Never Surrender to a Scoundrel (8 page)

“Good morning,” he said smoothly, with only the slightest edge of sarcasm.

Her mouth fell open in startlement.

Gone was the unkempt beard and mustache and unfashionable long hair. She felt quite certain she'd never even glimpsed his ears. The man she had come to know for the past nearly two years of her life—but apparently had never truly
seen
—stood proud and calm, his features laid bare for her viewing.

And what a shock it was to find that Mr. Kincraig had very fine features. Broad cheekbones, with down-swept hollows beneath and a Grecian nose that boasted a decidedly aristocratic bump. How had she never noticed that detail before, when certainly his nose had not been covered by his beard?

She'd fussed over his shabby appearance and retied his cravat countless times—a cravat that this morning was tied to perfection. Why did she now feel as if she were looking into the eyes of a stranger?

“It's only me,” he growled, sounding very much like himself. His jaw tightened in annoyance. “You needn't look so appalled.”

“I'm not appalled,” she answered. No, not at all. She couldn't define how she felt at seeing him like this. Relieved? Breathless.

“It's just that I've never seen you look so…so…” Clarissa's voice faded away. Heat rose into her cheeks, and for a moment her hands gestured aimlessly, as if with a mind of their own.

“Clean?” suggested Sophia archly, one eyebrow raised.

“Shaven,” added Daphne, from behind her lace-edged handkerchief.

 “—turned out.” Sophia's gaze descended from his face to his shoes.

Daphne sniffed. “Sober.”

No.
Handsome
is what Clarissa had thought. Not to the same magnitude as Quinn, but handsome no less.

“Don't let that fool you,” muttered the duke.

“Claxton.” Clarissa shot her brother-in-law a pleading glance, before her gaze veered back to Mr. Kincraig.

His eyebrows raised drolly. “Oh, that's nothing. You should have been there for his diatribe in the carriage. Do I even have ears left? They may have melted off.”

“He didn't deserve that,” Clarissa declared, glaring at her family.

“Quiet, all of you,” Lady Margaretta intervened, color rising into her previously pale cheeks.

Claxton and Raikes exchanged a grim glance. Mr. Kincraig stood tall and still, and he held a box. Given the circumstances, she could not help but think him very brave. Remembering herself, she proceeded toward him, determined to salvage the moment.

“Good morning to you,” she said in a voice that came out regretfully wane. She cleared her throat. “Thank you for coming.”

She supposed that would have to do. She thought to reach for his hands, but no. Although she supposed they were betrothed, she could not bring herself to extend that degree of familiarity, especially now that he was outright glowering at her as if to say
I had no choice
.

He exhaled and closed his eyes.

Opening them again, he said, “I brought you flowers—”

He pressed the box into her hands, his gaze moving over her, as if he too saw her for the first time. She looked down at his swarthy-skinned hands against the ivory box, long-fingered and square at the knuckles, and imagined them touching her. She swallowed, instantly flustered and discomposed.

Unaware, he continued on. “—and a special license, which the duke was generous enough to exert every ounce of his influence to procure.” Even his voice, to her, sounded different. Deeper and more serious than the Mr. Kincraig she had known. Polished and clipped. Could the change also be the effect of sobriety? Before he had always appeared in a perpetual state of sottedness, to one degree or another. Now everything about him, from the clarity of his gaze to his dress and movements, spoke of precision and care.

“Thank you,” she said, accepting the box from his hands.

Around them, the room remained utterly silent. She knew everyone watched to see what would happen next.

“The least you could do is open them.” His jaw twitched, adjacent to a frown. As she held the box, he removed the lid and lifted out a small nosegay of roses, one that represented every possible shade of pink.

Her favorite color. It touched her that he'd noticed at all. Taking the box from her hands, he replaced it with the flowers and set the box aside. She looked up at him, and her heart softened a degree more toward him.

Which was exactly why she couldn't marry him.

Voices sounded in the corridor and in the next moment Havering appeared.

“Good morning, everyone,” he said. “I've brought the priest, Mr. Woodcombe.”

