“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 grea
t-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 sist
er 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.
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