You Can't Always Get the Marquess You Want (29 page)

“Good, you are awake,” he said, kneeling down in front of her. “I was beginning to become concerned that you had not told St. Lyon the whole truth.”

“About what?” she asked, not understanding how she was sitting in a stranger's house with Chance.

“The extent of your injuries,” he calmly explained. “He told me that you had injured your ankle, but you barely stirred when I opened the door of the coach, I thought you might have bumped your head when I rolled one of the wheels over a particularly nasty hole in the street.”

She sank back down on the sofa. “You were the coachman?”

“Yes.” At her stunned expression, he hastily explained, “You were never in any danger. I have some experience handling the ribbons. St. Lyon, Thorn—all of us have had a turn or two on the perch. Sometimes we hold races.” She simply gaped at him. He ducked his head and repositioned the pan of water near her feet. “Never mind. Now, which ankle is hurt?”

“My left,” she said, flexing her bare toes, and grimaced. “It's still sore, but it feels better.”

“I heated some water. Bathing your ankle in salt water should ease the pain.” He gently grasped her left foot and placed it in the warm water. “I also made enough if you would like some hot tea.”

The warm water did nothing to alleviate the dread brewing in her stomach. “Is this your father's house?”

Chance shook his head as he fussed and repositioned her foot in the pan of water. “I told you that I no longer reside with my family. This is my house.”

“Why am I here?” she blurted out. “What is going on, Chance?”

“No trickery, I promise,” he said, drawing an X over his heart. At some point, he had removed his black evening coat and waistcoat. His cravat knot was still tied, but he had rolled up his sleeves when he pumped and heated the water. “Are you comfortable? I could light the coals if you are chilled.”

“The blanket is enough,” she said, silently wondering if she had struck her head. None of this made any sense. “You were very angry with me.”

“And you thought about punching me.” He made a soft scolding noise with his tongue. “St. Lyon claims you took a swing at him.”

“I thought it was you,” she muttered, still embarrassed by her behavior.

“Ah,” he said, not sounding too upset that she had been provoked to commit violence. “Well, no harm done. God knows I had it coming if you had managed to hit me.”

Suddenly it was too much for Tempest to take in. His calm demeanor was too much at odds with his angry accusations. She brought her hands up and covered her entire face so he could not witness her tears.

“Tempest,” he said, inching forward on his knees until he was close enough to peel her fingers from her face. “My love.”

Without any hesitation, he pulled her into his arms, encouraging her to bury her face into his shoulder. Tempest felt his hands at her back. Chance held her close while she sobbed. “I am so sorry,” he murmured into her neck. “I was jealous. It shames me to admit that I lost my head when I noticed you dancing with Warrilow. Not to mention how he ruined our meeting at the park. I was beginning to wonder if you had a hand in it, and I took it out on you. I wasn't being fair, nor did I give you a chance to explain. I said some awful things to you and St. Lyon.”

“He loves you,” she said, sniffing a little as she raised her head. Chance handed her a clean handkerchief. “St. Lyon obviously has forgiven you. Otherwise, he would have never helped you trick me into climbing into your coach and aiding you in my own kidnapping.”

“I have not kidnapped you,” he denied, plucking the handkerchief from her hands, and wiped away her tears. “Think of this stop as a delay. You can leave anytime you wish. All you have to do is ask. I just wanted some time alone with you so I could apologize to you properly. I was cruel and I deserve to crawl.”

Chance looked so grumpy about the notion that she could not help but smile. “Are tending my ankle and the hot tea part of your repentance?”

He careless lifted his right shoulder. “I suppose. You never told St. Lyon how you injured your ankle, and you were so angry at me that I was worried you had made it worse.”

“I was watching you and Sabra and not paying attention. I stepped on poor Lord Warrilow's foot and twisted my ankle,” she explained.

“Sabra and I,” he began, and took a moment to knead the muscles at the back of his neck. “I was sixteen years old when I first met her. She's a few years older, and for a few months, I thought I loved her.”

