Desired (6 page)

He walked towards her very slowly, very purposefully, his footsteps ringing on the bare wooden boards of the library floor. There were no deep rugs or car
pets here to soften the austerity of the room. Rothbury House had been woefully neglected under his cousin Peregrine, who had been widowed for years and had seldom been in England. All the Rothbury estates were in disrepair and would take thousands to renovate. Marriage to an heiress was an obvious solution, as his aunt Martindale had pointed out. If he wed and produced an heir, she had said, she would settle the Rothbury debts and pay for the estates to be restored.

Lady Martindale would not approve of Tess Darent as a bride. The idea of marrying a woman who would incur his great-aunt’s deepest disapproval pleased Owen, a small act of rebellion when he was hamstrung by so much of his new inheritance. It was not a good reason for marriage. He knew it. Yet it appealed to him.

He stopped when he was no more than a couple of feet away from Tess. Her violet-blue eyes met his very directly. There was now no nervousness in them. Owen wondered if he had imagined the tension he thought he had sensed in her. But no. He felt it again, and saw the way in which she stepped back, almost imperceptibly, to put more distance between them. She was withdrawing from him. Evidently she was not comfortable with physical proximity. Which was very odd indeed if the rumours about her were true.

“I doubt most men would see marriage to you as a prize if they are not permitted to sleep with you,” Owen said drily. “Forgive my plain speaking,” he added, seeing the flash of anger in her eyes. “I always find
it best to be quite frank in discussions of an intimate nature.”

“I have never thought of marriage as an intimate matter,” Tess snapped. The pink colour had come into her face now. “I fear you have a sadly
colonial
view of the institution, Lord Rothbury. Marriage in the ton is for profit alone. You profit from my beauty and connections and I gain the protection of your name.”

“Forgive me again,” Owen said, “but is that an equal bargain?”

“No,” Tess said, “the bargain favours you by far. I would be the one compromising by marrying a mere viscount.”

“One does not need to possess a thoroughbred horse to admire its beauty,” Owen said.

Tess raised a haughty brow. “I beg your pardon? Is one of us an
animal
in your analogy?”

“And as for connections in the ton,” Owen continued, “I do not value them.”

“That is short-sighted of you,” Tess said. “So short-sighted I doubt you have the vision to appreciate your thoroughbred.”

Owen smiled. Oh, he appreciated her. She was beautiful enough to turn any man’s head. And at the very least, he thought, if he married her he would never be bored. Conversation with Tess Darent had the astringency of a dose of salts. Though no doubt she would say that a fashionable husband and wife spoke to one
another as little as possible and preferably only via the servants.

“And your reputation?” he said. “Many men might balk at taking a wife with the sort of reputation for sin one would normally hope for in a mistress.”

Once again he had been brutally frank and he awaited her response with interest. Her defences were so perfectly in place, however, that he could discern not one flicker of emotion in her: no shock, no anger, nothing. She looked him over with that detached blue gaze he was starting to know.

“You,” she said, after a moment, “have a reputation as a pirate and a mercenary soldier. Most women would prefer such a man as a lover rather than a husband.”

Touché.

Owen inclined his head. “I was not a pirate, though I suppose you could say I was a mercenary soldier,” he admitted.

“Whereas I have never been a whore,” Tess said. The coolness of her response made him smile. She certainly had nerve. “And were we to wed,” she continued, “I would behave with the utmost propriety. I am marrying to try to rescue my reputation, so there would be no point in my sinking it further.”

“I feel I must point out,” Owen said, “that I found you climbing out of a brothel window last night.”

Her pansy eyes lit with mockery. “We were not betrothed last night, Lord Rothbury.”

He had to give her credit. She played the coolest
hand of anyone he knew. Which was perfectly in keeping with a woman who might lead a secret life as a radical sympathiser, who carried a pistol in her reticule and who might well have been in Mrs. Tong’s brothel for purposes other than a night of debauchery.

He was intrigued. Owen admitted it to himself. He had a low threshold of boredom, the product of a lifetime of constantly moving onward and seeking new challenges. He had gone to sea when he was in his teens and had spent his life exploring, fighting and carving out a future. He liked unpredictability and risk. It was what made him feel alive.

