You Can't Always Get the Marquess You Want (3 page)

“It is good to have you home again,” she said, embracing him. When he lowered his head, she kissed him on the cheek. Still off balance, she did not focus her eyes on his bruised cheek right away. But then her gaze narrowed as she lightly inspected the swelling with her fingertips. “Good grief. What have you done to yourself?”

“If I had done this to myself, it would not have hurt so much,” Mathias teased, meeting his father's amused gaze. “It is nothing to worry about, Mother. I barely notice it.” He sent a desperate look to his father, silently pleading with him to come to his rescue. “I realize I am late, and I also have rotten timing when I do get around to presenting myself. My sincere apologies to both of you.”

“Nonsense,” his mother protested, moving aside so her son could greet his father properly. “I wish to learn more about what happened—”

“Let the lad catch his breath, Imogene. Apology accepted,” his father said smoothly as the two men clasped hands. The duke winked as he placed his other hand on Mathias's shoulder to draw him into a brief embrace. “However, your timing was quite exceptional. A few more minutes, and your mother and I—”

“You will be sleeping in the stables if you finish that sentence, Your Grace!” his mother warned, the color in her cheeks deepening at her husband's teasing. Adept at changing the subject, too, she touched Mathias on the arm. “So … have you come alone or have you brought me guests?”

“Thorn and St. Lyon,” he replied. “I promise we will not trouble you for long.”

His mother wrinkled her nose, and she dismissed his vow with a wave of her hand. “Stay as long as you like. Nevertheless, we are already making preparations to travel to London. If you wish, you and your friends may travel with us.”

“Darling, I doubt Chance, Thorn, and St. Lyon want to be slowed down by the family.” The duke gave him a measured stare. “I assume you are eager to continue your journey to London once we've discussed estate business.”

Mathias was, but he swallowed his agreement when he noted his mother's disappointment. “We plan to stay a week, and then we are returning to London.”

“Returning?” she politely inquired.

His father's gaze sharpened at his slip of the tongue. Mathias winced and casually reached up to rub the back of his neck. “We, uh, I made a brief stop in London before heading home.”

“What was so important that it could not wait?” the duchess asked, sounding perplexed by his decision. “Is that where you had trouble?”

Trouble? Mathias scowled. Ah yes, his face. He had no intention of mentioning Marcroft. Ever. “No, not London. I was at the Black Goat Tavern and—never mind. It was a slight misunderstanding.”

“I see.”

Unfortunately, all he was proving was that his mother had managed to muddle his thoughts as he tried to come up with a proper lie to explain away his bruises. He kissed her on the cheek. “Quit fretting. It was a minor incident. Happens all the time.” At her appalled expression, “Or not at all. Forget I said anything.” Mathias sighed.

His father laughed. “Imogene, you are embarrassing the lad. No one dies from a few bruises.” To take any sting out of his mild rebuke, he placed his arm around her. “I'm certain Chance had business in town that could not wait. Am I correct?”

“Yes.” Mathias nodded, grateful for his father's assistance. “Nothing too important, but it gave me the opportunity to inspect the premises and hire some staff.”

“A sweet gesture, but there was no need—your father wrote his solicitor over a month ago to let him know of our arrival,” the duchess explained.

“Forgive me, I meant the other house.” He glanced at his father. “Instead of renting rooms, I've decided to open up your mother's old house.” There was subtle tension creeping into the room that made his neck itch. “You offered me the house last season, Father. Have you changed your mind?”

The Duke of Blackbern shook his head. He stepped forward and deftly urged his son toward the door, placing distance between Mathias and the duchess. “No, of course I haven't. The house is yours to do with as you like.”

Mathias cast a wary glance at his silent mother. “St. Lyon and Thorn are waiting for me. Shall we discuss business after supper?”

“We can talk about the estate tomorrow,” the duke said easily. “Why don't you run along and see to your friends.”

His father did not give him any choice. The door was closed in his face before he could speak another word to his mother. Mathias took a deep breath and slowly exhaled. The worst part of the visit was over. With a smile forming on his lips, he walked off to look for his friends.

