Desired (16 page)

He would take her as recompense, Owen thought. For a second he was wrenched with sorrow that their marriage would be so shallow, the very fashionable affair that she had claimed she wanted. He had sought more than that in his wife, had wanted more, more of trust, more of belief, more of respect. But with their mutual deceit uncovered now it felt impossible.

“There is another price for my protection,” he said.

He saw her look sharply at him. “A price,” she said dully. “Yes, of course there would be. There always is a price.” She sounded very tired all of a sudden, disillusioned.

“You have to give me your word of honour that you will never draw political cartoons again,” Owen said, “or take an active role in the reformist movement.”

He waited. She did not respond. She was fidgeting
with the braiding on her cloak. Suddenly he was shot through with regret and bitterness. He had not wanted it to be like this.

“Teresa,” he said, a little roughly, after a moment. “It’s too dangerous. Sidmouth will hunt all reformers down. Give me your promise.”

Her head came up. He saw a tiny spark of warmth come back into her eyes to hear the ring of genuine emotion in his voice. It was such a small thing when the truth had torn apart the relationship they had only just started to build, but Owen knew in that instant that it had not all been pretence for either of them.

“Very well,” she said, very quietly. “I give you my promise.”

Owen felt his tense muscles relax. “Thank you,” he said.

She turned her face away but not before he had seen the glint of tears in her eyes. Pity wedged in his throat; she was not the sort of woman to let him see her tears. She was not the sort of woman who willingly took help or comfort from anyone.

“Why do you cry?” he asked, and was almost amused when the look she shot him in return was pure anger rather than sorrow.

“Because of what I am losing.” Her tone was crisp. “My drawing…” She rummaged in her reticule and withdrew a ridiculous scrap of lace, which she scrubbed fiercely at her eyes. “It matters to me. You wouldn’t understand.”

He did, actually, or he suspected he did. When he had taken his title he had given up his previous way of life, given up the sea and the exploring and the life that had made him the man he was. Like him, Tess was losing her passion and she would have to find a different way of living. He felt an impulse to tell her, to reach out and comfort her, but her shoulder was turned against him and she was staring fixedly out into the blind dark.

Owen sighed. “Are there any other secrets I should know before we wed?” he asked, and he did not miss the very slightest hesitation in her before she shook her head.

“No,” she said, her tone quiet and unemotional again. “Of course not.”

Almost he pressed her on it but in the end he let it go. Her shoulders were slumped now and for a moment she looked so small and poignantly alone that he had already put out a hand towards her before letting it fall again.

He wondered what it was that Tess was not telling him. It was nothing to do with the Jupiter Club or her radical politics. He was certain of that. She had been very candid about her identity as Jupiter and he had appreciated that honesty even whilst he had been angry with her for her earlier deceit. There was still much to admire in Teresa Darent, he thought. She had a loyalty to those she cared for, whether it was Julius and Sybil,
or the foundling children of Blackfriars, or the members of the Jupiter Club.

He thought this final secret must be something to do with her choice of philanthropic causes amongst the poor and the dispossessed. They all involved women and children, those who had fallen from grace or been born out of wedlock. Had she perhaps had an illegitimate child during those wild early days after Charles Brokeby had died? There were those shocking nude paintings of her which, coupled with the stories of Brokeby’s famous debauchery and Tess’s uninhibited drinking and gambling after his death, all pointed to a phase of her life that had been recklessly out of control. Owen had been no saint himself and had a past as chequered as a draughts board, so he could not lay blame, but he did wish Tess would confide in him. Some people preferred not to expose the truth of the past, but in his experience it almost always came out anyway, and usually in the most painful way possible. But he had known Tess so short a time, and if he truly wanted to unravel all her secrets he would have to wait now. They would have to start to build again, slowly and carefully, on the foundations they had laid before. And this time there must be no deceit or betrayal.

He looked at Tess, at her profile turned away from him, so pure and clear. Every line of her body was taut and defensive, keeping him at bay, forbidding his touch.

He wanted her more than ever.

T
HEY MARRIED TWO DAYS LATER
at Southwark Cathedral.

Lady Martindale’s brother was Bishop of Southwark, a fact that Tess considered both convenient and marvellously respectable. It also solved the difficult issue of venue. Tess had been uncertain which London church to choose for her fourth trip up the aisle. She had certainly not wanted St. George’s in Hanover Square, fashionable as it was, since she had married Brokeby there.

Her second wedding had been a huge affair even though she had been a widow and good taste might have suggested that she settle for something smaller. Brokeby, of course, had been a stranger to good taste. He had wanted to show off his beautiful young bride to the entire ton. It had been a bright May morning with resplendent sunshine and the cherry trees in blossom in the square. Within an hour, however, the brightness had turned hazy and the spring rain had started to fall heavily, washing away the blossom. Tess thought she really should have recognised the omen for what it was.

