Desired (8 page)

“The question,” she whispered, “is whether we tell Tess the truth or not.”

“How do you know Owen isn’t impotent?” Alex asked mildly.

Joanna blushed. “I don’t,” she admitted, “but it seems unlikely.”

“Very unlikely,” Alex agreed with a reminiscent smile.

Joanna poked him sharply in the ribs. “I don’t want to hear about your joint exploits in the brothels of the
world,” she said crossly. “I just want to know what to say to Tess.”

“There were no brothels in the parts of the world Owen and I were exploring,” Alex said. He bent his head and kissed her softly. “As for Owen and Tess, it is nobody’s business but their own, Joanna. Leave them to sort it out themselves.”

“But—” Joanna started.

Alex kissed her again with more deliberation this time, and her thoughts scattered, her body rising to the demand in his touch. By the time he lowered his head to her breast she had forgotten Tess’s marriage completely in the pleasure of rediscovering her own.

O
WEN FLATTERED HIMSELF THAT
his great-aunt Lady Martindale already had a soft spot for him even though they had known one another for no more than a year. Lady Martindale had been the previous Lord Rothbury’s eldest sister. She was a childless widow who was habitually squired about town by some distant family connection called Rupert Montmorency, whom she treated rather as she would a pet dog. Rupert, Owen had quickly discovered, was not the sharpest wit in the family tree, a rather vacuous dandy who nevertheless seemed a good sort. Lady Martindale’s tolerance of him, Owen suspected, said a great deal about the kind nature beneath her rather formidable manner.

When he had first met his great-aunt, Lady Martindale had walked around him, examining him through her quizzing glass as though he were an exhibit in a
freak show, then she had announced that she had heard he was a scoundrel and that she liked that, and had told him bluntly that he would see not a penny of her fortune unless he married to oblige her.

Over the past few months he and Lady Martindale had started to build a wary regard for one another. Owen admired Lady Martindale’s wisdom and her tenacity. With her, he felt a sense of family and a fierce residual loyalty to his British connections.

This morning, however, he could see that her good opinion of him had come crashing down. Perched on the overstuffed sofa in the lemon drawing room, tall and thin, clutching her reticule in one sharp claw of a hand, her dark eyes snapping with fury, she looked like an angry bird of prey. Beside her, Rupert, resplendent in a brightly embroidered waistcoat that made Owen’s head ache just to look at it, fidgeted as though he were seated on hot bricks.

“No refreshment for me, thank you,” Lady Martindale had snapped when Owen had offered, “and nothing for Rupert either.”

“Brandy?” Rupert had said plaintively.

Lady Martindale ignored him. “I hear you have offered marriage to Lady Darent,” she said. She enunciated each word as though it had a full stop after it. She spoke in the sort of tone that suggested that Owen had committed some unforgivable social blunder. “Why would you do such a thing?”

“Splendid little filly,” Rupert put in helpfully. “I like
Lady Darent. Frightfully tempting. Brandy?” he added with a hopeful lift of the brows.

“Be quiet, Rupert,” Lady Martindale said. “You do not understand. Gentlemen do not
marry
women like Lady Darent.”

“I would,” Rupert said longingly.

“Three gentlemen already have done,” Owen pointed out.

“Two gentlemen and a rogue,” Lady Martindale corrected. “Brokeby was no gentleman. Well?” she added impatiently. “You have not answered my question. Whatever possessed you?”

“He wants to marry Lady Darent so that he can s—” Rupert broke off as Owen shook his head sharply, and subsided back against the sofa cushions like a deflating balloon.

“It is a business arrangement,” Owen said smoothly. “Lady Darent requires the protection of my name for herself and her stepchildren. She is in some financial and personal difficulty and I have offered to help her.”

“Capital,” Rupert said, brightening again. “Nice work, Rothbury, generous to a fault. Plus you will get to s—”

“To strengthen an alliance with the Grants and the Farne Dukedom,” Owen said quickly. “I know how much you value good family connections, cousin Agatha.”

“True.” Lady Martindale’s icy expression had thawed
a little. “Teresa Darent is an earl’s daughter and is very well connected. If only her reputation were not so s—”

“Brandy, Rupert?” Owen said desperately.

“I was going to say scandalous,” Lady Martindale said coldly. “Really, Rothbury, must you persist in interrupting? It is very frustrating.”

