Never Surrender to a Scoundrel (24 page)

“I'm relieved to hear that,” he answered, his sentiment sincere.

“As am I,” answered Clarissa.

But something wasn't right here. He'd interrupted something tense and suspicious that still hung in the air, weighting the mood.

He pinned his gaze on Claxton. “You left the duchess, in her advanced condition, and traveled four days to deliver news that could have been sent in a letter? And delivered such happy news behind closed doors, no less, ensuring no one in my family overheard?”

Clarissa crossed the room, coming to stand at his side. She touched his arm. “He's also delivered the details of my marriage settlement.”

Blackmer's gaze fixed on the duke's. “I already told you, I don't want Wolverton's money. Nothing has changed.”

The duke answered, “You made it clear last time we spoke that you recused yourself from such matters, which is why the bestowals are in Lady Blackmer's name.”

Blackmer sensed Clarissa's torment. For her benefit, he quelled the demands of his pride. “That is an acceptable arrangement for me.”

Clarissa looked relieved at his words.

“Thank you.” She squeezed his arm.

She was trying so hard to keep things friendly between him and the duke, but something had changed in the way she looked at him. He saw wariness in her eyes, and perhaps even fear.

Blackmer addressed the duke. “Your Grace, your chamber is ready if you would like to rest from your journey before the evening meal. My mother is waiting with Mr. Guthrie, our butler, to show you up.”

“I would indeed like some time to recover,” Claxton said. He proceeded toward the door and said to Clarissa in a quiet voice, “Haden and I will depart in the morning. You have until then to decide.”

With that Claxton left the room, to be met by Lady Stade and Mr. Guthrie in the corridor. From where she stood, Dominick heard his father explaining the significance of a wall hanging to Lord Haden.

Blackmer closed the doors again, committing himself and Clarissa to silence.

She pressed a hand to her chest, as if to calm a rapidly beating heart. Her eyes were wide and fixed on him.

“You have until tomorrow to decide what?” Dominick asked.

“He asked if I would like to return to Camellia House with him and Lord Haden. Sophia and everyone else are going there for the next month to await the baby's birth.”

No. His Grace had come here to tell her something. Something that had upset her. There was only one thing it could be. Why drag this miserable conversation out? Why not tear the bandage from the wound quickly, so he could get on with bleeding to death?

“He told you I killed Tryphena, did he not?”

Clearly, the bluntly spoken words shocked her. Her lips parted on a gasp, and she blinked away tears. His heartbeat faltered. He had no wish to hurt her. These dark tragedies were not her own, but his.

“I don't believe him.” Clarissa touched his forearm, trying to draw it from where it crossed over his chest, as if trying to uncover his heart. “You could never have done such a thing.”

He couldn't bear her touch—not when he craved her so much. He jerked away.

“That's where you're wrong.” His gaze went flat and his voice, hollow. “Because I did.”

He didn't want to see the horror in her eyes. Turning, he threw open the doors and exited into the corridor. Clarissa's footsteps followed him and she caught his arm.

“You can't just say something like that to me and walk away,” she choked out.

He laughed, low in his throat, an ugly sound. “No, I think that quite does it. There is really nothing more to say.”

Everyone stopped where they were in the vestibule and stared at them. His mother and father with expressions of concern. The duke only stared, not bothering to conceal his disdain and suspicion.

“Blackmer,” said Clarissa. “Please come back and talk to me.”

Talk? He couldn't talk. He couldn't tell her what had happened that night. About the blood. About Tryphena's screams. Of how the instincts that had advanced him to the highest levels of the foreign service had, in one pivotal moment, failed him so shatteringly.

He glared down at her hand on his arm until she released him and stepped away.

Stopping only momentarily to claim his coat and gloves, he walked out the front doors of Darthaven, onto the grass and to the stables. There he commanded that his horse be saddled, his temper so dark the stablemen stumbled over each other to do his bidding. At last, he rode.

