You Can't Always Get the Marquess You Want (10 page)

“Hurry, lasses, we are missing the performances,” Mrs. Sheehan complained.

Much to their brother's chagrin, the streets were heavily congested with coaches and carriages as they journeyed to the amphitheater, and it had taken them longer than expected to reach their destination. Arabella had read in one of the newspapers that one of the main acts this evening was an equine melodrama. She had begged their mother to allow them to attend the performance. Lady Norgrave eventually agreed so long as Oliver joined them, and afterwards escorted her and Arabella to Lord and Lady Oxton's ball.

Tempest had expected her brother to protest, but Oliver appeared to be resigned that he would be called on to look after his sisters. Or perhaps he expected them to encounter Lord Fairlamb, which if that was the case, she was happy her brother had been delayed by several friends. He had ordered their chaperone to escort them to the private theater box and promised to join them later.

Once they were settled in their seats, she would warn Arabella not to mention that they had encountered the gentleman she knew only as Chance to their brother. Knowing Oliver, he would hunt the marquess down and challenge him for breathing the same air as his sisters or some other nonsense. She refused to allow her hotheaded sibling to ruin their evening out of the town house.

Their first week in London had been filled with dress fittings and shopping. The Oxtons' ball would be Arabella's first glimpse of the ton and a second chance for Tempest. She was determined not to disappoint her family.

By the time the trio had reached the fourth tier, there was only one seat available in their designated theater box.

“This is dreadful,” Arabella complained to Mrs. Sheehan. “There was supposed to be more than one seat.”

The horses were already circling the ring below. It seemed unfair to leave when the act Arabella was looking forward to was being announced. “You take the seat,” Tempest murmured to her sister. “Mrs. Sheehan, perhaps you could take a position near the partition so everyone will know she is not without friends.”

Mrs. Sheehan was not pleased with their predicament. “And what will you do, my girl?”

“I will remain here and wait for my brother,” Tempest replied. “He should be joining us soon, and perhaps he can secure another box for us.”

Mrs. Sheehan surveyed the crowded theater. “It's doubtful there are any spare seats.”

Tempest silently agreed, but she did not want to ruin her sister's night. “Run along. Perhaps I will be able to convince one of the gentlemen to surrender his seat.”

The realization that no one was meeting her gaze did not bode well for her.

*   *   *

Mathias presented his calling card to the male servant guarding the entrance to Miss King's dressing room, who immediately handed it to the lady's maid. Since he was late, he expected Clara would make him cool his heels so he would be properly repentant when she finally invited him to join her. He could hear male laughter coming from the room, which warned him that if she was truly vexed with him, he might be returning to his friends earlier than he had anticipated.

Ignoring the male attendant, who had a knowing smirk on his visage, Mathias turned his back on him as his thoughts returned to Lady Tempest and her sister. It was a rowdy crowd this evening. The ladies' elegant attire hinted that they had plans beyond the theater. Mathias wondered which ballroom they would patronize after the final performance. His butler had delivered half a dozen invitations for the evening. However, he had barely glanced at them because he and his friends were seeking other amusements.

Lady Tempest would be lucky if she was not robbed of her headdress and jewelry before she left the theater or later when they sought to find their coach. Mrs. Sheehan and her two charges would not be a match for a determined footpad.

Mathias glanced up at the sound of a disturbance at Miss King's door. Two gentlemen were discussing their evening plans as the pair exited the room. Three more gentlemen followed in their wake, and fifteen seconds later, another man crossed the threshold. He nodded to Miss King's servant and then noticed Mathias.

“Good luck,” the man said before he walked down the narrow corridor that would lead to the stairs.

“Miss King will see you now, Lord Fairlamb,” the servant intoned, gesturing him to enter.

Mathias found his little songbird perched in front of her dressing table. She observed his entrance as she admired her face in the small square mirror that was mounted to the table.

“Lord Fairlamb,” she said, adding a touch of color to her lower lip. “I almost had given up on you.”