Her cheeks warmed. Mr. Woodcombe had married both of her sisters to their husbands and had years of history with their family, and would undoubtedly be as perplexed over this marriage as anyone else. Her mother woodenly introduced Mr. Kincraig to the reverend, who only briefly raised questioning eyebrows at Clarissa before politely offering his congratulations.

“Wolverton is waiting, so let us proceed upstairs at once,” Lady Margaretta announced, her eyes bright.

Sophia and Daphne joined their husbands. Mr. Birch appeared in the corridor and smiled comfortingly at her mother.

“If you all don't mind,” Clarissa said. “I'd like a moment alone with Mr. Kincraig.”

All conversation stopped and everyone turned to her. She gripped the ribbon-wrapped stems of her nosegay.

Lady Margaretta looked at her steadily. “We can't keep your grandfather waiting, dear.” Her tone was not unkind.

“I understand,” Clarissa replied. “I ask for only a moment.”

Her Ladyship nodded. “We'll wait for you in the corridor.”

Once the door was closed, he turned full on toward her, glowering. “What is it, then?”

He did not approach her. Instead, he seemed to prefer keeping the whole of the room between them, so distancing was his rigid stance and cold demeanor.

“I thought we should talk,” she said. “We haven't really had a chance to do so.”

He exhaled through his nose, as if struggling for patience.

“Forgive me, but at present I don't want to talk.” He bit out each word through his teeth. His eyes scalded her with their heat. “Not to you. Not to anyone. I just want to get this bloody ceremony over with.”

She swallowed hard, doing her best not to wither beneath the intensity of his displeasure.

“You're angry,” she said. “You've every right to be. I understand.”

An angry smile turned his lips. “You understand? Oh, I beg to differ.” He did step toward her now, coming so close she smelled his shaving soap. Fury lit his eyes. “I don't think you understand anything. Believe me when I say, my dear Miss Bevington, that it's taking every fraction of my willpower not to break Claxton's nose, or smash that vase of flowers, or throw that table upside down. Or reveal your secret.”

“My secret.” She nodded, knowing she more than deserved the harsh words. “Yes, you've been very kind. Kinder than I ever expected. Kinder than I deserve. That's why I owe you my thanks, and a way out of this entanglement. Last night it was wrong of me to agree to this marriage, to allow my feelings for my grandfather and my family to keep me from telling everyone the truth.”

“You've come to this decision now?” he growled, his eyes widening.

She nodded. “I won't distress them further by revealing Quinn's part in all this.” She shrugged ruefully. “He has married another, and nothing can be done. But I'll make certain they understand you have nothing at all to do with my predicament.”

How she hated that word.
Predicament.
It sounded so feckless.

“What do you suppose the truth will accomplish now?” he scoffed.

She raised her hands, exasperated, not understanding why he did not rejoice at her offer to make things right. “Your freedom?”

If at all possible, his gaze grew harder and colder.

“Too late,” he seethed.

“It can't be,” she exclaimed. “Not for you.”

“Well, it is,” he responded, between clenched teeth, his eyes flashing fire like the Devil's. “You've already bloody well ruined my life, and by God, now you're going to marry me so I can have the pleasure of ruining yours.”

“Oh!” she cried, dismayed not only by his vulgar language but his threat.

Without another word, he turned from her and wrenched the door open. With mock graciousness, he tilted his head and crooked his arm in gentlemanly invitation, his features still sharp with anger.

Everyone stood in a cluster, watching from the corridor.

“But—” she said, afraid to take even a single step toward the door, because once she did, she wouldn't turn back.

“Now,” he growled.

Sophia's mouth fell open. “What manner of gentleman behaves so to his bride-to-be on their wedding day?”

Daphne cried, “No
true
gentleman would.”

They all saw him as a villain, but he wasn't. They didn't know what she'd done to make him behave so. He still wanted to marry her, even after she'd given him the opportunity to escape. Yes, he was angry, but she didn't for one second believe his words about ruining her life. Of course, she still felt a mixture of relief and dread about what they were about to do, but her decision was made and she would not shrink back from it again.

Crossing the carpet, she tucked her gloved hand to his arm.

“We're ready!” she announced to her family, offering them her best smile.

