You Can't Always Get the Marquess You Want (19 page)

She covered her lips with her hand and smothered a giggle. “That would not be very prudent, since we went to so much trouble to meet in secret.”

“Of course.” He cleared his throat and looked mildly uncomfortable.

“Unless you feel this meeting is so important that it should be documented properly.”

“Not at all—I only commented on it because it looked—” He noticed her smirk. “You are teasing me.”

“A little,” she said, opening the book. “You are correct. It is a journal, but I use it for quick sketches and notes of things that capture my interest.”

Tempest turned a few pages until she came to her recent sketch. “As you can see, I was working on Nero's nose when you and Lord Kempthorn arrived.”

Chance took the journal from her hands so he could inspect her work. He remained silent, and her nervousness increased with each passing second. “You have an extraordinary talent, Tempest,” he said, not taking his gaze off the page. “Do you paint as well?”

His approval and genuine interest in her work thrilled her. “Most of my work is done in watercolor, but I have dabbled in oils.”

The marquess lifted his gaze to hers, and the startling impact of the connection she felt did fascinating things to her pulse. “I imagine what you view as dabbling is rather remarkable.”

“You flatter me.”

“You are too humble,” he countered. “You should solicit one of the members of the Royal Academy as a mentor.”

It was unsettling to hear one of her private dreams spoken aloud. Especially by a gentleman she should be avoiding at all costs. Tempest shook her head. She was touched that he thought so highly of her work, but her father would never approve of her consorting with artists.

She retrieved the journal from Chance. “My skills are adequate, but not worthy of the Royal Academy.”

“How do you know unless you seek out an opinion?”

Tempest rolled her eyes in exasperation. “Because I do,” she said sharply. “A simple sketch of an emperor's nose does not mean that I should be pestering members of the Royal Academy.”

“Tempest—,” he began.

She shut the journal closed with muffled clap. “If you are planning to bully me into doing something I do not want, then we might as well part ways.”

Tempest rose from the bench, but Chance captured her wrist.

“Stay. I promise to let the subject drop on one condition.”

The marquess appeared to be contrite, but humbleness did not suit him. She sighed loudly, knowing she was going to regret listening to his condition. “What is it?”

“Sit beside me and draw,” he coaxed, already pulling on her arm so she had the choice of causing a scene or complying with his simple request.

Tempest sat down.

“You want me to sketch something,” she said, convinced that he was merely indulging her so she would not leave.

“Anything you fancy,” he replied, willing to use his considerable charm to sway her. “Your heart's desire.”

She tilted her head to the side, giving him a quizzical glance. “And what will you do, my lord?”

“I will keep you company.”

*   *   *

Tempest was wary of his motives, not that he could blame her.

It was difficult to put aside prejudices a villainous name could evoke, to ignore the guilt tickling one's conscience for even flirting with the enemy.

She was not his enemy any more than he was hers.

Mathias also was coming to the realization that the initial attraction he'd felt for the lady beside him was deepening. He knew Tempest sensed it as well, but she was still fighting it.

Her presence this afternoon was only confirmation that it was a losing battle.

Mathias admired her profile as she sketched in her little journal. He would have enjoyed thumbing through the pages to view her other sketches and little notes, but he had already pushed her enough for this day.

“I have met your younger sisters and regrettably Marcroft,” he said, wishing to learn more about her life. “Do you have any other siblings?”

Lost as she was in her work, it took a few minutes before she became aware of his regard. Straightening, she blinked several times. “You said something of my brother?”

“Not really. If it is all the same to you, I would prefer to forget he is related to you.”

Tempest shifted on the bench, turning so her knees would have touched the side of his upper thigh if they were sitting closer. The new position prevented him from observing her work, but it did afford him an appealing view of her face.

“There are days when I would be happy to forget that Oliver is my brother,” she said, smiling in coy manner that he found endearing. “Still, he is a good man.”

