You Can't Always Get the Marquess You Want Read online

  Before Mrs. Sheehan could reply, Tempest stood. “My brother is with us.”

  Three sets of masculine brows lifted at what they perceived to be an obvious lie.

  “Of course, he is not currently present,” she hastily amended. “He took one of the horses to explore the area. Perhaps do a little hunting. We expect him to return at any time now.”

  It was her way of letting them know that they were not so vulnerable as they appeared. For protection, Mrs. Sheehan had a small pistol concealed in her sewing basket, which was doing her little good, since she had left the basket next to the chair.

  The blond gentleman stared down at Tempest as if he could deduce the truth from her expression. She kept her face deliberately blank. Even if he suspected that she had been the one to spy on them while they bathed in the river, he had no proof.

  Mrs. Sheehan moved closer. Boldly, she placed her hand on the neck of the blond gentleman’s horse and stroked the animal. “And who might you handsome fellows be?”

  Good grief, Tempest recognized that particular tone. Was their chaperone actually flirting with the men? Tempest glanced back at Arabella, who merely shrugged.

  The blond looked at his friends, and the three of them exchanged grins. Clearing his throat, he said, “You may call me Chance, madam.”

  Tempest did not need to see Mrs. Sheehan’s face to deduce she was smiling like a besotted fool.

  “Chance.” The widow sighed. “What a delightful name. And who are your companions?”

  “They call me St. Lyon, ma’am,” the dark-brown-haired gentleman to the right of Chance said, touching the brim of his hat. His dark blue gaze and engaging grin seemed sincere.

  “I’m Thorn,” replied the gentleman with the dark hair and dark green eyes. He appeared to be less friendly than the other two.

  “May we be so bold as to inquire after your name, dear lady?” Chance solicitously asked.

  “Mrs. Sheehan.” Not wanting any misunderstandings, she added, “Recently widowed.”

  “Eight years, I believe,” muttered Tempest under her breath, earning a sharp reproachful glare from the chaperone.

  Thorn coughed into his fist. Was he laughing at her?

  When Mrs. Sheehan shifted her gaze back to Chance, she had recovered her good humor. “It feels recent. The good ones are always missed.”

  Tempest could not understand why the older woman’s fawning over the three handsome gentlemen annoyed her. It was none of her business whom the lady flirted with, but her simpering behavior was embarrassing.

  For some reason, Chance’s gaze switched to her. “Have you ladies done any exploring?”

  “No,” Arabella blurted out.

  “Some,” Tempest corrected, glancing back at her sister. Arabella was a terrible liar. “Although not too far, since this is one of my favorite spots.”

  She and Mrs. Sheehan both took a cautious step backwards when Chance dismounted from his horse. The other two gentlemen followed his actions. St. Lyon grabbed the bridle of Chance’s horse.

  “May I?”

  Tempest was so flustered by his presence that she nodded. He was larger than she originally believed. He was an imposing figure as he turned to look at the landscape displayed on the easel, which she had been working on before her fateful encounter with the gentlemen.

  He looked at her. “You did this?”

  She did not quite trust her tongue, so she inclined her head to signal her acknowledgement.

  Chance glanced back at her unfinished picture. “You have a good eye for scale and color. My younger sister has a capable hand for simple sketches but has never mastered watercolors.”

  Warmed by the compliment, she said, “Thank you, Mr. Chance.”

  Thorn and St. Lyon chuckled. She looked at them and wondered if she had misheard their friend’s name.

  “Just Chance, my lady,” he said, bestowing upon her a quick grin that sent her pulse racing.

  “Who are you?” Augusta asked, her voice groggy from sleep. She sat up and eyed the three gentlemen with curiosity. “Are you friends of our brother?”

  “And who is your brother, little one?” Thorn asked, his face softening as he spoke to her younger sister.

  “Och, where are my manners!” Mrs. Sheehan exclaimed. “Gentlemen, these are my young charges, Lady Tempest, Lady Arabella, and Lady Augusta.”

  They were miles from a ballroom, but the introduction compelled Tempest and Arabella to curtsy. Augusta yawned.

