Never Surrender to a Scoundrel (5 page)

“Is she hurt?” inquired Claxton from the door.

“No, no, no,” Clarissa cried over his shoulder, toward the wall, still refusing to look at anyone. “I'm fine…only
embarrassed
, and I feel so stupid.” She trembled against him and whispered the next words. “How could I have been so stupid?”

Dominick knew, of course, what she meant. She referred to her love for Quinn.

“You're not stupid,” assured Sophia. “And you mustn't be embarrassed. You're not the first debutante to faint at the moment of her debut. Remember Elizabeth Malloy? At least you didn't expose your bare bottom to two hundred people the way she did.”

Raikes murmured, “Did that truly happen?”

Fox answered quietly, “Oh, yes. I was standing right there, not two feet away.”

“I'm sorry to have missed that.”

“Gentlemen!” Daphne rebuked.

Clarissa seized Dominick's neck tighter and cried harder. “I am mortified! Humiliated. I just want to be alone.”

Lady Margaretta entered the room and, after quickly assessing the situation, said, “I think what would be best is if everyone gave Clarissa a moment alone and returned to the ballroom. You can all help her by telling the guests she is well, that she only fainted from the excitement and she'll be returning to the party as soon as she is recovered.”

To Dominick's dismay, everyone left the room, her sisters throwing glances of concern over their shoulders on the way out and their husbands and Fox dutifully following.

“Are you all right here, Mr. Kincraig?” Her Ladyship asked, touching a comforting hand to Clarissa's back as she still snuffled against his shirt. God, she'd made a handkerchief of him. No doubt his shirt was a mess, and he'd have to go home immediately after.

“I'm certain she would rather be with her mother.” He lightly took hold of Clarissa's arms, intending to lift them from his shoulders.

“No.” Clarissa held him tighter and shook her head vehemently, pressing her face to his neck. “I can't look at anyone. I can't even move. Not yet. Please.”

Lady Margaretta bit her bottom lip. “I really must go and see about Wolverton. He must be very concerned.”

Dominick nodded, his hopes of escape dashed. “And so I will…stay with Miss Bevington. If you promise to return.” He smiled tightly. “Quickly.”

It seemed the appropriate thing to do, although he had no idea how to console an innocent young woman who had gotten her tender heart broken. Truth be told, he wasn't at all comfortable with such an intense display of feelings, having learned years ago to confine and conceal his own. As far as the women in his life, his own dear mother had rarely expressed any emotion other than perfectly controlled placidity, even as the arguments between him and his father had raged. Neither had Tryphena ever needed gentle comforting. She, a demanding Valkyrie of a woman, had only ever required
appeasing
. Usually with sex.

“Thank you, Mr. Kincraig, I'm afraid you don't have any other choice.”  Lady Margaretta winked, despite the worry still etched around her eyes and mouth. Pausing, she reached to touch his hand. “Do you see, I am not the only one who still thinks of you as family?”

“While I thank you, some might consider me
untrustworthy
where the ladies are concerned.” Why not give escape one last try?

“Oh, I shall miss your humor, Mr. Kincraig,” Her Ladyship replied. “Clarissa obviously finds your presence very comforting, like that of…well, family.” Her eyes misted over as, clearly, she remembered the loss of her son.

“I'm honored,” he murmured.

“Thank you for this. I will return momentarily.”

And in the next moment, they were alone.

“Oh, Mr. Kincraig,” Clarissa moaned, and her body shuddered. “I'm so humiliated.”

Hearing her speak his name—even if not his true name—somehow pleased him, as did her insistence on remaining in his arms, but only, he assured himself, because he knew they were the last moments they would ever spend together. Perhaps when he was gone, she would remember him fondly.

“It was that awful pink carpet, wasn't it?” he teased, hoping to cheer her. “You slipped on it, didn't you?”

“You terrible man.” She shook her head and drew away enough to glare at him. Both of her hands rested against his chest, balled into small fists. Even with a puffy red nose and tearstained eyes, she was lovely. “To make light of the most miserable moment of my life. You don't understand!”

“I think I do.” No, he wasn't a woman, but he'd had his heartaches—life-altering ones that made her present disappointment seem like an afternoon tea party. He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and pressed it into her hand.

