From above came the sounds of raised voices, Tess’s words sharp and clear.
“You have one chance, Mr. Melton. I ask you to act as a gentleman and remove these offensive pictures from exhibition. If you do not do so I shall do it for you.”
And the artist’s tones, oleaginous, gloating. “My dear Lady Darent, you should be proud to display such luminous beauty—”
“Lady Rothbury,” Tess corrected. “It is my wedding day, Mr. Melton, as no doubt you are aware.”
Owen paused as he heard Tess claim his name as her own. An unfamiliar emotion made his heart clench. He set his foot to the bottom stair just as there was another crash from the room above. He heard Melton’s voice. “Lady Rothbury—” And this time the gloat had gone and there was an edge of fear in it. Owen raced up the stairs and flung open the door of the exhibition room.
He had not been sure what to expect. He had thought to visit the exhibition himself before to see what all the fuss was about, but it had made him feel too voyeuristic and too much like all the other rakes of the ton who lusted after Tess. He had wanted the real Teresa Darent, the one he had started to know, not the fantasy version with the painted smile and the tempting body. Now, though, as the naked images of Tess surrounded him on every side Owen was struck momentarily dumb, utterly overwhelmed by the collision between fantasy and reality. There was Tess reclining on a red velvet couch, creamy skin illuminated in the pale lamplight, a little sensual smile playing about her lips and gleaming in her half-closed eyes. There was a painting of Tess from behind, leaning over the back of the same couch, all voluptuous curves and tumbling hair. And—dear God—there was Tess lying on an enormous bed, arms stretched wide, thighs parted, her lower legs entangled in the sheet, the lazy look in her eyes indicative of the fact that she had been pleasured to within an inch of her life. Owen felt his body harden in sheer visceral response to the image and hated himself for it. In a flash he imagined all the other men who had stood there feeling as he did now and he felt sordid and furiously angry.
A palette of paint whizzed past his ear to splatter with an almighty crash against the enormous painting to his left. In it Tess was lit from behind in ethereal white light. She was actually wearing some clothes in this one—a long transparent white robe that only served to emphasise the lushness of the body beneath with its beautiful curves and angles. The picture showed her nipples rosy-pink through the fine lawn and the shadowy triangle of hair at the juncture of her thighs.
Red hair. Owen was really struggling now.
Another palette thudded into the wall, liberally splashing both Owen and the painting. The transparent white robe was now a gown of many colours, the picture despoiled beyond repair.
The artist was wailing. “Lady Rothbury! I beg you! No …”
Owen regained the power of movement just in time to avoid the final pots of blue and green paint that hit the portraits to his left, one after the other, with the precision of bullets. Colour splashed like blood, coating the pictures, the walls and the floor, running in rivulets down the paintings until they were nothing but an unrecognisable blur.
Owen doubted that Tess had even registered the fact that he was there. Her glorious golden wedding gown was smeared with paint, as were her hands. She had taken her cloak off so that she could throw more accurately, and the violence of her actions had loosened her hair from the pearl pins so that it fell about her flushed face in soft waves. But it was the look in her eyes that made Owen catch his breath. He could understand why Melton was afraid. Not even in battle had he seen such utter concentrated fury in anyone.
Tess dropped the last of the empty pots and turned back to the artist’s easel. There were two paintings left undamaged. She picked up a knife. Owen started forwards. Paint was one thing, a knife quite another.
“Teresa,” he said.
Tess ignored him. She spun around on Melton and Owen heard the artist give a little whimper. But she ignored Melton too. Slash went the blade across one canvas, so violently that the frame splintered and the portrait came away from the wood. Owen felt his heart lurch. He heard Tess make a little sound, half satisfaction, half sob. She raised the knife again and cut the last remaining picture from top left to bottom right. Owen could see her hand shaking now. There was a cut across her palm, the blood red amidst the green and blues of the paint. He put his own hand on her wrist and she dropped the knife with a clatter on the bare boards of the floor.
“That’s enough now,” he said very gently.
The dark inward gaze of her eyes faltered then. She looked about the room, from canvas to canvas, paint-spattered and slashed. Her breast heaved suddenly with a huge sob, and then she was crying as though her heart would break. Owen grabbed the cloak and wrapped her in it, swinging her up into his arms. On the floor Melton was almost crying too, cowering and scrabbling amidst the overturned pots and fallen frames.
“You were lucky it wasn’t you,” Owen said grimly.
“Yes, my lord.” The artist’s eyes were wide and terrified.
“Leave town,” Owen said. “And don’t ever come back. And if I hear that you have ever displayed a single portrait of my wife again—”
“Yes, my lord,” Melton said, before Owen had even finished the sentence.
Owen nodded. He turned his back on the ruined studio and went out, carrying Tess as carefully as though she was brittle china. He could feel her shaking with grief and reaction. Her face was buried against his neck. Her hair tickled his throat. He carried her to the waiting carriage and placed her gently on the seat, climbing in after her. He took her hand and examined the cut to her palm. It was not deep but it was bleeding slowly and he ripped a strip of material from his sleeve and bound it about her hand.