“We are beyond titles, are we not? At our last meeting, you called me Chance.” Confident that she would not turn him away, he strode toward her dressing table. “Forgive me, sweet Clara. I did not arrive at the theater alone.”

She rose from her chair, and he noted that she had changed her dress. Earlier, she had appeared like an angel in white when she walked onto the stage. The dress she selected for the evening was scarlet. With her black hair unbound, she looked positively delectable.

He bowed formally and she curtsied. Neither one of them broke the connection of their gazes.

“I pray your companion was not a lady,” Clara said, her eyebrows lifting in an unspoken challenge.

“Just St. Lyon and a few other friends you have yet to meet,” he said, closing the distance between them. “I would have asked them to join me, but I was not in the mood to share you.”

“A wise decision,” she replied with a saucy swing of her hips. She held out her hand and he did not hesitate to clasp her fingers. “I dismissed the others so we might enjoy our time together in private.”

Clara led him to the dark blue chaise longue that was partially hidden by a four-panel dressing screen adorned with a floral tapestry and walnut frame. She drew him closer so they were concealed from view.

“I have missed you, my lord,” she said, staring up at him with guileless green eyes that always stirred more than his protective instincts. In fact, when he thought of Miss King, his thoughts turned positively wicked.

Mathias sat down on the chaise longue and impulsively pulled her onto his lap so he did not have to strain his neck when he kissed her. Clara expelled a soft pleasing sigh and gracefully settled into his arms.

“Did you receive my flowers?” he asked, his fingers stroking her arm in a possessive fashion.

“Yes. Your generous bounty filled three large vases.” She smiled coyly at him. “I have yet to thank you properly for your gift.”

With her curvaceous backside pressing against the front of his breeches, there was nothing he could do with his unruly body. His cock thickened as she lifted her mouth to his in a silent invitation and the heavy floral scent clinging to her filled his nose. The male servant had closed the door when Mathias entered the room. With the privacy of the dressing screen, he had the sudden desire to undress her until she was gloriously naked as she reclined against the dark blue cushions and he was filling her with his cock. The only thing that made him hesitate was that he was not seeking a hasty coupling. He wanted to take his time as they learned each other's bodies.

“Will you not kiss me?” she whispered seductively.

He cupped the back of her neck and pulled her closer as their mouths collided. His kiss was carnal and possessive. He tasted the Madeira she must have enjoyed after her performance as she flirted with her male admirers. She wiggled closer and opened herself to his slow exploration of her mouth. It was another sign that she was eager to take their friendship to a more intimate level.

Mathias groaned as Clara slipped her hand under his waistcoat. Perhaps their first time together would be on the old and worn chaise longue. The lady seemed as hungry as he was. His hand at the nape of her neck slid forward and his fingers caressed the gold and ruby necklace she was wearing.

The moderately expensive necklace reminded him of Lady Tempest and the small fortune she was displaying in public. Christ, why was he thinking of
her,
of all people! He finally had Clara warm and soft in his arms, and if he was reading her intentions accurately, she was a willing participant in her seduction.

Clara moaned when he put a little too much enthusiasm into his kiss. His cock was folded into an uncomfortable angle in his breeches, and the thickening flesh throbbed. If he unfastened the buttons to give himself some relief, the lady in his arms would end up flat on her back, his cock buried deep within her.

Mathias doubted the haughty Lady Tempest had ever sat in a gentleman's lap. He stilled at the thought. What was wrong with him? It was none of his business what the lady did or whom she did it with.

“My lord—Chance?” Clara asked, bringing his attention back to her face.

Miss King was exactly the kind of distraction he was seeking while he resided in London. She was beautiful, comfortable with her body, and willing to share it with him. When they parted company, there would be no expectations or tears.

Unlike Lady Tempest Brant. There was nothing about her that wasn't complicated. It was guilt, he thought. His instincts had warned him that the lady and her companions were courting trouble, and he had turned his back on them. She was not his responsibility. More important, he was not interested in offering a Brant his protection.

