You Can't Always Get the Marquess You Want (22 page)

“What is it?” Tempest whispered back, annoying several of the people sitting next to her. She murmured apologies to everyone.

“Please, my lady. It will only take a few minutes.”

Tempest nodded to the servant, and he immediately backed away since he was obstructing the view for several guests. At her sister's questioning glance, she whispered in her ear. “I will return shortly.”

Arabella inclined her head to acknowledge that she understood, and Tempest rose from her seat. She ignored her mother, who had definitely noticed her eldest daughter's retreat, and exited the room as quickly as she could. It was not fair to ruin the evening for everyone else.

The only person arrogant enough to summon her in the middle of Miss King's performance was Lord Fairlamb. Since their mothers were currently sitting on opposite sides of the music room, it made sense for them to put their heads together and come up with a plan that would not involve bloodshed.

In the distance, she could hear Miss King sing “I Prithee Send Me Back My Heart” and wished the lady well when it came to her brother. Oliver's infatuations rarely lasted more than a few weeks. The emotion she infused into the ballad hinted that the young woman had dealt with a broken heart in the past.

As the door shut behind her, it was Lady Henwood's butler who was waiting for her. “Good evening, my lady. My apology for the interruption to your evening, but a message has arrived for you.”

Tempest retrieved the note from the silver salver the servant presented. “Thank you,” she said, dismissing the butler. She took a few steps away from the footmen standing on either side of the door and unfolded the note.

Meet me in the blue parlor.—C.

Although no one was observing her, she lowered her chin to conceal her grin. Anticipation blossomed in her chest, expanding until she thought she would burst from joy. Not wanting to waste a single minute, she hurried to the stairs. Tempest had no right to feel this way about the insufferable gentleman. There were moments when she resented her reaction to him. It soothed her pride that he appeared to be at a loss about her, too.

Her mother had been bringing her to Lady Henwood's house since she was a young girl. She and Arabella had explored the house from top to bottom, and she knew the shortest route to the blue parlor. Most of the guests were watching Miss King's performance, and she did not encounter anyone as she made her way upstairs.

Counting the doors as she walked by them, Tempest halted in front of the door to the parlor. In a moment of vanity, she readjusted the curls near her temples and ears. She took a deep breath and opened the door.

Before she could enter the room, a masculine hand shackled her wrist and dragged her into the parlor. She stumbled forward, but Chance caught her. Chuckling, he wrapped his arm around her waist and hugged her against his front while he shut the door and locked it.

“Chance!” Tempest struck his shoulder with her fist. “Are you trying to stop my heart? You frightened me half to death.”

“Whom were you expecting?” he asked, taking his time in releasing her. “How many fellows have dragged you into an empty parlor?”

“Only you, Lord Fairlamb,” Tempest replied. She was vexed with him, but he did not appear to notice. She placed her hands against his evening coat and attempted to shove him away. “Release me at once, scoundrel.”

“In a moment.”

Chance's words should have warned her of what was coming. One of his hands glided up her spine and cupped the nape of her neck. His grip tightened, tugging her head to fall back, and his mouth descended. There was nothing gentle about his kiss. It was wonderfully carnal, possessive and demanding. She felt light-headed, and held on to him when he ended the kiss.

“You are utterly mad,” Tempest said, giggling as Chance tugged her hand and led her into the shadowed interior of the small parlor. Someone had taken the time to light several oil lamps by the tables positioned near the door, but no one had lingered long enough to illuminate the entire room.

“Mad for you,” he said, halting in front of the sofa.

Chance seemed more fascinated with putting his hands on her again than lighting a branch of candles. He cradled her face in his hands and bent his head down until their foreheads and noses touched. “Do you know how many days have passed since I last saw you?”

“Ten,” she whispered, touched by the ache in his voice.

He sighed. “It feels like a month. Where the devil have you been?” he demanded, giving her a little shake. “I left a note with the shop owner, but you never claimed it. Each day, I returned to the shop and waited for your response.”