She did not speak one word. After a while her trembling started to abate a little, and a while after that Owen felt her body soften and relax in his arms. She opened her eyes, blinked and sat up.
“Owen.” She sounded exhausted. “You came to find me.”
Owen smiled at her. “Remind me never to get in your line of fire,” he said.
Her face lightened into a smile but it faded almost immediately. A little frown dented her forehead between her brows. “Yes … Did I … did I really do that? Destroy Mr. Melton’s exhibition?”
“Yes,” Owen said. “You obliterated it. Do you feel better for it?”
Tess sat up straighter. “I should have done it years ago,” she said.
“Why did you not?” Owen asked.
The light died from her eyes. “Because I wanted to pretend it did not exist,” she said. “I tried to disregard it. But today—” A little shudder ran through her. Her voice shredded, turned thin. “Today when I heard Lady Borough …”
Owen was shot through with a bolt of protectiveness so powerful that he felt physically shaken. “She should be ashamed of herself for speaking like that,” he said gruffly.
“No,” Tess said. “I am the one who is ashamed.”
“Don’t be,” Owen said. He saw the single tear that escaped from the corner of her eye to slide slowly over the curve of her cheek. She was trying so hard to hold the tears in check.
“You don’t know,” she whispered. “You don’t understand.”
“You can tell me if you like,” Owen said. “But not now. Don’t think about it now.”
She nodded. Her shoulders had slumped again and she looked so frighteningly pale Owen thought she might faint. He remembered that she had not eaten all day, that she had run out before the wedding breakfast. He drew her gently to him and after a moment she relaxed against his shoulder, her eyes closing. She stayed like that, tucked into his side, until they reached Clarges Street.
“We’re home,” he said softly as the carriage drew to a halt.
Tess was so stiff as he helped her down from the carriage that she almost stumbled and fell. Owen put his arms about her to steady her. She looked like a fairy princess in the golden cloak and gown with the snow settling on her hood and swirling
around her. A very woebegone princess, he thought, paint-spattered and dishevelled. A wave of emotion swept through him, tender and protective. On impulse he leaned forwards and kissed her gently. Her lips were cold.
“Come inside,” he said softly. “Come to bed. Let me hold you. I’ll make everything better, I swear.”
He kissed her again, still careful to be gentle.
A shiver impaled her. For a moment he thought her trembling was from desire and that the high emotions of the day had made her turn to him for love and comfort, and he felt inordinately glad. His body surged in reaction to the quickening response he felt in hers, his erection hardening.
Tess made a sound of distress and wrenched herself away from him. She cast him one horrified look, then turned, tumbled up the steps of the house in a welter of golden gauze and disappeared inside. The door slammed behind her with so much force that the house shook. Owen stood still, the shock driving every last vestige of lust from his mind.
That went well.
Tess had not been nervous. She had been frightened. She had been scared and repulsed and horrified. No woman, Owen thought ruefully, had ever responded to his kiss with quite such repugnance. It was far, far worse than the first time. No woman had ever run from him in terror before.
The footman was still standing on the pavement, his face studiously blank. The horses shifted, snorting and stamping in the snow.
“Thank you, Cavanagh,” Owen said to the coachman. “Pray get the horses into the warm.” He ruefully reflected that he was turning into the perfect aristocrat, able to ignore the most outrageous things going on under his nose and carry on as though nothing were amiss. The footman held the front door for him and he followed his wife into the house. He was relieved to see that the wedding guests, with great tact, had taken themselves off. The house was empty and quiet.
A couple of overturned statues in the hallway showed Tess’s path to the library. Apollo, Owen saw, now had a chipped nose. Aphrodite’s arm had come off. No doubt Owen’s predecessor was spinning in his grave.
Owen hammered on the library door. “Teresa, open the door!”
The sound reverberated through the silent house, bouncing off all the statuary with their knowing eyes and shuttered faces. Owen did not really want to have to break down the door. In the first instance, it was made of old oak and was very fine. In the second, it was strong. He could not simply put his shoulder to it. His mind boggled at calling Houghton and asking for an axe in order to hack a path through to his wife.
“May I be of assistance, my lord?” Houghton had materialised silently beside him.
“I doubt it,” Owen said grimly. A thought occurred to him. “Actually, yes, Houghton, you can help. Pray go to the kitchens and fetch a tray of cold food for myself and Lady Rothbury.”
He went back to the library door, which remained stubbornly shut. He knocked again.
“Teresa,” he said, “open the door.” He paused. “I have food,” he added cunningly.
He heard the key turn. The door opened a crack.
“Where is it?” Tess said.
Owen grinned. “Houghton is fetching it.”
“Oh.” She started to close the door again.
Owen inserted his foot into the gap. “Let me in,” he said. “We need to talk.”
There was a moment when he thought Tess might just slam the door on his foot but she did not. She let go of the door and stood just inside it, staring at him. There was a fire lit in the grate and the room was hot. She had removed the cloak and was standing there in her paint-spattered golden dress. Her blue eyes were drenched in tears, rimmed in red. Owen was astounded to see that she could actually look ugly. Not that it would help matters to say so at this point.
