You Can't Always Get the Marquess You Want (2 page)

Not that he needed any assistance when dealing with a member of the Brant family.

“And frighten Marcroft off?” Mathias snorted. “I was counting on him taking advantage of the odds that were deliberately stacked in his favor.”

Understanding gleamed in the viscount's dark blue eyes as he slanted a glance at Mathias. “So that's why you sent both of us out of the tavern,” St. Lyon said, shaking his head in amazement. “I suppose there was a good reason why you wanted the earl to practice his pugilist skills on your face.”

He touched the swelling on his cheek and winced. “Now you are just being insulting. Lest you forget, I was not the one who was lying unconscious on the dirty floor of the tavern.”

“Damn me,” Thorn muttered. “You baited him into attacking so you could hit him?” His cousin sounded a little appalled by Mathias's strategy.

He shrugged. “I did not say it was a wise plan. It is not the first time I have lost my head around Marcroft. I truly despise the man.”

“It is the one thing you and the earl have in common,” St. Lyon dryly observed. “I have no great love for the scoundrel either, but you would do well to avoid him.”

Mathias had been given similar advice on numerous occasions by his parents, the Duke and Duchess of Blackbern. His family and Marcroft's parents, the Marquess and the Marchioness of Norgrave, had some unpleasant history between them that had taken place long before his birth. Although he was not privy to all the details, one fact was apparent—the Brant family was his enemy.

“Excellent advice, but nigh impossible. Marcroft has been a barb in my arse since all of us were boys. His temperament has not improved with age.”

He and Marcroft had been trading physical and verbal blows since their first meeting. He was not overly optimistic about their future encounters. Nothing short of a sword or bullet in the earl's heart would prevent the obnoxious gentleman from meddling in Mathias's affairs.

“Speaking of Marcroft's infamous temper—perhaps we should leave before he awakens,” Thorn said, tipping his head in the direction of the tavern. “As it is, your father will be upset when he learns that you were attacked by a member of the Brant family so close to home.”

Mathias tightened the reins in his grip. “How many times must I say it? I was not attacked. And I was the victor, by my account.” He sighed. “Let us leave the retelling of this tale to me, eh?” He spurred his horse forward.

St. Lyon snickered behind him. “Lies will not work, my friend. How are you going to explain your face to your family?”

His companions' laughter muffled Mathias's creative curses as the distance increased between him and his enemy.

 

Chapter Two

Several hours later, Mathias was alone when he strolled through the front door. St. Lyon and his cousin were tarrying at the stables while he smoothed things over with his mother and father. He quietly pondered the most expedient excuse he could offer his family for not finding his way home until now. He was several days late, and he had missed breakfast by three hours. Since he had reached the mature age of two-and-twenty, he thought it rather unfair that he was forced to suffer the indignity of presenting himself to his parents as if he were an errant child. Nevertheless, if all went according to his plan, this would be the last time he would be required to do so.

“Good morning, McKee,” he genially greeted the butler, handing the servant his hat and gloves. The man had been in the Duke of Blackbern's employ long before his father had married Lady Imogene Sunter. The man could have retired with a generous pension and his parents' blessing, but the elderly servant considered it his duty to watch over the Rooke family. His dedication had made him part of their family.

“Always, Lord Fairlamb,” McKee replied as if Mathias's statement had been a question. “Cutting it a bit short, are you not?”

Mathias chuckled, assuming the mild censure was in regards to his lateness. “Always.”

His mother liked to tease her husband by telling him that he only had himself to blame for siring a son so much like him. Mathias viewed any comparison to his father as the highest praise. He had earned the nickname Chance before he spoke his first words. Later, his not-so-innocent exploits at the gambling tables and other reckless adventures with his friends had ensured that use of the name extended beyond his family.

“I hope Cook does not mind filling a few more stomachs,” he said, mindful to keep the bruised side of his face hidden from the butler's keen gaze. “Thorn and St. Lyon have followed me home. We are planning to return to London together.”

