You Can't Always Get the Marquess You Want (32 page)

Did Thorn tattle?

“You may view this as a grand jest, but Lady Tempest is not one of your conquests,” his father snapped.

The duchess appeared uneasy discussing her son's private life, and Mathias could sympathize. He was damn uncomfortable.

“Lady Tempest is not your concern,” he said coolly.

“She is if you are thinking with your cock rather than your head!” The Duke of Blackbern stood up and glowered at his heir. “Don't give Norgrave a reason to confront you.”

Annoyed, Mathias sneered, “Lord Norgrave doesn't worry me. Do you fear him, Father?”

His mother came to her feet. “Stop it. Both of you.”

Rage filled his father's blue gray eyes. “Don't push me, Chance. You will not like the results.” The duke's contemptuous expression was cutting as much as it was insulting. “Whatever you are doing with the lady, end it.”

His mother often claimed he had inherited his temper from his father. Mathias arched his right brow. “And if I choose to ignore your sage advice?” he taunted.

“Then I will put an end to it,” his father said with silky menace. “And neither you nor Norgrave will like my methods.”

 

Chapter Twenty-Four

“So what did Papa wish to discuss with you?”

Tempest and her sister had accepted an invitation to watch fireworks at Vauxhall with Harriet and her betrothed, Lord Medeley, his sister, and Lord Chandler. Since their arrival, their little group had increased in size with Lord Warrilow's late appearance. Even Oliver had stopped by to pay his respects while they had been enjoying their supper boxes. He had been alone, Tempest noted, but she doubted her brother would remain alone for long. If Miss King was not waiting for him, the gardens were filled with attractive young ladies who would be drawn by his handsome dark looks.

Unfortunately, the viscount was unhappy to have a new rival for Tempest's attention, but Lady Joan had not bothered to conceal her delight. Perhaps she had heard the news that Lord Norgrave was pressing for the marquess to make a decision soon.

*   *   *

“Lady Tempest promised to meet you,” Rainbault reminded him. “You are too impatient. Stop pacing and join us. Drink some ale. If you persist in glowering at their little group, one of the gentlemen is bound to notice and wonder why.”

“Let them wonder,” Mathias grumbled. “I would be happy to inform them that they are flirting with my lady. I'm not going to be cast aside like an unwanted suitor and let Warrilow hold her hand while they watch the fireworks.”

St. Lyon blocked his path. “Chance, her friends are not the only ones to avoid. While I was chasing after a buxom brunette near the pavilion, I believe I recognized Marcroft.”

“Are you certain it was him?” Mathias demanded.

The viscount's hands parted in surrender. “Like most of the gentlemen present—including us, I might add—Marcroft is wearing a mask. The gentleman I saw at a distance had the earl's broad shoulders and rude bearing. If it is Marcroft and he learns you are close, he will retrieve his sisters and stuff them in the nearest hackney coach.”

Mathias cursed. When he received Tempest's note, he had not anticipated that she would be surrounded by friends and suitors.

“Lady Tempest knows you are here,” Thorn announced.

“How the devil do you know?”

“When the others aren't paying attention, she keeps glancing in our direction,” his cousin replied.

His calm demeanor infuriated Mathias. Just once, he'd relish observing Thorn lose his composure over a lady.

Rainbault selected a piece of chicken from the plate in front of him and popped the meat into his mouth. His brow furrowed as he chewed. “It is getting darker, Chance. Perhaps your lady is waiting for everyone to be distracted by the fireworks.”

Five days had passed since he argued with his father. He had caught glimpses of Tempest twice, but there was no opportunity to pull her aside and talk to her. Kiss her. He needed to hold her and hear from her lips that she had not been deliberately avoiding him—or regretted gifting him with her innocence.

Thirty minutes later, Tempest and her companions abandoned their seats in the saloon and strolled away from the festive tents. With colored lamps illuminating from overhead, they enjoyed the music and the evening air.

“I am following them,” he announced to his friends. He refused to give Lord Warrilow an opportunity to be alone with her.

“Do you want company?” St. Lyon asked.

