Never Surrender to a Scoundrel (15 page)

An inheritance. A small farming estate. His family was gentry then, which explained the proud bearing she'd observed in him since their marriage.

“I don't need or expect anything grand,” she said reassuringly. She didn't need a London palace or a sprawling country home, just a place where they could await the birth of the baby together and become closer and spend the rest of their lives.

“It might require some work to make it livable again, so I don't know if we'll be able to live there immediately, but soon, I hope.”

He seemed so concerned for her comfort, for her happiness, and for that her heart opened toward him.

“I can't wait to see the house,” she answered warmly. “I know it will be wonderful, and if it's not, we will make it wonderful.” She set down her mug, and in doing so the blanket slipped from her shoulders. His attention shifted to fix there on her bare skin—intriguingly intent, so she did not endeavor to cover herself. “One question—does your family know you were an agent for the Crown?”

“No, and please don't tell them. Secret means secret, even from one's family. You only know because my cover was effectively…”

“Destroyed by me.”

“Yes.” He smiled wryly. “My family knows only that I was attached to the diplomatic service, which is true to a degree. Before this most recent assignment to Wolverton, I…traveled abroad mostly, under such auspices.”

“That sounds much more exciting than a London assignment. Why the change?”

“Well…you see—” He shifted in the chair and straightened, leaning forward suddenly. “Clarissa, there's something else you need to know about me. Perhaps I should have told you earlier, but no time has seemed right.”

He spoke in a quieter tone than before.

“What is it?” she asked, leaning toward him as well.

His dark eyes seemed to take on the shadows in the room. “I have been married once before.”

Married. Dominick had been married before. It took a moment for the words to sink in, and when they did, something
hurt
deep down inside her, though she knew it shouldn't, because of course he'd had a life before her and because of the way they'd been thrown together, bits and pieces of their pasts would come tumbling out every now and then. This news of a prior marriage was just a big piece, and one she hadn't expected.

Now she understood what Dominick meant when he'd said he saw Quinn in her eyes. Because now she suddenly felt as if there were someone else in the room with them—his memory of another woman.

“What happened to her?” she whispered.

“She died,” he answered softly. “Nearly three years ago.”

“What was her name?”

He cleared his throat. “Tryphena.”

Tryphena. Such a powerful female name.

“And how did she die?”

He hesitated a long moment as if pondering what to say next. “She was an agent like myself. I shouldn't even tell you that, but it seems like something you should know.”

He scrutinized her as if trying to determine whether she was trustworthy and whether he'd made a mistake in sharing something so private and secret with her.  

“I won't tell a soul,” she assured him. “There are lady agents? I had no idea.”

He nodded. “Quite a few of them actually.”

“That's very exciting.” She felt so dull in comparison. What exciting or dangerous thing had she ever done? She almost felt envious, but no—the poor lady was dead. “I'm certain she was very brave, and good at it.”

“She was indeed. All I can tell you is that it happened while she was working an assignment.” His voice went hollow, his gaze strangely flat. “I am bound by duty to a certain level of secrecy and can say no more, only that afterward I remained here in England.”

“I see.”

And she did. There would be some things he could not tell her. Such was the nature of this man she had married. She would have to be satisfied that some mysteries would always remain between them. She looked at him, trying to discern the answers to deeper questions. Had he loved Tryphena? Did he love her still? How deeply had her death affected him? Did he carry the grief of her loss in his heart each day?

Sitting back in the chair, he raked both hands through his hair and stared down his nose at her, a perspective of him she found both distancing and attractive.

“God, that was difficult to say to you,” he murmured, exhaling. “I hope you aren't hurt, or angry that I didn't tell you before.”

“Not at all,” she answered softly. “Given the circumstances, there really hasn't been an opportune time.”

“It's late.” He nodded. “You should go to bed.”

