Never Surrender to a Scoundrel (3 page)

Three, two, one…

And Lord Quinn appeared, looking equally unflustered and polished, and rejoined his father the duke. But not before he flashed a smile in Clarissa's direction.

No doubt there'd be a proposal soon from the young gentleman. Perhaps, even, on the night of her debut ball.

So…good for Clarissa. She was a charming young woman. He liked her very much, and he sincerely wished the same for her as she had wished for him, that she would be happy and never be disappointed in her choice.

One Week Later,
Thursday

I
can't remember ever being so happy,” Clarissa Bevington exclaimed, looking about in flush-faced wonderment. Little Michael, whom she held perched on her hip, clapped his chubby hands.

“Ohhhhh!” he marveled, mirroring her enthusiasm.

Since being discovered, her brother Vinson's young son lived under Wolverton's roof but received regular visits from his other grandparents, who were Raikes's mother and father. They always stayed with the family when they came to town and, indeed, were so well liked they had become part of the family as well. Though Michael received constant attention from his grandparents, aunts, and uncles, they had all agreed upon the importance of him having parents, and Raikes and Daphne had happily assumed that role.

“What a memorable night this shall be!” said Daphne, throwing them both an affectionate glance. She reached out to Michael, tucking a stray curl behind his ear.

Clarissa had never seen her grandfather's ballroom look more beautiful, nor had she ever felt more special than she did that day. The room had been festooned in flower garlands, and the urns that had been placed before each of the massive Corinthian columns that lined the marble floor overflowed with profuse arrangements of pink and ivory blooms. She inhaled deeply, delighting in the heady scent of roses and delphinium. The fragrance of summer! The fragrance of romance.

At the far end of the cavernous room, the head footman, Mr. Ollister, carefully lowered an enormous crystal punch bowl onto the tea board. The housekeeper, Mrs. Brightmore, perched at the top of a ladder, steadied by two housemaids, having insisted that she'd spied a sneaky bit of dust atop an archway that the rest of them hadn't been able to see. Cook's voice could be heard shouting orders, all the way from the kitchen.

Clarissa felt overcome by gratefulness to the family and staff she loved so dearly. They all, in some way or another, had taken part in the preparations for her come-out ball. Her mother and sisters had helped her choose her gown and flowers and had cheerfully and without complaint devoted hours to addressing invitations. Her grandfather and Lord Raikes had sampled lemonade—which because pink was her favorite color, Cook had successfully endeavored to tint with strawberry pulp—and they'd all eaten various miniature tarts, biscuits, and cakes and judiciously declared their favorites.

Even Sophia's husband, the lofty Duke of Claxton, had taken it upon himself to personally deliver a select few invitations, namely to the Prime Minister and even the Prince Regent himself, which had all but guaranteed their attendance.

They were just days from the close of the London Season, and all these efforts would ensure her ball would be a memorable finale for not just herself and her family but for the dear friends and acquaintances who came to wish her well. The surprise announcement of her engagement to Lord Quinn would ensure the fairy-tale perfection of the night. She had managed to keep their secret one torturously long week more, but tonight as everyone watched from the edges of the ballroom, they would dance their first dance together as a betrothed, and soon-to-be-wed, couple.

“Dance with me, my dear!” Clarissa twirled, taking Daphne by the hands. Together they spun with Michael, secured between them, in wide circles across the ballroom floor, blond curls and skirts flying. At the age of twenty and twenty-one, respectively, and a shade older than most London debutantes, they still sometimes delighted in being utterly silly.

Michael squealed with joy, which inspired her and Daphne to laughter.

“Just like when we were little girls,” said Daphne, laughing. “Imagining that we were at one of Mother's parties.”

“Only now,” Clarissa declared, “we are without a doubt
mature
ladies
and won't be sent off to bed with our governess before the guests start to arrive.”

“Down!” Michael wiggled to be set free, and she complied. Together she and Daphne stood side by side, watching the boy run up and down the length of the ballroom, as fast as his little legs could carry him. Only, as often occurred, his legs outpaced his body—

“Careful, Michael!” Clarissa called.

