You Can't Always Get the Marquess You Want (15 page)

“Well then, if it is based on a
lady's
aspirations, then wouldn't she choose a gentleman she could come to love and respect?”

He had discovered since he bedded his first woman that they were mercenary creatures. “What about title and fortune?”

She did not seem to notice the cynical edge to his voice. “Ah, now you speak of a father's aspiration. A man wants his daughter protected and well cared for, do you not agree?”

“Your father believes Lord Warrilow is worthy of you?”

She halted, surprised by the question. “Perhaps. Although I doubt my father had a particular daughter in mind when he encouraged the marquess to present himself to my mother.” She cleared her throat. “To be honest, I did not fare well last season when compared to other young ladies close to my age. It is quite possible that Lord Warrilow will find my sister more to his liking.”

He scowled, the small flicker of jealousy abating. Did she not see her own value? “I disagree.”

He could see that she was delighted by his response.

“It is kind of you to say so, but you do not know me, my lord. I have many qualities that many gentlemen view as flaws.” There was no sorrow in her expression, simply acceptance.

Mathias caressed her cheek with his knuckles. “Name these imaginary flaws.”

She wrinkled her nose. “They are too numerous to recite. Suffice it to say, the man who marries me will have to be tolerant.”

“Or so blinded by love that he cannot see any flaws.” Mathias instantly regretted his words. He did not intend to offend her.

Lady Tempest astounded him by laughing. “If you know such a man, you have my permission to give him my name, though I doubt he exists.”

“You are too young to be so jaded.”

“I am two-and-twenty, Lord Fairlamb. I have seen enough of the world to understand that love is an indulgence, and in rare instances, a gift. A farmer may fall in love with a dairymaid and marry without any thought to himself or his family. However, a marquess's daughter must be practical out of necessity.”

Lady Tempest baffled him. What lady did not seek love? Her views were full of contradictions. “So you would be happy with any gentleman, so long as he elevates you above his favorite hound,” he said, unable to keep the pity from his voice.

There was little doubt that his father must have contemplated the advantages of marrying a duke's daughter, but that had not driven him to offer for her hand. His father had married Lady Imogene Sunter because he fell in love with her.

Mathias expected to do the same one day.

Unaware of his brooding thoughts, Tempest teased, “What lady could compete with a favored hound?”

Her smile coaxed from him a reluctant half smile. His mouth twitched. “Fine. I will concede that there are gentlemen who would choose a dog over a wife.”

“Not you?”

He slowly shook his head. “I prefer a woman in my bed.”

Lady Tempest gaped at him, speechless.

Mathias cursed his unruly tongue. He could not take back his words, so he tried to soften the brazen image he had placed in her head. “Dogs have foul breath.”

She clapped her hands together and laughed at his pantomime.

Enchanted, he thought of another reason just to make her laugh again: “And they are far too hairy for kisses.”

“I shall take your word on it,” she said, seeming more relaxed with each corner they turned. The gravel path was designed like a large rectangle with intersecting paths for those who preferred shorter walks. If they followed the perimeter, they would eventually find their way back to the terrace.

Mathias encouraged Tempest to take the next turn. If he had his way, their walk through the torchlit garden would be the longest ever traversed.

“Is your family good friends of Lord and Lady Oxton?”

Content to set aside their conversation about Warrilow and marriage, he shrugged. “The earl and his countess have attended several of my mother's balls. What about yours?”

“My father enjoys hunting with Lord Oxton. They make use of the earl's hunting lodge in the north.”

It never ceased to amaze him how many families connected them, even though it was rare for a Rooke and a Brant to share the same room.

The wall of hedge opened up into an alcove, and he was about to ask Lady Tempest if she would prefer to sit when he noted to his great amusement that the marble bench was occupied. Arms entangled, the man and woman were too lost in their kiss to notice them. At his companion's soft gasp, he glanced at her to see her reaction. Instead of being offended or embarrassed, the lady stared at the young couple with curiosity and amusement. She met his gaze and smiled.

