You Can't Always Get the Marquess You Want (28 page)

She choked on a soft sob.

“Has something upset you?”

Tempest pasted a smile on her face. “Just a little breathless,” she said. It wasn't a lie. Seeing Chance holding another lady in his arms had squeezed all the air out of her lungs.

With her heart aching, she and the marquess danced, weaving their way through the other dancers. She saw glimpses of Chance and his female partner as she executed turns with her hand clasped firmly within Lord Warrilow's. The other couple was on the far side of the dancing area, and he seemed to be steering his companion near the garden doors.

Tempest thought of their stroll through Lady Oxton's gardens. Of the kiss she had shared with Chance. She almost cried out as she saw the couple disappear into the night. Lord Fairlamb was a horrible man. A thief of hearts. She despised him, and if given the opportunity she would happily murder him and dance on his grave.

Not paying attention, she stepped on the marquess's black evening pump and stumbled. Lord Warrilow caught her, and her front was pressed against his chest.

“Forgive me, my lord. I was careless,” she murmured, and moved away. She winced.

“My lady, you are hurt,” the marquess said, walking toward her.

“It is nothing. I merely twisted my ankle.” Tempest grimaced in pain as she took another step.

“Allow me to assist you.” Ignoring her weak protests, he placed his arm around her waist and helped her cross the ballroom. “I will send someone to inform your mother.”

“No,” she said, pulling the arm he had raised to signal a servant downward.

“There is no reason to disturb her or Arabella. The initial pain startled me, but it feels better. I will head upstairs and have one of the maids tend it. If I rest my foot for a while, it will recover quickly.” She offered him a genuine smile. “Then Mama does not have to know how clumsy I am. How is
your
foot?”

He fought not to grin. “My foot is fine, Lady Tempest.”

With her hand on Lord Warrilow's arm, she fought the urge to limp to demonstrate that her injury was minor. They continued to the staircase in the front hall.

She released his arm and reached for the newel. “I can continue on my own, my lord.”

Lord Warrilow glanced at her feet as if he could discern for himself the extent of her injuries. He nodded and his gaze lifted to her face. “I enjoyed dancing with you this evening.”

“Even the part when I stepped on your foot?” she teased.

“I believe it was my favorite part,” he shyly admitted, and grinned at her look of astonishment. “It gave me an excuse to hold you in my arms.”

“Oh.” Although it had been an accident, it was the first time he confessed that he desired a more intimate connection. “It was rather nice,” she said awkwardly.

“Are you certain you do not want me to send for your mother?” He glanced away, looking uncomfortable. “I have another engagement, and I was planning to leave. I could—uh, stay.”

Lord Warrilow had stopped at the Karmacks' for the opportunity to visit and perhaps dance with her. Of course he had other plans for the evening. Her father rarely attended balls, preferring his various clubs.

“No, there is no reason for you to change your plans. Go … enjoy your evening,” she said, clutching the newel post. “If I need my mother, I will ask one of the servants to get her or my sister.”

“Very well, then.” He bowed. “I look forward to seeing you again, Lady Tempest.”

“Good evening, Lord Warrilow.” Her smile slipped when the marquess turned his back and headed for the front door.

When he was gone, she slowly made her way upstairs. Her ankle hurt, but she could put her full weight on it. Tempest blamed her tears on her injury rather than the pain of Chance's rejection. With her vision blurred by her tears, it dawned on her that she did not know which room was being used by the Karmacks' female guests. She opened one door, and the interior was dark. The next door was locked. She wiped her wet cheek and tried the door across from the locked one.

She gasped as she collided with a blond-haired lady. The woman barely glanced at her, but she murmured an apology and strode away. Her hair color reminded Tempest of the lady with whom Chance had disappeared into the gardens. She covered her mouth with her hand and stepped into the room, only to cry out again when a familiar gentleman caught her by the arms.

“Lady Tempest.”

She blinked and tried to clear her vision. Of all the rotten luck. She had run into Lord Bastrell, one of Chance's friends.

“My lady, are you hurt?” he asked, his hands impersonally checking her arms for injuries.

