You Can't Always Get the Marquess You Want (33 page)

He gave her a little push when she didn't move.

“Come, my lady,” Lord Warrilow said, taking charge of the situation. “We can talk privately in the drawing room.”

Tempest glanced over her shoulder at her sister. Arabella appeared as startled as she. It was no secret that Lord Warrilow had come to London to claim a bride, but until he kissed her at Vauxhall, she had been convinced the gentleman's feelings for her were lukewarm.

Her feelings for the marquess were equally uninspiring. Only Lord Norgrave appeared eager for the match.

Neither she nor Lord Warrilow spoke until they entered the drawing room. Tempest shut the door and almost locked it to keep her father out. In his current condition, his presence would be far from helpful.

She took a fortifying breath. “My lord—”

The marquess held up his hand to halt her speech. “No, allow me to speak first, Lady Tempest.” He took her by the hand and led her to the sofa. “Please, sit down.”

“My father is very drunk, my lord. When he awakens, he may not even recall this conversation,” she said, praying the gentleman would not follow through on Lord Norgrave's demands.

“This is not about your father.” Lord Warrilow sat down next to her. Discovering his palms were damp, he rubbed them on his thighs. “Forgive me, my lady. I suppose I should have requested a glass of brandy before I rushed you upstairs.”

More brandy was not what this evening needed.

“We can discuss this another day,” she said softly.

The marquess shook his head. “No, I have been working up the courage for days. I had hoped that we might speak earlier … in private. However, I frightened you with the kiss and you ran off.”

And she ran straight into another man's arms. While the gentleman who wanted to offer her marriage searched for her, she had let Chance push up her skirts and ravish her against the trunk of a tree. It was wickedly wanton, and she had loved every minute of his wild claiming.

“My lord, your kiss startled me, but I do not fear you.” She struggled to find the right words. “You are a good man. I know my father feels we would be a good match, but I think he is wrong. You deserve someone who—”

Tempest tried not to flinch when he claimed her hand.

“I confess I had my doubts at first, but I have changed my opinion.” Lord Warrilow placed his other hand over hers. “My lady … Lady Tempest, would you do me the honor of becoming my bride?”

His words were everything Lord Norgrave wanted to hear. When Tempest tried to envision herself as Lady Warrilow, all she saw in her mind was gray fog. How could she love him when her heart and body belonged to another?

“You overwhelm me, my lord,” she said, staring at their clasped hands. Tempest let her shoulders sag as she shut her eyes. “I was about to tell you that I needed a few days to give you my answer, but that is a lie. Lord Warrilow, I cannot marry you. You are a kind man, and I have enjoyed your company, but I am simply the wrong lady for you.”

The marquess flinched and then slowly released her hand. He avoided her gaze. “Is there someone else?”

She hesitated. However, Lord Warrilow deserved the truth. “Yes.”

“Does he—?” He cleared a blockage in his throat. “Has this gentleman declared himself? Are his intentions honorable?”

Tempest glanced forlornly at the door. They should have asked Arabella to bring up the decanter of brandy.

“He has not declared himself to my father.” Nor would she ask him to, since it would result in Oliver challenging him. She and Chance would have to confront both families if they planned to build a life together. “There are a few obstacles.”

Lord Warrilow gave her a pitying glance. “Of course there are, though I feel compelled to offer you some advice. A married gentleman rarely divorces his wife.”

Tempest's head snapped up. “He's not married. It's—Oh, suffice it to say, my family will never approve of him.”

“If it is hopeless between you and this fellow you love, then there is no reason why you couldn't marry me.” The marquess's tone was light, but she sensed he was not teasing.

“Even if I had not met this other gentleman, I would still decline your generous offer. In truth, I look on you as another brother.”

Lord Warrilow clasped his heart and chuckled. “My lady, you wound me.”

“I care, my lord,” she said, praying he would forgive her one day. “I care enough to reject you for your own sake.”

“Another arrow pierces my heart.” The marquess shook his head and wearily stood. “I cannot bear any more truths between us, my lady. I hope you understand.”

“I do.” Tempest said, rising.

*   *   *

She solemnly followed the marquess downstairs, where her father and sister waited for them to share their good news.

Lord Norgrave squinted at Tempest and then the unsmiling Lord Warrilow. “Well? Shall I have one of the servants wake your mother so we can have a proper celebration?”

The young marquess retrieved his hat and gloves from a narrow table. “Allow your lady to sleep. There will be no marriage.”

“What?” Lord Warrilow's announcement momentarily sobered the older gentleman. “Of course there will be a marriage between you and Tempest.”

“I cannot marry a lady who loves another.” Lord Warrilow turned to her, and there was a glimmer of bittersweetness in his expression. “You deserve happiness, too, my lady. You will never achieve it if you are not honest with your father.”

Tempest closed her eyes in despair.

Lord Warrilow bowed and bade everyone good night.

