Never Surrender to a Scoundrel (16 page)

“There,” he said thickly.

He rubbed in a circular motion, in rhythm with the motion of his hips, something that felt so good, she bore down against him, wanting more, taking pleasure now in his sex and the heated friction between their bodies. Her nipples tightened, feeling as hard as diamonds.

“
Yes.
”

“Oh, my…ahhh—” He gasped. “Your sex is so tight.”

“I'm sorry.” Her hands squeezed his shoulders.

“God, no, it's good. Beyond good. Perfect.” He chuckled. “But I might die from it.”

“Don't die.” She kissed his jaw.

“I need this,” he murmured, his head falling back. “Clarissa, I need you.”

His every thrust brought her closer…closer…closer to something she couldn't define. Something that felt more and more like paradise.

“
Dominick.
”

Something she had not felt before with Quinn.

He groaned. “This damn chair is both heaven and torment. I can't get deep enough.”

“The bed…”

Binding her tightly against him, he stood, wrapping her legs around his waist. The movement drove him deeper inside her. She gasped in pleasure, embracing him.  He carried her to the bed, where they fell together in the center of the mattress,  dark shadows formed of muscle and sinew.

“Do you see?” she murmured, pulling him into her arms. “It's not so bad here that it should take such effort to convince you to join me.”

“I'm convinced.”  He pulled the covers atop them and dipped his head to kiss her breasts and her neck and face before his hands slid to her thighs, spreading her. He lowered his hips between her legs, and his chest crushed her breasts.

“It seems strange,” he murmured against her temple. “To be like this with you.”

“Does it feel wrong?” She stared up at the bed canopy.

“No.”

“Not for me either. I'm glad.”

He kissed her face. Her mouth, his tongue driving deep inside. Gently, he pulled her arms above her head and, at the same time, entered her again.

“You're beautiful,” he murmured. “Thank you.”

“Dominick,” she moaned.

The pleasure. It came over her in waves, so intense she feared she might not survive the inevitable end.

“I'm hardly inside you,” he said. “I need to be deeper.”

Suddenly…the room wavered…and everything felt smotheringly close…and he, too heavy and hot. What had happened so suddenly to make her feel this way, when only moments before she'd been squarely at the center of heaven?

Her stomach—felt so unsettled. Her skin, clammy.

Oh, no.

“Get off me. Please!” She gripped his arms.

He stiffened against her.

“Now, oh hurry.”

His eyes wide and glassy, he rolled off, looking stunned. “What is it?”

She tore free of his limbs and the bed sheets and stumbled across the room. There she found an empty basin and, leaning over it, retched.

T
wo days later, Dominick stood outside Clarissa's door, dressed in his coat and hat.

“You're certain she can travel?” he asked Miss Randolph again.

“Yes, sir, I vow she's much better today.” She smiled hopefully. “I've even managed to get some broth down her.”

“It's true, I'm much better today,” Clarissa called weakly from the bed, sounding valiant, if somewhat muffled.

He peered inside and saw her lying atop the coverlet fully clothed for travel, her boots on. Her bonnet rested on her face.

“Much better today…” she repeated faintly, her voice trailing off.

“If you say so,” he said to Miss Randolph, unconvinced, but he could only smile at Clarissa's efforts.

His pregnant wife's morning sickness had chosen the most inopportune time to come to life and had interrupted their lovemaking in the most unfortunate way. He could not begrudge her. Of course he couldn't. She'd been so miserable since, and he felt terrible for her and helpless to make her feel better. Not knowing what else to do, he'd left her to Miss Randolph's expert care. Dominick spent the next two days and nights in the common room with all the other travelers who had crowded the inn, watching the rain pour from the sky and, yes…thinking of her.

Clarissa. His wife.

Even though their lovemaking had ended awkwardly, they
had
made love. He could hardly believe it still. He hadn't intended for things between them to move so quickly, but when she'd come to him in the dark, looking so desirable with her pale hair loose around her shoulders, and touched him so gently, his exhausted psyche had simply reacted, wanting comfort and finding it in her. She had seemed more than willing, and touching her felt natural. Exhilarating. He hoped she felt the same way too and that when she emerged from her illness she wouldn't regret what had happened, because he didn't, and he wanted it to happen again.

Her kiss, her body, and her touch had made a miserable situation not so miserable. Even with the rain, and too many people crowded into the inn, his mood had held since then, lightened because of her. But yesterday, at last, the rain had stopped, leaving behind cold, wind, and dark skies—setting a perfectly dreary mood for his return home.

“I'll be downstairs in the common room having breakfast,” he said to Miss Randolph. “If Mrs. Blackmer is indeed well enough, we'll depart within the half hour and arrive at a place outside Ashington by nightfall. Summon me if you'd like me to help her down.”

