Desired

by Nicola Cornick

  “Thank you, Rupert,” Owen said tightly. He was aware that a number of people had emerged from the ballroom and were watching him, eyes avid and scandal tripping from their tongues. Tess’s departure had not gone unnoticed, then. The gossip was already starting to filter through the ball, rippling around the edges of the room and sweeping inwards like the tide.

  There was a light touch on his arm. “I imagine you are thanking God now that you are such a cool hand at cards,” Alex Grant said, in his ear. “I assure you, no one looking at you would realise you wish to break Brooke’s neck and I only realise it because I know you so well.”

  “I’m not sure that his is the neck I wish to break,” Owen said grimly. He was remembering again Tess’s claim: Justin Brooke is not my lover….

  What sort of fool had he been to believe her?

  “Are you going to let her get away with it?” Alex asked, with an expressive lift of his brows.

  “What do you think?” Owen beckoned to the footman. “The carriage for Lady Darent,” he said. “Where did it take her?”

  The man’s face was completely blank. “I’m sorry, my lord—”

  Owen swallowed a curse. “Lady Darent and Mr. Brooke,” he clarified. “Where did they go?”

  The man’s face cleared. He looked inordinately relieved to be able to help. Owen realised that such was his anger the man probably thought he would strangle him if he could not answer the question. He strove to bank down that anger and moderate his tone.

  “It was an address in Hampstead Wells, my lord. Belsize Terrace,” the footman stuttered.

  “Thank you,” Owen said, and the man shot away as though his life depended on it.

  “That’ll take you the best part of an hour,” Alex said.

  “I don’t have anything better to do,” Owen said drily. “Hampstead Wells,” he added. “Where is that?”

  “North of town, very genteel, very respectable,” Alex said, a little grimly. “Good luck, old fellow.”

  Luck, Owen reflected, was not precisely what he needed. Better judgement when it came to women might serve him well in future. Nevertheless he would see Tess Darent and have the truth out with her before he broke their engagement and abandoned her to her sensual excesses with her young lover.

  The journey out of town did indeed seem interminable, endless ill-lit streets giving way to darkened roads along which the carriage jerked and jolted. Finally Owen alighted in front of a small row of cottages. The footman had only heard a partial address. Impossible to tell which of these houses held his errant fiancée, but perhaps he could start with the one that still had candlelight showing behind the shutters.

  His knock brought a housemaid scurrying. She looked terrified. No wonder. Owen was not at all sure what was showing on his face now that he did not have to conceal his feelings and since he had had the best part of an hour to dwell on them. He had never been a possessive man, or so he had thought, but now he felt every drop of the white-hot fury a man would feel when he caught his woman with a lover. He felt as though he cared. It angered him that he had been deceived; it angered him that his name had been dishonoured and, more than anything, it angered him that it mattered.

  “Is Lady Darent here?” he demanded, when the door opened to his peremptory knock.

  The housemaid, mute, eyes wide as dinner plates, nodded.

  “I’ll announce myself,” Owen said, pushing the door wide and striding into the hall. The house was tiny, the corridor so narrow he felt as though the walls were closing in on him. His fury needed more space than this. He felt hemmed in and could feel the anger boiling up in him. He exerted absolute control to keep it down. No point in frightening the maid. She was already trembling and her face was pale as milk.

  He strode down the passageway. The house was very simple; plainly decorated, a couple of good quality paintings on the wall and a thin strip of carpet woven in bright colours. He would have expected that Tess would wish for a great deal more luxury from her love nest than this. Surely she would want a deep feather bed and plump pillows, and smooth satin against her naked skin?

  The image was unexpectedly erotic and did nothing to sooth his temper. Devil take it, Tess Darent was his betrothed, not Brooke’s, and he had treated her with absolute respect. He had not even kissed her yet. More than once in the past week he had wondered why not. His desire for her had not diminished. If anything it had become keener because he had started to know her and to like her very much. He had no longer lusted after Tess simply because she was beautiful, a physical embodiment of some sinful fantasy. The real Tess Darent had seemed quite different from the dream, sharp and sweet, strong yet vulnerable, a woman of decided opinions and determined will. He had admired her very much. He had wanted her very much.

