To Desire a Wicked Duke (Courtship Wars)

His eyebrow lifted. “Falwell? Actually it has quite a large dungeon. Why do you ask?”

“A dungeon might prove useful for a friend of mine.”

“You have a friend who chains up prisoners?”

Tess’s soft laugh was more genuine this time. “Only in the fictional sense. She is a writer of Gothic novels and is currently plotting her latest tale. She hopes to include an element of fright—nothing too gruesome, merely suspenseful enough to make readers shiver. And a dungeon could provide ideal fodder for inspiration, especially one that might be haunted by ghosts. I should like to hear more about yours, Rotham.”

“I would be happy to oblige sometime, love,” Ian replied. “For now, however, we should join the others before they decide you need rescuing. In any event, I believe Lady Wingate wishes to toast our nuptials.”

Tess’s smile faded at the reminder, but she accepted his arm without protest, then raised her chin as if girding herself for a losing battle.

My bride. My wife. The words sounded strange to Ian. Stranger still was realizing how impatient he was to be alone with Tess.

No doubt his desire to leave Danvers Hall had something to do with his reception by the company. Since the ton was actually rather small, he knew all the noblemen present, some of them fairly well. But he hadn’t expected to be approached by each and every one of them during the course of the next hour.

The first to pull Ian aside was Tess’s cousin Damon Stafford, Viscount Wrexham, who said quietly, “I want to offer you a word of warning, Rotham. Should you hurt my cousin in any way, you will answer to me.”

“I assure you,” Ian replied, keeping his tone bland, “I have no intention of hurting her.”

“See that you don’t.”

No sooner had Wrexham walked away than Heath Griffin, Marquess of Claybourne, took his place. “You should be aware that your new wife has a large number of friends, Rotham.”

Ian suspected that Lady Claybourne had prompted her husband to make her and her sisters’ concerns known. But the next warning came from Marcus Pierce, the Earl of Danvers.

Ian held up a hand, preempting him. “Don’t tell me. You have come to threaten me with bodily injury should I harm a hair on my new wife’s head.”

“Not a threat, a promise,” Danvers said easily.

Ian might have been amused had he not known the noblemen were deadly serious. Even so, he could respect their position and was glad that Tess had so many friends who cared about her welfare, even if he was the one who would suffer the consequences of failure.

Last was the tall, fair-haired Duke of Arden, Drew Moncrief. Arden’s wry smile of understanding mirrored Ian’s sardonic one. “I suspect you know what I wish to say, Rotham.”

“I believe I do. Your new duchess is worried for my new duchess and has charged you with seeing that I don’t hurt her.”

“I won’t need to lift a finger in her defense,” Arden added. “My wife and her sisters think of Tess as their own. You don’t want to make them your enemies.”

“I expect not. I consider myself fairly warned, Arden.”

Then Lady Wingate came up to him and proceeded to express her fears for Tess. “I have begun to wonder if I acted too precipitously,” the baroness began. “If you are harboring any thoughts of revenge at being compelled to wed her, you should not blame Tess. I am at fault, Rotham.…”

With effort, Ian listened patiently and refrained from lifting his eyes to the ceiling when claiming that he had no thoughts of revenge and promising to treat Tess with consideration and respect.

Lady Wingate did not look entirely reassured, but she left him to rejoin Tess, who was surrounded by the Loring sisters.

Ian studied his bride for a moment, then glanced at the mantel clock, wondering how soon he could escape the intense scrutiny of her friends and have her to himself.

I admit Rotham sometimes astonishes me and contradicts my long-held opinions of him.

—Diary Entry of Miss Tess Blanchard

By the time the bridal couple departed Danvers Hall for Richmond, the chill, drizzling rain had ceased, but dusk had fallen. Within the relative warmth of his closed carriage, Ian observed his new wife.

Tess had spoken little once they were alone together and refused to meet his eyes. A melancholy frown pursed her lips now as she gazed out at the darkening countryside, her thoughts obviously far away.

She didn’t stir even when they reached Bellacourt.

“Pray forgive me for interrupting your dismal ruminations,” Ian drawled, “but we have arrived.”