“Just like your situation, Rothbury,” Rupert said, a twinkle in his eye. “Most frustrating, I imagine, since Lady Darent is nowhere near as scandalous as she appears. Frightfully chaste, in fact. I should know—I’ve tried to seduce her often enough.”

“Have you indeed?” Owen said smoothly. He turned swiftly back to Lady Martindale. “You have been encouraging me to wed since I came into the title, Aunt Agatha,” he said. “I am doing this to oblige you.”

He heard Rupert make a choking sound.

“Well, I find it very disobliging for your fancy to alight on so unsuitable a person,” Lady Martindale said. “Why could you not make an offer to a debutante?”

“Boredom,” Owen said briefly. “May I offer you hartshorn, Aunt Agatha?” he added. “You look as though you need it.”

“Don’t be absurd,” Lady Martindale said. “I’ll have a brandy.”

Owen poured for her, a double measure, and another for Rupert who grasped at it like a drowning man. Lady Martindale imperiously patted the sofa with her beringed hand. Rupert shuffled up. Owen sat.

“I suppose,” Lady Martindale said, her sharp black
gaze skewering him, “that the saving grace is that Lady Darent is most gratifyingly rich.”

“Indeed,” Owen said. “Very, very rich.”

The tightly drawn line of Lady Martindale’s mouth relaxed a little. “It is almost worth it,” she allowed. “If only she were not so
soiled
. Have you seen the frightfully common portrait exhibition mounted by Mr. Melton? No? Then in that case you can be the only man in London who has not seen your future wife in the nude.”

“I will try to possess my soul in patience until I can see the real thing,” Owen murmured. He was getting heartily sick of hearing about Melton’s exhibition. And he did not care to hear his great-aunt refer to his future wife in such disparaging terms either.

“The exhibition is dazzling,” Rupert confirmed eagerly. “Absolutely spectacular. I’ve been three times—”

“Rupert!” Lady Martindale said. She drained half of her glass in one swallow. “The only protection you will be giving Lady Darent, Rothbury,” she said, “is as a cloak to her scandalous affair with Justin Brooke.”

“He is not her lover,” Owen said. “She told me so.”

Lady Martindale looked down her nose. It was a nose designed, Owen thought, for precisely that manoeuvre. “And you believed her?” she said, in tones of outright disapproval.

“Yes,” Owen said shortly. “I did.”

He
had
believed Tess and he had no idea why. He had taken the word of a woman he suspected to be
hiding far greater secrets than a mere
affaire
. Perhaps Lady Martindale was correct and his wits had gone begging, all his good judgement swamped by the need to possess Tess Darent and make his sensuous fantasy a reality.

“Of course, Lady Darent has not had any children with any of her previous three husbands,” Lady Martindale said. “One would hope…” She let the sentence hang.

“One would indeed hope,” Owen said.

“I wouldn’t leave it all to hope,” Rupert said. “I’d have a damned good go at trying.”

Lady Martindale withered him with a look. “Thank you, Rupert.” She sighed. “You know, Rothbury, I cannot tell whether you are the most honourable man I know or just a damned fool,” she complained.

“No doubt time will tell,” Owen said. “And if Lady Darent does indeed make a fool of me,” he added, “at least I will still have her money.”

Lady Martindale gave her sharp bark of laughter. “I’ll say this for you, Rothbury—you do not cave in under duress.”

Owen grinned. “With respect, Aunt Agatha, I have experienced a great deal more duress than this, although your persuasion does rate second only to the combined forces of Villeneuve and Gravina at Trafalgar.”

Now the gleam of amusement in Lady Martindale’s eyes was even more pronounced. “You know that you
will forever be defined as Lady Darent’s fourth husband,” she said. “You will not be a man in your own right, Rothbury. Such is the way when you marry a notorious woman.”

“We’ll see about that too,” Owen said.

“Well,” Lady Martindale said. “I wish you joy in your betrothal.” She got to her feet. “I will put Rothbury House in order for you as a wedding present,” she added casually. “I hear Lady Darent’s sister is a talented designer. Perhaps she could draw up some plans.” She fixed Owen with a sharp gaze. “And when Lady Rothbury delivers your first child I will remake my will in your favour provided that the baby is recognisably yours, of course. Come along, Rupert.”