“She's very beautiful.”

“Yes, well … it ended quickly when she ran off and married someone else,” he said, unhappy that he was dredging up a part of his life that he would prefer to forget. “She's been widowed for a few years, and now she has an elderly earl enamored with her.”

Tempest did not know Sabra, but she had seen how the woman looked at Chance. She was in love with him. “You are no longer sixteen. This time you might be able to convince her to run off with you.”

“Maybe.”

He glanced away, and Tempest realized that Sabra had already tried to seduce Chance. Any sympathy she had for the widow faded. “Where is Sabra?” she asked, praying the lady was not waiting for Chance to return to her.

“I abandoned her in Lord and Lady Karmack's garden. We quarreled when I told her that I was planning to confront Warrilow, but when I entered the ballroom, both you and Warrilow were gone. I asked St. Lyon to see that she gets home,” he said, refolding a portion of her skirt because a section of the hem had been sitting in the pan of water.

His lack of concern for his former lover's welfare should not have lifted Tempest's spirits, but she was a selfish woman. She silently rejoiced that the beautiful Sabra would be returning to her elderly earl.

“What happened to Warrilow?” He had kept his voice level, and infused a touching note of curiosity not to arouse her suspicion that her answer mattered to him. “It is difficult to believe he would have left you, especially when he was aware you were injured.”

Ah, so that was the reason he was so angry when he had entered the parlor. Chance had expected to catch Tempest and Warrilow in a scandalous embrace. Finding his roguish friend alone with her had further ignited his temper.

“Lord Warrilow had other plans for the evening. He offered to stay, but I encouraged him to leave.”

“I accepted Sabra's invitation to escort her this evening only because I did not want to spend another night drinking myself into a stupor so I did not have to think about you and Warrilow,” he confessed, threading his fingers through hers until their hands clasped. “I was there as her friend. Nothing would have happened between us, even if we had remained in the garden.”

Tempest held her breath when he lifted his lowered eyelids and held her gaze.

“There is only one lady I conspire to lure into a garden at midnight.”

Finally remembering to breathe, she noisily exhaled. “Who?”

“Why, it is you, my darling girl,” he replied, his eyes glowing with affection and humor.

“Does this place have a garden?”

He highly approved of her suggestion. She could see it in his expression, the way his mouth curved and his nostrils subtly flared.

Then he shook his head.

“No?” Tempest tried not to pout. “You disappoint me, Lord Fairlamb.”

“You have a sore ankle, love,” he reminded her as he unfolded his body so he could cage her against the sofa. Tempest fell against the pillows on the sofa. Her bare foot kicked the surface of the water, sending a liquid plume across the rug. “Besides, you are right where I want you.”

“I am?” she coyly asked, but she was unafraid. It was when she believed she had lost him that her fears and regrets had tormented her.

“Yes, my lady.” He leered, looking very much a scoundrel. His mouth hovered enticingly just above hers. “Do you welcome my kisses?”

“Ye—”

Chance crushed his lips against hers.

Hunger long denied collided with the growing swell of relief. Tempest welcomed the sharp sting from the edge of his teeth, and she wrapped her arms around his neck to draw him closer. She ignored the discomfort and teased him with her tongue. Using the nimble tip, she poked and stroked, testing the narrow part for weaknesses.

Abruptly he opened for her, allowing her to sink deeper into him. Her tongue curled and unfurled against his, giving him pleasure even as she laid claim to her own.

Tempest made soft sounds of surprise when he covered one of her breasts with his hand.

His mouth tore away from hers. “We should stop,” he said, giving her another opportunity to push him away.

Chance had told her that she was free to leave. All she had to do was ask.

The fact that the choice had always been hers endowed her with a power she had been unaware she possessed. Tempest brazenly moved closer and played with the clever knot of linen at his throat. She could feel his heart thundering in his chest. “Do you truly wish to stop? Send me away when you went to so much effort to bring me here?”