Mathias placed his hand on her waist and nudged her forward. She covered her mouth with her hand and tried not to laugh. Neither one of them spoke until they were certain the couple would not be aware of their presence.

When it was safe for her to speak, Lady Tempest pulled her hand away and giggled. “I think I know the lady.”

“Do you?” he replied as they circled around a large fountain.

She nodded, and he longed to pull her into his arms and kiss her until the mischievous expression on her face sharpened into hunger.

“And that gentleman was not her betrothed.”

Lady Tempest must have sensed his intent because she quickened her pace until she was out of reach. “What are you about, my lord? Did you follow me to the Oxtons'?”

“And what if I did?”

“You shouldn't have, Lord Fairlamb.”

“You have called me Chance. There is no reason for formality between us.”

“No reason.” She raised her hands upward as if she were imploring the heavens to side with her. “Your family name is reason enough for formality. I should not even be speaking to you.”

“Or kissing me.”

She held her ground as he walked to her. “Stop!” Lady Tempest glanced down and moistened her lips. “You asked for a boon. I should have refused.”

“And yet you didn't,” he murmured, tucking his finger under her chin and lifting it until she meet his gaze. “Why is it that I want to kiss you again, even though the first one was quite abysmal?”

Lady Tempest was so anxious on account of his proximity that it took her a few seconds to comprehend his words. Her expressive hazel eyes widened and then narrowed, reminding him that she was related to a gentleman who would happily shoot Mathias if she asked. “What did you say?”

“Perhaps ‘abysmal' is too strong a word,” he said, knowing he was courting danger by teasing her, but her indignation was a temptation he could not resist. “It was probably your first, and no one gets these things right on the first try.”

“Abysmal, he says,” she muttered to herself. “My first kiss. I will have you know that I have kissed dozens of gentlemen, and not a single one ever complained, you arrogant muttonhead!”

Feigning disappointment, he shook his head with dismay. “Lying is a sin, you know. If you are looking to practice on someone, I would happily volunteer for the task.”

Lady Tempest rolled her eyes and walked away without bothering to respond.

Chuckling under his breath, he followed on her heels. “Aw, come now, Lady Tempest. You cannot be angry over a little kiss. A kiss, I might add, that you did your best to ruin.”

Forgetting that she was not speaking to him, she said, “I did no such thing, Lord Fairlamb.”

Mathias caught her arm and pulled her to a halt. “A lady who has kissed dozens of gents would have been more adept at kissing.” He lowered his head until their foreheads almost touched. “Tell the truth. You were frightened to kiss me because I bear the Rooke name. You were worried you might like it.” He pinched his finger and thumb together. “Maybe just a little.”

“Don't be ridiculous. Have you considered that I didn't want to kiss you?” Lady Tempest hissed, tugging her arm free. She rubbed the spot where he had touched her. “Or is your opinion of yourself so bloated that you believe all ladies long for your kisses?”

“It is not what I believe—it is what I know.” He took a menacing step closer. “You are afraid.”

“I am not!”

“You are,” he said, keeping his voice level. “That afternoon by the riverbanks … you felt it. An awareness between us. Attraction. Even St. Lyon and Thorn noticed it.”

“You are wrong,” she whispered.

“And then you kissed me,” he continued, ignoring her denial. “Chaste. Brief. Painfully pathetic.”

Lady Tempest brought her hand to her mouth, and the noise she muffled sounded like a cross between a sob and laughter.

Mathias wrapped his fingers around her delicate wrist and pulled her hand away from her mouth. “And still that simple chaste kiss struck me like a bolt of lightning. It split my skin, cleaved through muscle and bone, and touched my soul.”

She would have staggered backwards if he had not held on to her wrist. “This is some kind of prank, is it not? You cannot possibly mean—”

“Do you honestly believe you are the only one who has something to lose?” His fierce gaze swept over her. “I love my father. I am loyal to my family. I could have my pick of any lady in London, and here I am, consorting with my father's enemy.”