  Her sister’s laziness did not go unnoticed by their chaperone. “Present yourself, lass. Do not shame your sisters or your family.” To prove she meant business, Mrs. Sheehan marched over to the youngest Brant and helped her stand. “Our visitors are Chance, Thorn, and St. Lyon. And what do you have to say for yourself?”

  “Good afternoon, gentlemen,” Augusta said sullenly. She curtsied, which prompted the gentlemen to respectfully incline their heads.

  “Would you care for a glass of cider?” her youngest sister asked.

  Tempest assumed Augusta made the offer because she was thirsty from her long nap.

  “A grand idea!” The older woman clapped her hands together with enthusiasm. “The jug and spare cups are in the coach. Would you care for some, gents?”

  “You are gracious hostesses, ladies. I will confess that my throat is a little parched. I wouldn’t mind a cup.” Thorn handed his reins to St. Lyon, who accepted his new role as groom with aplomb. Then Thorn walked over to Augusta and extended his arm. “My lady, would you accompany me to the coach?”

  Her sister giggled with delight at the gentleman’s attention. Whether or not he desired it, he had made a new friend. Augusta placed her delicate hand on his arm, and they followed Mrs. Sheehan to the coach.

  “I wouldn’t mind a glass,” St. Lyon announced to no one in particular. When he noticed Chance was still staring at Tempest, he realized that he was on his own. “Uh, Lady Arabella. Perhaps you can assist me. Can you recommend a place for me to secure the horses?”

  Arabella cast a wary glance at Tempest. Out of loyalty, she did not want to leave her sister’s side, but she could not come up with a good excuse. “Yes, of course. If you need me, Sister, you only have to call out.”

  Uncomfortable with having attracted Chance’s keen interest, Tempest watched Arabella and St. Lyon walk away with the three horses trailing after them.

  “Your sister seemed distressed to leave you alone with me. I wonder why?” he whispered in her ear.

  Tempest started at his unexpected closeness. Her lips parted as she was prepared to reprimand him for his impudence, but what she saw in his hand prompted her to swallow the insult.

  Chance was holding her straw bonnet.

  * * *

  He should have been angry with her. Lady Tempest and possibly her sister had spied on him and his friends, but her woebegone expression when she noticed he was in possession of her bonnet was incredibly endearing. When he had stuffed it beneath his waistcoat, he had no idea if he would ever track down its owner.

  Mathias had not expected their spy to be so attractive. With hair the color of rich coffee and skin as smooth and flawless as cream, she had large hazel-colored eyes and full pink lips. He was usually drawn toward more exotic forms of beauty, but he could not deny that he was intrigued.

  Lady Tempest stared at it as if it were a viper. “Where did you find it?”

  An unnatural pinkish tint was splashed across her cheeks and nose. Too much sun could be to blame because she had been deprived of her straw bonnet, or perhaps she was embarrassed that she had been soundly caught by him.

  She was not the only one who was uncomfortable. It was disconcerting to know that he had shamelessly stripped down in front of her and she had gotten a good look at his cock.

  The realization was enough to make him blush. “I discovered this rather charming item near a large boulder close to where my friends and I had decided to take a swim.” He held out the crushed bonnet and she snatched it from his hands
as if his touch had fouled it. “Since the bonnet belongs to you, I can only conclude that it was you who was concealed in the tall grass on the opposite side of the river. Mayhap your sister, too?”

  In a nervous gesture, Lady Tempest grabbed her long braid and pulled it forward. The dark glossy braided rope beckoned like a spoken invitation for him to stroke it. However, when he reached out to test the weight of her braid, she slapped his fingers. His mouth thinned with annoyance. “The grass did not entirely conceal your dark hair. So do not bother to deny that you were there. What did you see?”

  Mathias preferred petite ladies who were soft in all the right places. Tall, gangly-limbed females were often awkward creatures who seemed uncomfortable in their own skin, but Lady Tempest was not clumsy or too thin. She was only five inches shorter than his admirable stature of six feet, and her confidence hadn’t faltered until he presented her with her lost bonnet. It was a relief that he did not have to strain the muscles in his neck to observe her reaction to his question. Her inability to look him in the eyes and her visible distress told him that whatever explanation she was about to offer was more than likely to be a clever lie.

