Nicola Cornick Collection

by Nicola Cornick

  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 shoulde
r 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.

  “No gambling,” he said, “no extravagance, no drinking, no lovers, a diet of improving books and worthy causes … You may even develop a taste for it.”

  “It is more likely to kill me first,” Tess said bitterly.

  Owen smiled. “All in a good cause,” he said.

  He saw the anger fade from her face to be replaced by resignation as she realised he was right; she really did not have a choice, not if she wished to wash her own reputation clean to save that of her stepdaughter.

  “Damn it,” she said after a moment. “And damn you, Rothbury, for taking pleasure in my predicament. It was not supposed to be like this.” Her tone had changed on the last words, from frustration to utter desolation.

  “You do not like ceding control,” Owen said, watching her.

  “Of course I do not.” Her eyes were fierce. “It’s …” She paused. “It’s dangerous.”

  Dangerous. It was an interesting choice of word.

  “Why?” Owen asked.

  “Why is it dangerous to be at the mercy of others?” Tess’s gaze was dark, inward looking. Owen wondered what she was thinking. “I would have thought that was obvious,” she said. “It makes one vulnerable.”

  “Do you think I’m dangerous?” Owen said.

  Her gaze swept his face. She laughed. “Think it?” she said. “I know it.”

  The dance was drawing to an end, the last few bars of the music hanging on the air with rousing sweetness. Owen let Tess go as the applause rippled out and the musicians took a bow. She dropped him a deep curtsy, there in the middle of the dance floor before everyone, a perfect parody of abasement, skirts spread about her, head bowed. It looked subservient but Owen knew it was all pretence. He gave her his hand and raised her to her feet and she smiled into his eyes with such docile charm that he almost laughed aloud.

  “Is that submissive enough for you?” she whispered. “Will this convince the crowds?”

  In truth, her sham obedience only sharpened the lust Owen felt for her. Such neat defiance provoked everything in him that enjoyed a challenge. He pressed a kiss on her hand and could have sworn that she blushed for the onlookers.

  “You are perfect,” he said mockingly.

  “Oh, good.” Her smile had widened but her eyes were cold. “I would not wish to disappoint our audience. You must forgive me, my lord.” She raised her voice so those close by could overhear. “I am tired and would like to return home. Do I have your permission to retire?”

  “Doing it too brown now,” Owen said drily.

  Her gaze teased him, her look for him alone. “You wanted a biddable wife,” she murmured. “Now deal with her.” And with another curtsy she swept out of the ballroom without a backward glance, every diamond on her gown sparkling defiance, leaving Owen short of breath from an emotion he had no trouble in identifying as acute lust. Already she had him tied in knots.

  CHAPTER SIX

  “MY LADY!” THE URGENT TONES of her maid dragged Tess up from the deepest sleep. She came awake with a start, her heart pounding. For a second her mind felt hazy and confused, sluggish with dreams. She could see that there was light creeping around the edge of the bedchamber curtains but it was a very pale grey early-morning light.

  “What is it, Margery?” she said, propping herself up on one elbow, forcing her eyes to open. “Is the house on fire?”

  “No, ma’am,” the maid said. “Lord Rothbury is here to see you, ma’am.”

  “Rothbury?” Tess squinted at the clock but could not see it in the deep shadows of the room. “But it can only be eight o’clock.”

  “It is nine-fifteen, ma’am,” the maid said, in the tone of one who had been up and at work for at least four hours.

  Tess gave a muffled groan and flopped back on the pillow. “Nine-fifteen? But no one makes morning calls in the morning,” she said. “It is far too early.”

  “Lord Rothbury is doing so, ma’am,” Margery pointed out, with the brand of logic that was peculiarly her own.

  Tess was extremely tempted to burrow back into the cocoon of the bedclothes and leave Rothbury to enjoy the pleasures of the early morning alone. The room felt cold and there was little incentive to set her bare toes on the chilly floor. This could only be the latest of Rothbury’s high-handed attempts to show her that she was at his beck and call. She should tell him she was never at home until after one o’clock, roll over and go back to sleep until an acceptable hour, when Margery could awaken her with a cup of hot chocolate, as was her custom.

  Except … She hesitated. She had enjoyed crossing swords with Rothbury the previous night. Most balls were as dull as ditchwater, tedious, predictable affairs, lacking any kind of novelty. Last night, in contrast, had been unexpected, and it was Rothbury’s presence that had given it the edge. She could not remember the last time she had enjoyed herself so much, especially not in the company of a man and certainly not in the company of any of her previous husbands. Rothbury had been challenging, provocative and dangerous….

  She gave a little shiver.

  Well, she was awake now and it would be impossible to get back to sleep. She might as well resign herself to that fact and go and tell Rothbury that he needed to learn the etiquette of ton society.

  The clock was striking a half hour past ten as she came down the stairs. The morning sun cut through the high window on the landing, casting pools of light on the stairs and polishing the deep walnut of the banisters to a rich lustre. The brightness made Tess narrow her eyes. She had not even realised that the hall and landing caught the sun at this time of day. The house smelled of
coffee and beeswax polish. It was rather pleasant. From behind the closed door of the breakfast room she could hear the sound of voices. She had not imagined that Joanna would be out of bed at this time either but perhaps her sister rose early to spend time with her daughter, Shuna, in the nursery. The thought made Tess pause on the last step. She lived in this house and yet she had a very separate existence from the rest of her family. She had always kept her distance. Suddenly she felt hollow with loneliness.

  Perhaps it was this uncharacteristic melancholy that threw her slightly off balance as she entered the drawing room to see Rothbury comfortably seated before the fire reading The Times. Certainly she felt rather odd as he cast the paper aside and stood up, odd and a little gauche, just as she had done the morning she had gone to propose to him. She remembered that she had thought to lecture him on the standards of etiquette expected by the ton when it came to morning calls. At the least she had to admit that he was dressed perfectly for it. He looked immaculate. He gave her a formal bow but then he smiled as well, and Tess felt an unexpected curl of pleasure ripple down to her toes.

  Her gaze fell on The Gazetteer, which was resting on the rosewood table at Rothbury’s elbow. She could see her embroidered bookmark sticking out of the top and felt a quick rush of mortification. Rothbury had had over an hour on his own waiting for her. Had he taken a peek inside the book and realised that she had chosen him from a cast of hundreds?

  “Good morning, Lord Rothbury,” she said. “It makes a change for a gentleman to be encouraging me out of my bed rather than trying to get me into it.”

  Rothbury smiled. “I apologise,” he said. “I rise so early myself. Navy training.”

  “I hope that Lord and Lady Grant offered you breakfast whilst you waited?” Tess said.

  “Oh, I had breakfast at seven,” Rothbury said easily, as Tess repressed a shudder. “Though I did join Alex and Joanna in a cup of coffee.”

  “I am glad that someone was up in order to greet you,” Tess murmured. She waited for him to acquaint her with the purpose of his visit. He did not. Instead his gaze travelled over her with the same slow, considered appraisal as it had done on the first night they had met.