“I shall have their rooms prepared immediately,” the butler said, the lines in his face becoming more pronounced when Mathias edged away from him. “How long will Lord Kempthorn and Lord Bastrell be staying with us?”

Mathias had private reasons why he was eager to return to London, but he had no intention of sharing them with McKee. He could have pushed onward to London, but he had not seen his family in a month. He missed his beautiful mother and his overly protective father. They had privately argued about it before he departed for one of their northern estates, and he regretted they had parted so formally. And then there were his younger siblings: Benjamin, who was twenty and also feeling the weight of their father's watchful eye; Honora, who at seventeen years old was looking forward to being presented at court; fifteen-year-old Mercy, who was less enthused about entering London's polite society; shy twelve-year-old Frederick, who preferred animals and books to people; and little Constance, who was seven years old and the youngest in the Rooke family. He had not realized how much he missed them all.

“We haven't decided. It could be a few days or a week.”

McKee nodded, unruffled by Mathias's vague reply. “Good. Your mother lamented that your absences grow closer together. She will be pleased to have you and your friends seated at her table.”

“Unless my mother and father have changed their plans, I shall see them in London,” he said, uncomfortable with the twinge of guilt that crept into his chest and squeezed.

“Your mother and father have not altered their plans. However, priorities shift, and a man's amusements differ from those of his family.”

“How did you—?”

“Who do you think looked after your father after his parents were lost to him? He was younger than you when he inherited the title, so I assume he knows better than most that a young gentleman craves his freedom.”

He wondered if his father had turned to the old man for advice after his departure. Had he hurt his father's feelings? Distracted by the thought, he let down his guard and lowered his head.

It was all McKee needed. Mathias winced at the strength of the butler's hard grip as he forced his face to the side so he could get a closer look at the bruises. “You were brawling,” the butler said flatly. “Were you fighting with your cousin? Lord Bastrell?”

“No!” Mathias shook off the butler's grip and stepped out of reach. “I was not even brawling. There was a minor incident at a tavern.”

“Who? Your father will want to know.”

That was a conversation he intended to avoid at all costs. If he mentioned the name Brant in his mother and father's presence, the consequences would be on his head. His father was not quite rational when it came to the Marquess of Norgrave. Mathias understood. There was something about the man's son that provoked him to violence. Perhaps it was something in the blood, passing from father to son.

“No one. I walked into a man's fist. The public room was crowded. It happens all the time,” he said, ignoring the disbelief on the older man's face. “I would appreciate it if you did not mention this to my parents.”

McKee chuckled. “You think you can keep this from them?”

Mathias strode to the large rectangular mirror on the wall and peered at his reflection. He poked the slight swelling at his cheek and grimaced. In the passing hours, the bruises had darkened. Although Thorn and St. Lyon were aware of the animosity between the Rooke and Brant families, he nonetheless reminded them not to mention Marcroft's name in his father's presence. With luck, he could bluster his way through a reasonable excuse for the injury that would satisfy his concerned family.

“The bruises are not so bad,” he lied, and the butler snorted behind him.

“I shall have Cook prepare a poultice to see if we can get the swelling down.” McKee turned in the direction of the kitchen. “Before you head upstairs to your bedchamber, stop by the library and greet your mother and father properly.”

Mathias frowned. He was not prepared to face his family or explain away his injuries. “What about the poultice?”

“You cannot get miracles from a poultice, my lord. Or hide from your mother. Go to them. I shall see to it that your friends are comfortably settled into their rooms.”

“You are not being helpful, McKee,” he muttered.

“Do you hear me mentioning the name Brant?” The shrewd old servant nodded when Mathias flinched. “I thought as much. Off with you. And you might want to walk slowly to give yourself more time to come up with a better tale than walking into a man's fist.”

