Never Surrender to a Scoundrel Read Online Free PDF

gray morning suits. The idyllic scene momentarily transported Dominick back in time to another wedding.
    His own.
    All the air left his lungs at remembering. He had been so happy that day. So full of passion and dreams.
    But Tryphena was dead for three years now, and even though he still walked and lived and breathed, sometimes he believed he was dead as well. Her passing had forever altered him. Without thinking, he pressed his hand to his heart, which hurt , as if a gaping hole existed there. There wasn’t a hole, of course, but there might as well have been for the jolt of agony those memories brought.
    The sight of a familiar face on the chapel steps jerked him back to present, and his hand fell away.
    What? No.
    He flicked the curtain aside and peered more intently out the window. In an instant he recognized the groom as none other than Lord Quinn, smiling broadly and standing hand in hand with a slender, dark-haired young woman who wore a lace veil and held a white bouquet. If there was any doubt in Dominick’s mind as to the event he observed, Quinn put it to rest by seizing his new bride against his chest and pressing an enthusiastic kiss onto her lips.
    The carriage traveled farther down the street until, despite straining his eyes and altering his position, he could see no more.
    He fell back against the cushion, his jaw clenched tight. How…regretful. Did Clarissa know? The memory of her smiling face flashed in his mind. Certainly she did not. It had been only Tuesday afternoon, at the most recent of Lady Margaretta’s garden luncheons, when he’d observed another flirtatious glance between the young couple and the furtive touch of their hands behind the garden column.
    No, he had not particularly cared for Quinn as a match for Clarissa, but the news would devastate her. Shatter her innocent heart. Because of that, he could take no pleasure, no satisfaction in what he’d seen. He could think of no honorable explanation for what Quinn had done. His fingers curled into his palms and he resisted the urge to order his driver to turn around so that he might confront the lecher directly, in front of his new bride and their families.
    Yet…despite the insistence of his conscience that he call Quinn out in defense of Clarissa’s honor, it was not his place. For almost two years he had been the family’s protector—but the role had been a professional assignment, he reminded himself, not an obligation of the heart.
    So instead he held silent, telling himself she would be grateful to discover the truth of Quinn’s faulty character now rather than later. Thank heavens she had enjoyed such a careful upbringing, which only allowed for the most chaste of entanglements. Perhaps, even, the whole incident would teach her a valuable lesson about love and trust, and guarding one’s heart a bit more closely.
    Once home, he washed and dressed and, as usual, did an intentionally incompetent job with his cravat, and mussed his hair, making sure he looked his usual part. Though he was to have an audience with Wolverton this evening before the ball got under way, he had no wish to arrive too early. He didn’t want to cross paths with Clarissa. Despite all his careful training to never reveal his country’s secrets even if tortured, he feared one look into her crystalline blue eyes and he would be compelled to inform her of what he had seen.
    Why was he even thinking about the chit again? He should be wholly focused on the acceptance of his next assignment.
    Yet his conscience chided him for his inaction. He wished Havering had been in the carriage with him when he saw Lord Quinn’s wedding. Havering was more like a brother to Clarissa and would know the appropriate thing to do.
    Havering, yes, now there was his answer. Knowing Clarissa as long as he had, Fox would know how to best break the unfortunate news, and most important, when—before or after the ball? Fox could comfort her after “Mr. Kincraig” was long gone.
    He