“I—I am fine, my lord,” she said, her voice breaking into a sob. “You can leave—”

Most gentlemen avoided a lady's tears at all costs. Tempest expected him to flee with her blessing, but the viscount astonished her by pulling her into the room. Ignoring her assurances that she was fine, he led her to the sofa and produced a handkerchief.

She would have been impressed if she had not longed for him to leave her in peace.

Instead of sitting in one of the parlor's chairs or the sofa, the gentleman crouched down in front of her. Tempest refused to look at him. She could feel his worried stare as it lingered on her face.

“It is kind of you, but you do not have to stay with me.” She wiped the dampness from her cheeks. “I just need a moment of privacy.”

“Has someone upset you? Insulted you?” he softly inquired.

“Nothing so dire. I—I twisted my ankle, Lord Bastrell,” she confessed, praying her honesty would hasten his departure. “I am embarrassed that I have troubled you.”

“St. Lyon. You can consider me a friend, my lady.”

The viscount's kindness ruined her composure. Her face twisted as the pain and grief of her loss rose up in her throat and threatened to choke her. Suddenly she found her face buried in the curve of St. Lyon's shoulder. He was on his knees and had pulled her forward to offer her comfort.

He was the second gentleman this evening who had offered her friendship and compassion while she cried over the man she could not have.

“There, there,” he crooned as if soothing a child. “Can you talk about it?”

She felt like a fool. “I—”

Tempest started as someone enthusiastically slammed the door. She and St. Lyon separated, and she turned to see Chance stalking toward him.

“First Warrilow and now one of my closest friends,” he growled as if she had betrayed him.

“Chance,” the viscount began as he braced the palm of his hands on his knees and stood. “It is nothing like that.”

“Not one word, St. Lyon,” the marquess snarled, knocking the other man's hand away when he attempted to touch his shoulder. Chance glared down at her tearstained face. “Quite the little seductress. You certainly hoodwinked me. Then again, I would expect that from a Brant.”

Tempest stood. Rage filled her, and her fingers twitched as if she longed to slap him.

Noticing that she had curled her hand into a fist, he tilted his chin upward. “Take a shot, darling. I dare you.”

Her lips thinned at his tone. Oh, she longed to strike him down. If only she had been born a male.

St. Lyon grabbed his arm. “That is enough. What is wrong with you? Are you drunk?”

Chance's ire switched to the viscount. “And you, one of my dearest friends. Do you have to bed every wench who crosses your path?”

“Leave him alone,” Tempest said, grimacing as she stepped closer to the two gentlemen. “Do not paint St. Lyon with the brush of your sins, Lord Fairlamb.”

Chance had cured her of her tears. The vile scoundrel.

“What is she talking about?” the viscount asked. Baffled, his gaze shifted between her and his friend.

“Your friend favors evening strolls in the garden. A different lady each night,” she said, her face twisted with disgust. “I'll wager you do not even know her name.”

“Sabra,” Chance impatiently snapped as St. Lyon groaned.

“You arrived with Sabra on your arm?” The viscount shook his head with disappointment. “Are you mad? Not a wise decision, my friend.”

“Did I ask for your blessing?”

The mystery lady had some history with the gentlemen.

“I don't care who she is,” Tempest said, the air hissing through her clenched teeth. “Or whom you stroll with through torchlit gardens, or—or whom you kiss. She can have you!” With her chin high, she marched toward the door. Her ankle hurt, so she did not bother to hide her limp.

“What the hell is wrong with your foot?” Chance yelled as he followed her to the door.

“It is none of your business, Lord Fairlamb,” she tossed back.

St. Lyon pulled his friend back before he could put his hands on her. “She was upset when I ran into her. I intended to calm her and then look for her family. Before Lady Tempest's arrival, I had been visiting with a—uh—friend.”

Tempest rolled her eyes. The viscount's friend had been straightening her clothing when she exited the room. She opened the parlor's door to leave, but Chance used the palm of his hand to shut it.

“I will scream if you stop me from leaving,” she threatened.

“Where is Warrilow?” His harsh tone had her bristling. “Did he say something to upset you?”