No one in the waiting wedding party appeared convinced, and a sideways glance proved her groom made no effort whatsoever to feign the slightest modicum of joy.

Side by side they followed her mother and the reverend, with her sisters and their husbands following along behind, in utter silence up the stairs, like a procession to the guillotine.

D
ominick—his mind a maelstrom of conflicted emotions—stood hand in hand with Clarissa beside the bed, along with the clergyman. The curtains remained drawn, and shadows filled the room. Wolverton lay propped on a high embankment of pillows, watching through glazed, half-open eyes.

How different from his first wedding day, which had taken place in sunshine and light with much laughter and optimism for the future. Tryphena had loved him then, in the beginning, of that he had no doubt.

Lady Harwick, at the last moment, came forward to drape what appeared to be an heirloom veil of lace over her daughter's hair and pressed a kiss on her cheek, before returning to Mr. Birch's side.

“Mother,” exclaimed Daphne, reaching to take hold of Her Ladyship's hand.

Clarissa stared at the floor, clearly struggling to hold back tears.

Dominick had nothing to do with any of this, so pardon him if he didn't join the funeral. He stood taller and straightened his shoulders, an intentional show of pride.

Mr. Woodcombe peered over the top edge of his prayer book and said, “If you will, my good Mr. Kincraig, repeat after me. I—”

“I,” he repeated clearly.

The priest tilted his head and lifted his hand in encouragement. “Say your name, please. Your forename and surname and all illustrious names between.”

Mr. Woodcombe chuckled and smiled, as if they were all having a splendid time.

Dominick's young bride already looked half near fainting. Pale and tense, she stared at his chest and gripped both of his hands as if fearful she might at any moment be swept over an imaginary ship's railing into a ravenous and punishing sea.

How utterly opposite she was from Tryphena, who had been radiant on their wedding day and had claimed him like a prize she had won, with smiles and kisses and whispered promises of what she intended to do to him as soon as they returned to their lodgings. Like him, Tryphena had been an agent in the secret service. An equal, she had matched him both in passion and in professional ambition. Clarissa, on the other hand, was just a girl.

Ah, but his name. His real name. Dominick shifted stance. A glance to Wolverton revealed him to be staring steadily back, watching the proceedings in silence. For a brief moment their eyes met.

The earl winked.

Winked, at him? No, that had to be wrong. He'd merely observed a tremor, an involuntary consequence of an old man's failing health. Whatever the case, there could be no more delaying the inevitable. Now he would set them all back on their heels, and with pleasure.

“I…Dominick Arden Blackmer—”

Clarissa's head snapped up. Behind them, the sniffles and sobs went silent.

Oh, he couldn't help it. A satisfied smile curled the corner of his lips.

Mr. Woodcombe's brows gathered in puzzlement, and he referred to the slip of paper tucked into the back of his book, yet after a moment he cleared his throat and continued on. “Take thee…”

“—take thee—” Dominick stopped there, realizing he could proceed no further. To Clarissa, he said, “I'm sorry, my dearest
darling
—” Sarcastic emphasis on the “darling.” “—but I've realized I don't know your full name.”

“Clarissa Anne Georgina Bevington,” she answered in a quiet voice, her blue eyes brightly illuminated with temper, something that heartened him because he supposed he'd prefer angry over hopeless any day. “And what did you just say your name was?”

He chuckled, enjoying the thrill of satisfaction he felt at her confusion, but purposefully did not answer her.

“I take thee, Clarissa Anne Georgina Beving—”

“Pardon me,” interrupted a man's imperious voice from behind, one belonging to the Duke of Claxton.

The same one that had made his life hell all morning long, with its lectures and cutting remarks and outright snide aspersions as to his character. Footsteps sounded on the carpet.

“I too would ask that the gentleman repeat his name.”

Dominick didn't move. He only looked into Clarissa's eyes, fighting the urge to laugh outright because the idea of shocking his new family had suddenly became utterly satisfying.

Clarissa answered in a clear voice, “I believe he said…Dominick Arden Blackmer…Kincraig?”

She scrutinized his face.

“Hmmmm, no,” he answered coolly.

