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.
He saw the flash of calculation in her eyes and could almost feel her weighing the merits of confession. She caught her lush lower lip between her teeth. She seemed to tremble on the edge of revelation. But then he saw her withdraw behind that cool facade again. Those formidable defences came down. She was shaking her head.
“There is nothing else, my lord.” She arched a brow. “Is that not enough?”
It was plenty but it was not the whole truth.
Owen felt the disappointment like a dull weight. He had wanted Tess to trust him, which was foolish of him, since she had every reason not to do so. He was Sidmouth’s man, bound to hunt down and arrest the wanted criminal Jupiter. Tess would hardly walk straight into his house and confess she was the woman he sought. No, instead she would do precisely what she had done. She would tell him half-truths and compromises, tempt him into marriage with her money and try to use him, to hide from Sidmouth in plain sight.
He should refuse her proposal, of course. He should, in fact, have her arrested and investigated. But he would not. Tess Darent’s devious and daring game appealed to all his gambling instincts. She had thrown down a challenge. Very well, he would take her on. He would play and he would win.
He remembered the political cartoons, their visceral power. They were full of anger and passion, the perfect counterpoint to this cool, poised woman sitting before him. He wanted to discover the real Tess Darent, to tear away those layers of cold composure with which she disguised herself, and expose the woman beneath. He wondered if she really would take this challenge as far as the altar—and beyond that into the marriage bed.
There was only one way to find out.
He stood up. “Lady Darent.” He gave her an immaculate bow. “I am sensible of the honour that you do me…” Was that not the terminology one used on receiving an offer? Owen grinned. He had no idea.
“But you are going to refuse me,” Tess said, before he could finish. She jumped to her feet. “Of course. Which is a blessing, I think.” She was smoothing her gloves on and was so transparently anxious to be away that Owen was fascinated. “Because I have changed my mind too. You would not have done for a fashionable husband at all. You are far too…” She broke off.
Owen was about to correct her misapprehension but he was too amused and curious to do so straight away. So cool, collected Lady Darent had lost her nerve at the last moment. Clearly she was not quite as brazen as she seemed.
And he was not going to let her off the hook so easily.
“I am far too what?” he prompted.
“Too forthright, too forceful, and you ask far too many questions,” Tess said. “It will not do.”
Owen moved to block her way as she headed for the door.
“Before you leave,” he said, with deceptive quietness, “please do give me some pointers for the next time I receive a proposal from a lady. How should one respond in a suitably fashionable manner?”
“With gratitude,” Tess said tartly, “if the lady in question is someone like me.”
“There is no one like you,” Owen said. “And I accept your proposal, Lady Darent. With gratitude.”
Her blue gaze was stunned. Her mouth formed a round, silent, astonished O.
“Unless,” Owen added gently, “you have withdrawn your offer already. In which case I am most disappointed.”
He watched with interest to see whether, now it came to the point, she had the bravado to go through with it.
She recovered very quickly.
“In that case,” she said crisply, “it is agreed.”
“Don’t tell me,” Owen said drily, “I have made you the happiest of women. Is that not the accustomed response, albeit generally from the man since our roles are reversed?”
“I would not go so far,” Tess said. “I am grateful to you, Lord Rothbury.”
“So flattering.”
“This is business. I do not flatter my business associates.” She pinned him with a look that said she was back in control. Owen found it amusing. He had to smother a smile. In a moment he would take that control and give her a foretaste of what marriage to him might entail.
“You will send a notification of our engagement to the papers, if you please,” Tess said.
Owen bowed. “As you wish,” he said. “And I will get a special licence.”
He was interested to see the panic flowering in her eyes. Evidently she still had reservations about what she was doing.
“There is no need for haste,” she said.
“On the contrary,” Owen said, enjoying her discomfiture, “there is every need. Whilst our betrothal will give you a measure of the respectability you seek, it cannot be as effective as our marriage will be.”