“There is so much more to this moment than meets the eye,” she declared, holding the square of white cloth to hers. “It's not just that I've fallen down a staircase in front of the whole of society, it's…it's…”

She peered at him, and a fresh surge of tears flooded her eyes. Oh, hell. What did he do now? He'd used up his limited repertoire of reassuring phrases. Forthrightness seemed the only way forward.

He cleared his throat. “I know that the young gentleman you had an attachment to has married someone else. I know about Lord Quinn.”

She blinked and emitted a small hiccup. “How
could
you know? We were discreet, and we never told anyone. It was a secret.”

He shrugged. “The attraction between two people is not difficult to perceive, if one pays attention.” He would leave it at that.

She stared back at him. “You were paying attention?”

He scowled. “Not on purpose.”

Her eyes narrowed just a bit.
There.
When she looked at him like that, he felt like she saw straight inside him, to his soul, and he didn't like it, not one bit. His walls flew up, and he reminded himself he was “Mr. Kincraig” in this moment, not himself, Dominick Arden Blackmer.

“He was supposed to speak with Grandfather tonight and ask to marry me. It was why we didn't tell anyone. We wanted it to be a happy surprise.” Her gaze grew hard. “I'm surprised, all right. Terribly surprised and most miserable.”

She held his handkerchief to her mouth, smothering a sob.

“Would you like me to call him out?” Dominick suggested, imposing a dark gleam into his eyes. “You know how fond I am of spectacles, and I'd be happy to make one on your behalf before I leave town.”

A superior marksman, he would win any such challenge with ease. But he knew before speaking the words she would refuse, which was just as well. He could not risk losing everything he'd worked for by inflicting a punishing flesh wound—yes, he could be just that precise—on the son of a very important man.

“A duel! No,” Clarissa cried, grabbing his shoulders, her eyes wide and appalled. “Everyone would want to know why, and now that he is married you can't tell anyone about us.
Anyone.
Do you understand?”

A little more outraged understanding and his job would be done. She would know someone appreciated her loss, was as offended as she, and then she could return to her party downstairs and hold her head high.

“He betrayed you unforgivably.” He raised his clenched fist. “He should be made to reckon for what—”

“
Swear it,
Mr. Kincraig,” she insisted, twisting her hands in the front of his coat and yanking him hard, her eyes suddenly wild. “You will tell no one.”

Her vehemence startled him. “Your secret is safe with me.”

“Good,” she whispered, her shoulders slumping.

Her sleeve slipped off her smooth, golden-skinned shoulder, which caused her bodice to sag away from the plump swell of one breast. He snapped his eyes closed, but not before an unsettling stab of desire cut through his gut, and the desire to kiss her, hard and hot, and to make her forget Lord Quinn even existed.

Bloody hell, where had that thought come from? Out of nowhere, and unbidden. Unfortunately, now that he'd thought it, he couldn't stop looking at her plush lips and imagining them pressed against his skin.

She whispered fervently, “Because I must share another secret. If I don't, I fear I will explode.”

Dominick's eyes flew open and his fledgling passion extinguished.

“Another secret?” he repeated warily. He did not like the sound of that. He half lifted himself off the settee. “Perhaps I should go for your mother, or one of your sisters—”

She yanked him back down into place beside her.

“It must be you,” she insisted, half choking on her words. “A worldly person who won't judge, and who can give me advice without the complication of a heart or feelings.”

How she misjudged him. He almost felt stung, but she was an innocent and could never understand the complex emotions of a man who had loved deeply and lost all. Yes, he had a heart. Though damaged and half destroyed, it still beat inside his chest, while hers would no doubt recover quickly and soon assign its affection to someone else.

He could only suppose she'd written some silly, florid letters to Quinn and now wanted them back or some other such nonsense. Left with no gentlemanly avenue of escape until her mother returned, he resigned himself to being her confessor, promising himself that the moment her mother returned, he would say good-bye to Clarissa and this family and this night and disappear into his exciting new tomorrow.

The sooner, the better. “What is it, Miss Bevington?” he queried testily. “What is this secret you have to tell me? Whatever it is, you and I can talk it out and we can—”

He didn't get a chance to finish his sentence before she exclaimed, “I am with child, Mr. Kincraig.
With child.
What do you suppose
you and I
shall do about that?”