  Owen was not a man accustomed to delayed gratification where women were concerned. Generally he took his pleasure as he saw it. His liaisons had been enjoyable but in the past they had lacked the depth to hold him. With Tess it had been different—or so he had thought.

  He could hear voices from a room to the left. At least if they were talking he would not catch them in the act of making love, though it was not going to be pretty. He could imagine it all: Tess in a state of undress perhaps, her bodice undone to give a glimpse of the curve of her breasts beneath, her hair unbound in all that glorious red-gold profusion. Brooke would be lying back against the pillows with that curst youthful arrogance of his and beckoning her to come to his bed…?.

  Owen opened the door.

  And realised that he had made a monumental mistake.

  The first thing that he noticed was that there were three people in the tiny parlour and they were all fully clothed. Furthermore they were drinking tea from bone china and could not have looked more respectable had they been at a vicarage garden party.

  Tess was seated in an elegant old wing chair before the fire. There was a sketching pad with pencil drawings open on the table beside her. Opposite her was a young lady of strikingly pretty appearance who over-set her cup when Owen burst in and sent tea cascading onto the worn rug in front of her. A fair proportion of it showered Justin Brooke, who had been kneeling in front of the fire toasting crumpets.

  Toasting crumpets… Owen had rushed in expecting to find his fiancée in flagrante and instead found her alleged lover toasting crumpets. A faint sense of the ridiculous possessed him. He could not help himself.

  Tess got to her feet with exquisite, unruffled calm. Or perhaps she was not so calm, Owen thought. Certainly she was very careful to surreptitiously cover the sheets of sketches as she moved forwards to greet him.

  “Good evening, my lord,” she said, as though Owen’s precipitate appearance was both expected and extremely welcome. “I am so happy that you could join us.” Owen doubted that, but Tess was already turning to the young lady. “May I introduce Lady Emma Bradshaw?” she said. “I believe you are already acquainted with her brother, Mr. Brooke.”

  Brooke gave Owen the very slightest and most awkward of bows. “Rothbury,” he said.

  “Brooke,” Owen said coldly. Whatever the situation here—and clearly he had misjudged it somewhat—this was a man for whom he had absolutely no respect and he did not trouble to pretend otherwise.

  Brooke’s face took on a deep flush. Sensing Owen’s blatant hostility, Tess once again threw herself into the breach.

  “Lady Emma,” she said, drawing the girl forwards. “This is my fiancé, Viscount Rothbury.”

  Owen found himself the subject of a very frank gaze from Lady Emma’s enormous blue eyes. It was evident from a single glance, he thought, who had inherited the strength of character in the Brooke family.

  “I hope,” Emma said, “that you are good enough for Lady Darent, my lord.”

  It was not a concept that Owen had ever considered before. He cast a glance at Tess and saw her lips twitch as she tried to hide a smile.

  “I am not certain that that is the thought uppermost in Lord Rothbury’s mind at present, Emma,” sh
e murmured.

  “Well, it should be!” Lady Emma took Owen’s hands in a firm clasp and drew him down to sit beside her on the settle. “You should know, my lord,” she confided, “that when my husband deserted me last year and my family disowned me, it was Lady Darent who took me in and persuaded the Duke of Farne to provide for me—” Her gesture encompassed the little parlour and all that was in it. “She has been the best and most generous of friends to me.”

  Out of the corner of his eye, Owen saw Tess shift uncomfortably in her chair. He could see that Lady Emma’s words, however well intentioned, disturbed her.

  “Not only that, but Lady Darent has enabled Justin to visit me, my lord,” Emma was saying. “When my family cast me off, my parents forbade him to see me ever again. They threatened to cut him off without a penny but he was determined not to abandon me.”