His cock withered as his desire fled.

Damn Marcroft! Where the devil was her brother? He was the one who should be watching over his sisters. Not him!

Clara could sense that his thoughts were elsewhere. “Chance, have I done something wrong?”

Mathias claimed her mouth again. It was not much of an apology, but he refused to leave her believing she had offended him. “No, my sweet lady. You are enchanting and perfect. I am mad with desire.”

“But?”

He brushed a quick kiss against her pouting lips. “I have to leave you.”

“What?”

He gently slid her from his lap and stood.

Clara remained seated on the chaise longue, which gave her a level view of the front of his breeches. There was no sign of his earlier desire, and the realization distressed her. “Where are you going?”

“I forgot that there was—” He could not admit that he was going upstairs to search for another lady. “—I have an appointment. A very brief meeting. It won't take much time at all. Can you wait for me?”

“Wait for you,” Clara echoed his words, and her darkening complexion warned him that she was unused to being rejected by any man. “After the last performance, I am supposed to attend an intimate gathering at a nearby hotel.”

Clara did not sound very welcoming, but he seized the chance to make amends. “I should be finished before the final act. I will return to the dressing room. If it pleases you, I can escort you to the hotel.”

Perhaps he could secure a room and offer her a private apology.

She gazed at him with stormy green eyes. “If you are certain that you will return—”

“I am.” Once he found Lady Tempest and her sister, he would take them to Thorn, St. Lyon, and Rainbault and leave the ladies in their care. His friends would see to it that they were safely escorted to their coach. Then he could banish the Brant sisters from his thoughts and enjoy the rest of his evening.

She inclined her head. “Then I would be honored to have you join me at the hotel.”

Mathias was grateful for Clara's understanding. “You will wait for me.”

A demure smile brightened her expression. “Of course.”

 

Chapter Eight

From the back of the theater box, Tempest watched as her sister leaned forward and clapped at the spectacle in the ring below. She could not see much from her limited view, so as the minutes passed, she had grown bored.

What was delaying her brother? She was going to throttle Oliver for abandoning them. Again.

None of the gentlemen seated thought to offer her their seat. It was horribly rude for them to ignore her. If she ever recognized one of them in a drawing room or ballroom, she fully intended to give the unfortunate man the direct cut.

Tempest was not the only person who was standing. The private box was overflowing with people. So much so, she had been nudged farther away from her sister. For the hundredth time, she flexed her cramped toes because her shoes were pinching her feet. While her elegant attire was lovely, the longer she stood in the gloomy theater box, the more uncomfortable she became. Her feet hurt, her back itched, and the headdress was threatening to list to the right. If not for Arabella, she would have told Mrs. Sheehan that she was ready to depart. Standing beside her mother was preferable to remaining a minute longer in this hot, smelly theater.

Most of all, she hated that her circumstances had reduced her to whining. Tempest despised complainers. They were unhappy people who loved to share their misery with others. Tempest straightened her spine and was determined to persevere.

Blast it all, where is Oliver?

A burst of laughter erupted in the theater. She had only her imagination to deduce what those clever horses and their riders were doing below. Something wonderful, she thought dourly. The couple in front of her shifted and she had to take a step back to avoid colliding into them.

The step nudged her out of the private theater box entirely.

Tempest lost sight of Arabella and Mrs. Sheehan. “I doubt this evening could get worse,” she uncharitably muttered.

Five minutes later, she would come to regret those words.

As she tried to peer over the heads of the other spectators, she felt a masculine hand curl around her left upper arm and responded to the heat of his body. Tension slid into her muscles and then it eased. No one but her brother would dare to touch her so intimately.

“So nice of you to join us, Oliver,” she said without looking at her errant elder sibling. “Arabella and Mrs. Sheehan are toward the front. Perhaps we can ask someone to get their attention.”