Downstairs, he avoided eye contact with the attractive, ginger-haired young woman who placed a platter of bacon and eggs before him, having firmly fended off her advances for two nights in a row.

“I 'ope your missus feels better,” she said in a feather-soft voice, imbued with false sympathy. “Been a bad few days for 'er, poor thing. 'ope you don't have to stay another night.”

Unfortunately, the inn servants talked, so this one knew more than he would have liked about them.

“She is doing much better, thank you,” he answered with a curt nod. “We'll be leaving this morning.”

With a sigh of disappointment, she pivoted on her heel and retreated, her skirts swishing to and fro as she went, drawing the admiration of several other men, young and old. He was ready to be gone from this place that smelled of grease and burned tallow and too many human bodies.

But was he ready to go home? It had been some three and a half years since the last time, when between assignments he'd gone only to dutifully introduce Tryphena to his family, at their insistence. The visit had not gone well. Tryphena, never one to soften her manners or to curb her tongue, had not gotten on with his parents at all, while she had gotten on all too well with his younger brother, Colin. He closed his eyes, remembering, and still not understanding why she'd seemed so determined to hurt him.

What a miserable time that had been, the true beginning of their end. Later he had written his parents informing them of her death and had received a polite reply in his mother's handwriting, offering condolences. In it he could practically hear her and his father's unified sigh of relief that he was no longer attached to such an unsuitable woman—and their expectation that might come to his senses and at last return home. Viewed by his family as a prodigal son, his father wanted him returned to the fold. And yet he couldn't return home.

He didn't hate his family. He loved them, but in a very different, more complicated way than Clarissa loved hers. He just couldn't live with them, and they knew why—he had never shied away from making that clear.

As a young man, he'd craved adventure and had no other choice but to make his own way in the world. He'd been proud of his independence and that he'd supported himself every step of the way. Returning home now, after so long, with his tail between his legs—or so it felt—and asking any favor of his father would be difficult to stomach, but he would do it for Clarissa and the child.

Just then, the common room grew silent. Looking up, his heartbeat arrested. Clarissa made her way toward him, dressed in a simple blue traveling pelisse. Behind her, Miss Randolph waited near the vestibule with their valises.

He stood, forgetting his family troubles, forgetting his breakfast. Forgetting everything but her. Because even ill, with her skin pallid and her features drawn, his wife was heart-stoppingly lovely. God help him, despite everything that had happened with Tryphena, despite all his efforts to guard his heart against his new young wife, he was smitten.

He strode toward her, extending his hand, into which she placed her gloved one. Leading her to his table, he lowered her onto the bench beside him, because, yes—he wanted her near. Looking at his plate, she quickly glanced away. Her skin, he felt quite positive, went several shades paler.

“Good morning,” she said weakly.

“And a good morning to you,” he said with a chuckle.

Clarissa looked into Dominick's eyes, doing her best to ignore the plate of half-consumed eggs beside him. “I'm sorry to have caused such a delay.”

“You did not,” he replied easily, seeming very large and masculine beside her. His dark eyes peered into hers, bold and interested, and she blushed, remembering the intensity of their lovemaking before she had suddenly become ill. “The roads have been impassable until today.”

His smile broadened a degree—just a small, teasing turn at the corners of his lips—and he slid the plate to the distant end of the table. Bless him. He'd realized how miserable the presence of his plate had made her. Perhaps she could indeed fall in love with this man.

Perhaps she already had, just a little.

Her gaze skimmed over the strong line of his jaw, and his lips.

Perhaps more than just a little.

She remembered the urgent way he had kissed her, and touched her, as if he needed to be close to her, just as she needed to be close to him. She exhaled, feeling shaky just being near him again. She didn't know why her heart had opened to him so quickly, but it had. Though she was grateful that he'd married her to spare her and her child from scandal, the feelings she experienced went much deeper than that.

The weather. They'd been talking about the weather, hadn't they?

“I'm afraid I have been so confined by my ailment that even if Miss Randolph told me about the rain, I don't remember.”

“I'm sorry you feel so badly. I fear that once we resume our travel, you'll only feel worse again. Are you certain you don't wish to stay here and rest another day?”

There was an intimacy to his tone that hadn't been there before, one that made her feel as if she belonged here sitting by his side, not as an obligation but because he wanted her there.

“No, let's go on,” she said resolutely. “Are you ready to see your family? Are you ready to go home?”

“As ready as I can be,” he answered wryly.

“Maybe things will be very different than you expect.”

“They won't be. Clarissa, just—”

“Just what?”

Dominick closed his hand over hers and squeezed. “Just know that my family does not define me. They haven't for a very long time now. Don't…judge me by them.”

“I won't.”

