You Can't Always Get the Marquess You Want (21 page)

“You behave as if I am incapable of such tender sentiment. Once I thought I was in love with you, Sabra.”

“You were not in love with me,” she said, dismissing the suggestion. “Although I do recall that you had a fondness for my body.”

“There is no reason to belittle what we shared,” he said, stiffening at her subtle mockery of their brief love affair. “It was a long time ago. My heart recovered and any hurt feelings have faded.”

“Which is precisely my point, Chance,” she argued. “A man in love does not recover so quickly. The pain may fade, but it is not forgotten. Or so my friends keep telling me.”

“You do not love your earl?”

She shrugged. “I love the notion of becoming a countess, and I do love living comfortably. Perhaps I will come to love the earl as time passes.”

It would be a cold marriage, he thought. She was such a passionate woman, her nature would eventually drive her into the warm arms of another man. “And when you were nineteen years old … did you love me, Sabra?”

Her blue eyes misted with old memories of the past. “We were young. You were so handsome, and the strength of your body still gives me shivers of pleasure when I think of our time together. I would have loved being your marchioness, and later, your duchess.”

Mathias bowed his head. He had often wondered if his father had paid the Battles off to hasten their departure. Sabra was right. If he had truly loved her, he would have fought for her. He would have confronted his father with his unspoken accusations and then he would have searched for Sabra and promised to marry her when he was older. Instead, he had let her go. Her marriage to Kitts had given him an excuse to move on with his life.

“No, Chance, I did not love you. I was young. I did not want to marry anyone, but my father was determined to see me settled since I enjoyed the marriage bed too enthusiastically.”

He nodded. “I remember.”

Sabra laughed, and impulsively kissed him on the mouth. “I still do. Chance, if you ask me to go home with you—I will go. I am not asking for promises. Nor do I have any expectations. We could just amuse ourselves until it is time to say farewell.”

Mathias lowered his forehead to hers. Her invitation was exactly what he had been seeking when he arrived in London. An uncomplicated dalliance. A few weeks or a month of mindless pleasure, and then they would part without bitter recriminations or tears. It was all Sabra could offer him, and a few months ago, he might have accepted.

Mathias pulled away and kissed her on the forehead. “Did you arrive in a hired coach? If you like, I could have my coachman take you home.”

Disappointment cast shadows in her expression. “It is kind of you to offer. Yes, I believe it is time I should return home.”

The need to apologize rose in his throat, but he swallowed it. “I will say my farewells to my friends, and then we can depart.”

“Chance?”

“Yes.”

She took a step toward him. “If it doesn't work out with your lady love, I pray you will reconsider my invitation.”

Mathias raised his hand in acknowledgment as he walked toward the stairs. He no longer wanted to throttle his friends for their interference. If Rainbault insisted on an apology, he would receive it. He owed his friends that much.

This evening had been a test, and a revelation.

Sabra Kitts was everything he desired in a lover, and her invitation had left him cold.

Mathias was seeking more than a quick, emotionless gratification. Something he could easily do with his own hand, if his body needed a release. What he longed for was more elusive and was fraught with risks.

He wanted Tempest.

Just thinking of her sent his heart thundering in his chest and his loins heating with lust. He had never felt this way about a lady, and he wasn't comfortable with the notion that he was falling in love with her.

Their relationship was ill-fated, he brooded, because claiming Tempest would herald the day he would betray his family.

 

Chapter Sixteen

“Are we missing anyone?”

“I do not believe so,” Tempest replied, giving Lord Warrilow a weak smile as she straightened in her seat.

It was not the first time she had glanced over her shoulder and searched the faces of Lady Henwood's guests as they made their way from the drawing room and into the music room. There were so many people present, the three large doors separating the two rooms were to remain open so anyone who wished to remain seated in the drawing room could enjoy the concert. The countess had invited Miss Clara King to entertain them this evening. Arabella had informed her that they had missed her performance the night they had been caught in the traffic and Oliver had abandoned them for a few hours. It had also been the night Chance rescued her from the drunk and smugly demanded a kiss as his award. She had bristled at his arrogant taunt, and their kiss had been mediocre and uninspiring.