“No?” Her eyebrows went up. “As to the Kincraig?”

He smiled graciously. “That is correct.”

Clarissa's lashes—much darker than her hair—fluttered against her pale cheekbones and she bristled, her gaze brightening and her shoulders going very straight. “Interesting.”

Now it was he who gripped her hands, refusing to allow her to snatch them away.

“Is there some problem?” inquired Mr. Woodcombe.

The ladies whispered.

“Did you hear what he said?”

“If he isn't Mr. Kincraig, then, who is he?”

“Isn't that fraud?”

“Can't we do something?”

Yes, God, yes, he prayed one of them or all of them would “do something” and stop this farce of a wedding. Chase him from the house. Throw candlesticks and books at him, insisting that he never show his face in their presence again. Procure a constable to escort him to the edge of town. Anything.

A low growl came from Wolverton in the bed, faint yet imperious. “
Proceed.
”

“But—” started the duke.

“Stand…
down,
Claxton,” insisted the earl, the words ragged and labored.

For a moment Claxton fumed, motionless. He pivoted on his heel and strode, with his hand over his mouth, toward Sophia, who reached out to him with a consoling hand.

Dominick bit down a curse, his scant hope at freedom dashed. For a moment they all looked at one another in silence.

Red-faced, the priest hooked a finger into his cravat and tugged, exhaling loudly. He nodded and looked down into his book again. “As His Lordship desires.”

Standing before Dominick, Clarissa exhaled and frowned. With a shake of her head, she closed her eyes, and reopened them to sullenly stare down at his boots. Her hands lay completely limp within his.

He tugged her several inches closer and insisted in a low murmur, “I would have you look at me while we speak the vows.”

Color rose to her cheeks. Yet after an extended moment, she did look up, her eyes snapping with a blaze of fire.

“Look at you? I don't even know who you
are,
” she hissed.

All her girlishness fell away, leaving him hand in hand with a different person than he'd known her to be before. A woman, wide-eyed and lush, and obviously furious at him.

Deep in his chest, a sleeping dragon roused…raised its head and growled out a low, drowsy stream of smoke and cinders.

Dominick exhaled through his teeth, unsettled.

He'd never felt
that
sort of reaction to her before, no sudden appreciation of her as a sensual creature capable of passion. He'd found her lovely, of course, much like one would admire a pretty flower, in a garden full of many other pretty flowers. Never once before had he felt the startling snap-quick drag of flint against steel, deep in his chest, that indicated a deeper awareness of her womanhood.

That he should feel it now, in this most unlikely, most miserable of moments—

Well…he felt tricked. Bamboozled. And he instantly snuffed the fledgling flame.

He didn't want to feel anything for her. Not affection, or attraction, and certainly not need. Especially for a woman who very likely, at this moment, still loved another man.

“Ahem,” said Mr. Woodcombe. “Do you need me to repeat the words?”

No. No he didn't.

“I take thee, Clarissa Anne Georgina Bevington,” he uttered in a low voice,
“to be my wedded wife—”

He had never thought he would say these words to another woman, ever again.

 “—to have and to hold from this day forward, for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health—”

Clarissa's blue eyes sparkled, full of accusation and mistrust, a delicate, oblivious little creature who didn't understand at all what she was getting herself into, or the sort of damaged man she married.

“—to love and to cherish, till death us do part—”

The first time he'd married, the concept of death hadn't seemed real. Like a fool, he'd believed in forever, in the immortality of his and Tryphena's youth and the sanctity of their love, and yet here he stood not four years later, promising to cherish and protect another woman. Bloody hell, barely a woman. A pretty chit he hardly knew and most certainly did not love.

Nonetheless, he had said his vows. Now she must do the same.

She cleared her throat.

“I, Clarissa Anne Georgina Bevington, take thee—” She paused and swallowed before proceeding. “Dominick…Arden…Blackmer—”

Mr. Woodcombe droned on and on and on saying words he did not hear. At the clergyman's urging, Dominick and Clarissa knelt and joined hands, hers very small and delicate and cool within his. A stranger's hand.

 “—and husbands, love your wives, and be not bitter against them.”

