You Can't Always Get the Marquess You Want (16 page)

He slipped on his spectacles and swiftly inspected a letter before he put it aside. He glanced at her over the lenses. “I was actually referring to Lord Warrilow. Your mother tells me that he insisted on an introduction.”

“An introduction likely orchestrated by you, I would guess,” she teased.

Her father's unabashed grin revealed all she needed to know.

“I thought so. I suppose Mama told you that the marquess was a perfect gentleman. He flattered Mama—”

“Which positively delighted her,” murmured Lord Norgrave.

“And Arabella and I accepted his invitations to dance.” She leaned forward. “I can attest that he is a competent dance partner. He stepped on my toes once.”

“So you liked him?”

Amused by her father's nonchalant demeanor, she said, “Lord Warrilow appears to be very likable. So much so, I predict every matron who has a daughter will be inviting him to call on her household.”

“Invitations he would ignore if I could give the young man some encouragement that he would be welcome in our house.”

“I cannot speak for Arabella—”

“I am not asking for your sister's opinion. I would like to hear your thoughts.”

“Lord Warrilow left a favorable impression, Papa,” Tempest replied sincerely. “There was little opportunity to speak when we danced, but he seemed earnest in his quest for a bride this spring, so there is little doubt that Arabella and I are on his list of prospective candidates.”

Lord Norgrave removed his reading spectacles. “My friendship with Warrilow has put you and your sister at the top of his list.”

Tempest was not surprised by the news, yet her heart plummeted to her stomach. Last year, her father had taken great pains to ensure that she was at the top of Lord Rinehart's list, and the results had been disastrous.

“What? You have nothing to say? No words of thanks for your dear papa?”

“Naturally, I am grateful, Papa,” she began.

“Good God, you are not thinking of debating me on the issue. Not after what happened with Lord Rinehart.”

“Lord Rinehart is precisely the point,” she argued, her courage wavering when she noticed his stern look. “You cannot govern another's heart. Warrilow will not marry me because it is the outcome you desire.”

“You think not?” He leaned back in his chair and studied her. “Is that why you chose to walk in the garden with Vanewright?”

How did he know of her walk in the Oxtons' gardens? Her mother? Tempest frowned. When Lord Vanewright had invited her to join him, he told her mother that it was to see his sister, Lady Ellen. After her walk with Chance, the earl had kept his promise and escorted her to his sister. She had a pleasant visit with the young woman, who seemed unaware of her brother's machinations with Lord Fairlamb. However, if her father was aware she had been in the back gardens, then someone had been watching them.

What else had his spy glimpsed?

“You are well-informed. The walk was nothing more than a slight detour so I could admire the Oxtons' gardens.”

“Vanewright would not have been my first choice if you hoped to catch his interest. He is a bit of a scoundrel, you know.”

“Oh.” She pursed her lips as she contemplated this bit of news. “I found his manners above reproach.” Well, so long as she overlooked the fact that the earl had lied to her mother and handed her off to the son of her father's enemy. In that light, Lord Vanewright was a very wicked fellow. “Nor am I casting any aspirations in the earl's direction.”

Her father gave her a look of approval. “It is just as well. Vanewright is enjoying his bachelorhood too much to be content with a wife, and his family's influence has diminished since Lord Netherley has withdrawn from town life.”

Tempest had heard last season about Lord and Lady Netherley's tragic loss of not just one son, but two. Of Lord Netherley's inconsolable grief and his frustrations with his current heir. However, that was the problem with gossip. It was a mixed bag of truth and speculation. Such things did not matter to her father. He weighed the value of a prospective son-in-law by his family's influence and what benefits he could achieve from the alliance.

Some might view it as coldhearted, but it has served her father well, since his marriage to her mother had been approached in a similar manner.

“My conversation with Lady Ellen did not include her brother or her family beyond the usual pleasantries,” she said lightly as she rose from her seat. “Suffice it to say, Lord Warrilow did precisely what you asked of him.”