On this particular day the sky was a pearly grey with snow clouds blowing in over London like smoke. It felt chilly and raw. Tess tried to ignore the cold, tried too to
banish the chill from her heart, which felt frozen with a chip of ice. The confrontation with Owen, revealing their mutual deception, had left her feeling like she had lost a true friend. Somehow, despite her intentions of making no more than a marriage of convenience, she had come to value Owen a great deal. And then she had lost him. The hollow sensation in her heart made her want to cry and she did not understand why.

It was fortunate that Southwark Cathedral possessed a very small chapel since the wedding party was sparse. Joanna was there, dazzling in cherry-red silk with a saucy hat. Merryn was in sapphire-blue. Both Tess’s sisters sported the definitive accessory of a handsome and adoring husband. Joanna even had the ultimate trophy of a beautiful little daughter. Tess tried hard not to feel jealous and failed comprehensively. Rampant adoration of her sisters was all very well, she supposed, but not at
her
wedding when she was making a marriage of convenience. The contrast seemed too bleak.

It was not that Owen did not look handsome. In fact, when she had first seen him waiting for her at the altar, Tess had experienced a very peculiar fluttering sensation in her midriff. Owen had paid her the compliment of being immaculately turned out, unlike Darent, who had arrived late for his own wedding with his shirt hanging out. And Owen was not drunk, unlike Brokeby, for whom it had almost been a permanent state. In fact Owen did not take his eyes off her all the way up the aisle—she was alone because she was damned if
anyone was going to give her away other than herself—and there was something in his gaze that made her feel very hot even though it was snowing outside.

“You look beautiful,” he whispered to her when she reached his side, and for a second she had felt as though it was summer and the sun was out.

But her feeling of pleasure was fleeting and shallow. One glance at her sisters shot her through with another pang of envy so sharp and painful she almost caught her breath aloud. The longing tightened in her gut like a knot, and she did not even know what it was she coveted. She glanced at Owen again but he was concentrating on the bishop’s words.

There were no smiles on Owen’s side of the church where the Ladies Martindale, Borough and Hurst sat like a vast wave of disapproval with Rupert Montmorency sandwiched between them, his shirt points so high he could barely turn his head without impaling himself. Tess was surprised that the ladies had not worn mourning dress.

The bishop spoke the words of the marriage service but Tess did not really hear them. She made her vows.

“To have and to hold…” Her voice faltered a little over the words and she felt Owen’s fingers tighten on hers. She looked up and met his eyes. There was something very steady and reassuring in them.

Owen made his vows too, his voice a great deal firmer than hers.

“With my body I thee worship…”

A fierce shudder went through Tess as she remembered Charles Brokeby slurring the same words, remembered his hands hot on her body, grasping, brutal hands reaching for her, his lust plunging her into the depths of horror.

“Teresa?” Owen’s voice was soft. Tess blinked, forcing the images back in the dark recesses of her mind. She trembled.

Owen slid the ring onto her finger. It felt too big; her hands were very cold and she was still shaking. She did not really understand why she should be nervous, not when she had done this three times before and could recite the words of the wedding service in her sleep.

The service over, they all went out of the church and into the snow. Tess was feeling colder and colder, shivering beneath the beautiful golden cloak that covered her matching gown of gold tissue. She had thought when she set out that she looked very fine, her hair dressed with pearls, her cloak trimmed with white fur. Now, though, the clothes could provide physical warmth but not the usual confidence that fashion gave her. She could feel her assurance leaching away and was baffled and angry with herself. She should be happy. She had achieved her marriage of convenience; Julius and Sybil were safe, and Owen had promised that he would protect her from Sidmouth’s investigations. But then she watched Joanna slide her hand through Alex’s arm and press her cheek to his shoulder in a little caress. She
saw Merryn slip her hand into Garrick’s. And she felt a sting of tears.

Something of how she was feeling must have communicated itself to Owen, for he covered her hand briefly with his gloved one.

“All right?” he murmured. His head was bent close to hers and his touch was reassuring. Tess wanted to cling to him. She nodded, even though she was lying. Owen smiled at her, the warmth lingering in his eyes. His lips brushed her cold cheek and she jumped.

“Rothbury!” Lady Martindale claimed Owen’s attention abruptly and Tess felt lost again, adrift from the others, lonely and frighteningly alone.

Back in the gloomy house in Clarges Street a wedding breakfast had been set up in the dining room. Houghton and the rest of the servants were lined up in descending order of precedence, like the other statues in the hall, to welcome their new mistress.

“I look forward to your improvements to this museum piece, Lady Grant,” Lady Martindale boomed as she sailed through the statuary of the hall like a galleon negotiating a reef. “When will you start work?”

Tess swung around on Joanna, who was looking slightly embarrassed.

“You are going to be decorating the house?” she said.

“Lady Martindale suggested it,” Joanna murmured, “but of course I was going to speak with you first, Tess.” There was a note of pleading in her voice, an apology Tess did not want to hear. All she could think
was that Lady Martindale had not chosen to speak to
her
of the plans—had not, in fact, acknowledged her in any way since the engagement had been announced—but that she had been quick enough to approach Joanna on a project.

Perfect Joanna who had everything Tess wanted…?.