He rode away from Darthaven, his mind as numb and dark as the night that fell over the earth. Not knowing where else to go, but knowing he couldn't go back, he returned to the folly where he had made love to Clarissa, and dismounted. After tying his horse to a column, he collapsed onto a bench and stared out over the sea. In the distance, he saw Darthaven's windows lit with firelight. His family and their guests would be having dinner now. How awkward the conversation must be, without him there, but not as awkward as if he were.

He'd known he wasn't suited for marriage, not after Tryphena had destroyed him. Yet when he'd looked into Clarissa's blue eyes, he'd started to believe that at last the past could be forgotten. That he could care for someone—
love
someone—again.

He should never have brought her here. He should never have married her in the first place. He should have slipped away that first night and forced them to marry her off to Havering or some other trusted family friend.

He closed his eyes, knowing it was better to let her go. To release her from the darkness that would never let him go. He would grant her a formal separation. Returned to her family, she could have the baby in a place of support and love, and find some measure of happiness that she would never be able to have with him.

The wind blew colder, and he welcomed its numbing effect. Perhaps he would stay there all night, because tomorrow morning how could he watch her climb into the carriage with Claxton and Haden and leave him forever? He couldn't. Hours passed, and a deeper cold crept inward from the sea.

The hell with sleeping there all night, on a cold hard bench. Everyone would be abed by now. No, he wouldn't go to his chambers. It would be torment to be that close to her. In a residence the size of Darthaven, he could find a room or at least a corner in which to pass the night. He mounted his horse and rode toward the house. He stared at her darkened window, knowing she would be asleep now. And yet something drew his eye to the side, to his window. A movement or a shadow. His heart struck a dark chord, remembering another evening when he'd seen something he could not explain. Tryphena. But of course he had
not
seen her. Perhaps just like that night, though, the darkness played tricks on him, because as hard as he stared, he perceived nothing more.

Why did his mind react so suspiciously? No doubt he had seen a servant stoking his fire before bed, or…perhaps Clarissa waiting for his return.

Inside, he passed through the kitchens, snaring a piece of cold chicken from the larder and devouring it as he strode down the darkened corridor. Seeing the staircase, dimly illuminated by light of a night lantern in the vestibule, he paused. He hadn't intended to go upstairs, but…there had been that movement in his room. His curious nature…his intuition couldn't let it go.

After dropping the bones into the footmen's trash receptacle, he climbed the stairs. Opening his door, he slipped silently inside. Just as any other night, the maid had left a small fire burning on the grate and laid out his nightshirt. Everything appeared in place. So, yes, perhaps it had only been a servant he'd seen from outside.

He crossed the carpet, going to the window. Pushing aside the drapery, he scanned the dark landscape and then the space closer to the house.

His heartbeat staggered to a halt, seeing her.

Her.
Whoever she was.

She stood in the same place as the time before, her cloak rippling in the wind. He turned and ran, throwing the door open and racing down the stairs. Outside, he took the corner, his boots thudding over the ground, his muscles straining.

She wasn't there now, but he spied her in the distance, near the trees where she disappeared into the sheltering darkness. He pursued her, but a pale flash caught his eye. Something tumbled across the grass toward him, carried by the wind. He slowed, retrieving a piece of folded parchment.

He stared down and made out the words on the page as best he could in the dim moonlight.

They were familiar, long-forgotten words, written in Tryphena's hand. How could that be? A love letter she'd written to him in the early days of their marriage, in the most passionate terms.

Nothing made sense. Who had he seen, and how had they gotten this letter? His past and his present twisted into one. Just as Wolverton had feared his own valiant past as an agent decades ago had brought about a retribution plot by an old adversary and a death sentence for his heirs, Dominick now wondered which enemy—or friend—sought revenge against him.

He felt sick. He felt…afraid. But not for himself.

Why now? The answer came to him clearly.

Because at last he had moved on from the tragedy, or at least so it would appear to an outsider looking in. He had remarried and returned home to start a new life.

But he wasn't one to be terrorized by “ghosts” in the night and reminders of his past. If someone wanted to torment him about Tryphena's death…to hurt him…to demand he forfeit something he loved…

The only way to truly destroy him would be to—

His heart seized and his blood ran cold.

It would be to hurt Clarissa.

