Never Surrender to a Scoundrel (19 page)

But then whispers and smothered laughter met her ears, a man's and a woman's.

Silently, she pushed the door open and stepped inside. She spied a flash of white linen—a man's shirt—and recognized Dominick's shoulders and his dark hair, but also a woman's pale arms gripping him tight, her long copper hair streaming. The two kissed and grappled, their bodies sliding against the wall.

Clarissa could only stand paralyzed, stunned by the pain.

Tears rose to her eyes, and she felt as if she couldn't breathe. Had it taken this to realize she had very real feelings for him? To find herself betrayed a second time by a man she'd believed she could trust.

In the next moment, fury replaced the hurt. She wasn't just going to leave and pretend that she hadn't seen them. She was far too outraged for that.

“Pardon me,” she announced loudly, storming toward them, needing to see Dominick's face when he realized she was there. “I don't mean to interrupt, but I've a few words to say to my husband.”

The young woman—whoever she was—gave a little shriek, while Dominick stiffened and turned, shielding the woman from Clarissa's view.

“What the hell?” he snarled.

Only it wasn't Dominick at all, but a man who looked very much like him, only younger.

Clarissa gasped, going from furious to horrified in one second. Dominick
had
mentioned a brother. This had to be him. She had wrongly jumped to the worst conclusion and made the worst sort of fool out of herself.

“I'm so very sorry,” she blurted, her cheeks ablaze. “I thought you were someone else.”

“I think that's obvious,” he retorted, his expression furious and strained.

“I'll just go back to my room.” She retreated toward the door.

His eyes narrowed. “You must be wife number two.” And then moved over her in slow appreciation. “Aren't you a pretty thing?”

Behind him the girl struggled to return her clothing into place and in doing so provided glimpses of elbows and tousled hair.

“Wife number two?” she repeated.

His eyes widened. “You do know about wife number one, don't you?”

How unfriendly of him to phrase things in such a tactless manner. “Of course I do.”

“But you don't know everything about her. No, I'm certain you don't…or else you wouldn't have married him.”

“Shut up, Colin. She's not your plaything.”

Tension struck through Clarissa's shoulders at hearing Dominick's voice behind her. She turned. He stood in the doorway wearing a coat and a thick gray scarf. His cheeks were deeply flushed and his hair tousled, as if he had been outside in the cold. He stared at the man before them, his expression formidable.

The young woman chose that moment to escape the room, her head low and her face turned aside.

Despite his lover's departure, Colin's gaze did not break from Clarissa. “Thank you, Blackmer, for that heartfelt introduction. Oh, look at you, you must have been outside for hours brooding over the sea, thinking about how miserable you are to be home with your family. You're chilled to the bone. Come inside by the fire, where it's warm. Oh, wait—I forgot. You can't. That would be far too dull and
smothering
for you, and without the necessary adventure you require. How wrong of me to even suggest that you
stay
.”

Dominick leveled a dark gaze on his brother, looking much like an annoyed lion dealing with a bothersome cub. “Obviously, we've matters to discuss, you and I, but we aren't going to do it now. Not like this.” He pointed a finger to the ground between them. “So why don't you go and sleep off some of that bitterness, not to mention whatever you've been drinking, and we will talk in the morning.”

Dominick's hand touched the small of Clarissa's back and he led her out the door.

“What? Leaving so soon?” Colin glibly called after them. “I had hoped we could all stay up late together and talk about old memories and such. I'm certain Lady Blackmer Number Two would like to hear them all.”

The footmen wakened and stood, attempting to look aware. Clarissa and Dominick continued on past them toward the staircase.

“That
is
your brother, I presume?” Clarissa asked.

“That, my dear, is an ass,” gritted Dominick in response.

“I do believe in
this
circumstance, the ass, my dear prodigal brother, is you,” the other man called in a voice roughened with spite. He leaned his shoulder to the wall and, in an artificially light tone, called, “See you both at breakfast, then?”