Mathias shook his head. “If I don't return, walk over to the fireworks stage. It is likely their destination as well. I will find you.”

*   *   *

Hand in hand, Tempest and Chance hurried down the narrower paths that diverged from one of the main walks where he had lured her away from her companions and into the thick grove. These less traveled paths were sheltered by the leafy canopy of large elm and sycamore trees that were strung with glass lamps. The paths themselves twisted and curved with no specific destination, but benches and tables were scattered throughout for anyone who wished to sit and enjoy their surroundings.

“What if Lord Warrilow finds us together?” she asked, feeling guilty that she had abandoned him.

“I watched him kiss you, Tempest.” From his grim expression, Chance viewed the marquess's actions as a grievous sin. “And I am not feeling very forgiving about it.”

“He surprised me,” she tried to explain, but it was unfair for the marquess to bear all the blame. She had kissed him back because she didn't wish to injure his pride. “It meant nothing.”

Tempest and Chance looked back at the first sounds of fireworks.

“I didn't realize it was so late.” Many of the visitors would be drawn to the explosions and bursts of light in the night sky. “Should we head in that direction so I can return to my sister and you can find your friends?”

“Eventually,” he replied, slowing his gait. The overhead lamps provided some illumination, but his expression was concealed in shadows. “Tempest, what if Warrilow proposes to you? Will you accept?”

“My father is eager for the match, but—no, I would not accept.” She halted. Chance took several steps and then turned back for her. “I am not in love with him.”

Tempest and Chance stared at each other. Neither spoke for several minutes. Music and explosions filled the air. Her nose caught a whiff of gunpowder.

“Whom do you love?”

Tempest crossed over to him. “You. I am in love with you, Chance.” She blinked in astonishment as she noted his disbelief. “Don't tell me that you didn't know?”

“Brants don't fall in love with Rookes,” he said hoarsely, his low voice rich with emotion.

“And Rookes don't fall in love with Brants,” she replied. “So where does that leave us?”

“Together. In love. I love you, Tempest.”

Warrilow and the fireworks faded into the distance as she and Chance kissed. Tempest slipped her hands under his evening coat and his arms encircled her waist. With their lips locked together, he guided her backwards until they were off the path. They were alone, but he wasn't taking any risks.

Suddenly, he pivoted and she gasped as he pressed her back against the trunk of a tree.

He broke off their kiss. “I want you.”

“I want you, too.” She grabbed his coat to pull him closer. “Kiss me again.”

“Right this minute.” At her blank look, he clarified, “I want to shag you here. Against the tree. Now.”

Tempest admitted his frank words excited her, but she did not take him seriously. Even though they were alone, this was still a public place.

Surely, he did not mean for them to—

“Now, Tempest.” Chance reached for the front flap on his breeches and unceremoniously unfastened the buttons.

He took her hand and brought it to the rigid length that was thickening at her touch. His manhood was hard, hot, and felt like silk against her skin. She measured the full length of him with her fingers. As her thumb rubbed the tip, a few drops of fluid leaked from the opening.

Her sheath contracted at the thought of him filling her. Of him taking her against the tree, out in the open with the stars glittering overhead.

Without waiting for permission, Chance began to push up the front of her skirt and petticoat. He made a soft sound of appreciation when he touched her bare thigh. “No drawers, Lady Tempest?” he drawled, and she could feel the heat of a blush. “Very naughty—and I know just how to reward you.”

*   *   *

Mathias kissed her roughly on the mouth. Painfully aroused, he was feeling reckless. He could think of nothing else but claiming her. He pulled Tempest against him, letting her feel the relentless throb of his cock as the length of it pressed against her belly.

“What if someone comes down the path?” she whispered.

As far as he was concerned, a small crowd could gather around them, and they could even watch, so long as they didn't interrupt him. He tried to think of something that would assure her. “If we are quiet, no one will know what we are doing.”

Tempest was nervous, but he also heard the excitement in her voice. Sliding his hands around to her buttocks, he filled them with her soft curves and lifted her until the head of his cock found the soft yielding core. He dragged in a ragged breath as he eased her slowly down the rigid length, her sheath parting and closing around him until she was fully seated.

