Nicola Cornick - Desired

Tess could see where this was heading. “Excuse me,” she said. “I have detained you quite long enough, my lord. I could not possibly keep you any longer.”

Rothbury’s laughter followed her across the hall. As she hurried back into the drawing room, Tess was all too aware that he had stepped closer to Shuna’s portrait and appeared to be examining the signature very carefully. She could feel the trap closing.

She shut the door behind her and leaned back against it for a moment, shutting her eyes. How could she throw Rothbury off the scent? He was too quick, too clever, right on her heels now. The only way she could keep him quiet, assuming he had told no one else of his suspicions, was to kill him, which seemed a little extreme, or …

Or she could marry him .

The room tilted a little, dipped and spun. Suddenly Tess’s heart was racing with a mixture of fear and reckless determination. A husband could not give evidence against his wife in court, for under the law they were considered indivisible, one and the same person. If she were to marry Rothbury she would be safe.

She groped her way to a chair and collapsed into it.

This was madness, utter folly.

It was the perfect solution .

Leaping agitatedly to her feet again, Tess ran to the rosewood desk, pulled open the drawer and grabbed The Gazetteer , flicking through the alphabetical list to the appropriate page:

Owen Purchase, Viscount Rothbury, on inheritance of the title as the grandson of the cousin of the 13th viscount …

Gracious, the connection had been as distant as all the gossips were saying.

Principal Seat: Rothbury Chase, Somerset. Also Rothbury House in Clarges Street, Rothbury Castle, Cheshire, and five other estates in England …

In that respect at least, Tess thought, Owen Purchase’s endowments were not to be underestimated. He also had an income from those estates that was reckoned to be in excess of thirty thousand pounds per annum, which was not outrageously rich but not to be sneezed at either. There was more invested in the stock market. He was, of course, a mere viscount and so she already outranked him, but …

Tess put a stop on her galloping thoughts, placed The Gazetteer gently on the fat gold cushions of the sofa and stared fixedly at the rioting rose pattern on the Aubusson carpet. Her chest felt tight, her breath shallow. She was not sure that she was really considering what she thought she was considering. Viscount Rothbury as her next husband.

Normally she would not countenance such a marriage because Rothbury was not the sort of man she felt comfortable dealing with. He was too young, too handsome, too authoritative, too everything . But she was, if not a beggar, then certainly not in a position to choose. And Rothbury possessed several advantages. Marriage to him would remove the threat that Sidmouth posed, since not only would Rothbury be unable to testify against her, no one would suspect his wife of sedition in the first place. He was also powerful enough to protect her and the Darent twins from Lord Corwen. Plus of course his most priceless attribute was that he would not expect her to occupy the marriage bed.

There was only one flaw in her plan. She was sure that Rothbury already suspected her to be Jupiter, so if she were to approach him proposing marriage he would surely be very suspicious indeed. On the other hand, he had no proof or he would have arrested her already. If she were clever and careful she might be able to persuade him of her innocence. Plus Rothbury had little money and a keen need for some to repair his estates, and she was very, very rich. He might well be tempted enough by her fortune to marry her anyway.

Tess realised she was clenching her hands together so tightly that her nails were biting into her palms. There were, in truth, precious few other options open to her in the husband stakes.

With a quick, decisive gesture she picked up The Gazetteer and tucked it under her arm. If Rothbury had returned directly to Clarges Street, then he would be home by now. There was no time like the present. She had a call to make before her courage deserted her.

IT WAS IN FACT THREE HOURS before Tess was ready to go out, since to her time was a relative concept normally measured by how long it took her to dress. Usually she did not have a great deal of difficulty in selecting an outfit for any occasion. Today was different, however. It was seven years since she had made her last marriage proposal, to the Marquis of Darent. On that occasion she had worn holly-green and had been well pleased with her appearance. She was not sure Darent had noticed it, though. She suspected he might have dozed off during her proposal, overcome by a laudanum-induced stupor.

The thorny question of what to wear to make Lord Rothbury an offer he could not refuse was not so easy, however. After trying on a few outfits, she finally settled on a jonquil-yellow gown and matching bonnet. She was disturbed to see that when she checked her appearance in the pier glass she looked young and apprehensive, her blue eyes wide and dark and the faintest hint of nervousness in the tense line of her cheek and jaw. She stood straighter and tried to smile. It came out more as a grimace. Anxious was how she felt, unusual for her, but not how she wanted to look. With a sharp sigh of irritation she picked up her matching cloak and reticule and hurried out to the carriage.

Rothbury House was in Clarges Street, not far from Joanna’s home in Bedford Street and a most quiet and respectable address. The house itself looked dusty and shuttered although Rothbury had been living there for at least a year. It was interesting, Tess thought, that the viscount had not sought to make an impact on society when he came into his inheritance. It was the ton that had courted him rather than he seeking recognition from the ton.

The carriage halted. Tess clenched her fingers briefly inside her fur-lined gloves. There was a curious pattering of nervousness in her stomach. This, she reassured herself, was not in the least surprising. She had proposed to a man only three times before and none of those men had been anything like Lord Rothbury.

For a moment she sat frozen still on the carriage seat, wondering if she had made a terrible mistake in choosing the viscount. It was not too late. Except it was too late, for the carriage door had opened, allowing a swirl of cold autumnal air inside. It was no servant standing there, waiting to help her alight, but Rothbury himself. Evidently he had called elsewhere on his way back from Bedford Street for he was still in outdoor dress and looking impossibly broad shouldered and tall in the beautifully cut coat. He had taken off his hat and there were snowflakes settling in his tawny-brown hair.

“Lady Darent,” he said. “I had not expected to see you again so soon. What may I do for you?” His voice was smooth as honey, that deep drawl rubbing against her senses like silk. It would be very easy to be lulled into a false sense of security by such mellow tones. And that, Tess thought, would be another big mistake. She did not want to be lulled into anything by Lord Rothbury. She needed her wits about her.

He extended a hand to help her out of the coach and after a moment Tess reluctantly took it. She did not want to touch him. She rarely touched anyone. Brokeby’s cruelty had bred in her revulsion for physical contact. No matter how impersonal the touch was she shrank from it.

Rothbury’s touch was not impersonal. His fingers closed about hers and Tess could not quite repress the tremor of awareness and apprehension that quivered through her. He felt it too; his eyes narrowed momentarily on her face, a perceptive flash of green. Tess felt the heat burn into her cheeks. She was blushing again, so rare an occurrence that she had almost forgotten how it felt. Except that around Rothbury it was not rare at all. She concentrated on descending the carriage steps neatly. Falling into his arms at this or indeed any other moment was not part of her plan.