Kissing him had improved with a little practice.

Not that she had been given any opportunity to kiss Chance or anyone else. Although, if she wanted to kiss a gentleman, Lord Warrilow might be willing if she offered him any encouragement. He had been a frequent visitor to her mother's drawing room. This evening, he had been invited to sit with her family. It was a sign that the man was taking a closer look at her and Arabella for his bride.

Chance would not be pleased by this news.

Ten days had passed since he asked her to return to the bookseller's shop. Unfortunately, the task had been more difficult than anticipated, since her mother expected her to stay home and entertain Lord Warrilow and what appeared to be a constant stream of visitors. Her mother was enjoying the activity in the household, and Tempest had not come up with a good excuse to leave the house.

Tempest suspected Chance was not one to be thwarted, and that would make him reckless. The fine hairs on the nape of her neck tickled in warning. She half expected Lord Fairlamb to stroll through the door and sit down next to Lord Warrilow.

And would that not be courting disaster!

“You seem distracted this evening,” the marquess observed, and Tempest suddenly felt guilty that she was thinking about Chance when she was sitting beside a handsome gentleman who had done nothing to deserve her rude behavior.

She compounded her guilt by lying. “I was looking for Lady Harriet.”

“I was not aware our cousin would be joining us,” her sister said, turning her head, but Tempest refused to meet her gaze.

“It was nothing certain, so it would be unfair to ask a footman to reserve a seat for her and any companions,” Tempest explained, praying that God would not strike her dead for her lies.

It was Chance's fault, she silently fumed. She had been an honest person before she spied on him and his friends bathing in the river.

Tempest glanced over at her mother, who was standing in front of a large mirror and speaking with one of her friends. The marchioness saw something in the mirror's reflection and visibly stiffened. Something or someone had caught her attention.

She prayed it wasn't Chance.

Tempest watched helplessly as her mother slowly turned and glanced at the other side of the room. Lady Norgrave's mouth thinned. Following the direction of her mother's gaze, she recognized the lady who had just entered the room with her children.

It was the Duchess of Blackbern.

Tempest had the sudden desire to melt into the floor.

“Is something amiss?” Lord Warrilow inquired, noticing that she was slouching in her chair.

Tempest straightened. “Not at all. Everything is just splendid.”

Arabella kicked her in the shin.
What is wrong with you?
she silently mouthed.

The Duchess of Blackbern and Lady Norgrave in the same room. This was probably not the first occasion on which the two ladies were forced to deal with each other. From the corner of her eye, she watched the duchess greet a few friends before she and her three daughters sat down on the left side of the room toward the front. She seemed unaware of the marchioness's presence.

That fact clearly annoyed her mother. Ignoring her companion, Lady Norgrave was staring at the duchess.

“Tempest!”

“What?” Arabella and Lord Warrilow were looking at her with various degrees of puzzlement. “Forgive me, I was not listening. What did you ask me?”

Arabella sensed something was troubling Tempest, but she was uncomfortable demanding answers in front of the marquess. “You look unwell, Sister. Perhaps you should retire upstairs to the ladies' parlor before Miss King's performance,” she said pointedly. “I will tell Mother where you have gone.”

Tempest seized on the excuse her sister provided, and nodded.

“Lady Tempest, I would be pleased to escort you,” Lord Warrilow said, preparing to stand.

“That is unnecessary,” Tempest assured the marquess. “I won't—”

It was then that she noticed Chance and St. Lyon standing near the middle door that opened into the drawing room. Chance crossed his arms and scowled at her. It was then that Miss King entered the music room from the back of the room. Oliver was escorting her to the front.

When had her brother met Miss King?

Tempest switched her gaze back to Chance. He had also noticed her brother's arrival, and his anger had been redirected. Most days, she would have been thrilled by this fortuitous development, but not when there were too many Rookes and Brants in the same room.