Guilt nibbled at the pleasure of their reunion. “I was unable to slip away. Mama was in the mood for company, so she opened the doors each afternoon. Naturally, my sister and I were expected to stay and visit with anyone who called on us.”

“I assume you were entertaining more than your mother's old friends.” He made a soft noise of disgust when she looked down at her evening slippers. “While I was worrying that your father had locked you away for speaking to me, you were flirting with potential suitors in your mother's drawing room.” He pivoted and walked away from her.

Tempest followed him. “Chance, I had no choice. My father expected me and my sister to receive every gentleman who called on our household.”

He abruptly turned and caught her by the elbows. “And the lapdog who was sitting beside you … was he one of the gentlemen who called on you?” he asked sulkily.

Tempest swallowed to clear the sudden dryness in her throat. The marquess was jealous. The realization was as astounding as it was frightening. She could not recall a single instance when a gentleman had desired her so much, he wanted to strangle her for it.

“Lord Warrilow is a friend of my father's. Of course he is welcome in our house,” she said warily. She placed her hand over his heart and gently stroked his chest as if he were an angry beast that needed a calming hand. “Chance, I was not avoiding you. I am just not any good at subterfuge. As soon as I could have left the house, I would have gone to the bookseller's shop or I would have figured out another way to get a message to you.”

Some of the tension left his body. “Did you miss me?”

She stared at her hand on his chest and nodded. “You know I did.”

Chance used his fingers to tip her face upward and captured her lips with his own. His mouth was demanding, as if he were channeling all his frustration and longing into the kiss. When he lifted his head, both of them were breathless.

“I cannot stay long,” Tempest warned, placing her hands over his and drawing them away from her face until there was a respectable distance between them. She was content to keep her hands clasped within his as they sat down on the sofa. “If Miss King finishes her performance before I return, my mother is bound to send someone to search the house for me.”

“No one can search a locked room,” Mathias pointed out, his humor restored now that he knew she had not been deliberately avoiding him.

“That is not precisely the point,” Tempest said, turning her face away when he attempted to kiss her. What she had to say was important, and to her annoyance, he was not paying attention to the risks of their situation. “We have other concerns besides one of the servants catching us together. It is one of the reasons why I wanted to speak to you in private. Did you notice that your mother and sister are downstairs?”

“I did. It was rather thoughtless of Lady Henwood to invite your mother and mine on the same evening.” He leaned forward and caged her with his arms by bracing one on the back of the sofa and the other on the armrest. “What do you propose we do? I have a suggestion.”

His lecherous grin told her all she needed to know about his idea.

Tempest evaded his lips, so he nuzzled her neck. “How can you make light of the situation!” she argued. “Our mothers are in the same room. Not to mention my brother. Once Miss King finishes her performance, there is no predicting the outcome.”

“Actually, there are some details that are quite predictable. For example, Miss King. Her performance will last precisely one hour. As for your mother and the duchess, St. Lyon is discreetly observing them. If a crisis arises, he will send one of the servants to find me while he intercedes in my behalf.”

In this instance, his confidence was reassuring. She felt his lips brush a kiss against the side of her neck. “How do you know that Miss King's performance lasts one hour?”

Chance froze. “A guess?”

Tempest was unconvinced. “No. The word you used was ‘precisely.' Are you acquainted with Miss King?”

“Well.”

Of course Chance would know the beautiful Miss King. Like her brother, he was probably one of the numerous gentlemen who hovered around her dressing room in hopes of gaining a private audience.

He had gone to the theater to see Miss King on the evening he had rescued her. Had he returned to the young woman's side after they parted ways? With a sound of disgust, she shoved him off her.

Chance fell back against the cushions of the sofa, laughing. “Tempest.”

“Is Miss King your mistress?” she asked.

“Are you jealous?”

“No!” Was she? Tempest ground her teeth together as she stood. “It must be dreadfully inconvenient to have my brother sniffing at her skirts. You have more in common with Oliver than I had imagined.”

