To Desire a Wicked Duke (Courtship Wars)

Seeming finally to become aware of her surroundings, Tess gave him her full attention. “I beg your pardon? What dismal ruminations?”

“You are still stewing about our marriage, are you not?”

“Truthfully, I was thinking of something else entirely.”

Visibly shaking off her musings then, she bestirred herself and accepted his hand to descend the carriage.

Yet when she stepped down, Tess hesitated a long moment, looking up at the magnificent residence of mellow golden stone. Displaying grace and grandeur in every line, Bellacourt boasted four vast wings of four stories each, built around a large central courtyard. Tess had visited there twice before with Richard, Ian knew, but she’d seen only a fraction of the many rooms and few of the numerous outlying buildings on the estate.

He meant to try and make her feel welcome, though. He well remembered what it was like growing up at Bellacourt as a child. The cold, lonely formality of his home had been unrelieved by a procession of nannies and governesses and tutors, or by the presence of his only surviving parent, since his dissolute father much preferred the sinful pleasures London offered.

“I have instructed my majordomo to make a place for your servants,” Ian said while guiding Tess up the wide front steps. “Your maid and coachman and footmen will have rooms for tonight. Tomorrow we can discuss what further staff you wish to reside here with you.”

She glanced up at him with sharp puzzlement.

“You seem surprised,” he remarked. “I am not such a complete ogre that I would deny you your own servants.”

“I did not think you were a complete ogre,” was her mild retort.

Ian bit back a smile at that show of her former spirit. “I will introduce you to my housekeeper and majordomo this evening,” he continued, “but meeting the remainder of the staff and touring the house can wait until morning if you wish. You must be fatigued after the unsettling events of the past two days.”

Her brows drew together as she studied him with something close to suspicion. “Thank you,” Tess replied, reverting to her previous emotionless tone. “I would indeed prefer to wait.”

As they reached the front door, it was opened by an imperious, silver-haired man dressed in ducal livery, and a much more congenial older woman.

Ian performed the introductions as promised, making her known to Mr. Gaskell and Mrs. Young, then added once they had handed over their outer garments, “Mrs. Young will show you to your apartments so that you may dress for dinner.”

“I trust I will have my own rooms?” Tess queried in a low voice.

A dry smile curled his lips. “But of course. Somehow I knew you would insist upon it.”

Bending, he kissed her fingers, which clearly startled her. “Smile for our audience, darling,” Ian murmured for her ears only. In a louder voice, he said, “Pray join me in the drawing room before dinner, my love. I will be counting the moments.”

When Tess was shown to her splendidly appointed rooms, she was comforted to find her maid Alice there before her. Having a familiar face with her as she prepared for dinner bolstered her spirits—although it seemed strange to hear herself addressed as “your grace,” especially with such awed reverence as Alice displayed.

She was the Duchess of Rotham now, however, and as such would have to grow accustomed to the fawning deference afforded ladies of her exalted new rank.

Tess doubted her husband would show her similar deference in his manner of address. Not only was theirs an adversarial relationship, but Rotham had all the advantages in their marriage … legal, financial, physical.

There was little point in fretting over her position of weakness, she knew, but Fanny had advised her to start off on the right footing, to establish boundaries from the very beginning. Accordingly, Tess braced herself for the evening ahead and prepared to take the offensive.

Upon descending the stairs, she was met by Gaskell, the Bellacourt majordomo, who conducted her through the large east wing to the drawing room.

Once again the rich furnishings and artwork gracing the walls dazzled her. It was hard to fathom that she was now mistress of such a magnificent estate. But when Tess caught sight of the nobleman standing near the mantel, she only had eyes for him.

Rotham wore a different coat now—this one burgundy—and white satin evening breeches. His own gaze briefly surveyed her rose silk gown, the same one she had worn

for their wedding, before he offered a pleasant greeting. When she made no reply, he dismissed his majordomo and crossed to a side table, where a decanter of sherry sat.

Tess watched him as he poured two glasses. His hair was too long for fashion, and the tawny brown locks curled over the edge of his high collar. The careless touch softened the aristocratic arrogance of Rotham’s chiseled features, with their high cheekbones and forehead.

His tone, however, had lost little of its usual mocking edge when he spoke.

“You might attempt to cooperate in our pretense of a love match in front of the servants,” Rotham said, handing her one of the glasses of wine.

“I fear I am not skilled enough as an actress to manage that feat,” Tess remarked, keeping to her plan to begin on offense. “And I certainly see no need to do so in private.”

Rather than respond in kind, he changed the subject. “Did you find your rooms satisfactory?”