  “You can tell me the truth,” he assured her, lowering his voice in an attempt to soothe her. “If you are worried about Mrs. Sheehan—”

  “I am not worried!”

  He smiled at her indignation. One could not help but admire her spirit. “I can be generous if you are honest with me. Your chaperone does not even have to know that you have been a very wicked girl,” Mathias teased.

  Impotent fury burned in her hazel eyes. “What are you implying? That I deliberately spied on you and your friends? Do you think so highly of yourself?”

  Mathias scowled, but his fierce expression eased when he figured out the source of her outrage. “Got an eyeful for your mischief, eh? I’ll wager you have never seen a naked man, let alone three.”

  “Ugh, you are vile and arrogant! What gentleman removes his breeches in public with no regard to whoever might have been passing by, I ask you?” she demanded, shaking her crushed bonnet at him.

  “No more arrogant than the lady who hid in the grass to watch three men disrobe. Did you turn away in disgust or did you call to your sister and invite her to watch the spectacle?”

  Her eyes widened. “It wasn’t like that at all,” she said, her eyes bright with heat and shame. “I thought I was alone when I sat down on the boulder. I took off my shoes so I could wade into the river. Then I heard laughter.”

  Mathias had not set out to make her cry, and Lady Tempest had the look of a lady who was struggling to tether her tears. “You were curious,” he said, trying to soften the misdeed.

  She exhaled slowly. “At first, I was merely curious about the source of the laughter. I had no wish to intrude, and since I was alone, it seemed prudent not to reveal my presence. I pushed my way through the tall grass and it was then that I realized that you and your friends were—” She fluttered her hand since she had no intention of speaking of their nakedness.

  “But you stayed?”

  “No!” Worried that their discussion might be overheard, she glanced at the coach in the distance. Satisfied that no one was paying attention, she continued. “I turned to leave, but my sister startled me. I didn’t expect her to follow me. Arabella wanted to know what had caught my interest. She thought I had found a rare bird.”

  Mathias tipped his head back and laughed. Two innocent ladies had definitely encountered something rare. “Of course, you tried to stop her.”

  “Naturally. However, Arabella was insistent—Oh, you can figure out the rest. I panicked and told my sister to run when you called out to us. I prayed all the way back to our camp that you wouldn’t pursue us.”

  He had no doubt. “My apologies for ruining your splendid escape.”

  “Arabella and I ran most of the way. When you took so long to find us, I thought we had eluded you.”

  He erroneously had concluded that their spies had nefarious purposes. “You might have if I had not discovered your straw bonnet.”

  A look of disbelief flashed across her face. “You searched for us because of my bonnet?”

  Mathias would not have been comforted by the motivations that had driven him and his companions to look for her. A lusty country miss would have soothed his wounded pride. “Partly. I will admit that I was curious about the owner.”

  Lady Tempest sighed. “I suppose I owe you and your friends an apology for my intrusion.”

  “Your remorse is enough. I will explain everything to Thorn and St. Lyon.”

  His generosity seemed to lighten her mood. “You have my gratitude, sir. If Mrs. Sheehan learned of this, she would feel it was her duty to tell my brother, and he would not find any of this amusing. I know my brother. He would find some reason to blame you and your companions for my blunder.”

  “The gent sounds like a charming fellow,” Mathias said dryly. “Perhaps I know him.”

  Lady Tempest shrugged daintily. “He has never mentioned the name Chance, but Oliver does not feel it necessary to share his private life with his younger sisters.”

  “Oliver?”

  “Oliver Brant, Earl of Marcroft.” She had glanced away and missed the recognition and dismay in his eyes. His face was expressionless when her gaze switched back to him. “Are you acquainted with my brother?”

  He could not believe his bad luck. Lady Tempest was a Brant. He could not imagine that she would be happy to learn that he was a Rooke. “I do not believe so.”

