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

  The man released her and staggered back into the wall. Tempest moved toward Chance, but he walked around her and struck the edge of the walking stick against Archie’s head. Dazed, the drunk slid down the wall until his backside hit the floor.

  “Are you hurt? Do you want me to summon the watch?”

  Tempest started at his harsh tone. “I—I do not know. I suppose we should or he might do this to another lady.”

  She groaned, wondering how she was going to explain to her brother what had happened. Oliver was not going to be reasonable when he recognized Chance. Nor would he thank the man for rescuing her from the clutches of a drunk.

  Archie decided to take his fate out of their hands. When Chance looked away, the man climbed to his feet and swaggered toward the stairs.

  “Let him go,” she called out before the marquess could give chase. The man had frightened her, but he hadn’t had a chance to rob her. Or kiss her. “I am unhurt.”

  Tempest brought her hand up to her mouth, and tears threatened to fill her eyes. The harsh lines of his face faded and were replaced with concern. He opened his arms and she stepped into his embrace. She pressed her face into his evening coat and tried not to cry.

  “There, there, Bessie,” he lightly teased. “All is well.”

  A soft choking noise bubbled in her throat and she shoved him away. “Do not call me by that awful name.” Tempest made the mistake of looking at his face. “And no laughing. The man ruined my perfectly terrible evening.”

  “My apologies, Lady Tempest,” he said, trying to sound sincere. “Why did your friend think your name was Bessie?”

  “I told him my name was Elizabeth. He dubbed me Bessie,” she explained. Tempest touched her hair with her fingers and remembered that her headdress had fallen to the floor. Espying it several yards away, she marched over to retrieve it.

  “What were you doing out in the corridor alone with a drunken stranger?”

  With her headdress clasped to her breast, she walked back to him. “We arrived late, so there was only one seat left. I told Arabella to take it while I intended to stand in the back,” she said, knowing she sounded defensive. “When more people arrived, I was sort of nudged out into the passageway.”

  “Nudged?”

  “Well, I didn’t go willingly,” Tempest snapped at him. “Before I could return, Archie grabbed me.”

  “And then he tried to kiss you.” His lips thinned with displeasure and he glanced at the doorway that led to the stairs as if he was planning to follow the man.

  “At first, I thought he was just a harmless drunk.” She nibbled her lower lip. “Then later … I don’t know what he would have done if you hadn’t arrived. And here, I haven’t even thanked you properly.”

  She must have been more unsettled than she thought.

  His gaze studied her face as if he needed to be reassured that she was indeed unhurt. “You’re welcome.” He tucked his walking stick under his arm and tugged the headdress from her boneless fingers. “Here. Allow me to assist you.”

  Chance brushed bits of debris from the lace cap and adjusted the plumes. “Lean forward.” When she obeyed, he placed the headdress on her head. Satisfied with the results, he lightly combed the curls around her face. Their gazes met as she raised her face upward and accepted his ministrations without complaint.

  “Much better.”

  Tempest straightened. “Thank you.”

  Chance reached into his waistcoat and produced a handkerchief. He pressed it into her hand. “You might want to wipe the smudge of grime from your chin.” Without any warning he tugged the linen from her grasp. “On second thought, let me do it.”

  She was grateful for the gloomy interior because it hid her blush.

  He tilted her chin with a touch of his fingertips, and he used the handkerchief to wipe the dirt away. “You and your sister need more than my remarkable instincts for sensing trouble and Mrs. Sheehan to look after you in a place like this.”

  She winced at the anger in his voice. After her encounter with Archie, she had to agree. “We are not so foolish as to arrive without an escort. My brother is with us.”

  “Is he? So where is this brother of yours?” he demanded. “He was not with you when I passed you on the stairs. Nor was he here while you were fighting off the amorous advances of a drunk!”

  “I don’t know!” she said, embarrassed and grateful that Chance had been there for her when her own brother was absent. “He told us that he would meet us, but something has detained him.”