Turning, he strode toward Darthaven, crushing the letter into his coat pocket. Then he ran.

After entering the house again, he climbed the stairs and raced down the corridor and found Clarissa's door locked. Heart pounding, he entered his own chamber and cut through the dressing room. Miss Randolph wasn't there. Perhaps, as he'd suggested to Clarissa, she had taken to sleeping in her own room in the attic.

Clarissa would be alone.

Alone and unprotected.

The goddamn letter. That woman in the night.

If someone had hurt Clarissa—

C
larissa awakened to large hands seizing her. She saw only darkness, and the blur of the bed canopy. She cried out, afraid—

But then saw his face.

“Blackmer?”

He held her by the shoulders, breathing hard, as if he'd been running. Releasing her, he tore the covers away. The cool air of the chamber chilled her skin. His hands—so cold!—moved over her, everywhere, too roughly. She gasped, shocked by the touch. It was as if he were searching for something. Searching her neck and breasts and torso for any sign of…what?

“What are you doing?” she demanded, near tears, her emotions both angry and relieved. “Where have you been all night?”

After coldly telling her he'd killed his first wife, he'd left without explanation and hadn't returned. Dinner had been a miserable affair, with Claxton and Colin remaining largely silent and Lord Haden doing his best to entertain them with stories from abroad, while Lord and Lady Stade stared at the door and out the windows. As had she.

And now here he was, tearing at her clothes—but not in passion. In some sort of desperate rage. Had he gone mad?

He stilled above her.

“I'm sorry,” he muttered. He exhaled and closed his eyes as if in relief. “Go to sleep.” Rolling, he collapsed onto his back, his head on the pillow beside hers. He stared up at the canopy. “Go back to sleep.”

Turning on her shoulder, away from him, she lay rigid and awake, listening to his breath grow calm. But she couldn't just go to sleep.

“Did you love her?” she asked. “Blackmer, I need to know.”

“Yes,” he said quietly.

“Did you mean to kill her?”

A long pause filled the space between them.

“No.”

“Then I'm sorry,” she whispered, unsettled that she could not even imagine the lost woman's face. “I'm sorry, Blackmer, that she is dead.”

“I don't know how to answer that,” he said. “If she was still here, I wouldn't have you.”

She lay awake a long time, torturously aware of him beside her. Eventually she slept. Sometime before dawn she awakened to see him still there, lying atop the coverlet still clothed in his breeches and shirt, his eyes closed and his breathing even.

Did he sleep? She did not know. She didn't care. Even angry as she was at him for leaving her without answers, she wanted him there.

Early the next morning, Clarissa stood on the front steps of Darthaven, bundled against the chill. A pale fog spread across the grounds, obscuring the overlook and the high stone wall that encircled the estate. The side lamps on the carriage glowed orange in the hazy blue light, and the duke's liveried outrider climbed into his saddle and urged his mount to a place in front of the six horses snorting and stamping in their harnesses.

“I don't want to leave you here.” Claxton stood on the step beside her, looking down, his expression stern. “If Sophia knew the situation, she would insist that I bring you home.”

“Then I appreciate that you at least understand that I am a full-grown woman, and capable of making my own decisions.”

She'd be lying to herself to say a part of her didn't want to go with him. To be with Sophia when the baby arrived, to take part in her sister's joy but also to learn more about what the very near future held in store for her as an expectant mother. But to leave Darthaven now would only weaken an already challenged marriage to Dominick. She had to remain and try to learn the truth of what happened with Tryphena, so she could understand the tragedy of his past that threatened to tear them apart.

“If you change your mind, send word and I will come posthaste to bring you home.”

“I
am
home, Claxton,” she assured him, and herself. “Home is here at Darthaven, or wherever Blackmer may be. Please give everyone my love.”

At that, he nodded, still looking regretful, and bent to press a brotherly kiss to her cheek. Haden, who had been standing at the bottom of the stairs, ascended, hat in hand, and did the same.

“Good-bye, Lady Blackmer.” He smiled handsomely.