He tumbled headlong to the floor.

“Oh, no,” cried Daphne.

They rushed toward him, Clarissa scooping him up just as the first outraged bellow emerged from his lips. Turning, his small arms found her neck and she squeezed him, pressing a kiss to his temple. “I know, sweet boy, it's a terrible humiliation to fall.”

He inhaled, mouth open.

Daphne examined his legs and patted him on the back. “But you're not broken or bruised, so put your smile back on and—”

He wailed, even louder this time.

“He is tired,” Clarissa said, bouncing him gently. “Just look at those droopy eyes.”

“It
is
getting late.” Daphne cheerfully nudged her toward the stairs. “I'd best take him upstairs and put him down for his nap and you can start preparing for your big night before Mother comes looking for us. You know how cross she gets when we are late.”

Indeed she did. Their mother insisted on promptness. Clarissa could hear their mother's voice inside her head now.

“Girls!” Clarissa mimicked, with her free hand balled imperiously on the hip opposite the one that Michael occupied. “I know very well that you both have perfectly accurate timepieces—”

“—because Aunt Vivian gave each of you one for your last birthday,” concluded Daphne, in the same familiar voice.

Mrs. Brightmore, descending the ladder, cast them a gently reproving look.

Clarissa flushed and bit her lower lip, abashed at being overheard.

“Oh, Mrs. Brightmore, all in good fun!” Daphne giggled good-naturedly. Looking at Michael, she extended her arms. “Come here, darling. Won't you let Auntie Daphne hold you?”

He peered at her with tearstained eyes, and a smile broadened his lips. Such a sweet child. To think, it wouldn't be long until she had a child of her own. Quinn would make a wonderful father. She couldn't wait until they were a family.

Michael leaned toward her sister, his arms outspread, and Clarissa gave him up. Daphne danced with him toward the door.

Yet Clarissa lingered behind a moment more. She could only stand motionless, savoring the bittersweet immensity of the moment, because just as her sisters' lives had changed as far as finding love and being married, so would hers. By now, Lord Quinn would have concluded discussions with his father, the duke. All matters could proceed and financial arrangements be made and he could approach her grandfather tonight with his suit.

She was almost sorry to see their game of secrecy end, one in which they'd stolen away for every moment and exchanged clandestine notes of the most intimate kind, but for a couple as deeply in love as they were, certainly all that would continue even after they were wed.

A moment later, upstairs on the first-floor landing, Daphne turned to her with Michael already half asleep on her shoulder.

“I'll take him to the nursery,” she whispered. “You go on to your room and take a nice long bath.”

“It won't be long now,” Clarissa replied softly.

“Just a few hours more,” answered her sister, continuing toward the next rise of steps. Her white muslin skirt rippled as her legs moved, a picture of Grecian elegance.

Only then Daphne paused…and returned to squeeze Clarissa's hand.

“I'm so very proud to have you as my sister,” she murmured, her eyes bright. A moment later, she smiled, as she had done almost constantly since marrying Lord Raikes. Clarissa could only interpret her happiness as a sound endorsement of that venerable state. “It's your turn to find happiness. Next time I see you, you'll be making your entrance on this grand staircase. I've no doubt a score of gentlemen will rush to offer for your hand—”

“A score!” Clarissa laughed quietly, so as not to disturb Michael, who had begun to snuffle and snore. “Certainly not.”

Just one. A very special one.

Daphne's expression became serious. “I'm so happy with Raikes. I want you to find the same sort of happiness. Promise me you won't rush into anything. Wait until you know the person and that the moment is right.”

Clarissa's family had always believed her to be impetuous. She knew they all worried she would choose recklessly, based on some flash-fire attraction. But the person
was
right, and so was the moment. Quinn. She closed her eyes, savoring the rush of happiness that coursed through her, from head to toe. She could not imagine anything ever being more right.

“I promise,” she agreed. “Only when the person and the moment are right.”

That moment would be tonight.

“I shall see you at Miss Bevington's ball tonight, then, Mr. Kincraig?” inquired his companion, Lord Havering, as they exited the doors of White's, the club where they had spent the previous hour reading newspapers and drinking coffee.

