Desired. Nicola Cornick
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“So you are in debt?” Joanna’s exquisitely plucked brows rose disbelievingly. “I don’t believe you. You have a fortune to eclipse every other widow in society.”
“Clothes,” Tess said vaguely. “They are so monstrously expensive.”
“That is one matter on which you cannot gammon me,” Joanna said robustly. “I know all there is to know about the cost of fashion and not even you could spend all your substance on it!”
They stared at one another defiantly. Tess wondered what on earth Joanna would say if she confessed that her money was in fact mainly spent on charitable causes and radical politics. No doubt she would be more shocked than if Tess had confessed to spending it all on sex with handsome young men. There were political hostesses, of course, formidable matrons who supported the Whig or the Tory cause and gave smart dinners to promote their husbands’ careers. Reforming politics was a different matter, too extreme, dangerous and inappropriate, with its emphasis on improving the conditions of the working classes. No one in society should concern themselves with such matters. Charity was one thing; political reform quite another.
“My gambling debts are enormous,” Tess said, reaching for an excuse that never failed, “and perhaps I may catch myself a rich duke this time. I have no wish to go down the social scale rather than up.”
“Then you truly are limiting your options,” Joanna said sarcastically. To Tess’s relief she seemed to have swallowed this explanation. “Let me see,” her sister continued. “We need to find you a duke or a prince, old enough to die within a year or two so that his continued existence does not inconvenience you, sickly enough not to be interested in his marital rights and rich enough to increase your fortune! How very romantic!”
“I do not require romance from marriage,” Tess said.
“So I have observed.” Her sister sprang to her feet. “I do not believe that even The Gazetteer will be able to furnish you with the direction of such a nobleman.”
“I have whittled it down to a list of a few possibilities,” Tess said. “There is one duke, Feversham—”
“He died two weeks ago,” Joanna said.
“Oh. Well, what about the Marquis of Raymond?”
“Also very nearly dead.”
“Then there might still be time to catch him—”
Joanna glared. “Tess, no!”
“Lord Grace?”
“He is in the Fleet.” Joanna smiled sweetly. “You could have adjoining cells.”
Tess pulled a face. “Lord Pettifer?”
Joanna shook her head. “He is in Bedlam.”
Tess deflated. “Then there is no one,” she said.
“I told you so,” Joanna said, not unkindly.
After Joanna had gone, closing the door with exaggerated quiet behind her, Tess finished her cold tea and picked up The Gazetteer once again, flicking listlessly through the pages. Joanna was correct, unfortunately. The list, whilst giving the details of many eligible gentlemen, did not also come with a guarantee that they would see marriage in the same idiosyncratic light that she did. Not many men, when it came down to it, wanted a marriage of no more than convenience. Many wanted an heir, of course. Some wanted to sleep with their wives occasionally if they could not get a better offer. Many thought that a marriage should suit their convenience—that that was what the phrase meant. Tess had no intention of being available to service the needs of her husband. That would not suit her convenience. And so her choice was limited to the ancient, the infirm, the impotent or those who were attracted to their own sex rather than hers.
With a sigh, she put the book back in the drawer, retrieved one by Voltaire instead and wandered out into the hall.
Tess liked living with Joanna’s family in Bedford Square. The house was elegantly appointed and filled with the warmth and laughter of a happy family. It gave Tess a spurious sense of belonging to stay there. She had never had a home of her own, or at least not one she chose to live in. Her various marriage portions had given her a scattering of houses on estates across the country, but any of these would have been under the disapproving eye of her relatives by marriage, not a tempting option. Besides, she hated the country. It was dull and intensified her sense of loneliness. Only in London was there diversion enough to keep solitude at bay.
Tess knew that Joanna would never evict her but she had from time to time thought that she should purchase her own London house. It was embarrassing to be hanging on her family coattails at her age. The idea of living alone did not appeal, however. It made the cold chill in her heart solidify further.
In a sudden fit of irritation, Tess tweaked the bud off the stem of one of the hothouse roses displayed in a wide shallow bowl on the hall table. There. She had completely spoiled Joanna’s beautiful arrangement.
The door of the library opened abruptly. Two men came out, deep in conversation: Tess’s brother-in-law Alex and Viscount Rothbury. Tess jumped out of sheer surprise. Rothbury was, if not a frequent visitor to Bedford Square, then a regular one. He had even dined here on several occasions. It was no great surprise to see him here. Tess realised that it was simply that he had been in her mind, lurking behind her preoccupation with finding a new husband, the memory of the previous night catching at her heels.
In the daylight Rothbury looked every inch the viscount, elegant in buff pantaloons and a jacket cut with supreme skill, his boots with a mirror polish, his cravat tied in a complicated waterfall of pristine white. Then Tess met his eyes and saw behind the man of fashion the same dangerous challenge she had recognised the night before. This was a wolf in sheep’s clothing, an adventurer dressed as a dandy. She had made a good decision in the past to steer clear of him. A pity then that now she had come to his notice, for he showed every sign of paying her a great deal of attention.
Tess realised that she was staring, like a schoolroom miss transfixed by the sight of a handsome gentleman. She saw Rothbury raise his brows in faint quizzical amusement, and she blushed. That was even worse. No man had the power to make her blush. It was not something she did.
Rothbury exchanged a quick word with Alex, who shook him by the hand and went back into the library. The door closed behind him with a soft click. The house was suddenly quiet, the hallway temporarily devoid of servants. Rothbury started walking towards Tess across the broad expanse of chequered tile. She felt a curious urge to turn tail and run away. She shoved the book by Voltaire behind the flower arrangement. It really would not do to be caught reading philosophy, not when she was supposed to be a featherbrain.
“Lady Darent.” Rothbury was bowing before her. “Good morning. I trust that you have recovered from your experiences of last night?”
“I trust that you have forgotten them,” Tess said. “A gentleman would surely make no reference to our last meeting.”
A wicked smile lit Rothbury’s face. It deepened the crease he had down one tanned cheek. “Ah, but there you have the problem,” he drawled. “Surely you have heard that I am no gentleman, merely a Yankee sea captain?”
“I’ve heard you called many things,” Tess agreed smoothly.
He laughed. “And none of them flattering, I’ll wager.” He kept his eyes on her face. The intentness of his expression flustered her. “I am glad I saw you this morning,” he continued. He put a hand into the pocket of the elegant coat. “I have something here I think must be yours.”
Tess’s heart did a sickening little skip. She had wondered about the loss of the cartoons. She had wondered about them all the way home and for the best part of the night. She had not thought Rothbury had them, for surely he would have asked her about them if he had found them in her purse. Now, though, it seemed she might be proven wrong. For a moment her mind spun dizzily, then with a fierce sense of relief she saw that it was not the drawings he held in his hand but