“Right,” he said. It came out more roughly than he had intended but he was tired and it was the end of a very long day. “What the hell was all that about? Why did you run away?”
She was upset. He could see that. But she was angry as well. And somehow, even though he had been married for only a day, Owen knew it was going to be his fault. She stared at him, accusation in her eyes. Then she stared down at his pantaloons as though trying to work out exactly what was concealed in them.
“You were supposed to be impotent,” she said.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
IT WAS TURNING INTO ONE HELL of a wedding night.
Owen rocked back on his heels. His first thought was that he had misheard.
“I beg your pardon?” he said.
“I expected you to be impotent,” Tess repeated. “I wanted you to be impotent. And then, when you kissed me, I felt—” She broke off, glaring at his pantaloons again.
Owen gestured her to sit down and took the place beside her on the sofa. Tess immediately moved farther away from him and curled up in a corner, her feet tucked under her, arms wrapped about herself.
“I am sorry that I cannot oblige you,” Owen said. “But what on earth gave you the idea that I was impotent?”
Tess looked confused. “It was understood.”
“By whom?” Now he was the one who was confused. Had the entire ton been discussing his supposed incapability?
“You had been injured fighting the French,” Tess said. “It was common knowledge that you …” She paused. “That you had sustained a debilitating wound.” Her eyes touched his face then she looked away. “Mrs. Tong told me so that night at the brothel. She said that you … that the Captain of the Dragoons had no lead in his pencil.” She looked up and there was indignation in her eyes. “You were in charge of the troops that night!”
“No, I was not,” Owen said. “I was merely there in my capacity as one of Sidmouth’s special investigators.”
Tess stared at him for a moment and then her face crumpled as she realised the extent of her misunderstanding.
“But Alex and Joanna …” Her breath caught on a gasp. “They said it was true!”
“Grant told you I was impotent?” Hell. Owen thought he probably owed Alex something for trying to elope with his wife all those years before, but he thought they had got past that. This was a devil of a way for his friend to take revenge. “What did they say?” he asked.
Tess ran a hand through her disordered curls. She looked ruffled and cross and bewildered. Owen found he wanted to touch her, pull her into his arms and comfort her. He wanted to offer her comfort because he was not impotent and she had wanted him to be. Dear God, what a coil they were in.
“Well …” Her voice had softened into hesitation. “When I say that they told me, that is not quite true. But when I announced that I was to marry you, neither of them warned me.”
“Warned you that I might want to sleep with you?” Owen raised his brows. “It is the done thing in many marriages.”
“Not in my marriages.” Tess looked harried. “You never tried to kiss me,” she said. “You never tried to take advantage.”
So this was what he got for behaving like a gentleman, Owen thought. There really was no justice. “I’m old-fashioned,” he said.
“Everyone tries to seduce me.” Tess looked confused again. “Are you sure you really are—”
“Yes,” Owen said. “I am sure. Why did you not ask me directly?” He added, “If you needed to be certain?”
Now Tess looked even more cross. “I would not be so indelicate,” she snapped. Colour the shade of deep rose stung her cheeks.
She was shy.
It was another shock. Owen knew that Tess was nowhere near as brazen as she pretended, but the extent of her naivety and her reticence surprised him. No one would believe it and yet the defiance in her eyes and the blush that was spreading down her neck told the truth of it. She had been too shy to tackle such a personal subject directly with him and so she had relied upon gossip and hearsay. And as a result … As a result she was married to a man who was not only very far from incapable of consummating their marriage but had a positive desire to do so.
Which brought him neatly to the most important question o
f all.
“Why did you want an impotent husband?” he asked.
Instantly her shoulders tensed and her body became even more hunched and rigid. Her lavender-blue gaze slid away from his and fixed on the velvet cushions.
“I told you that when I proposed,” she said. “All I required from you was the protection of your name. A marriage in name only,” she repeated dully. “That was what I wanted.”
Owen spared a moment to reflect on the irony of it all. When Tess had first come to him she had said she needed protection for herself and her stepchildren. He had suspected her of deceiving him by seeking protection from Lord Sidmouth’s investigations too. In the process of untangling both of those issues he had completely forgotten her original demand for a marriage of convenience. Now he could see it was the most important element of the entire arrangement and it was far, far too late to put it right.
“That is not an answer,” Owen said. “The question was why—why you want a husband who does not desire you.”
She was not looking at him, but even so he saw something flicker in her eyes before her expression shut down altogether.
“That is none of your concern.” She sounded cool and haughty, the Teresa Darent the world saw, the woman who gave nothing away and whose composure was as impermeable as steel. Except that she was fidgeting with the threads of the cushion until they were twisted and ragged between her fingers.
Owen shook his head. “You mistake,” he said. “I am your husband and what I expect from our marriage is that you share my bed and provide me with an heir. Those are my requirements and as they in no way match yours I think that is a matter of considerable concern.”
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