*   *   *

Inside the library, the Duke of Blackbern turned away from the door and headed back to his wife's side. “How angry are you?” he quietly inquired.

The question cleared Imogene's unfocused gaze and brought her chin up. “Why would I be angry?”

“That I offered Mathias use of the house without telling you. I would have mentioned it earlier—” He swallowed the rest of his excuse when she abruptly raised her hand to silence him.

She turned away, wrapping her arms around her waist in a small gesture of comfort that cut him to the quick.

“I should have burned the house to the ground.”

The emotion in his voice caused her to look at him. Imogene sat down on the sofa. With her arms still crossed, she stroked her upper arms with her fingers. “You made that offer to me twenty-four years ago. If you recall, I turned you down.”

Tristan moved to the sofa and dropped to his knees in front of her. “This is hurting you.”

She shook her head in denial, but her eyes were wet with unshed tears. “It is a house. Just a house.”

Helpless, he did not know whom she was attempting to convince. “I could rescind my offer. I could tell him that I have already rented it.”

That earned him a wry smile. “You rarely rent the house. Besides, he has already inspected it. He will know you are lying to him, and he will begin to question you about it.”

“The lad will have other things to worry about if he challenges my dictates,” Tristan said gruffly. He was furious with himself. In spite of her assurances over the years, he should have known that the thought of any of their children residing in that particular house would be upsetting to her. “Forgive me.” He lowered his face to her skirts and inhaled, drawing comfort from her scent. Tristan shut his eyes at her touch.

“There is nothing to forgive, love. We discussed this years ago, when it was so obvious that Mathias was craving his independence. He is spending less time with us, so I knew—” She trembled.

Tristan lifted his face from her skirt and clasped her hands.

“It is merely a house. Has allowing it to stand empty year after year changed the past?”

Old hate simmered just beneath the surface. “No. Still, it's not too late to burn the damn house to the ground.”

A soft laugh or sob escaped her lips. “I believe you, but my feelings haven't changed. That house was your mother's legacy to you, and now you will pass it to our son. Besides, the property is too valuable to torch it because I was startled by Mathias's announcement.”

Tristan reached up and cupped her face. “You were more than startled, love.”

Imogene did not bother to deny it. “We cannot watch over him as we did when he was a boy. I worry that … someone might say something to him.”

“It has been twenty-four years, Imogene. There is no reason for anyone to dredge up the past.”

Tristan pulled her onto his lap and she offered him no resistance as he shifted his position to make her more comfortable. Imogene wiggled closer until her face was pressed against the side of his neck. Neither one of them spoke, but his thoughts drifted to the house he had inherited from his mother. The old place was a stately relic of his wild youthful indiscretions and painful memories. Twenty-four years ago, he wanted to raze the damn place. One night, in a fit of drunken anger, he had set fire to his mother's old bedchamber, and the east wing of the house was destroyed in the fire. Imogene had not questioned his motives. It was at her insistence that the wing had been rebuilt. To this day, his wife had never returned to the house. Tristan avoided it as well.

He must have been foxed when he invited Mathias to use the property as he saw fit.

Tristan tightened his hold on his wife. He was willing to let her have her way about the house, but if the situation became too upsetting, he intended to do something about it. Mathias could make other arrangements.

His thoughts took a decidedly darker turn as another name drifted into his mind like musty air in a room that has been locked for years. More than the house, this individual was the source of Imogene's concerns. This angered Tristan more than he was prepared to reveal to his wife. It was also a reminder that he had failed her once. Never again. Not her. Not his family. If
he
dared to approach Mathias or any other member of his family, the bastard was a dead man.

 

Chapter Three

Lady Tempest Elizabeth Brant could not have imagined a more perfect day. The sun was unencumbered with clouds, the air was fragrant and pleasing, and the occasional breeze kept the temperature temperate. With her drawing notebook under her arm, she stood and shook out her skirts. Her brother Oliver had set up a chair and easel so she might continue working on the landscape she had sketched the other day. However, she had grown restless after an hour. She decided a walk would ease some of the stiffness in her limbs.