The words rang in his ears, and the horror of what she'd just told him must have reflected on his face, because her face again crumpled into tears and she threw herself into his arms.

He choked out a curse.

Not because of what she'd told him, which indeed had been astonishing enough—but because at that very moment he saw her mother standing in the door, white-faced with shock, having just wheeled Wolverton inside.

W
ith child?” gasped someone from the direction of the door.

Clarissa froze.
Someone who sounded very much like her mother.

Because she'd so unwisely thrown herself against Mr. Kincraig, she felt his every muscle turn to stone. Still half sprawled on his lap, she twisted to see her mother and grandfather open-mouthed, staring at them. The voices of oblivious guests emanated through the open door, carried on a cheerful crescendo of music from the ballroom.

“Clarissa?” said Her Ladyship in a wavering voice, her eyes widening. “Mr. Kincraig?”

“Oh, no,” Clarissa whispered, blinking tears from her eyes.

Not Mr. Kincraig. Lord Quinn had betrayed her—

The words jumbled inside her mouth, impossible truths she couldn't yet bring herself to speak. Thoughts spun about her head, dizzying her.

She hadn't told Quinn about the baby. She ought to have. But he had asked her to marry him. She thought she had time. Now he was married to another, and she was alone. How did she tell her mother that? How did she tell Wolverton?

Even now she couldn't believe it.

The man she had loved and who had sworn to love her forever had married someone else. Her heart was shattered, and she was scandalously pregnant and alone.

She trembled in fear. She'd needed more time. Just a moment of delay, of privacy, to compose herself before they all heard the deplorable truth about what a fool she had been.

Yet that moment did not come. Wolverton wrested control of his chair and with his hands turned the wheels until he halted two feet away. Veins protruded from his forehead, and his eyes blazed with temper.

Lifting a shaking hand, he pointed at Mr. Kincraig and thundered, “You!”

“No—” she cried.

“Me?” Mr. Kincraig bellowed, his eyes wide.

A push to her back sent Clarissa tumbling off his lap, onto the floor.

“Oh!” Her teeth
clacked
.

Her second fall of the night. Not nearly as far, but immensely more humiliating.

Clarissa could do nothing but stare up through the tangle of her disarrayed curls at her grandfather and mother, who stared back at her, their eyes round with a mixture of disbelief and anger.

“Damn it all to hell,” Mr. Kincraig growled, kneeling behind her and helping her up by the arms. Brows furrowed, he demanded, “Are you all right? I should not have…blast! I didn't intend—it's just that I—”

“Yes, yes!” she choked out. “I'm not injured.”

But she was. Her heart was broken, and she wanted to collapse and cry and disappear into the carpet.

Lady Margaretta lifted a hand to her mouth. “Oh, my dear child, is what you said true? Are you…are you…?”

Clarissa nodded and confirmed through tears, “Yes, but not—not—”

Oh, the look in her mother's eyes. She would never forgive herself. She opened her mouth to blurt out the truth, but her stomach pitched suddenly, and she pressed a hand over her mouth. She was going to be sick.

Oblivious, Mr. Kincraig bent, his hand outstretched as if to smooth her rumpled skirts, then halted, as if thinking better of touching her again. “I ought not to have reacted so suddenly, especially given—” His cheeks darkened and his nostrils flared, and he said, “—your…ah—
condition
.”

Lord Raikes and Claxton appeared in the door. Things couldn't get any worse than this.

“The ladies are inquiring…whether…you…” Raikes's voice faded and he blinked, as if his mind only just registered what he'd heard. He looked between the two of them, his brows drawn together.

Claxton's eyes went black. In a hushed voice, he demanded, “And what would that condition be?”

Fie! Her brother-in-law! Since he and Sophia had married, he had become very much a protector to them all, with Wolverton's full support. A wonderful thing, except for a time like now. He glowered between the two of them, waiting for an answer. Inside, Clarissa withered, crushed by shame.

“Mr.
Kincraig
—” The earl spat the name. “—has compromised my granddaughter.”

Beside her, Mr. Kincraig exhaled through his teeth and closed his eyes. His mouth popped open, as if to speak.

