You Can't Always Get the Marquess You Want (11 page)

When her brother didn't reply, Tempest turned her head to address him and gasped. The man standing so close was definitely not Oliver. This man was three inches shorter and from his grip she deduced his extra weight gave him the advantage. He was older than she by ten or more years, and his reddened nose and bloodshot brown eyes suggested he had been drinking.

“Who are—oomph!”

For a drunkard, he was agile. Before she could finish her question, he pulled her away from the entrance to the private box, pushed her against the wall, and slapped his hand over her mouth.

“You're a pretty one, eh?” The man leaned closer so she could smell gin on his fetid breath. He turned her head from side to side to examine her face. “Are you looking for a friend?”

Tempest nodded, but the gleam of excitement in his eyes revealed that she had given him the wrong answer. She furiously shook her head. He was not asking if she was looking for
her
friend, but rather he wanted to know if she was looking to make a new friend.

Him.

“What? You aren't the friendly sort?” He sounded disappointed.

Tempest glanced to the right and left, but the narrow passageway was empty. The shouts and laughter coming from the various theater boxes guaranteed that no one would hear her cries of help. Not that she would permit herself to be deterred by any obstacle. The first in gaining her freedom was to convince the man to remove his hand from her mouth.

Her wide eyes and muffled protest reminded him that he was preventing her from speaking.

“If I take my hand away, you won't cause a fuss by screaming, will you?” he asked, squinting up at her.

Tempest swallowed and slowly shook her head. Any man who grabbed an unwilling lady was not exactly harmless, but his drunkenness might have made him bold. The private box was in sight. If she could catch the man off guard, she could push her way inside or alert one of the gentlemen within that she needed some assistance.

Her companion eased his hand away and then thought better of it. She groaned when he pulled her farther down the corridor and away from her sister. It was darker in this section, so if anyone approached them, the person might assume she was willingly keeping this man company.

“This will do us nicely, don't you think?” Again he eased the hold on her mouth. “No screaming or I'll knock you out with my fist. Do you understand me?”

Tempest nodded.

She sagged with relief when his hand fell away. When she wasn't so frightened, she had a quick mind, and she could put it to good use if she remained calm.

“Thank you, sir,” she said, and tried to smile. Her lips trembled, but she doubted the man noticed.

“What's your name, pretty?”

“Elizabeth,” she replied, giving him her middle name.

He grinned. “Does your family call you Bessie?”

Not a soul, but that kind of reply was not very sociable. “How did you know?”

He was still crowding her and blocking her way to the theater box. “I've a cousin named Bessie. And I've known a few maids with the name.”

Tempest nodded approvingly. “And might I know your name, good sir?”

The man inclined his head. “You can call me Archie.”

“A pleasure to meet you, Mr. Archie.” If she curtsied, there was a chance her body would rub against him, and she did not want to encourage him.

“Mr. Archie,” he said, testing the name. “I like it.”

Her unwanted admirer wore a brown suit, but it smelled of stale sweat. He touched the lace at her shoulder. “Such a fine dress. I have never seen one so white. Even the hem of your skirt is clean,” he said, marveling that she had managed not to spill anything on her clothes.

“I arrived in a coach with my family.” She cleared her throat. “My brother and sister are waiting for me in the private box. Perhaps you would like to meet them.”

He ignored her offer. “And look how your fancy hat glitters when you move your head.” He said, tilting his head to observe how the stones winked in the shadowed passageway, “Are those stones real?”

“Just paste,” she lied. “There is no point in wearing jewels I can't admire.”

He laughed and she flinched when he pounded the wall near her head. “I can't fault your logic, Bessie. Now, why don't you give me a kiss and then we can go find a quiet place to have a drink.”

She would rather kiss a mangy wet cur than him.

“I can't leave without telling my brother, Mr. Archie,” she said gently. Tempest loathed to touch her odorous companion, but she tried not to grimace as she patted him on the arm. “We can have that drink if you permit me to pass.”

Archie stepped in front of her to block her escape. “There's no need to trouble your brother when all we're doing is being friendly. If he's your brother at all. Now, why don't you give me that kiss, Bessie darling?”

Tempest was getting nowhere with the unreasonable drunk. The way he was touching her arm and dress, she doubted a single kiss would satisfy him even if she fancied kissing him. Which she didn't.

“There will be no kisses, sir,” she said coldly. If kindness did not sway the man, then it was time to try another approach. “You have detained me long enough, and now I intend to return to my family.”

Tempest knocked his arm aside and managed three steps before he grabbed her by the waist and half dragged her down the passageway. Her headdress fell to the floor. She screamed and fought him, but he was too strong. No one seemed to hear her over the music and the laughter. It appeared Archie had changed his tactics, too.

“Hush, Bessie!” He pulled her close so her back was flush against his front. “I don't want to use my fists on you. Not yet, at any rate.”

She screamed and drove her elbow into his chest. He held her tighter as if he hoped to squeeze the breath out of her.

“I do beg your pardon.” The male voice caused them both to cease their struggles. “I hope I am not interrupting anything.”

When Tempest recognized the gentleman approaching them, tears blurred her vision. It was Lord Fairlamb. She had never been so relieved to see a familiar face in her entire life.

Archie held her as if she were a shield. “That you are, sir. Can't you see me and Bessie wish to be alone?”

“Bessie, you say?” His lips quirked as if he was tempted to smile. “A dreadful name, my dear. You have my sympathies.” He touched his hat as if he was prepared to leave her to her fate.

Tempest felt a chill waft through her. Before she learned he was a Rooke, she had thought him a decent gentleman. Did he hate her family so much that he would walk away?

“Blast it all, Chance, you cannot leave me!” she shouted at him. If she had to cast all pride aside, she was willing to beg.

“Do you know this fellow, Bessie?” Archie peered at the marquess. “Are you the brother?”

“Yes!” Tempest said, not waiting for Lord Fairlamb's response. “He's my brother. Now, let me go before he challenges you.”

Her would-be rescuer appeared offended by the question. “Are you drunk? Do I look like her brother, you filthy twit?”

The anger in the marquess's voice befuddled the drunken Archie. “Then who are you?”

There was a mischievous glint in His Lordship's eyes. “I'm the gent who is stealing the lady from you.”

Tempest's eyes widened in surprise as Chance loosened the fist in his right hand and the walking stick he had concealed slid down the length of his arm to the floor. Before her captor could react, the marquess lunged forward as if he had a sword and stabbed the tip into Archie's shoulder.

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.”