  She tilted her head to the side as she studied his face. “I do not mean to be rude, but I could not help but notice that you have bruises on your face.”

  Mathias snorted. “Do I? So nice of you to bring them to my attention.” Particularly since it was your brother’s fist that did the damage.

  Lady Tempest pursed her lips. “My brother has bruises on his face, too.”

  He had already deduced that the lady was intelligent. Nor was he pleased with her connecting him with her dastardly brother. “Bruises are as common as birthmarks, my lady.”

  She ignored his dismissive tone. “Are you positive that you do not know my brother? He won’t speak of it, but it’s obvious that he was in a fight. Is that how you received that colorful bruise on your cheek? Were you brawling?”

  A cold wind blew up his spine. Lady Tempest had mentioned that her brother would be returning. He had no intention of waiting for Marcroft or any other member of the Brant family to appear.

  “Your brother is a stranger to me, my lady. I prefer to keep it that way. Now, if you will excuse me, my friends and I have a long ride home.” Mathias formally bowed and walked away from the bemused young woman.

  He could not have been more stunned if the lady had punched him in the face. Marcroft was her brother. The Marquess of Norgrave was her father. Mathias was so angry, he was tempted to march back and shake her for being related to his father’s enemy. His enemy. Lady Tempest was his enemy.

  By God, he wished he had never met her.

  Chapter Five

  Mathias waited several miles before he revealed to his companions that Lady Tempest was one of the infamous Brants.

  “Come on, Chance. This is a jest. The pretty chit is not Norgrave’s get. I refuse to believe it,” Thorn said, assuming Mathias was amusing himself at their expense.

  “Believe it, Cousin. Lady Tempest mentioned that her brother, the Earl of Marcroft had bruises similar to mine.” He gritted his teeth as he recalled their conversation. “She didn’t ask me outright, but it was apparent that she wondered if I was responsible for her poor brother’s injuries.”

  “You were,” St. Lyon added, sounding too cheerful for the occasion.

  “This is quite unexpected,” Thorn said, still not convinced Mathias was telling the truth. “What are the odds of meeting a Brant out here?”

  “Better than one might assume, considering that we spent twenty minutes with three of them,” Mathias muttered.

 
“And yet, Norgrave’s progeny were well-mannered and nary a hint of fang or tail,” St. Lyon observed, unable to resist poking Mathias about the notorious feud between the Rookes and Brants. “Aside from Marcroft, of course.”

  “Of course,” Mathias echoed in a light mocking tone.

  The news that Lady Tempest and her sisters were Brants had unsettled him. Over the years, he had heard that the Marquess of Norgrave had sired numerous children, both legitimate and baseborn. He cast a side glance at St. Lyon. There had been rumors that his friend’s mother had been one of the marquess’s countless lovers, and the speculation within the ton was that Norgrave was the sire of her husband’s heir. The earl and the countess fervently worked to quell such whispers when they surfaced from time to time. However, no one could deny that St. Lyon could have been mistaken for one of Marcroft’s distant cousins. If there was any truth to the gossip, St. Lyon was content to ignore it.

  Thorn guided his horse closer so he did not have to shout. “Do you think the ladies will mention us to Marcroft?”

  “It’s a possibility, though Lady Tempest seemed more worried about her brother finding out that she was caught spying on half-naked men,” Mathias said as he reflected on the fear she’d tried to conceal from him. “The Brants may litter the countryside with bastards, but their females are protected from their baser instincts.”

  “More’s the pity,” said St. Lyon with an exaggerated sigh escaping his lips. “If I had known who was watching us, I might have removed my breeches, too. You certainly made an impression on Lady Tempest.”

  Had he? The viscount was being ridiculous. “It was nothing like that. The chit could barely look at me once she realized who we were.”

  Mathias could tell Lady Tempest was embarrassed by the incident and her own unladylike behavior. Given her family name, he should assume that she was adept at deception, but her discomfort and remorse appeared genuine. He had been prepared to be magnanimous and forgive her until she revealed the name of her brother.