Mathias snorted, but thought it best not to contradict her. Whether he liked it or not, Marcroft was her brother. Insulting her sibling would not gain him her trust. “I asked if you had other siblings besides the ones I have met.”

Her gaze had dropped to the open journal again. “It is just Oliver, Arabella, Augusta, and I,” she said, her pencil waving in the air as she sketched. “I was told that my mother had a difficult time when she was in confinement with Arabella. Everyone feared that she would lose the baby, and my mother almost died giving birth to her.”

Since he was a bachelor, he could not speak firsthand of such matters. “It can be a difficult time for some ladies.”

Mathias thought of his own mother. The Duchess of Blackbern had given birth to six children. From a young boy's perspective, his mother handled the changes to her life with graceful aplomb. It was only as he grew older that he became aware of how difficult these pregnancies were on his father. While the duke doted on and spoiled his wife, in unguarded moments, Mathias saw the strain on his father's face. The fear the man tried to conceal as he worried about the health of his wife and their unborn child. His mother had been fortunate. All her children were born healthy, and she had recovered from the childbed with minimal fuss.

“My sister was small when she was born, but she was strong.” Tempest frowned at her work. “It took almost a year for my mother to recover. The next child she bore was stillborn. A boy, I was told. After that, three miscarriages. It was doubtful my mother would carry another child again, but years later, Augusta surprised everyone. What about you? In the bookseller's shop, I saw your mother—and I assume the two young ladies with her were your sisters.”

Tempest had been more observant than he had realized. Though, he and his sisters did share similar characteristics if one looked closely. It was apparent that the lady had been curious about his companions.

The notion pleased him.

“Yes, my sisters, Honora and Mercy. I also have two younger brothers, Benjamin and Frederick, and the youngest is my sister Constance.”

“Oh my, such a large family,” she marveled. “How could you bear so many younger brothers and sisters underfoot?”

Mathias had not really considered it. “Normal, I suppose. Annoying at times. I spent part of the time away at school. I often traveled with my father as he taught me how to manage our estates, so I learned to appreciate the months all of us could be together.”

Tempest raised her gaze and held his stare. “It was not better for those of us who were left behind. When I was younger, I missed my brother dreadfully.”

“You and Marcroft are close?” he asked, hoping that was not the case.

Her expression grew wistful at the question. “We were born eighteen months apart, so we were inseparable as children. However, it all changed when Oliver left the nursery and was eventually sent away to school.” She shrugged, accepting the changes even though the thought of them made her sad.

To distract her, Mathias tapped the top edge of her journal with his finger. “You have been working so diligently. Can I see what you have been working on?”

Her hazel eyes narrowed and a mischievous grin brightened her face. “No.” She moved the journal so it was out of reach. “I do not believe I will show you.”

“Don't be cruel, darling,” he coaxed, confident that he would get his way. “Art should be appreciated, and I am one of your most ardent admirers.”

It was the same tone he had used when he was a boy to wheedle extra sweets from the cook. As a grown man, he had similarly seduced ladies into his bed.

Sticking her pencil into the crease of the journal, she closed it. “Absolutely not.”

Tempest stood and Mathias mimicked her actions.

“A quick peek,” he said, relishing their game.

“I think not,” she said, strolling away.

She was not evading him so easily. It took only a few steps to catch up to her.

“What if I purchase the sketch from you?” he asked, choosing a different tactic. If they had not been in such a public place, he would have been tempted to kiss her until she surrendered.

“Don't be ridiculous,” she said, continuing past the painting that depicted the judgment of the sons of Brutus.

A couple sitting on a nearby bench glanced up but quickly lost interest, since neither Mathias nor Tempest was looking to cause a scene.

Still, there was no reason not to revel in flustering a beautiful lady.

“Five pounds.”

She expelled a ladylike snort. “No.”

“Ten.” He had no idea what she had been drawing, not that he truly cared. She could have drawn lines on the page, and he would have paid a small fortune just to make her smile.