  “Or someone. Lord Marcroft is selfish to put his needs above his sisters when they are under his protection.”

  Even she could not offer a defense for Oliver. “So now you admit that you are acquainted with my brother. The day we first met, you denied it, Lord Fairlamb.”

  His jaw flexed as he ground down on his back molars. “Then you know who I am.”

  “Not really.”

  Chance appeared surprised by her honest answer.

  “I know only that you are a Rooke, and that I am to avoid anyone bearing that name.” Tempest expelled a soft sigh. “I should return to the private box before my sister or Mrs. Sheehan notice that I am missing.”

  “Is my name the reason why you and your sister refused to acknowledge me on the stairs?” he asked.

  She tried to quell the guilt rising within her. Arabella had been correct when she said that the marquess had been offended by their rude behavior. Still, he had put his injured feelings aside to rescue her. His noble actions only managed to confuse her. “In part. My sister is unaware that you are a Rooke. Only I know the truth.”

  And Oliver.

  He captured her hand to prevent her from leaving. “Do you know why our fathers are bitter enemies?”

  It was an unexpected question. Tempest shook her head. “No. My father never speaks of the past.”

  “Neither does mine. Unfortunately, I have been acquainted with your brother since I was a boy. I can assure you that he has earned my hatred. Marcroft is an arse.”

  Tempest smiled at his coarse language. “I would not have used that particular word, but I am familiar with my brother’s stubbornness.” Her smile faded. “I am truly grateful for what you have done, but I want you to leave. I do not want my brother to see you. If he saw us together, he would use it as a reason to challenge you.”

  “Lady Tempest, your brother and I have been fighting since we were boys. I doubt—”

  “He knows we met by the river that day,” she blurted out. “I have spoken privately with him, and he has sworn not to mention it to my father.”

  Chance sneered. “And you believe him.”

  “Not for you, Lord Fairlamb. He keeps silent in my behalf.” She hesitated. “Oliver protects me from our father. Even you must know that he can be quite unreasonable about your family, and I would have been punished for speaking to you.”

  The marquess took a moment to ponder her words. “‘Unreasonable’ would apply to my father as well.”

  “Then we are in agreement, my lord. We will not speak of this meeting to anyone.”

  He cocked his head to the side. “I liked it better when you called me Chance.”

  Tempest gave him an exasperated look. “I will not be calling you anything, since we shall not meet again.”

  “Do you want to wager on it?”

  The man was hopeless. For both their sakes, she walked away.

  “No?” He followed in her wake. “Permit me to escort you to the entrance of the private box.”

  “There is no need.” Tempest halted abruptly and turned to confront him. “Please. I do not wish to be responsible for you and my brother fighting.”

  “My dear lady, Marcroft and I rarely need a reason to pummel each other.” Chance shackled both her wrists to prevent her from entering the box. “Nevertheless, if given the opportunity, I would challenge him for leaving you and your sister alone.”

  She was touched by his offer to defend her, but it was unnecessary
. “I am fully capable of making my brother suffer for his sins.”

  “I would enjoy watching such a spectacle,” he said, and the humor she had attributed to him at their first meeting gleamed in his eyes. “I will take my leave on one condition.”

  “I owe you a boon for your timely rescue. All you have to do is name it,” she said, eager to see him leave before her brother sought her out.

  “A kiss.”

  Tempest’s lips parted in amazement. “Is this some kind of prank?”

  “When I came upon you and your drunken fellow, you appeared to be resigned to your fate.” He released her wrists and awaited her reply.

  The gentleman was addled. “I most definitely was not!”

  “You are no coward, my lady. Bestowing a chaste kiss … naturally, on the lips,” he swiftly amended so she could not find a means to escape his demands by kissing the air or his hand.

  “One kiss.”

  “It will be painless,” he promised. He leaned on his walking stick and stood there as if he were prepared to remain in front of her for the rest of the evening.

  “Oh, very well,” she grumbled, and took a step closer before she took the coward’s path and ran from him. “You are a fool to kiss me, Lord Fairlamb.”