“Good-bye, Haden.” Just then a cold gust of wind struck, and she gathered her thick wool shawl more closely around her. Beneath the warm covering, her hand instinctively rested over the baby. “Truly, I can't believe some beautiful girl hasn't stolen your heart. I scour every letter from Sophia, always certain that I will see that news.”

He tapped his hat against his leg. “When the time is right, I suppose.”

“Sometimes love happens even when the time is not right.” She smiled, despite the heavy weight in her chest.

“He's lucky to have you.” Hayden lifted his hat in adieu and descended to the carriage, where Claxton waited. A movement out of the corner of her eye caught her attention—Dominick descending the stairs. After Haden climbed inside, he said something to Claxton she couldn't hear. Whatever it was, she determined it wasn't an apology. Her husband stood tall and broad-shouldered, eye to eye with the duke.

Claxton listened, intent, and responded in a similar fashion, after which time he too climbed onto the folding metal step and, with a final look over his shoulder at Clarissa, disappeared inside. The carriage rolled to a start, and set off through the fog and eventually through the gates.

Blackmer climbed the stairs to stand beside her. “Why didn't you go with them?”

Looking toward the house, she saw Lord and Lady Stade return inside, as did the servants.

“Because I
didn't
,” she answered earnestly.

“Perhaps you should have,” he said in a cold tone.

“Dominick,” she cried. “Don't push me away. Not now. Not after yesterday at the folly.”

“Now that you know about Tryphena, how can you stay?” He grasped her by the arms and backed her against the stone banister. “Tell me, because I don't understand.”

She tilted her face, looking up into his eyes. “Because you told me you didn't intend to kill her, and I believe you. And because I know you would never hurt me or the baby. Dominick, I trust you and I belong here with you—”

He seized her close, one hand coming up into her hair, and kissed her. She made a sound against his lips and brought her arms around his shoulders, pulling him tight, cleaving against him. The wind gusted powerfully, tugging her shawl free to ripple around them.

“I don't deserve you,” he whispered, pressing a kiss to her hair.

“I'm ready to go to Frost End,” she said, resting her cheek against his chest. “For it just to be you and me, away from all of this, where we can start new.”

The sound of approaching horse's hooves brought the doors swinging open and a footman to the stairs. Clarissa tore her attention from Dominick long enough to see a man in a beaver cap and belted wool coat and boots cantering up the drive.

“Speaking of Frost End,” Dominick murmured as the man dismounted. “With everything that's happened, I forgot to inform you Mr. Galbraith, one of Father's land agents, would be here this morning. He's come to inform us as to the condition of the house and the estate.”

“I'll just lay out the drawing so you can follow along as I provide details,” said Mr. Galbraith as he unfolded a large square of parchment.

Dominick's gaze swept across the images on the paper, only to rise and find Clarissa at the other side of the table. She peered down, helping Mr. Galbraith spread the drawing flat, oblivious to his attention.

Mr. Galbraith continued, pointing at the drawing. “The barns…the large one here, and the smaller one just beside it, are in surprisingly sturdy shape. They will require a bit of work on the roofing, and fresh dirt and hay, but that is all to start.”

“That's good news,” Dominick said quietly, with another look at Clarissa, who appeared radiant and hopeful. Light from the window bathed her profile, painting her tresses gold.

“Which brings me to the house itself.” Mr. Galbraith's voice dipped noticeably, and he winced. “The roof is compromised here, and here, with sagging frame and shingles, which means there has been some degree of intrusion by the weather, various fowl nesting in the rafters, and other creatures.”

Clarissa threw him a worried glance.

Mr. Galbraith added, “Before I can recommend occupying the premises, there would need to be repair to the roof and ceilings and the plasterwork. And, of course, everything would need to be painted, and the floors refinished. Draperies, furniture, and whatnot.”

Dominick inquired, “Given the necessary repairs, how soon do you think until we could take residence?”

He didn't have the papers conveying possession yet but wanted to proceed with repairs regardless.

“Given the approach of winter, it might be spring before all the work can be completed.”

Clarissa pointed at the drawing. “Could we not make ready the smaller wing of the house and the kitchen, and simply patch the other until springtime arrives?”

