He held the door for Tess and she walked out, negotiating the maze of statuary in the hall with elegance and aplomb. She was once again in control, every inch the modish society beauty.
It was only as the ring of the carriage wheels faded away down the street that Owen realised Tess had never answered his question as to why she had wanted a marriage in name only.
CHAPTER FIVE
TESS WAS CAUGHT BETWEEN the devil and the deep blue sea, as her old governess, Miss Finch, had been inclined to say. She could not withdraw her offer for her charges’ sake but she was not at all sure she could go through with her plan to marry Rothbury. He was too forceful, too difficult to control.
For the second night in a row, she could not sleep. She opened the drawer beside her bed and took out her sketching book and charcoal. As always, the act of drawing soothed her with its clean lines and the soft scratch of the pencil against the paper. She drew a cartoon of the tree of liberty with Lord Sidmouth dressed as a forester, hacking at the trunk. Then she caricatured the scene in the brothel with various peers falling out of their breeches and Mrs. Tong shrieking like a witch and her girls diving for cover as the dragoons trampled all the whips, crops and erotic paraphernalia underfoot. Each smooth sweep of her crayon brought the scene to life, sharp, vivid and full of character.
With a sigh, she laid the sketches aside, pushing the pad away across the counterpane. She was itching to publish another cartoon. Tomorrow she would slip away to the printers. She knew she had promised herself that the Jupiter Club was finished, but a few more cartoons could not hurt, and she would burst if she were unable to express the feelings she had inside. And after she had been to the printers she supposed she would have to go back to the brothel and confront Mrs. Tong over the missing sketches. She was sure that the bawd, opportunistic as ever, must have taken them, seeing them as a way to extort money from her perhaps. Mrs. Tong had helped her because her son was a firebrand radical, preaching reform. That did not mean, however, that the mercenary bawd owed her any loyalty. That would be foreign to her nature.
Tess’s shoulders slumped. There were so many complications now. She had become a philanthropist because of her first husband, Robert Barstow, who had inspired her. When he had died she had taken his cause and his money to fight for reform to alleviate poverty and disease, violence and misery. Now she was embroiled in a mire of intrigue.
She tapped the crayon against the palm of her hand. Common sense suggested that Rothbury knew nothing of the cartoons. Five minutes in his presence this morning had shown her how blunt was his approach. She had never met a more direct man in her life. If Rothbury had found evidence to incriminate her he would surely have confronted her. Yet, though she tried to reassure herself, she could not be certain. She was playing a very dangerous game with him.
She pulled the sketching pad towards her again. In a few strokes Rothbury’s face came to life on the page, the determined line of his jaw, the slash of his cheekbones, the fall of his hair across his forehead and the cool, direct gaze. Tess gave another little shiver. Rothbury was so very different from Robert Barstow, and from James Darent for that matter.
She opened the drawer of the nightstand again and her searching fingers closed around the miniature portrait of Robert that she kept by her bed. She could feel the chased silver of the locket, worn almost smooth now after ten years. She always felt an ache of unhappiness when she thought of Robert, even now, so long after his death. Her first husband had never had the chance to be more than an idealistic boy, but he would have grown to be a good man had he lived, the sort of man who had integrity and courage and belief, a man of honour.
Her gaze fell on the drawing pad again. She wished Rothbury had not kissed her earlier. She pressed her fingers to her lips. For a brief second when he had touched her she had felt a jolt of something fierce and bright, but then she had remembered the past, and the fear and revulsion had swept any sweeter feelings away. It had been that way with every man. Brokeby’s cruelty had damaged her past mending. For a moment though, with Rothbury, she had thought… She gave her head a sharp shake before the thought formed properly. Rothbury was no different. He could not help her, and she was a fool even to wish it.
She was not sure why he would want to kiss her anyway, except perhaps as a formal way of sealing their betrothal. There could be nothing else for either of them, no love and certainly no physical desire. A cold kernel of misery hardened inside her. She had never known true physical love. Robert had been her best friend but no lover. And after Charles Brokeby, every thought she had had about erotic love had been shadowed by the carnage he had wrought on her.
She picked up the drawing book and closed it, blotting out Rothbury’s face. Men of honour, in her experience, were few and far between. A pity she had met this particular one when it was far too late for both of them.