“Stop it.” She circled around to the other side of a large marble column. “I am not selling it.”

He peered over the marble. “Just think of it,” he argued. “I could be your first patron.”

“You are a madman.” She was grinning, obviously enjoying their verbal sparring. “Perhaps I could pay you ten pounds to leave me alone.”

“You cannot afford my price, so you are stuck with me,” he teased.

“Lucky me.” Tempest moved to a pedestal that displayed a large vase.

With his arms crossed behind his back, he stalked her as she zigzagged from one sculpture to the next. She was not putting much effort in escaping him. He was not in a hurry to catch her.

For now.

The exhibit room was not so crowded as it had been when he and Thorn first entered it. No one stood between him and his quarry, and he lazily guided her to the far corner of the room, where a very plain-looking woman had been immortalized in marble.

Mathias noted Tempest's eyes were gleaming with anticipation, and she was slightly out of breath because of her stays, though it was impolite of him to notice as much.

She hid the journal behind her back. “Nothing you can say will change my mind, Lord Fairlamb,” she vowed, but the smirk on her face dared him to try.

“Unpredictable and passionate,” he said, keeping his voice low and seductive. “Traits one expects in an artist.”

The description also fit most of his lovers.

It was rather perverse, but he liked difficult females. Without asking permission, Mathias slowly stepped closer and reached around until they were almost embracing.

“What are you doing?” Tempest whispered, caught between his body and the statue. There was no place for her to escape.

“Satisfying my—” The front of his coat pressed lightly against the front of her bodice. When he stepped backwards, he held her journal in his hand. “—curiosity.”

She bit her lip. The nervous gesture was innocent and enticing, and Mathias had to resist the urge to pull her back into his arms and kiss her thoroughly.

Instead, he opened the journal to where it had been marked by her pencil. His lips parted in astonishment. “You were sketching me.”

Or rather, parts of him. While they were talking, she had drawn his eyes and eyebrows at the bottom of the page. Another sketch was a profile of his nose and mouth. The third was the beginnings of a full-body drawing as he sat on the bench. There wasn't much detail, but she had captured his casual slouch perfectly.

“Am I something you fancy, Lady Tempest?” he asked, recalling his earlier encouragement. He was impressed and amazed that she had managed to sketch him without overtly studying him.

Mathias expected her to deny it. She was a sweet-tempered lady who had been sheltered by her family. Such ladies were not encouraged to speak openly of their desires. However, even now, she managed to do the unexpected.

Tempest leaned forward as if to whisper her answer. “Perhaps,” she purred, but the seductive ploy was spoiled by a strangled gasp. She plucked the journal from his hand and attempted to slip away.

He touched her on the arm. “What is it?”

“Mrs. Sheehan and Lord Kempthorn. I have to go,” she said, the urgency in her voice heightening his concern.

“Wait,” he said, tightening his hold on her arm. “When can we meet again?”

Tempest stared at him as if he had lost his mind. “I don't know. Please. You need to let me walk away. Mrs. Sheehan hasn't spotted me yet, but it is only a matter of time.”

With his back to the entrance, Mathias was shielding her from discovery. “Return to the bookseller's shop. I will leave a message for you. Just give your name to the shop clerk.”

“I may not be able to return to the shop right away,” she said, her body tense and vibrating with distress.

He gave her an impatient look. “If I do not hear from you, I will send a messenger to you.”

“Not to the town house!” Appalled by the brazen suggestion, she gripped his arm. “The servants usually give all notes to my mother.”

“I was not planning to give your brother a reason to challenge me, Tempest,” he said soothingly. “There will be other occasions for us to meet. If I cannot approach you, I will send someone to you.”

“As you wish,” she said, sounding distracted, her thoughts focused solely on her escape until he grasped her hand and brought it to his lips. Startled, she met his gaze, and her worried expression relaxed as she smiled. “Until we meet again, Lord Fairlamb.”