Tess Darent was enough of a challenge for one man for an entire lifetime.

“Of course,” Tess said, very casually, “there is also my fortune. I am accounted very rich indeed.”

That got his attention. Owen realised that he had been vaguely aware that she was a wealthy widow but had no idea whether that meant she was merely plump in the pocket or wildly affluent.

“How rich?” he said.

Once again her blue gaze mocked his directness. “Over one hundred and fifty thousand pounds rich,” Tess said, frank as he. “Is that sufficient to tempt you, my lord, where my other advantages do not?”

Truth was he had already been deeply tempted. Now her words stole his breath.

“Extraordinary how very attractive a lady may suddenly become when she is adorned in gold,” Tess said,
seeing his expression. “Now I am become a gift horse, in your analogy, or possibly a goose laying golden eggs.” But for all the dryness of her words there was a flicker of something else in her eyes that looked like disappointment. Owen wondered if she had wanted him to accept her for herself alone. It seemed unlikely that she would care.

“I cannot deny that a fortune of one hundred and fifty thousand pounds is a strong inducement,” he said.

“Well, at least you would never lie to me and pretend you cared more for my charming person than you did for my money,” Tess said, still dry. “You may be famously blunt, Lord Rothbury, but actually I prefer it. It saves trouble in the end.”

“Then perhaps we will deal well together,” Owen said. Their eyes met and he felt a flare of awareness, an attraction that was most certainly for her rather than for her fortune.

“You mentioned that you wished to marry to save your reputation,” he said. He gestured to a chair. “Why don’t you tell me more?”

She hesitated. There was real vulnerability in her face now and it was so unexpected that it touched Owen more than he wanted, more than he had expected. He had wondered if she had been using her desire to repair her reputation as a convenient excuse for marriage but now he saw that she was sincere. The problems she faced, whatever they were, were huge and they distressed her deeply.

“Please,” he said, still waiting for her to take a seat. “You can trust me.” He had moderated his tone before he realised it, gentleness sweeping away his previously rather abrasive frankness. He smiled ruefully to himself. Tess Darent’s skill at disarming a man was formidable. If he were not careful he would soon forget she was a dangerous political renegade and be taken completely off his guard.

This time she sat, perching upright on the edge of one of the hard library seats as though she half expected it to explode beneath her. Given the state of the springs this seemed a distinct possibility. Owen found himself studying the delicate line of her throat and jaw, a delicacy that seemed at odds with the stubbornness of her chin and the determination in her eyes. Tess Darent, it seemed, was all contradiction.

“My late husband, Lord Darent, took out a loan,” she began. A shade of exasperation touched her voice now. “His creditor is demanding payment.”

“Marriage is a rather extreme way to settle a debt,” Owen said, taking the seat across the table from her. “You could try the moneylenders first. And anyway, you have just told me that you are obscenely rich. Surely you can pay?”

“There is nothing obscene about my fortune.” Her tone was hard. “But you misunderstand me, my lord. It is not money Lord Corwen demands.”

“What then?” Owen said. He watched her face and felt a jolt of shock at what he saw there. “You?” he said.
The possessive anger caught him unawares as it leapt and burned within him. He leaned forwards. “He wants
you
in settlement of the debt?”

She was already shaking her head. Her face beneath the brim of the bonnet was shadowed, her expression hidden. “No.” She took a deep breath as though she had to steel herself to force out the words. “He demands payment in the form of marriage to my stepdaughter.” Her face crumpled into disgust and a sort of despair. “Sybil is currently at school in Bath. She is a mere fifteen years old. Corwen wishes to wed her next year on her sixteenth birthday.” She raised her eyes to his. “You should understand that his lordship is seven and forty and that he requires a wife who is biddable and—” a shudder shook her “—innocent. He will take her in return for cancelling the debt.”

Owen felt a rush of revulsion. He stared at her, brows lowered. “But that is grotesque, monstrous. Surely—” He had been going to say that surely it could not be true, but he recognized the words were hollow.