Another sliver of ice pierced her heart. The thought, so instant, so instinctive, frightened her. She did not want a marriage like Joanna’s and she especially did not want a child of her own, not with the process one had to go through to get one. She had what she wanted. Yet even as she framed the thought she knew she lied. She wanted what Joanna had, yet she was so fearful of it too. She wanted to be cherished, she ached to be loved in every sense, but the chasm of fear that was Brokeby’s legacy to her seemed to yawn at her feet, taunting her that she would never be whole again.

Her gaze sought out Owen, who was across the other side of the hall chatting to Garrick and Alex. Tess wanted to draw reassurance from the sight of him, but she was starting to feel so odd and disconnected from reality that it felt as though he was already slipping away from her. She put a hand out to steady herself against one of the pieces of statuary, which promptly swayed and almost toppled over.

“Probably drunk,” Lady Borough said loudly. She was deaf and seemed to assume everyone else was too, judging by the way she shouted. “Or pregnant with Justin Brooke’s child. Did you hear the latest
on dit?
Mr. Melton celebrates Rothbury’s wedding by exhibiting some more nude portraits of the bride. To think the Rothburys have come to this—”

Lady Martindale, clearly neither as deaf nor as vulgar as her sister, hushed Lady Borough, but the damage was done. There was an odd, heavy quiet in the hall as everyone fell silent. The servants stared at the floor, frozen into immobility.

Tess felt a huge burning wave of shame start at her toes and work its way up her entire body. She knew that everyone was looking at her. Merryn looked stricken. Joanna put out a hand to her but Tess could see the pity in her eyes. It made her want to scream. She looked at Owen again but he seemed so far away from her, across a vast expanse of marble littered with those hideous busts of dead Roman emperors. She knew that she had to get away. She headed for the door, past Lady Borough, ghastly old gossip, past Lady Martindale, past Lady Hurst, who was saying plaintively, “What did you say, Amelia? I can’t
hear
you!”

Owen was calling her name but she ignored him too.

Then she was out in the snow and running down the street because she realised that if she needed somewhere to hide, to be alone, there was nowhere for her to go now. Her bags had been brought over from Bedford Street that very morning; she was Lady Rothbury now. She had no other home but this, and the house in Clarges Street was no refuge, full as it was of people who either scorned or pitied her.

But really there was only one place to go, a place she should have gone a long time ago. She had tried to ignore Melton’s paintings, tried to pretend that they did not exist because they had belonged to that dark and shameful and utterly repugnant place that she only ever visited in her deepest nightmares. But now she knew she would finally have to see them. She would have to confront them and the damage they had done to her life. There was no other way she could go on, not if she was to have a future that was different from the past.

Suddenly she saw very bright, very clear, exactly what she had to do.

She jumped into a hackney carriage and set off for the Strand, still in her golden wedding dress and with the snow settling amongst the pearls in her hair.

T
HE SNOW LYING IN THE
backstreets off the Strand was not white and pretty. It was a dirty grey, melting, mingled with the rubbish and slops. It fell from a dark grey sky. Night was already closing in.

In the chaos that had followed Tess’s abrupt departure from her own wedding celebrations, Owen had not known where to look for her. He had had visions of accosting every passerby and hackney-carriage driver and asking them if they had seen a woman in a bridal gown running full tilt down the street. Then Joanna had taken him aside.

“I think you will find her at Melton’s studio,” she had said. She was distressed, visibly shaking. “Poor Tess, she has never said a word about the exhibition—” she
paused and shot Lady Borough a furious glare “—but I know it hurt her deeply.”

So here Owen was in this shadowy, insalubrious corner of the Strand, where London suddenly seemed a great deal more shabby and shop-soiled than it did in the glittering ballrooms of the ton.

The door to Melton’s art studio stood ajar. As Owen paused on the step, someone opened a window above and the contents of a chamber pot rained down onto the snow beside him.

“He’s not open yet!” a female voice called. “Come back later!” A woman was leaning over the sill above, chamber pot dangling from her hand and the neck of her dirty white nightgown drooping open. Her hair was a wild tangle and she looked as though she had only that moment arisen from her bed.

“Here for the exhibition, are you?” she said, looking Owen up and down. “You and all the other bucks in town.”

A sudden loud crash from inside the building distracted her attention and she withdrew her head hastily. Owen heard her swear. Ignoring the instruction to come back later he pushed the door wide and stepped into the hall. He was instantly assailed by two unpleasant smells, cabbage and paint fumes, both of which stuck in his throat. The hallway was dark; he could dimly see a bare staircase rising to the first floor.

He had not expected Melton’s premises to be quite so ramshackle. A fresh wave of anger assailed him that
the artist should not only debauch Tess’s reputation by exhibiting such lurid paintings of her but that he should do so in such unsavoury a setting. He knew this was ridiculous. Clearly it would be no better for nude paintings of his wife to be exhibited in Buckingham Palace. Yet it seemed just another sign of disrespect for Melton to hang them here in the backstreets and invite every lecher in the ton to come and view them.

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 voy
euristic 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.