Suddenly she was very tired. She'd had the urge to kiss him and, yes, even seduce her husband just moments before, but this revelation about his prior marriage dampened that impulse. Things felt different now between them, and in a good way, she thought. He'd confided something painful to her, and she could not help but believe it had brought them closer together. Although it seemed his past was filled with difficulties and tragedy, her mind felt more at ease that he'd shared them with her, even though she still had questions and might never have all the answers.

“You'll join me later? I'll take the far side, and you can sleep here. I promise, I keep to my side of the bed, and I don't kick or snore, although Daphne tells me I at times breathe irritatingly loud.”

He chuckled at that, and nodded. “That's reassuring to know. Good night, Mrs. Blackmer. I won't be long.”

And yet when Clarissa awakened sometime before dawn, he wasn't there.

In the darkness she found him sprawled in the chair, his long legs still clad in his breeches and boots and a thin linen towel draped across his chest. He looked so uncomfortable, the chair too small for his large frame.

Her heart fell.

Rather than sleep with her, he'd passed the night in miserable circumstances, without even a blanket to keep him warm. The fire still burned and so he must have tended it late into the night.

In that moment, she realized she felt something more for him, an affection that now made her fret for his comfort and rest. If not for that feeling, she would not want so desperately for him to leave the chair and come to bed.

There could be no more softly spoken invitations. Instead, she would insist. Starting now. She pushed back the covers and made her way across the carpet. The cool air touched her arms and shoulders, leaving her chilled. When she touched his hand, his eyes opened. Deep shadows scored his face below his eyes, proof of his exhaustion.

“What time is it?” he asked.

“Still night. Come to bed so you can sleep there and not in this uncomfortable chair.”

“I wasn't asleep,” he growled. “I was just thinking with my eyes closed.”

“I don't believe you,” she retorted softly, and set to work pulling off his boots. “So just be quiet.”

“Don't,” he warned, tugging his leg back.

She held on to the heel. “I said shush.”

Setting the boots aside, she knelt and, with all efficiency, reached for the placket at the front of his breeches. Wives assisted their husband in such ways, and she wasn't going to shrink away any longer like a frightened child.

His hand seized her wrist. “Clarissa.”

“
Dominick,
” she replied in kind, firmly. “Let me do this.”

She needed to take care of him. She needed to be his wife.

A moment of silence passed. His grip relaxed. “Go on, then.”

Her hands shook—only she knew, because of the shadows. The leather was still damp, but she easily unbuttoned the four buttons at the upper edge of the top flap. Without hesitation she dropped the flap free to unbutton above and at the center of his waist. Even in the shadows she saw through the remaining triangle of leather, his sex lying flat against his stomach, larger than she remembered.

All moisture left her mouth and she closed her eyes, realizing she had to make him stand and help her, else she'd never get his breeches off. She reached then for the towel, thinking to remove it from his chest before assisting him up—

Only to have her wrist seized again and her body pulled atop him into his sudden embrace. She gasped, her breasts crushed against his bare chest and her thighs aligned with his, as his strong hands held her there. He exhaled raggedly through his nose and hungrily kissed her while rearranging her limbs so that she straddled him.

In that moment she experienced more exhilaration, more anticipation than any moment ever before with Quinn, whose face she could hardly remember because her mind was filled with Dominick, the heat coming off his body against her palms, and the spicy-male smell of his skin, and the inevitability of what was about to happen between them.

Oh, his lips, and his kiss, and the growling sound he made deep in his throat. She had never experienced anything so thrilling. His hands pulled her knees around his hips, deeper into the cushion of the chair so that her sex settled on top of his, which felt stone hard, but hot and shockingly thick against her now-aching and needful flesh.

She'd never felt true desire like this before. She hadn't understood until now what Sophia had once told her and Daphne, that if they were lucky and waited for the right man, they would want and even need intimacies as much as their husbands did.

She wasn't a wanton—she was a wife—and she wanted more of this man, her husband. His kisses, his touch. She wanted him to be inside her.

