To Desire a Wicked Duke (Courtship Wars 6)

Tess thought back, trying to recall those months directly after her debut ball. Admittedly, she’d felt the increased discord between the cousins during the summer before Richard went into the army. It made better sense now that she understood the cause of their friction.

And it was certainly possible that Richard had exaggerated his complaints against the Devil Duke for his own personal reasons.

She was partly at fault, however. She’d been deliberately blind to Ian’s true nature all this time. She had wanted to see him as a wicked rake for her own self-protection. To paint him black, just as Richard had done.

She’d been determined not to fall in love with so heartless a man, to open herself up to pain again. But now that she knew the truth, how could she justify not loving Ian?

The fact was, she couldn’t, Tess conceded, her head suddenly reeling in a fresh daze. Her feelings for him had been rapidly evolving since their first shocking kiss, when they were discovered by Lady Wingate and forced by propriety to wed. But now Tess no longer had any doubt in her mind—or more crucially, in her heart.

She loved Ian. Deeply, irrevocably. The kind of breathless, aching love she had always dreamed of feeling for her husband. In contrast, her girlhood love for Richard had been sweet and innocent, not the passionate love she felt for Ian.

But it was not just his incredible passion that had won her. She loved him for all the reasons Lady Wingate had just enumerated:

Because Ian would act to protect a child who was not even his. Because he possessed the kind of honor that was quietly selfless. Because he had protected her in innumerable ways all these many years, with no thought of himself. Because he had brought her back to life after an eternity of numbness.

A helpless smile touched Tess’s lips. That was likely the foremost reason she loved Ian.

Because he fired her emotions by challenging her. Because he forced her to feel. Because he had banished the emptiness inside her once and for all.

She’d resisted loving him with all her might, but her resistance now seemed foolish. She’d really had no choice in the matter once she had become his wife and been obliged to spend intimate time in his company.

But the question was, what did Ian feel for her?

Suddenly beset by gnawing dread, Tess clenched her hands together. The possibility that her love might never be returned frightened her.

Although Lady Wingate maintained that Ian’s feelings went beyond mere duty, Tess had grave doubts. He wasn’t the sort of man to fall in love. His past experiences had been very different from her own, starting with his childhood. He had never known a mother’s love, or a father’s. Indeed, had he ever known any kind of love at all?

If not, then how could he feel love for her? Tess wondered. The kind of deep, abiding love that warmed the very soul. The kind that lasted forever. The kind of love she felt for him.

She had given Ian no reason to believe she’d had a profound change of heart, Tess bleakly reminded herself. She had pushed him away from the very first, demanding a marriage in name only. Even when their physical attraction had kindled to white-hot desire, she’d insisted that any carnal relations serve only to mitigate their mutual sexual frustration—and Ian had readily agreed.

What was worse, he thought she still loved another man. Only hours ago she had fled his presence while weeping over Richard … mere moments after Ian had finally admitted the secrets he’d held close for years.

Tess’s stomach tightened as panic curled inside her. Was she too late to convince him of her changed feelings? To ask him to give her a second chance?

She wanted his love, more desperately than she had ever wanted anything in her life. She wanted a real marriage with Ian. But now any overtures she made might be futile.

Do I dare believe Ian when he says he loves me?

—Diary Entry of Miss Tess Blanchard

Ian’s strongest inclination was to follow Tess to Chiswick immediately, but he forcibly controlled the urge. Compelling her to share his company just now would only compound her distress. He would be making an even greater mistake, Ian knew, by revealing his fierce jealousy of his dead cousin and demanding that Tess choose between them.

His impotence was galling, however. When his butler appeared at the study door to ask if he wished to be served tea at his desk, Ian nearly took the servant’s head off with his growled refusal.

For a moment, Phyfe’s usual impassive countenance slipped enough to show astonishment. Ordinarily the Duke of Rotham never took his ill moods out on his underlings.

But at least the interruptio

n snapped him out of his own despondency. When Phyfe murmured a meek “As you wish, your grace,” and turned away, Ian called after the butler.

“One moment, Phyfe. Do you know Eddowes’s present whereabouts? Is he at Bellacourt?”

The butler shook his head. “No, your grace. Mr. Eddowes is here at Cavendish Square, in the library. He has been working there for the past hour or more, sir.”

“Has he? I did not hear him arrive.”

“He used the servants’ entrance, your grace, as he regularly does. Shall I summon him for you?”