Tess met his eyes. He could see something there that was deeper than abhorrence at Corwen’s behaviour, something of pain and grief that was sharp as an imprint on her soul. He glimpsed it in a second’s brief flash and then the expression was gone and he wondered if he had imagined it.

“Surely you have refused him,” he said.

“Of course.” Suddenly she looked tired. “I have offered to pay the debt in full but he has declined. Instead
he threatens to ruin Sybil’s future. A word here and there that, like her stepmother, she is not virtuous…?.” She shrugged eloquently. “You know how fragile a young lady’s reputation can be, my lord. A debutante’s reputation is not like a lost reticule—it cannot be replaced. Once gone it is lost forever.”

“Corwen can have no grounds to slander her,” Owen said.

Tess shook her head. “Of course not,” she said, very quietly. “But it is
my
poor reputation that will taint Sybil’s life unless I can prevent it. Corwen will point to me as the worst of bad influences. He will say that I had the upbringing of Sybil for five years, that I am corrupt and that my immoral ways must surely have contaminated her. And he will be believed because people prefer to think the worst.” Suddenly her tone was fierce, ringing with sincerity. “I will
never
let that happen to Sybil. She deserves better than that. Her father left both his children in my care and I will not fail them.”

Owen got to his feet. He understood now Tess’s earlier pledge to behave with absolute propriety should they wed. She had made her choice: marry, gain a modi cum of respectability and protect her stepchildren. To do so she would need to abandon any wild behaviour and become a pattern card of propriety. Owen wondered if she would be able to keep the bargain.

His lips twisted. “You wish me to be your fig leaf,
Lady Darent,” he said, “to make you appear respectable.”

Tess laughed, a real laugh full of genuine amusement. Those pansy-blue eyes warmed, full of mischief. It startled Owen to see her in so unguarded a moment. Startled him, but pleased him as well. He found that he wanted to know more of this real Tess Darent away from the bright, brittle pretence. He wanted it a great deal. The intensity of his hunger for it was another shock.

“My fig leaf,” Tess said. “How very picturesque a description, my lord.”

“And how appropriate, since it seems that your clothes are always coming off,” Owen said. “At the brothel, in those paintings by Melton that everyone is talking about…”

The light died from her eyes. “I concede that that is certainly how it appears,” she said. She sounded cold now, lifeless. She shifted on the chair. “The paintings are from a collection belonging to my second husband,” she said. “They were never intended to be on show to the public, but—” she shrugged “—Mr. Melton must make his fortune as he sees fit.”

That shrug, Owen thought, covered more than a little distaste and a healthy dose of anger. Teresa Darent might pretend aristocratic indifference towards Melton and his impudence in making his fortune from her body, but Owen could sense that she had been deeply
hurt and offended by it. Once again his protective instincts stirred. He reined them in sharply.

“If we are speaking of gossip and scandal,” Owen said, “there is also a rumour that you have a young lover in Justin Brooke.”

“Society has been quick to acquaint you with my poor reputation,” Tess said drily. “Which rather proves my point.”

“Is it true?” Owen persisted. “Call me old-fashioned but I would prefer that my future wife is not embroiled in an affair before we wed and preferably not afterwards either.”

“Mr. Brooke is not my lover.” Tess’s gaze was very direct. It challenged him to disbelieve her. “I do not have a lover nor do I intend to take one. I’ve never—” She stopped and bit off what she was about to say. She looked away, colour stinging her cheeks.

“You’ve never had a lover?” Owen queried softly. He was surprised, but then she was a creature of surprises.

“No. Never.” She sounded annoyed to be caught out in the admission, as though she was revealing too much. Her gaze fell from his, her lashes veiling her expression. “I’ve had three husbands,” she said, after a moment. “Surely that is enough.”

“Evidently not, since you are seeking a fourth,” Owen said.

She smiled a little, spreading her hands in another pretty gesture that Owen suspected was completely false. “What can I say? It’s a compulsion.”

Owen doubted that. Tess Darent seemed far too carefully controlled to fall prey to any kind of compulsion.

“Is there anything else I should know before I give you an answer?” he asked. It was her opportunity to be honest with him about her political allegiance, her chance to confess to her involvement in the Jupiter Club. He waited, and realised that he was holding his breath.