“You—” He breathed against her cheek, his hands moving up the bare skin of her back beneath her gown. “—make it difficult for a man to get any sleep.”

“Is it sleep you want?” she whispered, feeling a wicked excitement at just speaking the words.

“No.”

“Neither do I.”

“I have tried my best to stay away, to give you time.” Fisting his hand in the sleeve of her gown, he dragged the garment off her shoulder, kissing her there and along her collarbone, making her squirm from the pleasure of it. “To give myself time.”

Clarissa felt his sex move against her thigh, and she complied with the demands of her body, readjusting so that they aligned more intimately and sinking more fully against him. He emitted a rough grunt in response, and his hands seized tightly on her arms.

“I don't want time,” she said. “I just need you.”

“I don't love you, Clarissa,” he murmured against her skin. “I wouldn't want you to misunderstand. I'm not there yet.”

Feverish, she answered, “I don't love you either. That's all right though, isn't it?”

She leaned forward, cupping his face in her hands. She memorized his features in the firelight before leaning in to press her mouth to his. He responded with passion, turning his face and deepening the kiss.

“I don't know what's right anymore,” he murmured. “But I know I can't…resist this.”

With a groan, he tugged the cambric lower…yes, oh, yes, lower, to her waist, leaving her breasts and torso exposed. The cool air touched her skin, and she shivered and then quaked from the sensation of his mouth on her skin as he gripped her firmly under the arms and lifted her several inches higher, kissing her rib cage and the underside of her breast.

“You're beautiful. Lovely. I want to eat you alive.”

There was something deeply pleasurable in being handled so gently, and yet so brutishly, by such powerful hands and arms.

“Dominick,” she heard herself say, and then his mouth closed on her nipple.

Stars exploded inside her mind, and she moaned in pleasure, her arms coming around his neck as she inhaled the scent of his hair. He lowered her, and she again felt the power of him between her thighs. Nothing, in all her life, had ever felt like this. Her fingers scored through his hair. His tongue swirled and laved, while his mouth, in concert, kissed and sucked.

She surrendered to instinct, arching her back and rocking against him, feeling him become harder and more prominent as she became slick and ready—

He turned his face aside, and he breathed against her collarbone.

“I can't wait,” he said urgently.

“I don't want you to.”

“Here in the chair.” He gripped her thigh and, reaching between them—

“Yes.” Her excitement grew, anticipating their joining, because it was something she wanted, for her marriage to be real. To be closer to Dominick.

He moved, and she felt the sudden pressure of his member prodding against her, impossibly large. Too large?

She gripped his shoulders.

“Damn,” she heard him mutter. “Damn,
damn
. You're so lovely.”

He thrust his hips upward and, in the same moment, with his hands on her waist, guided her down.

She cried out, feeling torn from the inside. Though no longer a virgin, their joining sent such an unexpected frisson of pain deep into her abdomen, her body still unused to penetration. It had hurt her first time, but not like this. She hadn't realized two men could be so different and could only surmise Dominick was bigger. He thrust again, and she seized against him, frozen and overwhelmed, unable to proceed.

“Are you all right?” he asked raggedly.

“I don't know.” Her hands rested on his shoulders, palms open.

He stilled for a long moment…and then he pulled her closer, his mouth closed gently on hers.

“I went too fast. I shouldn't have. I'm sorry.” His hands moved up her back and shoulders, kneading her skin and into her hair. “Slower now. I don't want to hurt you.”

“Just please don't stop.”

He moved beneath her, slower now, guiding her hips into a similar movement, very akin to riding a horse at a low canter. The discomfort remained, but lessened. His hands slid down the column of her body, to close firmly on her buttocks, which he squeezed.

One hand did not remain there, but came round to splay across her belly, the thumb dipping down to press firmly against the place where their bodies joined, directly at the center of her sensitive pearl. Nothing hurt anymore. Everything felt right.