In that moment it was as if he had never left.

He looked down into Clarissa's face, and she became his anchor, reminding him why he had come home and of the man he had to be.

Two male servants appeared at the base of the staircase with a chair, into which he reluctantly surrendered his wife, and they conveyed her up the stairs.

“I shall allow you some privacy,” called his mother from below, her voice echoing up. “Come to greet me properly, Blackmer, when you can.”

He followed them up two floors. Guthrie sped past to lead the way, followed by Miss Randolph.

Halfway down the corridor, Guthrie pushed open two doors, and they proceeded inside a large bedchamber decorated in hues of green. Two maids who on first glance bore matched features appeared as if from thin air, which did not surprise Dominick. That was how his mother kept house, with an army of perfectly trained servants who moved like silent and invisible spirits from place to place. One turned down the bed, while the other poured water into a basin. As in all of the rooms at Darthaven, the furniture was ages old, yet perfectly polished. However, the curtains and carpet and bedding were of the most current colors and style, so the place smelled not like an old musty castle but fresh, despite the ancient wall hangings and art that covered the walls. He lay Clarissa down on the bed, and Miss Randolph rushed to unbutton her pelisse and loosen her boots.

With relief, he saw that his wife's bosom rose and fell with regular breath.

“What do you need, ma'am?” Guthrie asked Miss Randolph, his eyes politely averted from the young woman in the bed.

Dominick had always liked Guthrie, a deep-voiced giant of a man who looked at everyone, noble or common, with kind eyes.

Miss Randolph answered with brisk authority. “A rich beef broth, if you will, and butter and hearty brown bread.”

Guthrie caught the eye of one of the maids. Wordlessly, she disappeared from the room. The butler then assisted Dominick in removing his greatcoat and passed it off to another maid, who disappeared with it into the corridor.

Miss Randolph turned to Dominick and urged, “Leave us, my lord. Greet your family, and I shall tend to Her Ladyship and soon enough she will be well enough to join you.” She untied Clarissa's bonnet and set it aside.

“You're certain she's all right?”

He was reluctant to leave Clarissa, even though he knew she was in capable hands. It was almost as if now that he was here at Darthaven, he realized the strength of his attachment to her, and feared the moment he left her, she would be torn away. This place had only driven himself and Tryphena farther apart. What if the same thing happened with Clarissa?

The impulse was too great. Caring not that anyone watched, he leaned beneath the canopy and, taking her hand, pressed a kiss to her temple.

“Rest,” he murmured.

Miss Randolph touched his shoulder lightly. “She and the baby will be fine, my lord. I vow the physician, when he arrives, will confirm what I say. Just you wait and see.”

Her voice held a reverence he'd not heard before.
My lord.
How could he explain that he would forever prefer “Mr. Blackmer,” as she'd addressed him before?

“Please summon me when she awakens.”

With one final look over his shoulder toward Clarissa, he descended the stairs to the first floor and for a moment stood outside the wide-open double doors of the King's Room, preparing for whatever might await him. Inside, the high wood-paneled walls appeared to waver in the glow of not one fire but two oversized hearths at either end of the long gallery. High windows along the north wall, every other one of them bearing stained glass family insignia, overlooked the ocean.

There, beside the farthest hearth, sat his mother, her fur cape having been exchanged for a long India shawl, which she wore artfully draped across one shoulder. She always took care with her appearance, and he couldn't recall ever having seen her wear the same dress more than twice. Several books lay strewn on a settee behind her, and a large needlework frame. At seeing him, she stood and waited for him to approach her.

“My lady.” He bent to accept her kiss on his cheek. Her fragrance scented the air, expensive and complex. She returned to her seat, while he remained standing.

He loved his mother, but things had never been warm or affectionate between them. She had always been the beautiful, distant lady who had left his and his brother's care to nannies and their minding to a cadre of governesses and tutors. His relationship had been much the same with his father, an aloof, sharp-eyed man who existed either behind closed doors with land stewards and advisors or off hunting with titled, wealthy friends.

Dominick's life had not been terrible, not by far. He had been raised much like any son of the aristocracy, with the very clear expectation that he should grow up and behave and look and dress like the rest of them. Yet his grandfather, the elder Lord Stade, who lived on a much smaller estate known as Frost End and who had once been a brave naval officer on the high seas, had shared stories of adventure with him and given him his first inkling there was something
more
to life than this. After university, Dominick had set off to find it and had never really come back home.

“Blackmer,” she said in her elegant, cool tone. “Again, what a happy surprise to have you home. You were assigned to Constantinople last we heard. Your duties have at last allowed you to return?”

“Indeed.” His throat closed on any further explanation. They'd never developed a confiding sort of relationship, and it would be awkward to confess to her now, so soon after arriving, that his dreams had been destroyed—but that in smoldering cinders of loss, he'd found another. How he wished Clarissa was standing beside him now.

“And you bring us another bride.” Her smile faltered. “Was her father or…guardian also in Constantinople?”

“We met in London, actually.”

“You were there for the season?” Her voice thinned.

“Unexpectedly,” he said. “Briefly.”

“If we'd known, we might have come down. When was the wedding? You know I don't read the London papers and would not have seen the announcement.”

Indeed, Dominick knew she hated to read about the fashionable world in distant London and the lives of her girlhood friends, now grown women, going on without her.

Lord and Lady Stade did go down to London from time to time, but rarely, because his father complained about the bad air and crowds and despised travel. He had actually glimpsed them two years ago inside the well-heeled society crowd at the Royal Gallery, where he had accompanied Wolverton to view a showing of Dutch masters, but because he was Mr. Kincraig on secret assignment, he could make no effort to speak to them.

“The wedding took place recently.”

“How recently?”

“Last week.”

His mother's gaze sharpened. “And she is already
enciente
?”

Had she made that assessment herself, or had the news been discreetly conveyed from one of the servants in Clarissa's bedroom? He would not be surprised.

“It would seem so.”

Her expression did not change.

“Who are the young lady's relations?” she asked coolly. “Would I know of them?”

It had vexed his mother and father greatly that he'd married Tryphena without consulting them first and that his wife had never offered anything more than murky explanations of her family's lineage and whereabouts. Even he, as her husband, had learned not to pry for details about her past, but being that they were both spies, secrets had seemed natural…for a time.