“I am
not
your father's enemy,” she spit through clenched teeth.

“Nor am I yours, Lady Tempest,” was his cool reply. “And yet, we have a problem, do we not?”

She and Mathias stared at each other, both of them feeling the weight of the attraction she stubbornly refused to acknowledge. He had not followed her to the Oxtons' to confront her, but he could not dredge up any regret about it.

“It is a problem only if we allow it to be,” she said finally. “We will just stay away from—”

Mathias silenced her by covering her mouth with his. She had devastated him with a chaste kiss. Now he would show her the unplumbed depths of passion. He devoured her lips, breathing her in as if the taste and scent of her were paramount to his existence.

“Open your mouth,” he murmured, placing tiny kisses on her pliant lips.

To his wonder, Lady Tempest complied. His tongue caressed the seam of her lips and slipped inside. She moaned against his lips as the edge of her tongue tentatively touched his as she swayed closer. For several minutes, he lost himself in the seductive duel, savoring the taste of her.

Her eyes fluttered open the moment he ended the kiss. She had no idea how beautiful she looked. Her hazel eyes were dark and heavy with desire, her lips reddened and slightly swollen from his kiss.

“Chance,” she said, staring at him with a bemused expression on her face, as if she were truly seeing him for the first time.

“You are a very dangerous lady, Tempest,” he said, kissing her again because he knew she would not push him away. “Fortunately, I like to court danger.”

“But—”

Mathias kissed her again to silence her protest. “Hush. I am not asking for anything but a chance to spend time with you.”

Her hazel eyes were gradually clearing of the passion he had stoked within her. “What you are asking for is impossible. My family—”

“Our families,” he corrected, wanting her to understand that she was not the only one taking risks, “are not part of this. We can be friends. What harm does it cause any of them?”

She studied him in the darkness. “Is that what you want from me? For us to be friends?”

Mathias was reluctant to put a name to his feelings or what he would demand of her before they parted ways. “Would it make you feel better if I called us friendly enemies?”

“No.” She stepped away from him. “It only reminds me of the consequences if my family catches us together.”

He was confident he could handle Marcroft or her father if they decided to interfere.

Mathias tangled his fingers with hers. “Then we will have to make certain we do not get caught.”

 

Chapter Twelve

Tempest swallowed the sharp rising urge to scream when she opened the door to the library and was confronted by an unknown man.

“Zounds girl, you cannot go about frightening people,” the sixty-year-old gentleman with more hair on his chin and eyebrows than on his head scolded as he worked his way around her. “I have a bad heart, you know.”

“I beg your pardon, sir.” She curtsied and turned to the side so she could offer him a clear path. “No one told me that my father had a visitor.”

“Tempest, is that you?”

“Yes, Papa,” she called out, and she turned back to the man she had practically collided into. “I—”

Tempest saw a parting glimpse of his back before the door closed. She walked into the room and glanced to the right. Her father was returning a book to the shelf. He opened his arms and she rushed up to him. The familiar weight of his arms wrapped around her as she pressed her face into his frock coat.

“Good afternoon, Papa,” she said, soothed by his scent and warmth. “I hope I am not interrupting anything important.”

“Oh, do you mean Mallory? No, he was only delivering some papers that I had requested.” Lord Norgrave pulled away and studied his daughter's face. “I hear you had an adventurous evening.”

Her stomach clenched and immediately her thoughts centered on Chance. She forced herself to relax. It was absurd, really. There was no possible way her father could have learned of her walk with Lord Fairlamb or their illuminating kiss.

“Which part? Being trapped in a coach with Oliver? The awful crush at the theater, which meant I spent the entire time standing in the back so I missed all the performances? Or Lord and Lady Oxton's ball?”

The marquess pinched her chin. “You look quite happy in spite of your misadventures.”

Tempest followed him as he returned to his desk. She sat down in one of the chairs positioned near it. “Well, I am your daughter. I am made of sterner stuff than that.”