  It was Brooke who shifted this time and Owen hoped it was with guilt to be given so much credit for so little. The pieces of the picture were beginning to move into place in his mind. He could see precisely how Tess had enabled Justin Brooke to continue to visit his sister. Their supposed affair was the most perfect cover for his clandestine visits, not to a mistress but to a sister he could no longer publicly acknowledge. Owen deplored the craven way in which Justin had used Tess and he could not understand why she had permitted it. He had been right before when he had sensed that there was not one iota of sexual attraction between them. The idea was absurd. He felt an enormous relief, but it was still edged with anger for Tess’s indiscretion in publicly dishonouring his name and the protection he offered her, as well as ruining her own reputation so carelessly.

  “There must have been a very important reason that led you to ask Lady Darent to come here tonight, Lady Emma,” he said softly. “What was it?”

  He felt Tess stir. She took a step towards him.

  “My lord—” she began.

  Owen turned his head and looked at her. “Do you wish to tell me,” he said coolly, “or permit Lady Emma to do so?”

  Tess looked across at Justin Brooke, and Owen felt his temper soar dangerously again. No, Tess and Brooke were not lovers, but there was something very strong that drew them together. He could sense it. They were political allies but it was more than that. He remembered the payments on Churchward’s balance sheet. If Tess had been funding Brooke, perhaps in the manner Sir Francis Burdett had funded her first husband’s political ambitions, it might explain why she had taken both of the Brooke siblings under her wing in different ways. She was Justin Brooke’s benefactor. Owen felt an even greater contempt for the man then, thinking of his clandestine meetings with Sidmouth and his pledges to change allegiance and give up the names of his radical allies.

  Brooke made an instinctive move towards Tess, quickly checked when Owen turned sharply on him. Brooke was running a finger around the collar of his shirt as though it were so tight it was cutting off his breath. Which would be no bad thing, Owen thought. He wondered when—or if—Justin Brooke would develop a spine and not only stand up for himself but also openly defend those he claimed to love. The man was weak through and through.

  “Do you have anything to say, Mr Brooke?” he asked with immaculate courtesy.

  “No, my lord,” Brooke mumbled. He did not meet Owen’s eyes. “This is my sister’s business, not mine.”

  “Tom has come back,” Emma said in a rush. “Tom Bradshaw. My husband.” Her fair, open face was flushed and troubled, her blue eyes pleading. “I didn’t know what to do.” She wrung her hands in a gesture of unconscious distress. “I was fearful, upset, so I sent to Justin to ask Lady Darent to help me.” She stopped. “I didn’t know what to do,” she repeated, more softly. “I love Tom and I don’t want to see him arrested, but I cannot trust him and I know he has done some terrible things.” She stopped. The misery was palpable in her voice. “I thought that Lady Darent would know what to do,” she said, turning towards Tess. “She always helps me.”

  Tess took both of Emma’s hands in hers and drew her close, as gently and unselfconsciously as a mother might do. Owen saw Justin Brooke watching them.

  “You should turn him in,” Brooke said viciously. “We could set a trap for him—”

  “No!” Emma’s cry was wrenching. “You always hated him—”

  “Of course I did,” Justin said. “Look what he did to you, Em. He’s ruined you!” But Lady Emma had cast herself into Tess’s arms now and was sobbing as though her heart would break. Owen watched Tess stroke the girl’s bright hair and murmur soothing words to her, and he thought of the Darent twins and all the love Tess Darent had within her to give. He felt torn between tenderness for her and the deep anger that still burned in him.

  He caught sight of Justin Brooke. Brooke was also looking at Tess and what Owen saw in his eyes gave him pause, for Brooke’s expression was yearning, almost hungry. It might be the case that Tess had no romantic interest in Brooke, but Brooke most certainly wanted her, and that, Owen thought, made him more dangerous still.

  CHAPTER NINE

  THE SILENCE IN THE HACKNEY carriage was intense. Tess had never thought silence could be so loud. The atmosphere between them had changed as soon as they had stepped out of the house. She had not been naive enough to imagine that Owen would not be angry with her for what she had done that night, but she had hoped that by now the anger might be muted, knowing that she had come here only with Emma’s best interests at heart. She glanced sideways at Owen’s tense profile. There was a frown between his brows and his jaw was set hard. His disapproval, his censure, was so intimidating that she quaked. And it mattered to her. She felt as though her stomach had dropped away as she realised how much it mattered to have Owen’s good opinion.