“I want you to stay,” he said, his eyes hot with desire. “Every time I kiss you, it is becoming more difficult to remember that you are an innocent. Every time I touch you, I am greedy for more.”

“It is the same for me,” she said, knowing her eyes reflected the same longing she glimpsed in his. “When we are apart, all I do is daydream of the next time we can be together.” She pressed her face against his shirt.

“Tempest,” he groaned, still fighting her.

Himself.

“I never thought wanting could hurt so much,” she murmured against his chest and nibbled at the small button on his shirt. “You know how to ease it. For both of us. Show me. I want to give you pleasure.”

“Just looking at your beautiful face gives me pleasure, Tempest,” he said, capturing her chin and tilting her face until their gazes locked. “I would not ask more of you.”

“You are not asking,” she said, her voice low and seductive. She had never been so certain of anything in her life. “I am offering. I am aware that you have had other lovers.”

Chance did not want to talk any more about his past. “I touch you, and former loves crumple into dust like ancient dried flowers that had been tucked away in a box that once held treasured memories. I feel my lips against yours, and I wonder how I could bear the loneliness while I waited for you to find me.”

He took his time, worshipping her mouth.

“Have I thanked you for spying on me and my friends?” Chance playfully bit her lower lip. “I thank God every day for your curious mind.”

Tempest laughed as she thought how fate had brought them together.

Of how her family had the power to tear them apart.

No, she would not dwell on her fears or the future. Why spoil the present when in the here and now, Chance belonged to her. Nor would she regret loving him. If she lost him, she would look back on moments such as this as a gift.

“You are the only lady who occupies my thoughts, Tempest.” He kissed her lightly on the mouth as if to soothe away any jealousy or hurt she might have felt. “My heart belongs to you.”

She stilled, aware of the importance of his confession.

“And your body?”

*   *   *

Hidden beneath his dark breeches and covered by her skirt, his thickening cock pulsed and strained, demanding that he free the unruly flesh and demonstrate his eagerness to claim her.

Mathias kissed her nose. Another kiss to her cheek. He wanted to explore every inch of her skin and revel in the scent that was uniquely hers.

“My body is yours as well,” he said, continuing to struggle against the internal conflict between assuaging his lust and protecting her.

St. Lyon had told him once that a man resisting his true nature usually ended up destroying what he sought to protect. Embracing it gave him a measure of control and balance.

From the first day, Mathias had been fighting this unwelcome attraction for Tempest. Realizing it was mutual only fueled his resolve to resist her, and infuriated him when she still managed to slip through his defenses.

Her family's determination to bind her to Lord Warrilow was likely to get the gentleman killed. He had envisioned the marquess's death a thousand times.

Mathias wanted to kill him with his bare hands for contemplating marriage, knowing the lady could be Warrilow's and he had her family's blessing.

Christ, he was tired of fighting—her and himself.

Mathias rubbed the silky fabric of her bodice with his thumb, unerringly finding her nipple, which was concealed by layers of fabric and whalebone. He longed to undress her and reveal the plump nipple, rubbing his lips against it until it swelled. He wanted to tease the flesh with his tongue until she begged him to stop.

And then he wanted to show her what would happen if she let him continue.

“Chance?”

Could she sense how close he was from surrendering to her?

She was the virgin, but it was Mathias who stood on the precipice, knowing that if they became lovers, it would change him. He had yet to decide if he would be better for it.

“Are you offering me your body, Tempest?” Her body tensed under his, but they had come too far for him to be subtle. “If you stay, we will become lovers. Will you let me touch you? Taste your breasts and the hidden flesh between your legs?”

Her breathy gasp revealed that her clever, talented mind had not pondered such an act. Now that he had uttered the enticing words, she would think of nothing else. She was wondering how his mouth would feel as he kissed her sensitive flesh, his tongue spearing into her.

His hand lightly slid down her body. Mathias was not even touching her dress, but Tempest stirred and arched, craving his touch. She could not fathom the pleasure he could give her, and he longed to show her.

“Let me love you,” he said, taking her hand and brushing a kiss against her knuckles.