Mr. Galbraith pondered her suggestion for a moment before nodding. “That's certainly a possibility. I would urge you, my lord, to visit Frost End and see for yourself the conditions I describe, and that way we can discuss which work should take priority.”

“I could come along as well,” Clarissa offered. “I'd like to see for myself.”

Mr. Galbraith looked between the two of them. “As the house stands now, it's not at all hospitable for a lady, and unfortunately there are no suitable lodgings in the village. His Lordship and I would more than likely pass the night in the barn.”

Dominick saw Clarissa's disappointment at the prospect of being left behind.

“I've no particular aversions to barns,” she answered with a shrug.

“No,” Dominick said, though he admired her resolve. “Most emphatically no. I won't allow it. Most especially not while you're carrying our child. I could be back in three days.”

“Perhaps four, sir,” suggested Mr. Galbraith, his tone apologetic.

Clarissa nodded, and sighed. “Just so you're back in time for your mother's ball.”

That evening they supped in Dominick's chamber. He looked across the small table at her. She had come
en dishabille
, her hair pinned up loosely and wearing a tantalizingly sheer dressing gown. Likewise he wore linen trousers and a loose shirt. It seemed all it took for him to be aroused was to be alone with her, and knowing they would pass the next four days apart only inflamed his desire.

 “I've asked Miss Randolph to sleep in your room while I'm gone.”

“In my room?”

“Yes, and to lock your doors at night.”

“Why?” Her brows gathered.

“I don't want to alarm you, but there've been several strange occurrences that make me believe someone holds a grudge against me about Tryphena and may be trying to…I don't know, send me some sort of message.”

Her expression grew serious. “What kind of message?”

“I'm not sure. But someone has been inside my room and moved things.” He stood and pulled the letter from his desk. “And twice I've seen a woman outside my window, wearing a long cloak and hood. Clarissa, I know it wasn't Tryphena, but in the dark it looked like her. I went to investigate and found his left behind.” He handed her the letter.

Clarissa read a few words and blushed. “A love letter.”

“From a long time ago. I don't know why anyone would have it.”

Her heart beat faster. “Why would someone do this?”

“I've been trying to decide that. I think perhaps it's just a servant who may have known her when we were here before and taken the letter from our things, or perhaps even Colin trying to cause trouble. While there is no reason to suspect danger, I'd like you and Miss Randolph to be mindful while I'm gone.”

“I need to show you something.” Clarissa stood and went into the dressing closet between their rooms. After a moment she emerged holding something pink in her hands, which she lifted up and released so that it could fall open for his viewing. A dress. A destroyed dress, ripped into shreds.

“What happened to it?” Dominick stood, taking possession of the garment and examining it more closely.

“I don't know and neither does Miss Randolph,” she answered quietly, moving to stand beside the fire. “At first we blamed rats, but it was secured inside my trunk and nothing else was disturbed so that explanation doesn't make sense.”

“When did this happen?” He set the dress down.

Clarissa looked into his eyes. “We noticed it yesterday morning. But I've been ill, and hadn't been wearing any of my dresses, so I suppose it could have happened before then, any time after our arrival. I don't know.”

“I'm going to speak with Mr. Guthrie in the morning before I go and let him know about the dress. You'll have a footman in the corridor outside your door at night and to escort you wherever else you may go.”

 She returned to the table and sat. “You needn't make such a fuss. Nothing else has occurred. As you said, it's likely just a servant who felt some attachment to her, or Colin acting out in anger.”

Moving closer, Dominick tilted her face up to look at him. “Just while I'm gone. Otherwise I wouldn't be able to leave you. The thought of someone touching your things…of someone touching you…makes me feel—”

“Protective?” she said.

“That's a nicer word than I'd have used,” he growled, low in his throat.

She reached up and rested her hands on either side of his hips…and slid them beneath his shirt, over the hard plane of his stomach. In response to the sensual touch, his sex grew large and apparent against the linen of his trousers.

“I might need persuading.”

He bent and kissed her, his hand beneath her chin while his tongue thrust deep into her mouth. She tugged at the tie at his waist until the garment fell to his ankles. He closed his eyes, breathless, as both of her hands closed on his member.