“I will have your word that you will not discourage the young marquess.”

“Heaven forbid.” Tempest leaned over the desk and kissed her father on the cheek. “I shall not keep you. Harriet should be arriving soon and I must change my dress before we leave.”

“What do you and your cousin have planned for the afternoon?” he asked, rising from his chair and following her to the door.

“A little shopping while I run a few errands for Mama,” she said, her attention switching to which carriage dress she intended to wear. She waved and headed for the grand staircase.

Lord Norgrave's smile had a hint of indulgence as he watched his eldest daughter mutter to herself about the weather and dresses. She was a sweet, kindhearted girl who was determined not to disappoint him this season. He intended to make certain that nothing spoiled his plans for her to marry Warrilow.

“Did she admit that she and Lord Vanewright were in the gardens?”

Tempest was no longer in sight, but he could not resist sending his wife a censuring glance. “She explained everything.” Noting his marchioness's doubt, he added, “The girl has no propensity for deceit. Unlike her mother.”

“Or her sire,” Charlotte replied crisply.

Norgrave inclined his head in an abbreviated bow. “Just do your part, Wife. Warrilow is ripe for the picking. I will have him for one of my daughters.”

His wife frowned at this revelation. “I thought he was meant for Tempest.”

“Naturally, she is my first choice, since she is the eldest daughter,” he conceded. “However, the debacle with Rinehart proved that there are advantages to having more than one daughter.”

“Such a clever man,” she softly mocked, curtsying. “You have thought of everything.”

Charlotte was baiting him, but he resisted the urge to punish her for her impudence. “I do what I must.”

*   *   *

“This is not precisely how you expected to spend your afternoon.”

Mathias shrugged at his mother's observation, neither confirming nor denying it. Seated beside his sister Mercy, they sat opposite their mother and Honora in the family's barouche-landau. His mother's note arrived while he was eating breakfast, asking him to join her and his younger sisters on a shopping jaunt. To indulge her, he'd canceled his appointments for the day.

“Why would I deny myself the pleasure of spending the day with three of the prettiest ladies in London?” he said, tickling his fifteen-year-old sister under the chin to make her giggle. “If you had not sent a note, I would have been forced to come up with an excuse to visit.”

“You do not need excuses to visit your family, Mathias,” the duchess said, her dark blue eyes vibrant with amusement, aware that her eldest son was deliberately flattering her. “You and your friends are always welcome.”

“Just another reason why my friends are in love with you,” he teased. “If you were not already married, I fear I might have to fight St. Lyon and Rainbault to protect your honor.”

“Oh, Chance,” the duchess sighed, though it was obvious she was not offended.

Honora rolled her eyes and turned her head so she could watch the pedestrians that strolled by them. Their carriage had slowed because several barrels had fallen from a wagon and now blocked a portion of the street.

Mercy tapped him on the arm. He stared at her and marveled how much she looked like their mother. “What would St. Lyon and the prince want with Mama?”

The duchess laughed when he appeared incapable of answering his sister's question. “Oh no, my dear boy, you are on your own,” she said in response to his silent plea for assistance.

“I was merely teasing, honeybee,” he said, the endearment a long-standing reference to her honey and golden locks. “Our mother is so beautiful that every gentleman she meets falls instantly in love with her.”

The duchess poked his leg with the end of her unopened parasol. “Does that tongue of yours ever stop waggling?”

“Now, look what you've done. You have made Mama blush,” Mercy said, enjoying the exchange between mother and son. “Though if the prince cannot have her, then maybe I should marry him. After all, I would be a splendid princess.”

“The Prince of Galien would never marry a child,” Honora said, dashing her younger sister's ambitions without even glancing in her direction. “Besides, he is
old.
”

“He is not,” Mercy said, sliding into a slouch as she crossed her arms over her breasts. “And I am not a child. In a few years, the prince and I could marry and then you would have to curtsy whenever I entered the room.”

