Never Surrender to a Scoundrel Page 2

  At the mere thought of Lord Quinn’s bright blue eyes and smiling lips, the earth moved, enough to dizzy her.

  Even now, she could hardly believe it was true. London’s most eligible and handsome bachelor had fallen madly in love with her, and she with him. And he ought to be arriving for the luncheon any moment, with his father, the Duke of Lowther, whom Claxton had invited so that he might persuade him toward his way of thinking on some labor act he wished to introduce in Parliament. Just the thought of his arrival sent her pulse jumping in anticipation.

  While at first she’d believed him to be just another attractive face, as consumed by the youthful and sometimes empty pursuits as most young gentlemen of the ton, he’d revealed to her the honorable man beneath. Once she knew the truth, there’d been no holding back her heart. They’d kept their romance a secret, wanting to savor their unfolding feelings away from the curious eyes of family and society’s gossips and newspapers, but also for the simple enjoyment of romantic subterfuge.

  Then, last month in the midnight shadows of Vauxhall Gardens, as the intoxicating scent of jasmine filled the air, the young lord had asked her that most important question and she had deliriously and happily said yes.

  Yet Quinn, ever the romantic, wanted the memory of their engagement to be perfect for her and suggested that they wait until the night of her ball to make things official, and she had agreed. They’d enjoyed the most exciting game of secrecy ever since.

  “Now, what about lunch?” Clarissa asked, taking Mr. Kincraig’s arm. “I know very well you’ve been out all night. You must be hungry.”

  Now that she’d found such happiness, she didn’t want anyone to be lonely. Mr. Kincraig needed a family, and who said he couldn’t always be a part of theirs, if not by blood?

  At hearing the doors swing open again, her pulse jumped and she glanced over her shoulder toward the vestibule. Disappointingly, Lord Quinn wasn’t among the party that entered.

  “What I am is exceedingly tired,” Mr. Kincraig answered in a gravelly voice, resisting, though he did not remove his arm or step away. “I only want to sleep, that is all, perhaps even in the carriage that carries me away from here. Yes, I think that would do nicely.”

  “Nonsense, you need sustenance,” she chided in a tone that sounded very much like her mother.

  “Clarissa…” He held firm.

  “Mr. Kincraig.” She tilted her head toward the garden and tugged gently at his arm.

  He exhaled and pursed his lips. “Why are you always so—”

  “Nice to you?” she supplied, laughing, knowing full well “nice” wasn’t the word he’d intended to use. He would have said “exasperating” or “bothersome” or “persistent.”

  Yet his shoulders relaxed, and his expression warmed. “Yes. You are very nice to me. Why?”

  The genuineness of his gaze caught her off guard, and in the moment she could be no less honest. “Because I like you, Mr. Kincraig, and I don’t want you to go. I don’t want you to be lonely or uncared for—”

  “Me, lonely?” He chuckled, looking dismayed. Uncomfortable.

  “Yes, you.” She saw past his bluster.

  “I have plenty of companionship.” With the slightest tilt of his lips, his smile went wolfish.

  “That’s not what I mean,” she exclaimed, blushing.

  “What do you mean?” He grinned, but his eyes were serious.

  “Just stay for Mother’s luncheon,” she urged, knowing several young unmarried ladies would be in attendance.

  “Actually…” His gaze drifted to the corridor that led to the back of the house and thence the garden. “I am rather ravenous.”

  She smiled, triumphant. “It’s settled then.”

  Her hand on his arm, they proceeded that way, but she came to a halt, her gaze fluttering over him. The smile dropped from her lips. “Only you can’t go out there looking like that. Mr. Kincraig, have you truly never learned how to properly tie a cravat?” How many times had she asked him the very same thing? She reached for his neckcloth and loosened the tangle.

  “I don’t think it’s as terrible as you make it out to be,” he said, his dark eyes rolling heavenward.

  “Oh, it is,” she replied with a playful smirk, tugging the top layer of cloth upward through the hole she’d created and tightening the knot. “Trust me. And why do you insist on keeping that beard? My sisters and I all agree your appearance would be quite improved without it.”

