Nicola Cornick - Desired

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 the thistle knife.

“My dagger,” she said. “How kind of you to reunite me with it.”

She saw a flash of surprise in Rothbury’s eyes. Perhaps he had expected her to deny it belonged to her. But the thistle knife had been Robert’s and was of great sentimental value to her if of no real worth. Tess was not going to sacrifice it.

“Did you find anything else of mine?” she asked, very politely.

Rothbury’s keen green gaze met hers. “Did you lose anything else?” he asked.

Their eyes locked with the sudden intensity of a sword thrust.

He knew about the cartoons. She was sure of it.

Tess suppressed a shiver, schooling herself to calm. Rothbury might have the satirical sketches, but he could prove nothing. And she must give nothing away. She knew she should be afraid, yet the beat in her blood was of excitement, not fear. It felt like drinking too much champagne, or dancing barefoot in the grass in a summer dawn. She had almost forgotten what it felt like for her senses to be so sharply alive.

“Only my clothes,” she said lightly.

Rothbury smiled. “Is that a habit of yours?” he enquired. “Losing your clothes?”

“Not particularly,” Tess said, “though gossip would tell you different.” She smiled back at him. “Pray do not trouble to return them. Men’s clothing never suited me anyway.”

Rothbury’s gaze slid over her in thorough, masculine appraisal. “You do indeed look charming in your proper person,” he murmured, in that voice that always seemed to brush her nerve endings with fire.

He gestured to a drawing of Shuna, Tess’s niece, which was framed on the wall above the vase of roses. “Your work?” he enquired softly.

It sounded like a complete change of subject, but Tess knew it was not. He knew she was an artist. It was only one small step from there to her being a cartoonist. She looked at the pencil portrait of her niece. Unfortunately she had signed it. Her heart missed a beat as she noticed that the signature bore more than a passing resemblance to Jupiter’s arrogant black scrawl. How careless of her….

“You seem unsure if this is your work or not.” Rothbury’s voice was faintly mocking now.

“No, yes!” Tess tried to pull herself together. “Yes, that is one of my drawings. Art is one of the few things at which I excel.”

Once again she felt Rothbury’s gaze on her face as searching as a physical touch. “I am sure you sell yourself short,” he said. “You must have many accomplishments.”

“I don’t sell myself at all,” Tess said. She gave him a cool little smile. “Pray do not let me keep you, my lord,” she added pointedly.

So clear a dismissal was difficult to ignore and she saw Rothbury’s smile widen in appreciation. “Oh, I am in no hurry,” he said easily. “I enjoy talking to you. But if you wish to escape me, then pray do run away.” There was more than a hint of challenge in his voice—and in his eyes. He retrieved the Voltaire from behind the rose bowl and held it out to her. “Don’t forget your book.”

“Gracious, that isn’t mine,” Tess said. “French philosophy? It must be one of Merryn’s vast collection.”

“My dear Lady Darent,” Rothbury drawled, “it has your signature on the bookplate.”

Damnation .

Tess snatched the book from his hand and flicked it open. The title page held no bookplate at all. She looked up to see Rothbury watching her closely. His lips twisted into amusement.

“So it is yours.”

“Very clever,” Tess snapped.

“I think you must be,” Rothbury said thoughtfully. “So why pretend to be a featherbrain, Lady Darent?”

Checkmate . If she was clever then Rothbury was at least one step ahead of her.

Tess shrugged. “A woman is no more than a fool if she lets a man see she is a bluestocking,” she said. “Or so my mama told me.”

“I don’t think you believe that.”

Tess’s heart skipped a beat at his directness. There was something predatory in his eyes now, the intensity of the hunter. Her mouth dried with awareness.

“Why pretend?” he repeated softly. “There is no need to dissemble with me, I assure you. Confident men are not afraid of bluestockings.”

Tess laughed. She could not help herself. “You may have a remarkably good opinion of yourself, my lord,” she said, “but there are a lot of very insecure men in the ton.”

“I don’t doubt it,” Rothbury said. “Is that why you feign ignorance, Lady Darent—so that you do not outshine any of your male acquaintances?”

Tess smiled. “It is easier,” she said. “Some men do have a very large—”

Rothbury raised a brow.

“—sense of their own importance,” Tess finished.

“How fascinating,” Rothbury said. “I suspected that you were a consummate actress.” He glanced at the book in her hand. “And I see that it is in the original French too….” His gaze came up, keen on her face. “So you read French Republican philosophy, Lady Darent. You sketch beautifully, you carry a knife and a pistol when you go out at night—”