Desired. Nicola CornickЧитать онлайн книгу.
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—”
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