  He growled good-naturedly, and she laughed, neatly tucking the linen into his vest. Hooking her arm through his elbow, she led him to the garden.

  The moment a certain young nobleman stepped into the garden, Dominick Arden Blackmer—who for the time being still answered to the name of Mr. Kincraig—noticed the change in the young woman standing beside him. As he expected, Clarissa ever so politely extracted herself from conversation with him and Lord Raikes and made her way across the garden.

  “So, Raikes, tell me about Bengal,” he said encouragingly to the gray-eyed young man. “I’ve never had the pleasure of traveling there.”

  “Bengal.” Raikes’s gray eyes went distant. “Well, it is nothing at all like England. It’s a beautiful, mysterious place. One half of the year, you suffer through hot winds and dust, and the other, monsoons.”

  “Sounds miserable.” Dominick flashed a grin and absently smoothed his hand over his mustache and beard, which he’d worn since presenting himself in London because he knew from experience most people would never look beyond them.

  “But it’s not miserable. At times, I miss it, but…don’t tell Lady Raikes.”

  They chuckled together.

  Dominick actually had been to Bengal, though he couldn’t tell anyone about that particular adventure. Those six months, much like the last thirteen years of his life, had largely been sworn to secrecy. Still, as far as conversation, Bengal was something to talk about. He knew Raikes had made his fortune there, and better Raikes talk than him.

  He enjoyed the easy conversation between them. Raikes had always been a friendly fellow, but there was a wariness to him, as with all of Wolverton’s family, where Mr. Kincraig was concerned, because they’d all entertained, to some degree or another, the suspicion he might be an imposter.

  If only the family knew the truth about him, as Wolverton did. He might indeed be an imposter of the most calculated sort, but he wasn’t a scoundrel intent on fraud. Rather he was their protector. Even though he’d been informed his assignment here had concluded, he couldn’t seem to turn off the instinct.

  “Why do you miss it?” he murmured, still watching Clarissa. “I only ask because I’m considering traveling there myself.”

  Dominick was only talking to talk. He’d go wherever his next set of official orders sent him, whether to Bengal, St. Petersburg—or even Timbuktu. At least that was what he hoped for—and in the deepest, loneliest hours of the night, had prayed for—a more challenging assignment abroad, now that his mission in London under the auspices of the Home Office had come to an end. Once he had been a veritable dragon, a legend among the most elite of intelligence operatives. Now, fallen from grace and largely a persona non grata to the Foreign Office, he had been consigned to this—a common security mission at home in England, where nearly two years ago he had been put in place to protect the old earl from a vague, unspecified threat of harm. He had done his time, earned the respect of his lower-level peers, and not made a single misstep. Perhaps finally his exile would end and he would be reinstated. Returned to his former life.

  “To Bengal, truly?” Raikes leaned forward in his chair, interested. “Why there?”

  He shrugged. “Why not?”

  Raikes rubbed a hand to his chin. “There are certainly opportunities there aplenty to enrich oneself, but don’t undertake the decision lightly.” He exhaled, shaking his head. “I faced challenges there such that I’d never faced before—”

  Dominick sipped lemonade from a cut crystal cup and watched Clarissa continue her pro
gression across the garden, she a bright spot of pink silk moving between tables that sparkled with china, silver, and crystal.

  So as not to be obvious, he knew, she very wisely stopped to engage in conversation with several ladies on the way, but in the end, she positioned herself almost back to back to the gentleman with brilliant blond hair who had entered the garden moments before, the one who looked like a magnificent angel. Dressed in a silver-gray suit, he portrayed the epitome of au courant male fashion, with not a seam or fold or buckle out of place.

  Dominick wasn’t surprised to see them together, though not exactly together. On numerous occasions before he’d observed the eye contact, the secret smiles and other wordless communications. One didn’t have to be an intelligence agent in service of the Crown to observe that the youngest Bevington sister had fallen head-over-satin-slippers in love with the nauseatingly charming and well-connected Lord Quinn.

