To Desire a Wicked Duke by Nicole Jordan Page A

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?”
    “As much as possible under the circumstances.” Tess glanced around the large, splendid drawing room. “I expected to feel sympathy for the poor female who agreed to be your duchess, but I concede there are many ladies who would be thrilled to be mistress of such a grand estate as Bellacourt.”
    “But you are not one of them.” He took a swallow of his sherry. “You are not exactly my ideal bride either. You are too managing and independent for my tastes.”
    Tess felt stung by his honesty. It was vexing also to admit that her feminine pride might be a little wounded, knowing that Rotham had no desire to wed her.
    “No doubt you prefer someone more helpless,” she said, parrying his gibe. “I am sorry to disappoint you.”
    She expected him to say something cutting in return,but he merely gestured toward the same side table. For the first time Tess noted the silver tray lying there.
    “Those are for you.”
    Curious, she went over to inspect the tray’s contents—several official-looking documents and a small, blue velvet box.
    “Open the box,” Rotham instructed.
    When Tess did, inside she found a lovely gold locket on a delicate gold chain. Lifting the bauble from its resting place, she shot him a puzzled glance.
    “Your birthday gift,” Rotham replied to her unspoken question. “It occurred to me that your birthday was spoiled, so you ought to have your gift now. I brought it with me to Wingate Manor yesterday, but never had the opportunity to give it to you.”
    “You brought me a birthday gift yesterday?”
    Tess stared at Rotham in near shock. She could not have been more surprised if he’d claimed to have plucked the moon out of the heavens for her.
    Tearing her gaze from his, she focused on his gift. The locket was simple, but an appropriate birthday remembrance from a family acquaintance to a single young lady—which was what they had been yesterday before Rotham had interrupted her ill-conceived experiment in passion and set them on the path to marriage with his devastating kisses.
    “The Rotham jewels also belong to you now,” he added, “and are much more valuable … although since many of the pieces are entailed, you cannot sell them. They are in a bank vault in London for you to wear any time you wish.”
    When Tess fell silent, unsure what to say, Rothamcontinued. “Those documents are from my solicitors—various legalities to allow you to keep your own fortune and properties, in addition to the details of our marriage settlement. The last is my wedding gift to you—a bank draft for the Families of Fallen Soldiers. As you recently told your major contributors, with winter coming on, the funds are badly needed.”
    Tess stared at the draft for two thousand pounds, then mutely lifted her astonished gaze to Rotham. She had been prepared to meet him with defiance and belligerence, but his thoughtful gifts had completely taken the wind out of her sails. Were his magnanimous overtures a peace offering of sorts? An attempt to reduce their constant warfare and call a truce in their verbal sparring?
    “Th-thank you,” Tess stammered. “I never envisioned such generosity from you.”
    His mouth curved. “I well know your opinion of me, sweeting. Perhaps that alone spurred me to prove you wrong.”
    If he had schemed to confound her, he had certainly done so, Tess thought, taking a long swallow of wine. She must have