Her actions had not gone unnoticed by her younger sisters. Arabella glanced up from the book in her hands and squinted at her since the sunlight was in her eyes. At nineteen, she had grown into quite a beauty. Her blond hair and hazel eyes made people comment often on how much she resembled their mother. Beside her sat their ten-year-old sister, Augusta. The youngest Brant was lying on her stomach as she examined an ant or some other insect that had caught her attention. Sitting in a nearby chair was their chaperone, Mrs. Sheehan. The thirty-two-year-old widow had been hired to chaperone the Brant girls six months earlier.

“And just where are you going, Lady Tempest?” Mrs. Sheehan inquired without glancing up from her sewing.

“Not far,” she replied, patting her notebook. “I thought I would explore a bit to see if there are any interesting plants to sketch.”

Augusta smiled up at her. “Are you going to pull off your shoes and stockings to wade into the river?”

“Certainly not,” Tempest replied, knowing it was precisely what Augusta would do if left alone. The small river was scenic, but too shallow for anything but small boats. “I have little desire to have mud drying between my toes for the rest of the day.”

Augusta giggled because she sounded haughty, even to her ears.

“Do you want company?” Arabella asked. “I can finish my book later.”

Tempest shook her head. “No need. I am really just looking for an excuse to stretch my legs.”

“Are you still mad at Oliver for abandoning us?” Augusta asked.

“I was not mad at him.”

Tempest had been mildly vexed with her brother. He had been sullen for days, and was prone to lash out at anyone who deigned to speak to him. Details were scarce, but there was a nasty bruise on his forehead. Oliver had been fighting, which was nothing new. Although he was, on most days, an agreeable brother, he had the devil's own temperament.

He was not the only one in the family who was quick to anger. Oliver had been fighting again with their father, the Marquess of Norgrave. Her brother refused to talk about what he had done, but when the marquess ordered his son to watch over his sisters, Oliver had viewed the command as a punishment. Perhaps it had something to do with the fight. The particulars did not really matter, she supposed. Oliver had escorted them to the river. Once they had settled in, he unhitched one of the horses and announced that he would return in a few hours.

It was his way of obeying and yet defying their father.

Oliver knew his sisters would not say a word, and Mrs. Sheehan was too smitten with the young earl to betray him. Since her brother did not elaborate on where he was going, Tempest assumed he had left them to seek out his friends or one of the local women he was currently bedding.

Tempest was not supposed to be aware of such things, but she was two-and-twenty years old and the eldest daughter of the Marquess and Marchioness of Norgrave. It was astounding what a lady could learn if she paid attention.

“Besides, Oliver did not abandon us. He will be back.”

“Of course he will,” Mrs. Sheehan murmured, giving Tempest a quick assessing glance. “Aren't you forgetting something, lass?”

Tempest frowned. She had her sketching notebook and pencil. “I do not think so.”

The older woman tapped her temple with a finger. “Your bonnet, love. You won't catch a fine London gent with your face covered in freckles.”

Tempest walked over to her chair and retrieved her straw bonnet.

Augusta giggled. “I don't think my sister can run fast enough to catch a gent.”

“Maybe I don't wish to catch one,” Tempest said lightly.

Unwittingly, her younger sibling echoed a similar observation made by their father. Now that Arabella was old enough to enjoy the London season, her father had teased that his eldest daughter's prospects would be cut in half, since many gentlemen preferred young brides fresh from the nursery. The marquess had not intended to be cruel, but the comment cut her to the quick. Arabella was younger and prettier than she.

“Hush,” Arabella said, giving their younger sibling a pinch on her leg.

Augusta squealed in outrage. “Mrs. Sheehan, my sister is a villain!”

The red-haired chaperone chuckled. “Is she now?”

“Quit teasing Tempest,” Arabella ordered in harsh tones. “If our sister sets her sights on a gentleman, she is fully capable of catching him—even if she has a freckled face.”