“Unnecessary, because I am staying.” She smiled reassuringly at Lord Warrilow. “I would be disappointed if I missed Miss King's performance.”

Lady Norgrave wordlessly sat down next to Arabella. Tempest could feel her mother's anger rolling off her like churning waves. Her brother took a seat in the front row so he could be close to Miss King.

It would be a miracle if the evening didn't end with a brawl.

*   *   *

Mathias shared Tempest's gloomy thoughts.

He had initially been overjoyed when St. Lyon told him that Tempest was attending the concert. What elation he felt had waned when he saw Warrilow seated beside her.

Was the marquess the reason she had not gone to the bookseller's shop?

The man made the mistake of touching Tempest on the arm to gain her attention. Blind with fury, Mathias did not realize he had taken a step forward to rip the offending limb out of its socket until St. Lyon held him back.

He was so focused on Tempest, he had not noticed his mother's arrival with his sisters. Or Lady Norgrave's presence. The marchioness was not pleased he saw now, and the rigidity in Tempest's shoulders revealed she was aware that a confrontation between the two women was possible.

Why had Lady Henwood invited both ladies?

While he was mulling over his choices, Tempest turned her head and saw him. Her dismay was a blow to his stomach. She rose and he wondered if she was planning to confront him, and that was when Miss King and Marcroft entered the music room.

Marcroft was too distracted by his enchanting companion to notice anyone, but his presence was too much for Tempest. She took one look at her brother and promptly sat down.

“I was unaware your mother was attending this evening,” St. Lyon muttered.

“As was I.”

“Did it escape your notice that Lady Norgrave is also in attendance?”

Mathias exhaled noisily. “No, it did not.”

“Then I do not have to mention Miss King and Marcroft.”

He gave his friend a quelling glance. “Can you cease pointing out the obvious? I am not blind.”

“You are when it comes to Norgrave's daughter,” St. Lyon argued. “That lady has brought nothing but trouble to your life. If you persist, that brother of hers is going to put a bullet in your thick skull.”

He lowered his voice when Lady Henwood began her introductions. “You worry too much, St. Lyon.”

The viscount leaned against the wall and crossed his arms. “Do you want to leave before Marcroft stops thinking with his cock?”

It was a sound course of action, but Mathias shook his head. “I cannot leave. Not until I speak with my mother,” he explained, cutting off his friend's heated response. “I highly doubt Lady Norgrave will cause a scene. She has as much to lose as my mother. However, I shall feel better once I have escorted the duchess and my sisters to their coach.”

“And Lady Tempest?”

“My plans have not changed.”

St. Lyon cursed. “How do you precisely intend to speak to the lady right under the noses of her family and yours?”

There was nothing humorous about his grin. “Fetch me a footman.”

*   *   *

Tempest might be questioning Lady Henwood's good sense by inviting Lady Norgrave and the Duchess of Blackbern to the same gathering, but her instincts were correct when it came to hiring Miss King for the evening. The woman could have been one of Euterpe's handmaidens, for she possessed not only grace and beauty, but a voice worthy of Zeus's ear as well. Her brother was obviously enthralled, and had likely laid claim to the young songstress's affections. Nevertheless, Oliver had competition. She cast a look at Lord Warrilow. Her lips twitched with amusement.

Miss King's rendition of
The Fairy-Queen
had bewitched the marquess, along with the other gentlemen in the music room. A discreet glance at her mother eased the tension in her shoulders. In spite of the Duchess of Blackbern's presence, the music was soothing her mother's indignation. With any luck, she and Arabella would be able to coax the marchioness into their town coach before she remembered why she was so furious.

She turned her head away from the lovely Miss King at the light tap on her shoulder. Thankfully, it was not Chance or his friend St. Lyon, but rather one of Lady Henwood's footmen.

“I beg your pardon, my lady,” the servant murmured in her ear. “Your presence is required in the front hall.”