“Wrap your legs around my hips,” Chance whispered, his face pressed into the front of her bodice.

The tightness of her sheath threatened his restraint, and he reveled in it. Using the trunk of the tree to keep his balance, he began to thrust deeply into her. Tempest could do little more than hold on. He felt her legs squeeze his hips as he quickened his pace, driving his cock into her over and over.

“Oh my stars,” she gasped.

With his cheek rubbing against her bodice, he forged into her body. Each thrust was a test of balance and endurance, and within minutes his body was drenched in perspiration. He could hear the tempo of the firework explosions increase, and he matched it, driving them to the brink.

“Chance—I—oh God!” Tempest dug her fingers into his shoulders and cried out. Her head fell forward and she smothered strangled gasps by muffling them into his coat.

As she shuddered against him, her sheath milked his cock; he thrust deep and surrendered. His seed exploded from the head of his cock, followed by steady jets of milky fluid pumping into her. The sensation seemed endless, as if her body demanded every drop from him.

Chance staggered, but he regained his balance. His cock was still buried deeply inside her, and if they had not been outdoors, he could have happily remained in this position for the rest of the night. Preferably with them reclining on a comfortable bed.

Tempest gazed down at him in wonder. “That was incredible.”

“Have I told you how much I adore brazen women?”

She grinned, and then she lowered her face until their lips met. In the aftermath, their kisses were leisurely and tender.

As much as he desired it, he could not steal her away. He would have to return her to her friends. To Warrilow. Chance loathed that part the most.

 

Chapter Twenty-Five

It had been a grand night, even if it ended with Tempest bidding a reluctant farewell to Chance. His temperament had been mercurial during the brief hour she had shared with him. He was furious and jealous when she had first seen him with his friends; next he had been intense, protective, and ruled by lust and the thrill of the claiming; and finally, he had been tender, contemplative, and somehow resolved.

Something was troubling Chance. Or someone. Tempest discreetly glanced at Lord Warrilow as he entered the front hall of the Brant household with her and Arabella at his side.

“Good evening, daughters! And Warrilow, my good friend,” Lord Norgrave said from the threshold of his library.

Her father had been drinking his favorite brandy this evening, and quite a bit of it, if his unsteady gait was any indication. He leaned forward and brushed a kiss in the air since he missed her cheek. Her father moved on to Arabella.

“Pretty, pretty Arabella. Give your father a kiss.”

Her sister gasped when her father gave her a hard kiss on the mouth.

Her mother was noticeably absent. When her husband was in one of his moods, the marchioness preferred to retire early. If Tempest tried the door, she would discover that her mother had locked it.

“I will bid you all a good night,” Lord Warrilow said, already backing away. The gentleman had been acquainted with Lord Norgrave long enough to know how difficult her father could be when he had been drinking. “Ladies, it was a pleasurable evening.”

Her father pinched his brow and shook his head to clear it. “Warrilow … wait.” He swallowed the remaining brandy in his glass and handed it to Arabella. “Be a good daughter and fill another glass for your papa.”

He pivoted halfway and walked back to the younger marquess. “You cannot end your evening with us. We have not celebrated the good news.”

Tempest untied her bonnet and removed it. “What news, Papa?” She followed her father's gaze to Lord Warrilow.

“There was no opportunity to speak with your daughter, Norgrave,” the younger gentleman said, his discomfort obvious. “If you prefer, I will call on you tomorrow afternoon.”

“Why wait?” her father argued. He waved his hand carelessly at the staircase. “Make use of our drawing room. Tempest, go with your husband.”

Tempest froze at her father's order. Arabella was standing in front of the library with their father's glass of brandy. Both women stared at Lord Warrilow.

Lord Norgrave slapped his hand over his mouth, causing him to sway. He chuckled as his hand fell away. “Not very well done of me, was it?” He staggered toward Tempest and placed his hand on her shoulder. “Don't dawdle, Daughter. You and Warrilow have much to discuss.”