The words cut through the curtain of Dominick's thoughts and memories. His vision returned to clear. Beside him, Clarissa stared up at him.

He'd lost everything. Everything but her.

Him, bitter? In that moment, he couldn't contain himself. A most inappropriate welling of mirth barreled up from inside him.

He laughed.

 “Where has Mr. Kincraig gone?” whispered Daphne, inching closer to Sophia on the striped settee. “I mean Mr. Blackmer—if that is indeed his name.”

“Of course that is his name,” the Duchess of Claxton responded in a low voice. “A person must speak the truth when taking a vow of matrimony.”

“Says who?” hissed the middle sister, with a deep sigh. “What if our sister has been swept up into some outlandish fraud or scheme, just as we suspected all along—”

“Would you please stop saying such things?” Clarissa interrupted—in the most discreet voice possible—from the chair she occupied. “I'm sitting right here. Mr. Blackmer is with Claxton and Wolverton. They remained behind and shut the door.”

She plucked at the lace on her skirts, fuming, wondering what the gentlemen were talking about. After all, this was
her
life. It was she who had just married Mr. Blackmer, whoever Mr. Blackmer really was. Shouldn't she be there to hear any explanations as well? For them to have closed-door discussions while she was relegated to the drawing room with the ladies, set her blood to boiling.

After the ceremony, they'd gone to the Jade Room, a small parlor adjacent to the dining room, where they waited to be seated for a wedding breakfast that Cook had fussed and complained about having to so hastily prepare. Like all master cooks, he took special occasions most seriously and had almost made himself ill worrying that her special day be just as special as he'd always imagined it, with only a few hours' notice.

Only the day wasn't all that special, when one had indeed married a scoundrel.

Because Mr. Blackmer was a scoundrel, wasn't he, if he'd been lying to them all this time about his name? To what degree she did not know, nor could she guess his motive, but his intentional misrepresentation, which had been put forth by him for nearly two years, deeply troubled her.

What she couldn't understand was why her grandfather had allowed them to be married.

“Your sister is right,” said Lady Harwick, who stood at the center of the carpet. Lord Raikes, for his part, perused the small bookcase filled with books, very obviously trying to pretend he didn't hear any of their conversation.

“Which sister?” asked Daphne, eyebrows raised.

“Your sister
Clarissa,
” the marchioness responded, eyes widening with rare temper. “Be careful of the words and accusations you speak, for you may well regret them later. I'm certain we shall have some answers explaining Mr. Blackmer's use of a different name very soon.”

Still, Her Ladyship appeared fretful, and glanced to the door as if waiting for the next scandal to arrive—or perhaps only the tall, dark-haired one that her youngest daughter had just married.

Mr. Birch drew near to Lady Margaretta's side and spoke in assuring tones.

Her brother-in-law, the duke, entered the drawing room. His gaze met Sophia's fleetingly before he nodded to Lady Margaretta and settled his attention with great solemnity on Clarissa. She couldn't help but feel that a hammer was about to fall—right on the top of her head.

“I have spoken with Wolverton and Mr. Blackmer,” he said.

“Just say it. Get it over with.” She pressed a hand to the center of her abdomen, which
hurt
from hours of anxious churning. “Tell me who he is.”

“Perhaps you'd like to hear this in private?” he said.

“Why?” she said, dismayed. “It's not as if everyone won't find out two moments after. Tell us all.”

“Very well,” he answered gravely. “But I warn you, what I've learned may shock you. What I tell you must never leave this room.”

“Would you like me to go?” Mr. Birch asked Lady Margaretta.

“No, please stay.” She reached for him, and he moved closer to her side.

Clarissa nodded and swallowed hard, bracing herself for whatever dark revelations His Grace would share about her new husband. Her sisters closed in, each taking one of her arms as if to support her if she should pitch to the floor.

She let them.

She'd believed it punishment enough to be forced into marrying Mr. Kincraig as a price for her romantic foolishness. Apparently not. Mr. Kincraig didn't even exist. What if she'd married a murderer? A villainous felon? A man who kept a harem of mistresses and boasted a score of children as well? She had to be prepared for the truth, no matter how unfortunate it might be.