Desired

by Nicola Cornick

“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.

  LADY FARRINGTON’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 mirrors. 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.”

  The orchestra started to tune up, the opening bars of a waltz mingling with the chatter of the guests.

  “I came to claim the waltz with you,” he added.

  He saw Tess’s eyes widen. Those cherry-red lips curved upwards in a provocative smile that made him want to kiss her. “You should know that I never waltz, my lord.”

  “But if you cannot show preference to your betrothed,” Owen drawled, “who can you show it to?” He looked pointedly at Justin Brooke, who took a step back, then another, almost falling over his own feet in his haste to get away.

  “It would be irredeemably unfashionable to dance with my future husband.” Tess stifled a little yawn behind her diamond-encrusted fan.

  “Try it.” Owen had his hand under her elbow and was already drawing her to her feet. “You might even like it.”

  The candlelight shimmered on the expression in her eyes. She was annoyed and he could not really blame her for it. His actions had been high-handed, his claiming of her very public and very possessive. She did not, however, refuse him.

  He led her out onto the floor and heard the speculation swell around them as they took their place amongst the dancers.

  “Was it your intention to be the on dit, my lord?” Tess sounded no more than slightly curious. “If so, you have succeeded admirably.”

  “It was my intention to show I would not be an indulgent fiancé,” Owen said. “I did warn you.”

  “So you did.” A faint smile touched her lips. “Yes, I see. You refuse to be designated Lady Darent’s latest husband.” She said the words as though quoting. “I do not think anyone would believe you anything other than your own man, my lord. And if they did they would never dare say it to your face,” she added drily.

  The music swelled, the irresistible lilt of the notes sweeping around them. “I trust that you can actually waltz?” Owen said. “I know you usually choose not to but I assume you know the steps?”

  “I had lessons,” Tess said ironically. “What about you?”

  “I waltz indifferently to badly,” Owen said.

  “What a treat for me,” Tess said. She rested her hand on his upper arm with all the delicacy of someone touching live ordnance.

  “I won’t break,” Owen said, “or explode.” He placed his hand on the small of her back and drew her firmly towards him.

  “Do we need to be quite so painfully close?” Tess enquired. “I barely know you.”

  Owen could feel the resistance in her. He could tell that she did not like being in such physical proximity to him and was doing all she could to hold back. Her reluctance dragged in her steps, setting them a little behind the beat of the music. Owen pressed his hand more firmly to her waist and felt a tiny shiver rack her as his thigh brushed the silk of her skirts. What that meant, he was not sure. It did not feel like desire but there was certainly awareness burning between them as hot and sharp as a flame.

  “I lead,” he said. He slanted a look down at her. “That is not negotiable on the dance floor.”

  “Nor at all, it seems,” Tess said.

  “I will not be defined by my wife,” Owen agreed. He paused and let the silence gather for a second. “I apologise for forcing your hand just now—”

  A scornful flash of her eyes silenced him. “I do not believe you regret it for a second, my lord,” she said crisply.

  “Touché.” Owen laughed. “I do not.” He leaned closer. “I am claiming something that no one else has.” His lips brushed her ear in a brief caress. His voice fell to a whisper. “The right to take what I want from you.”

  He had the satisfaction of feeling her entire body jolt in his arms. Her gaze shot up to meet his, startled and smoky blue.

  “A dance,” he said smoothly, “a waltz that you will grant to no one else.”

  “Oh…” Her body softened against his as the relief washed through her. Her steps came more easily. The music flowed around them now, carrying them with it. A thousand dazzling lights spun off the diamonds of her gown.

  “You are staking more than your claim to a simple dance,” she said, after a moment.

  Owen’s lips twitched. “Am I?”

  “You know you are.” Her look was as sharp as the diamonds. “You are making a very public statement of possession.” She shook her head slightly. The stones in her ears shimmered. “There is no need for theatricals, my lord. I told you I would behave like a model wife and give you no cause to doubt my fidelity. For my stepchildren’s sake, if nothing else, I must repair my reputation as best I can.”

  “I understand that,” Owen said. “And I believe that you will honour your word. I am merely at pains to make sure that everyone else respects it too. You must give up your harem, I fear.”

  “My harem!” He felt laughter shake her. “What a quaint concept, my lord.”

  “But an appropriate one.” Owen glanced across the room towards the spot where Justin Brooke and Tess’s other admirers lingered, looking slightly disconsolate now that they had lost the bright star at the centre
of their universe. “How will they cope without you, I wonder?” he added derisively.

  Tess raised one shoulder in a careless little shrug. “By finding some other object to admire, I imagine.” She sounded supremely unconcerned. “It should not take them long to find one.”

  “And how will you survive without their admiration?” Owen enquired softly.

  She smiled. He saw a rich depth of mockery in her eyes. “What a shallow creature you must think me if you imagine I would care, my lord.”

  “And we both know you are not that,” Owen said. He watched her face. “You are a talented artist, you read French philosophers in the original and you embrace reformist ideas…?.” He felt the tension whip through her body, saw her eyes narrow to a calculating flash of blue. “Don’t you?” he finished softly.

  “Do I?” She was not giving an inch. Her feet were moving instinctively now to the steps of the dance, for all her concentration was on his words.

  “Of course you do,” Owen said. “Was it not Mary Wollstonecraft who said that a woman should not be subject to a man’s rule but should be his equal? Surely you agree with her?”

  Tess laughed. “Most women I know would agree with that, my lord, whilst reserving the right to believe that in many ways they are infinitely superior to the male sex, never mind its equal.”

  Owen smiled lazily. “Then perhaps we may discuss philosophy together on the long, dark winter evenings,” he said.

  “How the time will fly by.” She sounded amused.

  “I am sure you will find it more congenial than having to play the dutiful wife in public,” Owen said. “Unfortunately the price the ton will demand for the restoration of your good reputation is that you are seen to be both biddable and submissive to me.”

  He saw the expression of disgust in her eyes and tried not to laugh. “I know it will be difficult,” he added, gently mocking, “but I will try to make it as pleasant as possible for you to obey me.”

  “How gracious of you,” Tess said. Her narrowed gaze scanned his face. “You are enjoying this,” she accused.

  “I am,” Owen admitted readily. He was indeed enjoying the look of plain fury on Tess’s face, enjoying the stiff outrage in her body, so at odds with the sinuous shift and swell of the waltz. It was this passion that she kept so well hidden, this passion he wanted to explore in her. She had been spoilt, he thought, having so much money and being the sole mistress of it. Now she was in a situation she could not control. She was at his mercy. His blood quickened at the thought.