  A smile turned his lips as he drained the last of the tart liquid from his cup. Who did Clarissa think she was fooling? Everyone, it seemed. Her family and friends appeared oblivious to the young couple’s tendre. How could they not notice, as he had, that whenever the young man entered the room—or garden, in this instance—Clarissa’s skin flushed and her shoulders softened, and she became a degree more beautiful, as women in love tended to be?

  Not that he’d noticed for any other reason than society gatherings bored him nearly to tears and he had nothing else but her clandestine romance to entertain his languishing mind…although observing them now, out of the corner of his eye, did make him feel wistful for a time when he too had been in love.

  But this wasn’t about him, it was about Clarissa and her young man, whom, truth be told, he didn’t particularly care for. In his limited exchanges with Lord Quinn, he had not discerned much mental or moral substance. But who was he to judge the choice of her heart? Young men often improved with time.

  Raikes continued his informative lecture on Bengal, its bad roads and river crossings and saltpeter. Dominick wearily nodded and said mmmhmmmmm at the appropriate intervals, wishing he’d resisted Clarissa’s persuasion and returned home to a cold bachelor’s supper and his bed. This assignment had been decidedly nocturnal, and his eyes were damnably scratchy from lack of sleep and his stomach growled ferociously.

  Just then he noticed Clarissa slip away into the house. Predictably, several moments later, Lord Quinn followed.

  His eyebrows raised in surprise. A bold move from Clarissa, and one he had not expected, but who was he to condemn the impetuousness of young love? He remembered a time, not so long ago, when he would have risked anything to be with the woman he loved if only for a fleeting moment and a single breathless kiss. But certainly her mother would notice her absence. Scanning the garden, he found Lady Margaretta surrounded by a chattering wall of ladies. Everyone else in the family was similarly distracted.

  Perhaps he ought to go and “accidentally” interrupt?

  Or better yet, he should remember his place, mind his own business, and stay where he was. He exhaled, and examined his knuckles. He closed his eyes.

  Ah, damn. His conscience forbade inaction.

  Curse Clarissa for putting him in such a position, but as she was so young and inexperienced with men, he doubted she realized her allure and the temptation she might present to a weaker man. Though she was far too silly and innocent for his particular taste, he’d have to be blind not to have noticed her attractiveness, with her pale blond curls, bright blue eyes, and seemingly perfect bosoms. Certainly Lord Quinn had been raised a gentleman, but Dominick, out of respect for Wolverton and the family he had protected all this time, could not risk the chance that he would compromise Clarissa, if only with a kiss.

  Better he break up their dalliance than someone else, who might not be so discreet.

  He waited for a pause in Raikes’s dialogue and excused himself. Yet he’d only made it halfway across the garden when Clarissa emerged from the house, radiant and not a bit mussed, which relieved but did not surprise him. His muscles relaxed. Of course, this was Clarissa, an innocent girl who had been raised with the utmost attention and care. He couldn’t imagine anything truly untoward taking place. She joined the Countess of Dundalk and her elderly beau, Sir Keyes.

  Three, two, one…

  And Lord Quinn appeared, looking equally unflustered and polished, and rejoined his father the duke. But not before he flashed a smile in Clarissa’s direction.

  No doubt there’d be a proposal soon from the young gentleman. Perhaps, even, on the night of her debut ball.

  So…good for Clarissa. She was a charming young woman. He liked her very much, and he sincerely wished the same for her as she had wished for him, that she would be happy and never be disappointed in her choice.

  CHAPTER TWO

  One Week Later,

  Thursday

  I can’t remember ever being so happy,” Clarissa Bevington exclaimed, looking about in flush-faced wonderment. Little Michael, whom she held perched on her hip, clapped his chubby hands.

  “Ohhhhh!” he marveled, mirroring her enthusiasm.

  Since being discovered, her brother Vinson’s young son lived under Wolverton’s roof but received regular visits from his other grandparents, who were Raikes’s mother and father. They always stayed with the family when they came to town and, indeed, were so well liked they had become part of the family as well. Though Michael received constant attention from his grandparents, aunts, and uncles, they had all agreed upon the importance of him having parents, and Raikes and Daphne had happily assumed that role.