Blackmer led her away. His head thundered with anger, but as they neared the staircase, Clarissa suddenly broke away from him and rushed up several steps above him, her pink dressing gown sweeping behind her, skirts rustling against the marble. Her hand on the banister, she stood glaring at him, her blue eyes bright with accusation and hurt.

“Clarissa, it's very late, and you've been unwell.” He closed the distance between them, taking the first stair—

“Don't,” she said, holding her hand up to halt his advance, to reject his touch.

He did as she asked. “What is it?”

“
Do
I know everything there is to know about Tryphena? Or is there more?” she demanded, glaring at him. “Tell me, Mr. Blackmer…oh, wait, it's actually
Lord
Blackmer, isn't it?”

Displeasure curled his lip. He disliked the taunting tone of her voice—and her unfortunate choice of repeating Colin's words, because even if she did not intend to do so, by speaking them she placed herself on his brother's side. Just as Tryphena had done.

Clarissa wasn't Tryphena.

He knew that. He did. But after nearly a week spent apart while she recovered from her illness, he felt distant from her now, especially when she spoke to him as she did. He glanced over his shoulder to be certain the footmen did not overhear.

“Go on,” he said darkly. “It's obvious you have something to say, so say it.”

She exhaled. “You should have told me everything after we married. I understand that we were strangers and that I have been ill, but most certainly before we arrived here at your family home.”

Indeed, even after making love, they were strangers still. She was a beautiful, vivacious creature he wanted to claim and touch and seduce until she stopped asking him so many damn questions.

“I
did
tell you everything,” he replied, doing his best to keep the edge from his voice. “Everything you needed to know to understand who you'd married when you married me.”

“Who
did
I marry?” She ascended several steps, putting more distance between them. She looked so slight in her pale pink dressing gown. Her breasts, high and shapely, rose and fell each time she took a breath. “Tell me please, I don't think I know.”

“Not this.” He gestured at the room around them.

“I don't care about
this
.” She waved her hand as well. “I care about us.”

His heartbeat jumped at her words. He had missed her. To see her standing in front of him, the vibrancy returned to her cheeks, filled him with relief. He wanted to be close to her again. Holding her. In bed with her. Not arguing. Stepping higher, he caught her hand and tugged her off the step, so that she stood beside him in his shadow. She peered up at him warily.

“I care about us too,” he murmured.

Lowering his head…holding his breath…he dared to kiss her, softly at first, his lips just grazing hers, testing their pillowy softness. She smelled like soap and peppermint. When she sighed and leaned into him, he opened his mouth and tasted her, his tongue touching hers, sliding against her teeth in languid exploration, instantly lost to desire and wanting more. Her hands curled into the front of his coat.

Suddenly she pressed against his chest and broke away,
again
climbing several steps to stand out of his reach. He clenched his teeth, biting back a growl of disappointment.

“I can't think when we do that,” she whispered, her eyes bright and aroused.

“That's what I was hoping for,” he muttered.

“Dominick, there can be no more secrets between us,” she said. “Is there anything else you haven't told me?”

He rested his hand on the banister. A cold numbness spread through his veins, slowing his heartbeat. She didn't realize what she asked. Her innocent mind couldn't even imagine the things he held inside, nor would he ever want her to.

“Secrets,” he answered quietly. “Oh, yes, I've got more of them.”

In his prior life, he had worn them with pride, like jewels in a crown. He was tired of apologizing for them.

“You married an agent in the bloody secret service, Clarissa,” he replied, standing taller…and
prouder
. “Do you truly believe that by marrying me, you're entitled to hear them all?”

There was so much he couldn't reveal to her or to his family. Not to anyone. Things he had accomplished and survived that made him
proud
. Things that he'd witnessed that still
hurt
and haunted him. Most especially, the night Tryphena had died.

She swept higher, to the landing, and turned to look down at him. “Claxton said you were a security agent, describing you as—as…well, he said you were just a step above a Bow Street Runner. What sort of secrets would such a lower-echelon agent have?”