And she went out, leaving Owen choking on his brandy.

L
ADY
F
ARRINGTON’S ROUT THAT
evening was one of the highlights of the Little Season, and despite the press of guests in the ballroom, Owen had no trouble in picking Tess Darent out of the crowd as soon as he arrived.

He had called on Tess in Bedford Street earlier that afternoon, only to discover that she had gone out. He thought it highly unlikely that she had forgotten that he had promised to call, so he could only assume that she had not seen the necessity of being at home to him when he did so. Her independent spirit amused him; he had seen how badly she had reacted when he had assumed control of their engagement. But she was mistaken if she thought that she could dictate to him and
he was here tonight to prove it to her. The Marquis of Darent and all his predecessors might have let this wayward widow go her own way; Owen had no such intention. Besides, Tess had claimed that she wished for respectability, so tonight was the first step she would take to repair her damaged reputation.

Owen stood unobtrusively in the shadow of a huge potted palm and watched Tess. Tonight she was gowned all in black, which should have been in outrageously bad taste and yet on her seemed merely elegant. She should have looked dreary but instead she looked stunningly dramatic. There were diamonds in her hair and diamonds on her black velvet fan and diamonds sewn onto her bodice that trembled with every breath she took. Her slippers were shimmering silver and she sparkled as radiantly as the moon, cool and ethereal, evoking the hint of a promise and not fulfilment. That promise was enough to draw a coterie of men to her side, vying for her attention, pressing her for a dance. Tess flirted and sparkled; it was easy to see how she had gained her reputation and what fed it, for the women were left hating her as their men spun in her orbit. Most women, Owen thought, cultivated other women’s friendships and so were accepted even if they were beautiful. Tess simply seemed not to care whether other women liked her or not.

Yet the more he watched her the more he could see how false her claim to notoriety was, flimsy and insubstantial, a magic trick done with smoke and mir
rors. Her gown, though it dazzled, was high-necked and long-sleeved, as befit a dowager. She showed as little bare flesh as a modest debutante. She danced rarely and then only with men she knew, such as Alex Grant or Garrick Farne. She never waltzed. And though Justin Brooke hung on her sleeve like a jealous lover, she treated him indulgently, more as a younger brother than an admirer. Owen wondered that no one else could see it. Perhaps it was simply the case that they did not want to. They had tarred Tess Darent as a wanton widow and had no desire to change their minds.

He watched Tess glitter in the diamond dress, saw the expressive gestures of her hands as she spoke, observed the smile that tilted those lusciously rounded lips and came to the conclusion that it was the very containment in her, the distance and the restraint that made men want to claim and conquer her. He felt it himself, a fierce impulse to possess her, to take that fantasy and explore it in all its sinful, sensuous depth. He wanted Tess’s eager nakedness beneath him, her mouth open to his. He wanted to drive them both to the excess of pleasure and to see the expression in her eyes when she was sated. He wanted…

Someone near at hand cleared their throat very loudly and Owen recalled himself to his surroundings and concealed himself even more thoroughly behind the enormous palm until his erection had subsided.

A helpful debutante had left her dance card on a nearby rout chair. Owen perused it briefly and saw
the waltz was next. It was perfect for his purpose. He walked across to Tess, knowing she would have no other partner for this dance. A rustle went through the crowd as people recognised him. The group of men about Tess fell back rather gratifyingly as though they expected him to run them through on the spot. Sometimes, Owen thought, it was useful to have a dangerous reputation.

“Lady Darent.” He bowed to Tess with impeccable elegance.

“Good evening, Lord Rothbury.” He was sure she was taken aback to see him but not by a flicker of an eyelash did she betray it. “How delightful,” she added lightly. “I had no notion that I would see you again so soon.”

“You would have seen me this afternoon,” Owen said, “had you not been from home.” He took her hand and pressed a kiss on the back of it. He felt her fingers tremble in his grasp before she withdrew them from his grip.

“My appalling memory…” She sounded genuinely regretful. Her smile was charming, her gaze limpid blue. “I do apologise.”

“I’m sure your memory will improve in future,” Owen said.

He saw her gaze flick to his face as she took in the meaning behind his words. “As no doubt will your manners,” she said sweetly.

Owen smiled. “I am sure,” he said, “we shall both find the influence of the other most…stimulating.”