“WHY DIDN’T SHE TELL ME?” Joanna Grant burst into the library and brandished The Morning Post beneath her husband’s nose. “Am I supposed to learn of Tess’s latest betrothal from the newspapers now? She’s marrying Owen! Owen, of all people!” She threw the paper down on the shiny rosewood desk on top of Alex’s estate papers, scattering them to the floor.
Alex laid down his pen. His grey eyes were very steady. “I am not entirely sure why you are so upset, Joanna.”
Upset. Yes, she was upset. Joanna was shocked to realise quite how upset she was. Her heart was thumping and she wanted to hit something. Or someone. For a second she felt a violent antipathy towards her sister. Then she wanted to cry. She sat down so heavily on one of the rosewood chairs that it creaked.
“Well, I…” Alex’s steady gaze and his cool tone were unnerving her. This was not how she had expected him to react. She had wanted him to understand her indignation.
“She didn’t tell me,” she said, a little forlornly. She felt hurt that Tess had not confided in her. She had tried endlessly to help her sister. She had reached out to her time and again, encouraging her to open her heart. And Tess had always denied her. They were so close in age, they had shared so much, and yet Joanna felt despairing that they would ever be friends. Tess simply did not allow anyone close enough to be her friend. So yes, she felt hurt. But she also felt betrayed.
Alex raised one shoulder in a half shrug. “I agree it would have been nicer to hear the news from Tess herself,” he said, “but perhaps she realised that you would react like this.”
“Like what?” Joanna demanded. The anger was fizzing in her blood.
“As though it was all about you, not about your sister,” Alex said calmly. “Tess is getting married to an old friend. We should be happy for them both.”
“I am happy!” Joanna protested, whilst a fat tear rolled down her cheek and splashed onto the carpet. “But it isn’t fair! Owen was supposed to be—”
She stopped but it was already too late. The expression in Alex’s eyes, already cool, was now icy.
“Owen was supposed to be—what?” he said. The edge to his voice made her shiver. “In love with you? Do you want to tell Tess that he wanted to marry you first? That she is second best? Perhaps,” Alex said as he shifted on the chair, toying with the quill, turning it over and over between his fingers, “you want to tell Tess she cannot marry Owen because he is your property?”
Joanna blinked back the tears that stung her throat and blocked her nose. Indignation and a sense of betrayal had been replaced by a chill fear wreathing her heart. Had she meant that? She could not quite see how matters had slid so far, so fast. She had been upset and had not thought to censor what she had said.
“That’s not what I meant at all,” she protested, and her voice rang lame in her own ears. “Whom Owen marries is nothing to me.”
So why did it hurt so much? Joanna examined her feelings and realised with a rush of fear that she did not want to know.
“As long as he does not marry your sister,” Alex said, and the sarcasm in his tone set her teeth on edge. He shook his head. “I’m afraid I
do not believe you, my love. You sounded jealous. Can it be that you care for Owen more than you pretend?”
Joanna felt as though the ground was slipping and sliding away beneath her feet. She glanced across at the newspaper with the little box of print written in such harsh black lines:
The betrothal is announced between Teresa, Dowager Marchioness of Darent, and Owen Purchase, 14th Viscount Rothbury… Her heart squeezed again, the breath blocking her throat.
“No!” she said. Her voice was high with desperation. She tried to moderate her tone. “It isn’t like that, Alex,” she said. “I don’t love Owen. I never did. I chose you!”
“But Owen was your white knight, wasn’t he?” Alex said, a wealth of bitterness colouring his voice now. “He rescued you from your first husband when David threatened you. He kept you safe. He loved you for years.”
Joanna put her hands over her ears. They had talked about this before, long ago, when first they had wed. She had thought it was all settled between them. Heaven help her, she had thought that Alex had not minded.
“Don’t,” she said. “Alex, please. I don’t love Owen. I love you.”
Alex stood up. He came towards her, pulling her to her feet, taking her by the wrists and drawing her hands down to her sides. She felt open and vulnerable, as though all the complicated emotions within her were exposed. She knew in that moment that she could not pretend. They knew each other too well and pretence would be an unbearable deceit.
“Very well,” she said. She raised her chin in a brave little gesture of defiance. “Owen is a good man. I admire him. He did me a tremendous service in protecting me from David and for that I will always love him.” She met Alex’s eyes. His expression was dark and cold, giving nothing away. She could feel the tension in him, spun taut as she told him of her love for another man.