He saw her bite down hard on her lower lip. “Well, I…”
“And I will call on you tomorrow,” Owen finished, with a great deal of satisfaction.
A tiny frown wrinkled her brow. “Call on me?”
“Unless,” Owen said, powerless to prevent the heavy irony that now coloured his voice, “you prefer me simply to send you a note with the wedding date so that you can meet me in church?”
“Oh…” She smiled deliciously, an echo of the superficially charming Tess Darent who was all pretence. “Yes, that would be extremely helpful of you. As this is a marriage of convenience I don’t think we need see each other a great deal before the ceremony.”
She started to walk towards the door. Owen took two strides backwards and reached for the handle just before she did. Her body collided with his. She felt warm, soft and yielding; Owen’s senses clouded with the scent of her and the heat of her skin. Desire flowered through him again as fiercely as it had done the previous night. He caught her wrist.
“I will not be a conformable husband, Lady Darent,” he warned. “You do not issue me with my tasks and expect me to obey without question. I am not reversing the wedding vows along with everything else.”
Beneath his fingers he could feel her pulse racing. Her glove was no protection against the insistence of his touch.
They were so close now that she had to tilt her face up in order to meet his gaze. He could read an element of anger in her eyes now, though her tone was still level. “Just as long as you do not expect me to obey you either,” she said.
“You will be promising to do so in the marriage service,” Owen said. “Or do you pick and choose those vows you honour?”
He felt her pulse kick up another notch. Something flickered in those blue eyes, something that looked like fear.
“You seem uncertain,” Owen said silkily. “Would you like to reconsider—cry off before it is too late?”
There was a moment when he saw a welter of emotion cloud her face before she wiped her expression clear.
“No, thank you.” She sounded as cool as though she were placing an order for tea
with the footman. “I cannot afford to be too particular. Would you like to withdraw your agreement, my lord?”
Owen had absolutely no intention of withdrawing.
“No,” he said. “I will marry you.”
“So gracious,” she said, in mocking echo of his words earlier.
Owen tugged on her wrist. One step brought her into his arms. He was astonished to realise that he wanted to kiss her very much. The challenge she presented, the game between them, lit his blood.
He brought his lips down on hers.
For a brief second it felt bewitching. She was all heat and light, all sweet fierceness in his arms. Desire exploded within him, sensual darkness enveloped him. He reached out to draw her closer.
He felt the shock rip through her like lightning. This did not feel like the startled reaction of someone merely taken by surprise by a kiss, but a far more profound response built on something that felt disturbingly like fear. But before Owen could analyse it fully Tess froze, stiller than a hunted mouse, utterly unresponsive, her lips cold and unmoving beneath his, her body as stiff as a corpse in his arms.
Owen’s ardour died as swiftly as it had been born. He drew back. Tess’s eyes were closed, her lashes a sharp black fan against her cheeks, her lips parted, curls of red-gold hair framing her face. She looked enchanting but lifeless, like the princess in “Sleeping Beauty,” dead to the world and certainly dead to his touch. Owen released her. It was a while since he had kissed anyone and perhaps his technique needed practice but he had never experienced a response, or lack of response, such as this.
Tess opened her eyes. Their expression was as lifeless as her reaction to him. Owen felt his stomach hollow with something close to despair. If this were a foretaste of his married life, it would be barren indeed. Perhaps he should have taken the opportunity to withdraw his suit a moment ago when he had the chance. Perhaps he should hope that they never got as far as the altar.
“Good day, Lord Rothbury.” Tess was smoothing her gloves and adjusting the jonquil-coloured cloak, tying the ribbon with fingers that were quite steady. She appeared unmoved. And it seemed she was not going to refer in any way to their kiss. Perhaps that was what passed for an embrace in a fashionable betrothal, Owen thought—a cold acknowledgement of the unemotional tie that now bound them. If that was Tess’s expectation of their engagement and potential marriage, she was going to be extremely shocked.
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