His eyebrows went up. “Is that what he said?”

He'd known Wolverton had understated his role in the service so as to downplay the ongoing mission in his household and to squelch questions. Still, the words pricked. They were an offense against his years of sacrifice for England and the many times he had faced danger, risking his life on his country's behalf.

He smiled, but without humor. “Well, by all means, believe him, if you like.”

His innocent wife stared at him, her cheeks flushed. “Blackmer, you
were
a lower-level agent, weren't you? Or were you…something else?”

Something dangerous. That's what she wanted to know.

Something else—yes, that would be him.

“I'm your husband now.” He approached her, his palm skimming over the banister, wishing it was her bare skin. “That's all that matters.”

“You
are
my husband.” Her eyes widened, glazing over with tears. “And yet I feel as if I don't even know who you are.”

He halted, her words echoing inside his head. A long moment of silence passed between them.

“I don't know if that will ever change,” he said.

She shook her head. “Well, it must. Please understand, I don't want or need to know England's secrets—but I won't be kept in the dark about you. I need you to be my friend. My husband. My confidant. Not immediately, of course, but I should have some hope of your becoming so. Is it so wrong to want to be the same to you?”

He stared at her solemnly. “I understand that's what you want.”

“But you don't know if you can give it to me,” she whispered.

He did not answer, because he wouldn't ever be able to confide the one secret that bled from his past into their present, tainting each moment between them, so much so that last night he'd lain awake almost until dawn, certain he'd seen a ghost outside his window. All for the better. If she knew the truth, it would only tear them further apart.

“It's obvious, what you think about me,” she said, her eyes going hard but sparkling with tears.

“What's that?”

“Not very much,” she alleged. “That's what.”

“That's not true—” he countered, stepping higher.

She gathered her skirts in her hands and backed away. “That I'm some silly child that you've been saddled with, unworthy of your thoughts and cares because most certainly they are too deep and complex for simpleminded little
me
to understand.”

He stepped onto the landing and exhaled through his nose. “You're wrong.”

She stood with the shadows of the long corridor at her back, untouchable, but so beautiful his fingertips throbbed from the desire to touch her.

“That a spoiled young woman like me is only good for shopping on Bond Street—” Her voice was thick with equal parts emotion and sarcasm. “—and going to parties and gossiping and wearing pink. Not to mention kissing and petting and sleeping with, now that we're married of course.”

“Why would you say such a thing?” he demanded, furious and dismayed that she should perceive his feelings toward her in such a negative light.

Her shoulders stiffened. “Well, you can sleep alone. Forever, for all I care.”

His gut twisted, hating that he'd made her so miserable and feeling as if he couldn't do anything about it. She turned away from him and escaped down the corridor toward her room. He wasn't about to let her go. He followed, only to find her door shutting in his face. He flattened his hand against the wood, holding it open.

“Clarissa…” he gritted out, between his teeth.

She pushed back, her face pale and her eyes bright. “You can't have it both ways, Dominick. Now let go of the door. Please.”

He lifted his hand away and stepped back, and immediately she shut the door. He stood in the shadowed corridor for a long moment, tormented by her rejection, before proceeding to his room alone. There, a sea gale rattled the windows, a lonely sound.

He unwrapped the scarf from his neck and threw it aside before pacing in front of the fire. Did she truly believe the things she'd said? Had he made her feel that inconsequential?

He removed his coat and his cravat. Sleep alone forever? No. That simply wouldn't do. He wanted more from his marriage than separate rooms and a lonely bed.

Bloody hell, he wanted Clarissa.

He would…apologize in the morning. While he could not promise that everything would be perfect between them, he would do his best to reassure her of his intention to be a good husband and father and hope that eventually…that would be enough. He had been so impatient for her health to improve, knowing days would be better at Darthaven once he could see and talk to her again. Brighter for her presence.