He’d been twenty-six at the time, well on his way to becoming a rake like his late father. As a genteel young lady making her bow to society, Tess was much too innocent and proper for his tastes.
Oh, she was an acknowledged beauty, no doubt about it. Her thick, glossy hair was mahogany dark and rich; her face fine-boned and captivating, her complexion pale and perfect. Her figure was slender but enticingly ripe in all the right places.
She had a serene loveliness about her, an unmistakable feminine allure that drew Ian against his will. She’d left a deep mark on his memory that night, a mark that had only increased over the years since. But even though Tess’s magnetic beauty bowled him over at a physical level, it was her passionate warmth and spirit that touched him on a much deeper plane—as did, ironically, her genuine goodness.
Perhaps because it was such a contrast to his own misspent youth, Ian suspected, when he was a wild, moody lad with a tree-sized chip on his shoulder.
He had wasted his younger years living on the edge of compulsive excess, defying society’s dictates and living down to his licentious father’s expectations. After inheriting the title at twenty-two when his ducal father was shot in a duel by a jealous husband, Ian had further tarnished his reputation by spending all his time in gaming hells winning enormous fortunes, and in various bedrooms indulging in amorous affairs with women who pursued him primarily for his title and wealth.
Compared to him, Tess Blanchard was a saint. Even without the comparison, she was laudable. She had a giving heart that was unfeigned, and an indomitable spirit that had earned his admiration. Even though she had suffered bitter disappointments in recent years—having lost both her parents and then her beloved betrothed—she’d risen above her own misfortunes to lessen the misfortunes of others. Ian couldn’t help but be impressed by her strength and resilience, by her tenacity and courage.
Tess was a fighter as well as being a pioneer of sorts. Like other young ladies of her genteel station, she made up baskets of food for the poor, stitched shirts and knitted stockings, and collected donations from the neighboring gentry. But her efforts went much farther and had a far greater impact.
One of her chief causes was the Families of Fallen Soldiers, relatives and loved ones of those who had died fighting in the decades-long war against French tyranny. She also visited soldiers’ hospitals in London to comfort sick and wounded veterans. And over the past summer, she had expanded her solicitations to the entire Beau Monde and organized several charitable benefits that drew the cream of the ton, including the Prince Regent.
It amused Ian to watch Tess at work, soliciting funds from the wealthy denizens of the ton. She was sweetly ruthless, persuading with charm and common sense, and if that failed, shaming them into opening their purses. She frequently managed to get her way, despite the obstacles in her path.
But admiration or not, Ian had done his utmost to quell his attraction for Tess because Richard had laid claim to her the night of her comeout ball. He might covet what his cousin had, he might still feel the pull of desire every time he looked at her, but he possessed enough honor to consider her strictly off-limits. He’d even helped Richard salvage his courtship of Tess four years ago, Ian recollected.
And while Richard was abroad fighting a war, he’d kept away from her as much as possible. If he was forced by family duty or social convention to interact with her, he made certain he always riled her—picking fights, dictating to her, generally throwing around his weight as head of Richard’s family—in part to conceal his craving for her, but also because his state of arousal around Tess frequently put him in a foul mood.
Even after his cousin’s death, Ian kept up the pretense of being at odds with Tess and only backed off a little out of consideration for her grief.
He hated to see her grieving, though. He’d been the one to break the news to her of his cousin’s death two years ago, conveying the letter from the War Ministry commending Richard’s valor on the battlefield at Waterloo.
It was the second hardest thing Ian had ever done. The hardest was seeing the resulting devastation in Tess’s eyes. Her sorrow had ripped through his chest. Even though he’d brought Lady Wingate with him to t
ry and console Tess, she had proved inconsolable, then or in the months that followed. Her betrothed’s untimely death had changed her, had stolen the laughter from her eyes.
A fierce protectiveness had welled up inside Ian that day. And he still felt protective of her, whether he wished to or not. As a consequence, he’d made certain that Tess was well guarded by her servants whenever she went to London to visit hospitals or asylums to care for wounded war veterans. And more recently, he’d commissioned actor Patrick Hennessy to look after her when she visited the theater district to foster clever new projects that generated income for her charities.
He hadn’t wanted Tess to know he was so concerned for her welfare. There was no point in advertising his involvement with her charities either. As soon as he returned from London, he would remind the actor of his promise to keep quiet, Ian noted.
His outsized protectiveness was largely the reason he hadn’t fought having to wed her. He felt obliged to save Tess from a scandal he had caused.
By marrying her, he would also be making reparations of another sort. Although for good reason, he’d been the one to send Richard off to war in the first place, thus changing Tess’s fate irrevocably.
At least Lady Wingate should be pleased by the marriage, Ian surmised. The baroness’s violent reaction to their wanton conduct had seemed a bit overplayed, now that he had time to consider it. In fact, he suspected her ladyship of trying to throw them together, much as she’d done four years ago at Tess’s comeout ball. But if she wished to promote a love match between them, this was hardly the way to go about it, forcing Tess to choose between her beloved charities and ruination.
“Your carriage is ready, your grace.”
His reflections interrupted by the Wingate butler, Ian donned his greatcoat and beaver hat and stepped out into the rain.
He likely wouldn’t sort out his complicated feelings for Tess any time soon. And just now he had to drive to London to procure a special license for a marriage neither of them had anticipated … and she, at least, violently opposed.
The impending termination of his bachelorhood didn’t exactly fill him with delight either, Ian admitted. Yet he couldn’t deny that it had crossed his mind recently to court Tess himself. Indeed, for the past several months—ever since Lady Wingate had insisted her goddaughter was coming out of mourning—he had toyed with the notion of seriously considering matrimony, and of making Tess his first choice.
He’d doubted she would be amenable to his suit, though. He had done too good a job of deliberately antagonizing her.
And now, Ian thought with a sardonic twist of his lips, it probably served him right that he had to deal with the extreme ill will he had purposefully sown.
Shaken and dismayed, Tess was grateful to reach her bedchamber at Wingate Manor without encountering anyone. She couldn’t bear to face the baroness or any more gawking houseguests just now. Not when she had to struggle with such a life-altering decision.
As Tess let herself into her room, the weight settling on her chest made it difficult to breathe. She was aghast to think she would have to marry Rotham despite their mutual antagonism—and furious at herself for letting this disaster come to pass.
Yet you will be facing a worse disaster if you don’t accept his offer, she reminded herself. Not only would scandal render her an outcast in society, her precious charities would be devastated.
Tess didn’t doubt that Lady Wingate would carry out her threat to ally with the entire ton against her. The baroness actually had ties to Rotham’s family by marriage; Judith’s late sister-in-law had been his maternal aunt. But they might as well have been related by blood, given their forceful natures. Her ladyship had an acerbic wit just like Rotham, and had regularly run roughshod over her weakling husband before Baron Wingate’s untimely demise from a lung ailment several years ago.