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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 recentyears—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’deven 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 try 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