Clarissa flinched and lowered her head, waiting for his denial, for the rush of words that would expose her for the fool that she was, not only for falling in love with a rake who cared so little for her that he had married another, but also for having allowed herself to have been gotten with child by the same lout. She deserved to be exposed for what she was.

She'd done as they'd all feared: chosen impetuously. And now the rest of her life—of all their lives—would suffer grievous effect. Her heart felt like a pincushion, poked and bruised, and she wanted nothing more than to be alone and cry and wail and curse Lord Quinn. But she wasn't alone, and she wouldn't have time to recover from her shock and think of what to do before being forced to provide explanations. To everyone!

The night had turned out so differently than she'd expected. Rather than a celebration, she would break the hearts of all she loved.

Yet…no denial came from Mr. Kincraig.

He stood beside her, unmoving and silent, his face a mask of rigidity, leaving her to no other conclusion but that despite his healthy reputation as a hard-drinking gambler and libertine, he intended to behave as a gentleman by remaining silent on the matter of a young lady's honor.

Which left it to her to set matters aright. Otherwise, how could she live with herself?

She swallowed hard, gathering her courage. “Mr. Kincraig did not seduce me.”

“Don't try to protect him,” her grandfather barked.

Clarissa flinched. But Wolverton didn't even look at her. Instead, his gaze held Mr. Kincraig's.

“I'd heard talk of scandals in his past,” said the earl. “Terrible scandals. But I allowed myself to be deceived as to his character.”

“That's not true,” replied Mr. Kincraig quietly, the tone of his voice strangely hollow. “I would never have betrayed you.”

“No doubt your old life lost its allure, and once you were told you must move on elsewhere, you undertook this desperate scheme to profit from marriage to my granddaughter, to secure a higher place in the world than your
present circumstances
could guarantee.”

Mr. Kincraig exhaled a ragged breath and shook his head. “You truly believe this?”

“No!” Clarissa exclaimed, her voice sounding frantic and desperate, in a way she'd never heard herself. “Grandfather, you cannot, because it is not true.”

“To think I welcomed you into my home,” Wolverton bellowed, leaning forward in his chair. “That I trusted you, that I called you my friend.”

Mr. Kincraig remained beside her, rigid. Despite the crushing weight of her present misery, Clarissa felt gratitude toward him for his silence, when so easily he could abandon her and leave her to withstand her humiliation alone. She had confided in him, and still he made no mention of Lord Quinn, an omission she could only guess he left to her to reveal or not, because now that Quinn was married to another, there could be no honorable recourse.

“Bloody hell, when did this seduction even occur?” Claxton strode across the floor, coming to stand nose to nose with the man beside her. He growled, “You played your insouciance well, pretending that the news that your bloodline did not tie you to Wolverton did not matter to you, but you'd already secured a place here by another means, hadn't you? You'd already seduced Clarissa. We all came to trust you, yet you moved among us like a snake in the garden. Raikes, summon the undertaker, and tell him to bring a box. A long one, because I intend to kill Mr. Kincraig. Now.”

“I wouldn't attempt that if I were you,” Mr. Kincraig murmured in response, staring steadily into the duke's eyes.

“Careful, Claxton,” Wolverton warned. “He is dangerous, I know for a fact.”

Mr. Kincraig hissed. “I would ask for a moment alone with you, Wolverton—”

“You'll have nothing of the sort,” bellowed Claxton.

Clarissa wedged herself between the two of them. “Stop that this instant. You aren't going to kill him, because he has done nothing wrong.”

Raikes interjected quietly, “Clarissa, perhaps it is best if you go.” He reached for her.

 “What's going on here?” Sophia asked from the door. Daphne, too, peered inside, her eyes round.

“If you would all just listen—” Clarissa exclaimed, pressing her hands to her face, wanting to disappear.

Her head pounded harder and louder as each new family member arrived. If she didn't make her confession now, she felt certain she might as well go on into the ballroom and shout the awful truth to everyone.

Her mother extended a hand to her. “Dear, you must come with me and let the gentlemen talk this out.”

No, she couldn't leave Mr. Kincraig. She couldn't leave things as they were, all in a confused tangle. “I won't go, not until I tell everyone the—”

“Do as your mother says,” the duke commanded, urging her in the direction of the door.