*   *   *

Although the butler's amusement was deserved, Mathias's pride felt as bruised as his cheek. He also heeded the man's advice and took his time as he made his way to the library. Unfortunately, it was a short walk as he strolled across the freshly polished patterned marble floor. When he reached the entrance to the library, he noticed that someone had neglected to close the double doors. The two-inch gap gave him a restricted view of the interior. He reached for the gleaming brass doorknobs, but the sound of his father's voice gave him pause. How many times as a young boy had he faced these doors with his heart filled with dread and remorse over some minor offense? Too many to count, he thought. In hindsight, his father had dealt with him fairly, even though the child had viewed the various penances differently. How little had changed when the sound of his father's voice could summon the feelings of the boy he thought he had left behind a long time ago?

His grim musings faded at the soft breathy sound of feminine laughter. His mother. Imogene Rooke, Duchess of Blackbern. Just hearing her voice eased some of the tension in his shoulders. The daughter of a duke, she possessed a natural grace and diplomacy that complemented his father's strength and arrogance. If anyone could prevent the males in her life from pounding their chests as they competed for dominance, it would be his mother.

However, as he leaned forward, Mathias watched through the gap in the double doors and noted almost immediately that his tardiness was not prominent in the duke and duchess's thoughts. His father circled around his desk, intent on reclaiming some small trinket hidden within his mother's hand. Even from his position, Mathias could sense the duke's interest was focused on the flirtatious lady who believed she was evading him. He knew his father was toying with his quarry. Anyone who was acquainted with the Duke of Blackbern knew he was wholly smitten with his duchess. Mathias and his younger siblings had spent their whole lives watching his mother and father play this particular game. In the end, the duke always caught his lady.

Perhaps it was impolite for him to notice, but his mother was not really putting too much of an effort in resisting her husband's advances. Twice around the desk, and once around the overstuffed sofa, and his father had already caught his duchess by the hips.

“Now are you prepared to be reasonable about this?” the Duke of Blackbern said, pulling his wife so she was pressed against him.

“Absolutely not!” the duchess said, keeping her closed fist behind her back. She kissed her husband's chin and used the distraction to slip from his grasp.

Laughing, she ran for the desk. Amused, Mathias shook his head as his father gave chase. The Rooke family had a position to maintain in the ton. It was apparent that any sense of respectability had been given the day off. No one would ever guess that his father would be celebrating his fiftieth birthday next year. Especially when the man was behaving like a lovesick youth.

Mathias glanced in the direction of the front hall when he heard the sound of the door opening and male voices echoing as Thorn and St. Lyon greeted McKee. It would be a matter of time before his friends would seek him out, so he might as well get any unpleasant business with his mother and father out of the way.

Mathias grasped both doorknobs and widened the gap so he could enter the library. He took two steps and froze. While he had been distracted by his friends' arrival, his father had managed to place his duchess in a very compromising position. His elegant mother was splayed across the desk; her usually neat coiffure had partially come undone as his father threaded his hand through her hair to deepen their passionate kiss.

Since he had five younger siblings, he did not want to bear witness to the making of a sixth. Out of respect for his mother's modesty, Mathias glanced down and discreetly coughed into his fist.

His head lifted at his mother's soft gasp. She had to tilt her head back to verify that it was her firstborn son standing near the doorway.

“Mathias!” The Duchess of Blackbern tried to push her husband away, but he only laughed at her flustered expression. “Let me up, you scoundrel,” she said, sending their son an apologetic look. “We were not expecting you.”

The duke sent Mathias a mischievous grin. “There is no need to fret, love,” he murmured, gallantly helping her off the desk. He gave the front of her bodice a playful tug. “This isn't the first time one of our children has caught us kissing, and it won't be the last.”

“Could you at the very least be a little repentant when it comes to scandalizing the children,” she muttered as she picked up a hairpin on the desk and used it to secure a loose strand of blond hair. She walked toward her son, but he met her halfway.