NEVER SURRENDER TO A SCOUNDREL
by Lily Dalton
a Historical Romance
from Forever Romance
Blurb
A Reckless Desire . . .
Lady Clarissa Bevington is in trouble. A reckless indiscretion has left her with two choices: ruin her family with the scandal of the Season, or marry Mr. Kincraig, the notorious scoundrel mistaken as her lover. Desperate and disgraced, Clarissa vows to love and cherish a veritable stranger, a man whose eyes smolder with danger-and undeniable desire . . .
An Unexpected Arrangement
As an agent for the Crown, Lord Donovan Blackmer has spent the last two years guarding Clarissa's grandfather from an unknown assassin while disguised as the rakehell Kincraig. His mission may now be over, but his duty has just begun. Salvaging his beautiful, impetuous wife's virtue will cost him his fortune and his position as an officer-but it might save him from the ghosts that haunt his own past. When their marriage "in name only" leads to exquisite seduction, Donovan must risk the only thing he has left to lose . . . his heart.
Review by pearls
This story has all the basic archetypes: the damsel in distress, the wizened elder the femme fatale, the trixter and the Hero. Part murder mystery, part Gothic romance, it takes the reader on a wild (albeit rainy) ride across England. The damsel learns to be independent; the hero learns to depend. And the trixter and femme fatale get their due course. Although thrown together in a marriage against either's will, they move from "making the best of it" to wild passion as they come to respect and love one another. A motif throughout is that all is not as appearances first would leave you to believe. And while both main characters may feel their lives are ruined, they find their lives are only just beginning.
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EXCERPT
He set the nightshirt back on the
bed, and spoke over his shoulder.
"I think it’s time you
returned to your room."
He spoke the words without passion.
She could only assume he’d had enough talking and wanted her to leave. The
night air chilled her skin, and she wrapped her arms around her waist for
warmth. She felt rebuffed by him. Stung. Her husband, the man with whom she
would spend the rest of her days, did not have the slightest interest in
spending a moment more in her company.
She knew she ought to calmly say ‘Very
well then, I bid you good night,’ and quit the room, but she feared with a certainty
that if she opened her mouth and attempted to utter a single syllable, her
voice would falter and reveal the confused tumult of her emotions.
Not because she cared for him. Of
course she didn’t. Clearly he did not care for her.
They’d been thrown together, and no
amount of wishful thinking or good intentions would create a spark between
them, when such a spark was never intended to be. She blinked away tears.
Foolish tears! As if he had hurt her, but he hadn’t.
It had just been a long day, and a
long night before that, and she'd made a terrible mess of everything, and she
hated Quinn. And perhaps still loved him. And she was lonely. So very lonely
and frightened of what the future held.
So instead she nodded jerkily, her
chin outthrust, and turned on her slippered foot to escape into the dark
dressing closet, taking care to close the first and the second door firmly
behind her. Miss Randolph reclined in her sleeping gown and robe on the chaise
with her book open and steepled across her forehead, snoring, which was just as
well because Clarissa could not face the woman’s questions or her pity.
She doused the lamps and, in
darkness, with only the scant light from behind the fire grate to see, crawled
into bed and lay on unfamiliar sheets, her mind tangled with thoughts of… Mr.
Blackmer.
Suddenly,
the door swung open, and a shadow moved toward her, stealthily and swift, with
only the faint white swath across his hips visible in the night. She recognized
Blackmer instantly and desire ignited inside her. He
crouched above her, breathing hard, his skin still damp and the tight flex of
muscles in his shoulders darkly illuminated. The scent of the soap from his
bath filled her nostrils. Her pulse raced, her heart near exploding.
“You,”
he growled deep in his throat. “Are my preference.”
A second later, he kissed her hard,
pressing his thumb against the side of her jaw, commanding her lips to part
while his tongue boldly entered and teased. She gasped for breath, stunned into
half-senselessness…and surrendered, her mouth opening fully to accept each
deep, possessing stroke.
He gave a husky groan. His large
hands caught hers by the wrists, pinning her to the mattress. She squirmed
beneath him—but with no intent to escape.
Moments before he had dismissed her
coldly, and made her feel invisible and unwanted and yet in this moment, he
revealed his true feelings, ones he’d tried to conceal. She knew without a
doubt that her husband desired her. Something about that made her weak, and—
His mouth moved to her cheek…her
neck, leaving her skin hot and awakened wherever his lips touched. Sensations
she’d never experienced spiraled up from inside her, delicious and achingly
sweet, awakening a need in her body and rendering her unexpectedly wild.
God help her, she didn’t
understand, but she wanted him as well. The moment he released her hands she
moaned and seized his shoulders, sliding her hands upward over his neck,
finding unexpected appreciation in the powerful contraction and flux of his
muscles beneath her palms. He exhaled, filling her mouth with his breath, and
sucked her bottom lip—
Only to groan and twist away.
No. She reached, her hands trailing
over his shoulders and his arms, desperately wanting more. More of his kiss,
and his warm, firm skin. And yes, for him to ravish her so she would forget—
Then nothing.
The bed creaked, relieved of his
weight. She heard his sharp exhalation of breath--a laugh, perhaps?
“Good night then, Mrs. Blackmer,”
he murmured.
Silence filled the room.
“Good night,” she answered
breathlessly.
He crossed the room, disappearing
into the dressing closet, gone the way he had come. She heard the door close.
After a long moment of silence, Miss
Randolph’s voice came from the direction of the chaise. “Well that was rather thrilling.”
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