  “You are angry with me,” she said unsteadily.

  The glance he gave her shredded her with its contempt. “How very perceptive of you, madam.”

  “It is instructive,” Tess said. “I have never seen you angry before. I was beginning to think it was an emotion foreign to your nature.”

  His eyes were dark, inward looking. “You have no idea, I assure you.”

  Tess shrivelled a little. His words only served to emphasise how little she understood him. She had wondered what might move Owen to anger or passion. Now she knew. She had done it through her reckless lack of regard for his feelings and his honour.

  “I’m sorry,” she said. She had to start somewhere and abasing herself was probably the best place.

  “Are you?” His tone was still clipped. He slanted a look at her. Tess could read nothing from it other than that it was not particularly friendly.

  “It seems that you cannot help but be careless of your reputation,” Owen said, and his tone stung her. “That is your choice. But you should not be so careless of my good name.”

  “No.” Tess knitted her fingers together. She was all too aware that when Owen had agreed to wed her she had sworn to behave in future with the utmost propriety. He had taken her word. Then she had created a scandal before they were even married by leaving a ball with the man everyone assumed to be her lover. Owen’s fury was entirely justified. Her behaviour had shown nothing but disdain for his name and his honour. It pained her to see his disappointment, more so because he had trusted her and she had let him down. She had not expected to feel his hurt. Yet within a few days, Owen’s strength and generosity had already made her care and she could not escape that emotion.

  “No,” she said again. There was a hollow of misery under her heart. “I know. I am truly sorry.”

  She felt him shift his shoulders against the back of the seat and sensed the very slightest easing in his anger.

  “Brooke is weak through and through,” Owen said, “to hide behind your skirts.” His tone held biting scorn.

  Tess flinched. “You are harsh,” she said, “but I suppose there is some truth in what you say. Justin—” She felt Owen shift at the familiarity and quickly corrected herself. “Mr. Brooke was not prepared to defy his parents openly and
risk being cut off without a penny, but he still loves his sister and wishes to see her.”

  “Of course I am harsh,” Owen said. “This is a man who has not only failed to stand up for what he believes in but also allows an older woman to take a very public responsibility for his actions.” He turned directly towards her. “Was there no other way?” he said. Tess could feel the anger and frustration swirling in him. “No other way than to allow people to think he was your lover?”

  Tess sighed. “People will think what they will,” she said. “They always have done that. I realised long ago that I could not stop them and I ceased trying to change their minds.”

  “You should have tried harder,” Owen snapped, turning away. “Behaviour such as this only encourages the rumours that Lord Corwen, for one, sought to exploit.”

  “I realise that,” Tess said tiredly.

  “Then why go tonight, in full view of everyone?” Owen said. “Tell me, Teresa.” He sounded exasperated. “I want to understand.”

  Tess was silent for a moment. She could feel his impatience as he waited, wound tighter than a loaded spring.

  “I’m sorry,” she said for a third time. “It was an error of judgement. Emma needed me and so I went to her.” She rubbed her forehead. “It was a stupid thing to do. I see that. I should have sent word to Garrick and asked him to go to help Emma instead, but I knew he would wish to capture Tom and have him arrested. Emma did not want that, so…” She shrugged hopelessly.

  “So you kept Emma’s situation a secret and went yourself,” Owen said grimly. “With Brooke. The least sensible option in front of an entire ballroom of people.”

  “I know.” Tess felt miserable to her soul. She had thought about it so long and hard. When Justin had first approached her with Emma’s news her heart had sunk to her slippers because she knew Emma had nowhere else to turn. She had hoped that as Owen was absent he might not hear of her apparent indiscretion or that at the least she would be able to smooth him over and make light of the matter. She glanced again at his profile, the harsh lines of his face in the skipping shadows of the carriage. She had underestimated him.