“Did
he
?” Her eyes narrowed, and Chance and St. Lyon were intelligent enough to deduce that she was furious. Both of them took a step back. “I will have you know that Lord Warrilow is a consummate gentleman, and you, Lord Fairlamb, can go to the devil!”

No one stopped her when she opened the door. Tempest stepped into the hall and moved as quickly as her sore ankle allowed her. She was too upset with Chance to feel much pain. The man had crushed her heart, and then he had the audacity to be furious at Lord Warrilow for possibly upsetting her.

She was almost to the stairs when she felt a light tap on her shoulder. Blindly she struck out, but her arm sliced harmlessly through the air. To her shame, she had tried to hit Lord Bastrell.

“Forgive me, I thought you were—him.”

The viscount held up his hands in surrender. “I told him to stay in the parlor while I spoke to you. Neither one of you is thinking clearly.”

“Which has always been my problem when it comes to Lord Fairlamb,” was her scathing reply, directed at herself. “Fortunately, I have come to my senses.”

“Are you leaving?”

She nodded. “First, I need to find a servant. My mother and sister are in the cardroom. I need to let them know that I have twisted my ankle and plan to retire early.”

“He did not listen to me when I told him that you were hurt,” St. Lyon muttered.

Tempest frowned, not catching his all his words. “I beg your pardon?”

He grinned. “Nothing. Say, I have an idea. While you hunt for a servant and write a note for your mother, permit me to make amends for the misunderstanding I have created between you and Chance by loaning you my coach.”

“It is unnecessary. Any misunderstandings are Chance's fault. You are not to blame,” she said generously. “Nor do I care what he thinks.”
Not after watching Chance flirt with that Sabra woman.
“And you do not have to escort me home. We arrived in the family coach. The coachman can return for my mother and sister later.”

“Nonsense,” he countered, smoothly taking her arm to make her descent down the staircase less painful. “This is likely the first of several stops for your mother and sister. Why inconvenience them, when I can do this small service for you.”

“St. Lyon—”

“Think nothing of it,” he said, sidestepping her protests. “It will be my honor to assist you. Not to mention, my chivalry will annoy Chance.”

Tempest was still mad enough at the marquess that it was the right thing for St. Lyon to say to gain her consent. “Very well. I will talk to one of the servants.”

“The coach will be waiting for you when you are ready, my dear,” St. Lyon assured her.

 

Chapter Twenty-One

Tempest expected if St. Lyon had been kind enough to lend her his coach that he planned to join her on the drive home. Instead, he helped her settle into the coach and moved to shut the door.

She stalled him by placing her palm against the side of the door. “You are not coming?”

The viscount inclined his head. “Pray, forgive me for abandoning you. I confess that I have some unfinished business with that blonde. You know the lady—she was the one who was—”

“I am truly sorry about that,” Tempest replied, not wanting any details. “You can offer my apologies to your friend as well.”

St. Lyon wiggled his eyebrows in a leering fashion. For a rogue, he was quite charming. “I will,” he promised, and shut the coach's door.

He glanced up at the coachman sitting on the perch. “Look after Lady Tempest, good man.”

“Aye, milord,” was the coachman's gruff reply.

With a final wave to St. Lyon, Tempest settled back against the richly appointed compartment to enjoy the drive home. Exhausted, she thought to close her eyes only for a minute.

Five minutes later, she was soundly asleep.

*   *   *

Something soft tickled her cheek.

Without opening her eyes, Tempest slowly became aware that the coach was no longer moving. She yawned and straightened to stretch her back. It was then that she opened her eyes and gasped.

Tempest was no longer in St. Lyon's coach. Someone had carried her inside while she slept, placed her on a sofa and covered her legs with a blanket. The depth of her exhaustion and the trust she had unknowingly granted the coachman left her shaken. She glanced at her surroundings. The interior of the unfamiliar sitting room was illuminated by several oil lamps.

This is not my father's house.

She pushed aside the blanket and sat up so her feet touched the thick rug. While she was asleep, someone had removed her evening slippers. Before she could panic, Chance entered the room with a large pan in his bare hands.