“Oh, my God—” she heard Mr. Kincraig utter, his voice imbued with shock.

Turning, she saw him move very suddenly, lunging toward the earl and kneeling beside him.

The old man exhaled raggedly, clutching a hand to his chest. His mouth worked, as he attempted to speak, but then his eyes closed and he slumped in his chair.

“Grandfather?” Clarissa cried, going down onto her knees beside Mr. Kincraig. “No, please, Grandfather.” She clasped his limp hand and squeezed. “What have I done?”

A half hour later, Dominick waited in the corridor outside the earl's chambers, the hair along the back of his neck bristling from a white-hot fury in his blood that wouldn't subside. He prayed Wolverton survived the shock of his unwed granddaughter's announcement that she was with child. He had to know for certain whether the earl truly believed he'd seduced Clarissa, or whether, in his shock, Wolverton had wanted him to take the blame so as to protect her from the deeper shame of naming a married lord of the realm as the child's father.

Whatever the case, through no fault of his own, he'd been dragged into this situation, and by God he wasn't going up in flames over it. Something had to be done. Another resolution had to be set forth, one that did not involve him. He had to believe now that the initial hysteria had passed, clearer minds would prevail.

In the meantime, he hated standing alone in the shadows like some schoolboy waiting to be summoned for punishment. For a brief span of hours, he'd been returned to the full glory of his former self. He'd be damned if he'd return to a place of regret, humiliation, and shame ever again. Though until just an hour ago he'd felt some degree of tenderness toward Clarissa, he would be more than happy now never to see her again.

Nothing had changed. By tomorrow, he would be gone from their lives, and his life would return to its true purpose—his career, and the service to country that satisfied him like nothing else.

Not for the first time, Dominick considered simply walking down the stairs and onto the street, disappearing into the shadows of the night. He remained only because he had no wish to burn bridges with Wolverton. He needed that explanation, and to know Wolverton still held him in high regard.

And damn it all to hell, he wanted an apology for having been thrown to the dogs. Not from Wolverton, of course, who had only reacted out of fear and love for his granddaughter, but from
someone
. He'd settle for one from Clarissa or, better yet, that damned arrogant Duke of Claxton.

Speak of the devil. The duke, having come from the direction of the staircase, swept past without sparing him a glance. Which was worse, being glowered at or dismissively ignored?

To Lady Harwick, who hovered near the door, the duke murmured, “I made an announcement that His Lordship had fallen ill and that out of respect the ball has been cancelled. The guests are leaving now.”

“Thank you,” Her Ladyship answered quietly, pressing a handkerchief to her eyes, and again disappeared into Wolverton's chambers. Claxton followed her.

O'Connell appeared from the direction of the servants' staircase with a steaming stoneware pitcher, which he held beneath with a thick cloth. Mrs. Brightmore, her expression intense, came from the opposite direction bearing a small stack of folded linens.

The valet glanced sharply at Dominick and made to enter the room, but then he veered toward Dominick, scowling and pressing close. “If he dies, there will be consequences for you. I will see to it.”

“You will regret your words,” Dominick growled.

“You've brought shame on us all.” The shorter, bulldog-faced man hissed, “I have every intention of submitting a report condemning your—”

“Shush!” interrupted Mrs. Brightmore, shouldering between the two of them. She shot a warning glance toward O'Connell. “Mr. Kincraig is no more responsible for Miss Bevington's situation than you are.”

“What are you saying?” he demanded quietly, looking between them.

She cast a furtive glance over her shoulder. “That anyone paying any attention at all knows Lord Quinn is the culprit.” She looked to Dominick and demanded in a low tone, “Isn't that true?”

“Indeed,” he gritted from between clenched teeth, relieved someone else realized the truth.

Mrs. Brightmore returned her gaze to their fellow agent. “You may now apologize.”

The tension in O'Connell's shoulders eased, and he exhaled. “Good God, what a mess. I'm sorry, Mr. Kincraig. It's just that I'm not around the rest of the family as often as the two of you, and she's such a very nice young lady and with His Lordship being so affected by the news…well, I…I just believed the worst of you when I ought to have kept my head.”