Outraged at the very thought, Honora's blue gray eyes narrowed as she glared at her sister. “You will never marry the prince, so I will never have to curtsy in your presence. Never!”

“Honora and Mercy, I have heard quite enough from both of you,” the duchess said sharply. “Honora, I expect better manners from you … and Mercy, you might as well put aside your aspirations to marry Rainbault. The gentleman is too old for you.”

“How can that be? Papa is seven years older than you, and yet you were permitted to marry him,” Mercy argued with the passion of a child who would not be denied. “The prince is older than I by only six years.”

The duchess was momentarily silenced by her daughter's argument. To her credit, she recovered rather quickly. “His age does not matter. Even if Rainbault were the same age, he would still be older than you.”

“But, Mama—”

“Not another word on the subject.” Her measured stare swept over all three of her children. “Have I made myself clear?”

Mathias winced as his sisters glowered at each other. His mother was correct. Rainbault was a rogue and not a worthy suitor for any of his sisters. He would have to warn Rainbault of Mercy's lofty ambitions. Over the years, his friend had done nothing more than casually tease the girls as if they were his sisters, but Mercy had clearly developed an affection for the gentleman. He met his mother's mildly disapproving gaze and noted the increased color in his mother's cheeks. “Too much sun, perhaps?”

“You are your father's son,” his mother replied. “You are capable of charming and annoying females of all ages with little effort. I almost pity the young ladies who capture your interest this season.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Almost?”

“Well, I am your mother,” she said dryly. “For the sake of my future grandchildren, it would be best if you marry their mother.”

“You will forgive me if it takes a few years to find this paragon,” he said, always appreciative of his mother's wit. “If you need to play matchmaker, you might consider finding a good woman for Thorn. He seems a bit lost without his twin brother.”

Her expression softened with concern at the mention of their cousins. “Eight months have passed since I received a letter from Gideon. I pray he has been more dedicated in his correspondence with his brother.”

“I doubt it,” he confessed. “Thorn doesn't complain, but I swear his temperament darkens with each passing year. In fact, I—”

A lady wearing a French cambric round dress with a blue and white checked pelisse scattered his thoughts. Her leghorn bonnet prevented him from seeing her face, but there was something familiar about her, he mused. If they were not at the mercy of the traffic, the carriage would already have passed her and her companions, and he would have been able to solve the mystery of her identity.

The lady obliged his curiosity by glancing over her shoulder, and he realized it was Lady Tempest. She was not alone. Their small party consisted of her chaperone, another lady, and a footman. He watched as two gentlemen and another lady caught up to them. Lady Tempest embraced the young woman and was genuinely pleased by the interruption.

Who the devil were those two fellows?

“Mathias,” his mother softly called. When his gaze switched back to hers, she smiled. “You were saying?”

“What? I do beg your pardon,” he said, resisting the urge to glance in the direction of Lady Tempest and her party. “I have forgotten what I was going to say.”

“Chance was staring at the ladies,” Honora tattled, noting the direction of his gaze. “Though, I must say his taste is improving. Whoever they are, they have paid a small fortune for those dresses.”

“I was not staring,” he mildly protested at his mother's questioning glance. “Not precisely. I thought one of the gentlemen chatting with the ladies seemed familiar. Perhaps someone I encountered at one of my clubs.”

When his mother and sisters turned to take a closer look at the gentleman he claimed to know, Mathias groaned. He doubted his mother would recognize Lady Tempest, but he had no desire to put his assumptions to the test.

“Close your mouth, Honora,” Mathias snapped. “Do you want to swallow a fly?” He tapped his walking stick against the bench to gain the coachman's attention. “Any way around this tangle, or should we disembark?”

Even as he asked the question, the coachman signaled the horses to move forward. “We should be fine now, milord. Don't ye worry.”

He discreetly glanced at Lady Tempest as their carriage rolled by her and her friends, but she was unaware of his presence. After the kiss they had shared in the Oxtons' gardens, he had been considering how he might see her again without gaining the scrutiny of her brother or the rest of her family.