  Chance grinned. “You do know how to charm a gent,” he teased.

  Tempest placed her hand on his shoulder and rolled onto her toes to reach his lips. Her mouth pressed against his. She closed her eyes, counted to five, and then quickly withdrew.

  Her heels touched the floor and she looked up at him expectantly, feeling awkward and embarrassed. If her brother had discovered them, Chance would have taken a bullet for that kiss.

  The marquess stared at her as he stroked his lower lip with the pad of his thumb. If he dared to tease her about her inexperience, she was uncertain she could stop herself from strangling him.

  “Your boon is accepted, Lady Tempest,” he said at last. “Quite unexpected. I will bid you a good evening.”

  Chance bowed and strolled off. He did not glance back to see if she entered the theater box.

  Tempest touched her fingers to her lips. For some reason, she sensed that Lord Fairlamb had granted her a small reprieve. No man would have been content with the chaste kiss she had given him.

  She also had a disconcerting feeling that he was not quite finished with her.

  Chapter Nine

  It had been unsporting of him to demand a kiss from Lady Tempest.

  The chaste peck on his lips should have amused him. He had kissed his sisters with more enthusiasm. He could almost hear the silent counting in her head before she swiftly pulled away and braced for his mockery.

  He could not decide if the manner in which she kissed him was deliberate or if she was that naïve.

  Even she was aware that she deserved to be ridiculed for that paltry reward.

  However, he let her walk away, her dignity intact. It was safer than revealing the truth. Her pitiful kiss had almost brought him to his knees. The second her soft, invitingly warm lips connected with his, the spark of attraction crackled beneath his skin like a summer thunderstorm. It flickered and playfully danced across his flesh, causing a chain reaction of awareness, sending a lightning bolt straight down to his cock. Lust coiled and rumbled within him like thunder. The ground beneath his feet seemed to give way, but not the need to press her against the nearest wall and kiss her until she was as breathless and yearning as he.

  Lady Tempest was unaware of the internal battle he fought. She stared up at him, her expression a combination of wariness and hopefulness that he would be satisfied. It was apparent that she was unmoved by their kiss. He wanted to shake her until she lost some of that immeasurable control.

  For leaving him wanting her.

  The lady was a Brant, he reminded himself. Off-limits. Forbidden. Mathias was not interested in dallying with a virgin. Complicated females were not challenging. They were a royal pain in the arse.

  His walk to the bowels of the theater was unhindered. Mathias was a practical man. It mattered little that Lady Tempest had inspired the lust churning in his gut like a caged beast. Another female was waiting for him. Miss King would not question his eagerness. She would lie on her old worn chaise longue and pull up her skirt and petticoat to entice him with her well-shaped legs. Clara would not blush when he unfastened his breeches or complain that he was not gentle when he covered her with his body and buried his cock in her womanly sheath. She would embrace the pleasure of their coupling, hold him to her breasts as he pulled out of her and spilled his seed against her thigh. It would never occur to her that while he was thrusting within her, he saw another lady’s face in his mind.

  Even if she suspected, Clara was too shrewd not to use his weakness to her advantage.

  Of course, Lady Tempest would be scandalized if she knew her kiss was about to drive him into the arms of another woman. Or perhaps she would be relieved. Allowing herself to be seduced by Blackbern’s heir was the stuff of nightmares, he thought mockingly.

  Miss King’s male servant was no longer guarding the door. There were no lingering male admirers milling about to chase away or hinder his efforts to claim her as his mistress.

  Mathias raised his hand to knock, but decided against it. He preferred to surprise Clara. He silently turned the doorknob and opened the door several inches. What he saw within the room froze him in place.

  Clara was not alone.

  “You cannot leave me like this,” she huskily pleaded.

  “I am already late. I am supposed to escort my sisters to the Oxtons’.” There was a rustle of fabric, and her male companion groaned. “Christ, Clara, you make me lose my head when you touch me like that.”