Chance's eyes chilled at her words. “Marcroft and I are nothing alike.”

Tempest held her chin high as she lifted the hem of her skirt to step over his feet. “We shall have to disagree on this point. If you do not mind, I will take my leave. My mother—ooph!”

Without warning, he rose up and grabbed her by the waist, pulling her onto his lap. “I do mind,” he growled into her ear. “Now, listen to me, my lady. Miss King is not my mistress. Nor is she my former mistress. Your brother is welcome to her.”

Outraged by his rough handling, she wiggled in his lap in an attempt to free herself. “Let me go!” She kicked his leg with the heel of her shoe.

“You have a rather nasty temper when provoked,” he said, and nipped her earlobe for her attack. His arms felt like bands of iron. “Ask me the name of the lady who has captured my fancy. Whose face haunts my dreams when I sleep?”

Her energy depleted, Tempest sagged against him. “Chance. If this is some sort of game, I prefer that you play it with someone else.” Tempest did not think her heart could bear the disappointment.

“Is that what you believe—that I am playing games?” he said, his voice somber.

“I do not know what I believe,” she confessed. “I just do not want to see my family hurt because you and your friends thought it would be a grand jest to flirt with one of Norgrave's daughters.”

“Very clever of me, is it not?” he said, and his harsh mocking tone caused her to wince.

Tempest stirred to climb off his lap, but his arm tightened around her waist.

“I have chafed against my father's authority for years. Seducing his enemy's daughter would prove that I am a ruthless bastard and demonstrate my loyalty to the family. He might even reward me for my cleverness.”

“You are not that cold,” she cried out. “That cruel. It isn't you.”

“How can you be certain?” he persisted, using that same mocking voice that made her want to shout at him. “After all, I am one of those awful Rookes.”

“I don't think of you as a Rooke!” she blurted out, startling both of them.

Chance caught her chin, and their eyes met. Satisfaction flared in his light gray eyes. “Progress, indeed, if you can overlook my name. Let's see if you truly see the man.”

When he crushed his mouth over hers, Tempest tasted the anger he was suppressing. It was simpler to accept the passion that blasted away all the good reasons why they were not a good match. He had deliberately goaded her, shattering her defenses. Her loyalties.

She did not want to feel this way in his arms.

Even as the thought shimmered in her mind, she saw it for what it was—a lie.

How simpler her life would be if she and Chance had parted amiably, if she had walked away and returned to the music room. Lord Warrilow was awaiting her return. She would smile at the marquess and do everything in her power to ensure her father's plans succeeded.

“Open your mouth for me, damn it,” he muttered, lightly biting her lower lip.

Her lips parted in anticipation.

The room seemed to spin as she was slowly eased onto her back, cradled by his arm until her body was cushioned by the sofa. It was an impressive feat, since not once had his mouth released hers. Chance's tongue unfurled, flowing over her bottom teeth and stroking her tongue. Tempest moaned, feeling rather wanton. Her nipples constricted and ached beneath her stays. He had one knee wedged into the seam of the sofa and the other balanced on the front edge of the cushion as he caged her with his body. His body rubbed and heated hers without the full burden of his weight.

Tempest arched her back, prolonging the contact of the front of her bodice pressing against his waistcoat. She brazenly threaded her fingers into his hair at the back of his head, and pulled him closer. Kissing Chance was a wonderful and heady experience. She had never kissed a gentleman in such an intimate fashion. However, there was no awkwardness between them.

Only hunger.

Mirroring the flirtation of his nimble tongue, it wasn't long before they were both overly warm and shaking from their labors.

Chance broke their kiss. There was a feverish cast to his light gray eyes, and his lips were damp. His expression had her tugging on his hair so he would kiss her again.

“You will be the ruin of me,” he murmured, kissing her again with a sweetness that had her heart fluttering. “And I will be the ruin of you if we continue.”

“Just one more kiss,” Tempest insisted, her hands sliding from his shoulders to the front of his evening coat. She gripped the edges to pull him closer.