“Any chance to reacquaint myself with Wolverton's liquor cabinet is a welcome opportunity indeed,” Dominick replied with a wink.

His scant belongings had been packed and his rented town house, largely closed up. He expected to receive his new orders tonight or tomorrow. Why not spend one last evening beneath the glittering chandeliers of a London ballroom? Who knew where tomorrow would take him, or whether the circumstances would be as comfortable?

Havering studied him as he drew on his gloves slowly. “I suspect there's more to it than that, such as that you've grown fond of Wolverton and the ladies, despite yourself.”

Havering—or “Fox,” as he was called by those who knew him best—had no discernible family of his own and had since childhood been thrown by circumstance into the midst of Wolverton's welcoming brood. While Dominick's circumstances were far different, he too was very much alone in the world. Perhaps for that reason he felt closer to Fox than to the other gentlemen of Wolverton's circle—as close as he could feel to anyone. His occupation was largely a solitary endeavor and did not lend itself to making longtime friends. Sometimes he regretted that.

“They are all very nice people,” he conceded.

He looked out over St. James's Street, crowded with carriages and hackneys, uncomfortable with revealing anything more. It had taken him years to perfect the obscurement of his true thoughts and feelings. He wasn't about to start emoting now, here on the pavement, in front of God and Fox and everyone. He kept his manner and tone cool. “Whatever the case, I wouldn't miss it.”

He wouldn't miss it. Though it would take a team of horses to pry the sentiment from his tongue, he'd grown
exceedingly
fond of the earl and the ladies who made up the elderly gentleman's surviving family, even though he found the whole idea of a debut ball frivolous and silly, especially when the young lady in question had been out in society for quite some time already—since the marriage of her sister Sophia to Claxton, to be precise.

He didn't have a younger sister, not anymore, but he told himself if he did, he might understand better the wishes of a young lady's heart.

What he did know was that for whatever reason, Clarissa had thought enough of him to insist that he attend, and he would not disappoint her or Lady Margaretta, who just yesterday had pressed Claxton to call on him and confirm he would indeed join them tonight. Even the always-distant duke had seemed more sincere in his manner, just as they all had been since learning he wasn't their relation. Since that day just one week ago, there had been invitations to suppers and parties and rides in the park, some of which he'd accepted and others not. Now that they knew he wasn't an “imposter,” it seemed their suspicions about him had eased, as had their minds. Now, on the precipice of his departure, he felt more a part of their family than when he had supposedly been their cousin.

His carriage approached, having come from the nearby livery.

“I will see you tonight, then,” he said, tilting his hat in adieu to Fox.

“Until then.”

With that, Dominick climbed into the conveyance and settled back for what would be a brief ride to what had been his abode for almost two years.

It was time to leave.

The first rule of subterfuge was that one did not become attached to one's human assignments, which was just as well because life had only ever made sense when he was alone.

Just then, his carriage passed a chapel where a small group crowded the pavement, throwing rose petals high over the heads of a newly wedded couple. All the ladies wore diaphanous summer dresses and fancy bonnets done up with flowers and ribbons, and the gentlemen stood distinguished in their gray morning suits. The idyllic scene momentarily transported Dominick back in time to another wedding.

His own.

All the air left his lungs at remembering. He had been so happy that day. So full of passion and dreams.

But Tryphena was dead for three years now, and even though he still walked and lived and breathed, sometimes he believed he was dead as well. Her passing had forever altered him. Without thinking, he pressed his hand to his heart, which
hurt
, as if a gaping hole existed there. There wasn't a hole, of course, but there might as well have been for the jolt of agony those memories brought.

The sight of a familiar face on the chapel steps jerked him back to present, and his hand fell away.

What?
No.

He flicked the curtain aside and peered more intently out the window. In an instant he recognized the groom as none other than Lord Quinn, smiling broadly and standing hand in hand with a slender, dark-haired young woman who wore a lace veil and held a white bouquet. If there was any doubt in Dominick's mind as to the event he observed, Quinn put it to rest by seizing his new bride against his chest and pressing an enthusiastic kiss onto her lips.