“But I am not in love with Owen,” she said softly, her eyes pleading with Alex to understand. “Perhaps there was a time when I almost fell in love with him. Perhaps there was a time when I might have run off with him. But by the time he asked me it was too late because I had already met you and we were wed and for better or worse you were the one in my heart. I had my chance to elope with Owen and I refused him because you were the only one I wanted.”
There was a moment of absolute stillness and then Alex pulled her into his arms so tightly that all the breath was knocked out of her body. His mouth was pressed against her hair and his arms were tight about her.
“I’m sorry,” Alex said, muffled. His voice was hoarse. “I suppose I have always been afraid… He loved you first, and I thought there might be a chance—”
“Never,” Joanna said firmly, all the lovely confidence flowing back into her veins to hear the emotion in his words. “Only you, Alex. Always.”
She freed herself a little, doubt clouding her eyes. “I worry though,” she said, “that Owen wants Tess because he cannot have me and that Tess is simply not good enough for him.”
“Both of those comments are most presumptuous, my love,” Alex drawled. His voice was his own again, cool and incisive, but the love and amusement still blazed in his eyes. “In the first place, you have no notion whether Owen still cherishes a hopeless tendre for you, and in the second, you do your sister an injustice.”
“Do I?” Joanna asked, genuinely taken aback.
“Tess has a great deal more to her than you think,” Alex said.
“How do you know?” Joanna said.
“Because I have caught her in the library reading Rousseau,” Alex said.
“Who?” Joanna asked, mystified.
“Merryn,” Alex said, not without satisfaction, “is not the only bluestocking in this family.” He hesitated. “And I suspect Tess is a philanthropist too.”
“Tess!” Joanna’s face wrinkled up into genuine confusion. “Surely you jest? Tess cares for nothing but the cut of her gown! Or the identity of her next husband,” she added sharply. “Must she have four, Alex? It’s so greedy!”
“Enough!” Alex said, drawing her into his arms again. He pressed his lips to the hollow beneath her ear, a hollow that was wonderfully sensitive and sent ripples of sensation skittering along Joanna’s skin. “I find I am bored already with your sister’s nuptials,” he whispered, his tongue tickling her. “I want to discover my own wife all over again. Come to bed.”
A delicious little shiver whipped through Joanna’s body. “Now?” She glanced at the clock. “In the afternoon? But people will be calling—”
“We shall tell them we are busy,” Alex said, his fingers already delving beneath the fine lace that edged her bodice.
“Alex!” Joanna squeaked.
“Of course,” Alex murmured, his lips exploring the tender line of her collarbone now, “if you would rather do something else—”
“No!” Joanna squeaked again, her stomach hollowing with lust as she realised quite how much she wanted him. “I cannot think of any pressing engagements.”
Later, much later, as the grey shadows of autumn dusk were gathering outside, Joanna rolled over in luxurious abandon in the middle of her tumbled bed and propped herself on one elbow.
“Alex,” she said.
Her husband made a sleepy sound indicative of nothing other than that he was too exhausted to talk.
“There is just one small matter to do with Tess’s wedding that I feel we should discuss,” Joanna persisted.
Alex groaned. He half opened his eyes. “Must we?” he grumbled.
“Tess only marries impotent men,” Joanna said baldly. “Therefore she must imagine Owen to be impotent.”
Alex shot up in bed. “What?” he said. “How on earth do you work that out?”
“Ha! Now I have your attention,” Joanna said. She pressed a kiss to his shoulder blade, licking experimentally, tasting the salt on his skin. “After Brokeby she never wanted an intimate relationship again,” she said.
Alex rolled over, trapping her beneath him. “Did Tess tell you this?” he demanded.
Joanna shook her head. “Not in so many words. Tess tells me nothing. But I know it’s true. He hurt her in some way.” She ran a finger down Alex’s arm, feeling the muscle beneath the skin and the fine scattering of hair beneath her touch. His body was hard against hers and already she was starting to feel weighted with desire again. It pulled deep inside her, making her feel soft and heavy with languor, sharp with need. How could anyone, she wondered, not want this delicious fulfilment? A wave of acute pity for her sister assailed her.
“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.
OWEN 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 dand
y 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?”
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