  It appeared the woman Mathias viewed as his soon-to-be mistress had decided not to wait for him after all. She had invited another gentleman into her dressing room while she waited for his return. The man had wasted no time on pleasantries. Oblivious to everyone but themselves, his little songbird was perched on her dressing table with her legs wrapped around the man’s hips. From his position, Mathias could hear her soft gasps as the man rhythmically stroked the heated flesh between her legs. Just by listening to her breathy escalating cries, he knew she would soon experience the cresting pleasure as her wet channel tightened around the man’s fingers.

  If Clara’s goal was to make him jealous, she had unwittingly selected the perfect gentleman for the task.

  Mathias did not need to see the man’s face to recognize the Earl of Marcroft.

  Instead of looking after his sisters, the scoundrel was seducing the woman Mathias intended to make his mistress for the season. He was furious. Not for having Clara stolen away from him, but for Lady Tempest. If Mathias had not thought to check on the lady, the drunken fellow who had accosted her might have done more than frighten her.

  Mathias quietly shut the door. If Clara had hoped for a confrontation between him and Marcroft, she would be disappointed. His pride was bruised by the mere fact that Marcroft was involved. By God, he truly despised the gentleman. However, no lover had ever been worth shedding a single drop of blood. London was filled with beautiful women, and he would simply find another to share his bed.

  So Lady Tempest and her sister are attending Lord and Lady Oxton’s ball?

  The lust that drove him straight to the duplicitous Miss King had been inspired by another lady. Why should he not seek her out?

  Hmm, could I?

  He was mad to contemplate it.

  Lady Tempest was a Brant. She was complicated and an innocent. Not really the sort of female that appealed to him.

  Or perhaps it was the risk of getting caught that he found so tantalizing.

  Still, there was no doubt the lady needed someone to watch over her while she fluttered around London.

  Why not him?

  The added benefit was that Marcroft would be positively apoplectic if he caught Mathias even glancing in Lady Tempest’s direction.

  Mathias grinned a
t the pleasant vision of the earl frothing at the mouth. And if the man was foolhardy enough to challenge him to a duel, then he would put a bullet in him for being a rotten brother. As for Lady Tempest, it was not as if he planned to seduce the chit. He had not completely lost his mind. Although he had to admit his thoughts about her were not entirely honorable.

  He would kiss her again. Next time, he would show her how to kiss properly. His hands trembled in anticipation of another taste of her succulent lips.

  Mathias had suddenly developed a craving for sweets—and forbidden fruit was the sweetest of all.

  * * *

  “Did you fall asleep during one of the performances?”

  Tempest glanced at her brother, who sat across from her in the coach. Taking up more than half the seat so there was little room for Arabella, Oliver had a languid, indulgent expression on his face. The fact that he was oblivious to her barely suppressed annoyance at him just vexed her all the more. If this was her brother’s attempt to tease her into forgiving him for abandoning them for most of the evening, then he would have to do better than insult her.

  “Why do you ask, Brother?”

  He raised his hand and used two fingers to gesture at her head. “One of your white plumes is bent and it’s listing to the right.”

  With a growl of frustration, she pulled the headdress off her head. “I lost the pins anchoring it in place.”

  “How did you manage that, brat?” The corners of her brother’s mouth curled upward.

  Mrs. Sheehan took the headdress from her to inspect the damage. “It is a fine piece, and a shame some rude fellow knocked it off your head and stepped on it,” the widow said, echoing the explanation Tempest had given the two women. “Once we arrive at Lord and Lady Oxton’s town house, I should be able to mend it.”

  “Don’t tease, Oliver,” Arabella admonished. “Tempest was kind enough to allow me to have the remaining seat in the theater box.” To her sister, she said, “I feel just awful that you were so miserable.”

  “I managed through it,” she murmured, thinking of how heroic Lord Fairlamb had been when handling the drunken Archie. Tempest deliberately refused to ponder her brazen behavior, allowing him to taunt her into kissing him. “Oliver, you never really did explain where you were for most of the evening.”