  “What a memorable night this shall be!” said Daphne, throwing them both an affectionate glance. She reached out to Michael, tucking a stray curl behind his ear.

  Clarissa had never seen her grandfather’s ballroom look more beautiful, nor had she ever felt more special than she did that day. The room had been festooned in flower garlands, and the urns that had been placed before each of the massive Corinthian columns that lined the marble floor overflowed with profuse arrangements of pink and ivory blooms. She inhaled deeply, delighting in the heady scent of roses and delphinium. The fragrance of summer! The fragrance of romance.

  At the far end of the cavernous room, the head footman, Mr. Ollister, carefully lowered an enormous crystal punch bowl onto the tea board. The housekeeper, Mrs. Brightmore, perched at the top of a ladder, steadied by two housemaids, having insisted that she’d spied a sneaky bit of dust atop an archway that the rest of them hadn’t been able to see. Cook’s voice could be heard shouting orders, all the way from the kitchen.

  Clarissa felt overcome by gratefulness to the family and staff she loved so dearly. They all, in some way or another, had taken part in the preparations for her come-out ball. Her mother and sisters had helped her choose her gown and flowers and had cheerfully and without complaint devoted hours to addressing invitations. Her grandfather and Lord Raikes had sampled lemonade—which because pink was her favorite color, Cook had successfully endeavored to tint with strawberry pulp—and they’d all eaten various miniature tarts, biscuits, and cakes and judiciously declared their favorites.

  Even Sophia’s husband, the lofty Duke of Claxton, had taken it upon himself to personally deliver a select few invitations, namely to the Prime Minister and even the Prince Regent himself, which had all but guaranteed their attendance.

  They were just days from the close of the London Season, and all these efforts would ensure her ball would be a memorable finale for not just herself and her family but for the dear friends and acquaintances who came to wish her well. The surprise announcement of her engagement to Lord Quinn would ensure the fairy-tale perfection of the night. She had managed to keep their secret one torturously long week more, but tonight as everyone watched from the edges of the ballroom, they would dance their first dance together as a betrothed, and soon-to-be-wed, couple.

  “Dance with me, my dear!” Clarissa twirled, taking Daphne by the hands. Together they spun with Michael,
secured between them, in wide circles across the ballroom floor, blond curls and skirts flying. At the age of twenty and twenty-one, respectively, and a shade older than most London debutantes, they still sometimes delighted in being utterly silly.

  Michael squealed with joy, which inspired her and Daphne to laughter.

  “Just like when we were little girls,” said Daphne, laughing. “Imagining that we were at one of Mother’s parties.”

  “Only now,” Clarissa declared, “we are without a doubt mature ladies and won’t be sent off to bed with our governess before the guests start to arrive.”

  “Down!” Michael wiggled to be set free, and she complied. Together she and Daphne stood side by side, watching the boy run up and down the length of the ballroom, as fast as his little legs could carry him. Only, as often occurred, his legs outpaced his body—

  “Careful, Michael!” Clarissa called.

  He tumbled headlong to the floor.

  “Oh, no,” cried Daphne.

  They rushed toward him, Clarissa scooping him up just as the first outraged bellow emerged from his lips. Turning, his small arms found her neck and she squeezed him, pressing a kiss to his temple. “I know, sweet boy, it’s a terrible humiliation to fall.”

  He inhaled, mouth open.

  Daphne examined his legs and patted him on the back. “But you’re not broken or bruised, so put your smile back on and—”

  He wailed, even louder this time.

  “He is tired,” Clarissa said, bouncing him gently. “Just look at those droopy eyes.”

  “It is getting late.” Daphne cheerfully nudged her toward the stairs. “I’d best take him upstairs and put him down for his nap and you can start preparing for your big night before Mother comes looking for us. You know how cross she gets when we are late.”

  Indeed she did. Their mother insisted on promptness. Clarissa could hear their mother’s voice inside her head now.