“The house…everything might be…startling. I just don't want you to be overwhelmed when we arrive. They aren't like your family at all.”

He had mentioned difficulties with his parents. Disagreements and old grudges, he'd said. But…was he also embarrassed of them? Did he fear that his new wife, the granddaughter of a wealthy earl, would find his country gentry family too simple in manners or dress or their dwelling too crude? She truly hoped not. She hoped he already realized she was not the sort of young lady to look down on someone because of a difference in social standings.

Just then, a redheaded kitchen maid approached the table and, with a saucy, intentional smile at Clarissa, very deliberately placed a steaming plate onto the table in front of her, one containing an oozing mass of beans and kidneys in red gravy. The smell filled her mouth and nose.

“Enjoy breaking your fast, madam,” the girl said cheerfully, before winking at Dominick and flouncing off again.

“Did she just wink at you?” Clarissa choked out, barely able to breathe for the smell of the food pressing into her nose.

“Did she?” He shrugged. “I did not notice.”

“I'm sorry.” She lifted a hand to her nose and mouth. “I can't stay here. It's the smell.”

He grinned. “I understand. Go on then, and wait with Miss Randolph. I'll be out momentarily after settling the bill.”

She nodded and stood, as did he. But then she observed the redheaded girl peek out from the kitchen wearing a big smile, unabashedly jubilant at seeing her flee the common room.

Clarissa turned back, touching his forearms.

“Dominick.”

Speaking his given name sent a jolt through her.

“Yes?” he answered in a low voice. His hands came up to rest familiarly underneath her elbows and their eyes met. “What is it?”

In a rush, all the heat and passion that had taken place between them two nights before and the memory of his body against hers returned clear and exciting, as if the room full of people around them did not exist.

“I'm very sorry for what happened the other night. The way things ended.”

Did he blush? She thought so. Just a little.

“You needn't be,” he replied. “It's not as if you could help it.”

“I wish it wouldn't have happened. Everything was lovely until then.” She smiled ruefully. She reached between them to touch the buttons at the front of his greatcoat. He stared down at her hands while she did this. “More than lovely, it was perfect.”

In the next moment, his gaze snapped up, meeting hers. “You'll feel better soon, I hope.”

A fire burned in his eyes, one she understood without needing explanation.

“Miss Randolph says I will. Sophia's difficulties lasted only a week or two, and I pray for the same, because, Mr. Blackmer…”

His eyebrows went up. “Yes, Mrs. Blackmer?”

“I should like to resume where we left off.”

How bold. Had she truly said it? Her cheeks flooded with color. To her great pleasure, his did as well.

“As would I,” he replied, his eyebrows raised and his tone a degree huskier than before.

Oh, but she wasn't finished.

“One more thing.” She leaned closer.

“Yes?” His head bent, bringing his ear nearer to her lips.

Quite intentionally, she turned her placid smile upside down into a scowl.

“That girl over there
did
wink at you, and I suspect she brought me that horrid plate of muck on purpose, to make me feel worse. Why would she do something like that unless she has developed an inappropriate fascination with you?”

His eyes widened in surprise. “You're…jealous?”

“Jealous, no,” Clarissa answered firmly. “Attentive, yes.”

“Attentive is…
good
. But as for that girl, I…ah…” He stammered and shifted stance. “
No.
Of course not. I haven't encouraged any such thing.”

“And yet she is standing there watching us right now. Smiling even. Not a friendly sort of smile, I must say.” Clarissa looked at the girl and narrowed her eyes. “Do you know, I think I'd feel better if I spoke to her at once.”

She turned on her heel and set off across the room. The girl straightened and her eyes widened, as she scooted backward toward the kitchen.

He followed her on long legs, chuckling. “No, I—ah, don't think that's a good idea.”

She turned back to him, her eyes wide. “Why not? Is there some reason why you don't want me to talk to her? Did you carry on a flirtation—”

“Certainly not.” His hand found the small of her back, and he led her to the door. “Why would I, when it seems I am on my way to being a very happily married man?”

Unfortunately, Dominick had been right. No sooner had they embarked a mile down the road when Clarissa's sickness returned with a terrible vengeance. Yet she had stayed Miss Randolph's hand away from the bell cord, because she wanted nothing more than to reach their journey's end.

“Please, try to eat the biscuit. Just a bite,” pleaded Miss Randolph.

“I can't,” Clarissa moaned, closing her eyes against the utterly disgusting sight of the hard square of shortbread in her maid's hand, something she knew to be completely bland and tasteless under any other circumstances.

“What about some tea?” Miss Randolph lifted up a corked jug.

“Ugh.” Her stomach roiled in response. She pressed both hands over her nose and mouth and burrowed facedown into the bench. Miss Randolph tucked a blanket around her.