“Listen to your daughter, Norgrave,” the marquess advised. “I will see you tomorrow at the club.”

Arabella, Tempest, and their father remained frozen in place. The front door shut behind Lord Warrilow.

“Who?”

Her gaze shifted to Arabella's after her father's soft question.

“After all my efforts to secure you a husband, you refused him. I want the name of the gentleman who is behind your betrayal of me and your family,” he said, his teeth snapping together.

“There is no reason to involve him,” Tempest hedged. “I am not marrying him.”

“Ah, so you have betrayed me for no reason.”

His sudden calmness should have warned her. Lord Norgrave turned and slapped Tempest across the face, the force behind it knocking her to the floor. Her hand covered her sore cheek, but she did not make the mistake of rising.

“Tempest!” Arabella cried out, rushing to her side. “Papa, please … it is not her fault.”

“Do not defend her!” he bellowed.

Her sister clapped her hands over her ears and buried her face into Tempest's shoulder.

“I want the scoundrel's name, Daughter.”

Tempest glared at her father. “No! He has nothing to do with my decision to turn down Lord Warrilow.”

With a roar of frustration, he staggered to Tempest and hauled her to her feet. Arabella began to cry as he shook his eldest daughter, her head snapping forward and backwards.

“A name!” he screamed into her face.

Tempest had never defied her father or her mother. She was terrified, but she refused to reveal Chance's name. She did not trust her father or brother not to hold him responsible for her defiance.

“I cannot,” she whispered.

Lord Norgrave raised his hand again.

“I know who he is, Papa!” Arabella sobbed. “Please don't hurt my sister.”

Burning with fury, his light blue gaze centered on Arabella. “Give me his name, Daughter, or I will take my whip to your sister's back.”

Tempest shivered, but she refused to believe her father would whip her. “Don't, Arabella.”

“Mathias Rooke … Lord Fairlamb,” she confessed, unable to meet Tempest's gaze.

Lord Norgrave was so surprised, he released Tempest. She edged away from him and gathered her sobbing sister into her arms. Her father did not seem to notice. His lips parted as he shook his head.

“Fairlamb, you say.” He rubbed his jaw and pondered the depth of his daughter's betrayal. “Blackbern's heir.”

If he had struck her again, Tempest would have conceded that she deserved it. She would have accepted her punishment without protest.

Instead of attacking her, her father began to laugh. A snort became a few chuckles. His chuckles flowed into belly-shaking laughter that went on and on until he was gasping for breath. Lord Norgrave dragged air into his lungs and kept laughing.

Tempest had never been so frightened of her father.

Still holding Arabella, the two sisters moved away from him and escaped upstairs. Even behind her locked door, she could still hear her father's laughter.

 

Chapter Twenty-Six

The rumors of a betrothal between Lady Tempest Brant and the Marquess of Warrilow reached Mathias's ears the following afternoon at one of his clubs. The unfortunate fellow who shared the good tidings swiftly regretted it once he was interrogated by Mathias. He heard the news again when he encountered a friend at his favorite tailor. When another acquaintance mentioned it when he was at Tattersall's with Rainbault and St. Lyon, he was too agitated to be near the horses.

Short of confronting Tempest directly, which his friends strongly discouraged, there was only one gentleman who could confirm if there was any truth to the gossip.

Marcroft.

After a few inquiries, Mathias knew where he could find the earl. This time of day, Marcroft often patronized a small tavern that was known for a private room that was off the main taproom where young nobles honed their pugilist skills with anyone willing to fight them. Rainbault and Thorn had witnessed several of the earl's matches as he tested his fists against hardened opponents who earned their living on the purses of such private fights, but Mathias had been reluctant to tangle with Marcroft in an establishment he often frequented.

“Have I mentioned what a terrible idea this is, Chance?” Rainbault asked when they arrived at the tavern.

“Once or twice,” Mathias muttered. “Unless you and St. Lyon are planning to tie me to a wooden post, I highly recommend you cease wasting your breath arguing with me about it.”

“I cannot fathom why you are obsessed with this chit,” the prince said, sounding equally annoyed. “One is as good as any other.”

Mathias seized his friend by the front of his frock coat and shoved him against the exterior wall of the tavern. “That is where you and I disagree. If you care about your unblemished chin, do not belittle a lady I hold in the highest esteem or I will put a dent in it.”

“Good God, you are in love with her!” St. Lyon exclaimed.

Mathias abruptly released his friend's coat and took a step back. “I am n—Damn it all!”

“It is a reasonable explanation for your recent behavior.” Rainbault used his hands to smooth away the wrinkles caused by Mathias's fingers. “Which even you must admit has lacked a degree of sanity.”

Mathias gritted his teeth but did not argue. His life has been cast in turmoil since he first encountered Tempest. He was keeping secrets from his family and friends; his temper had been honed to a fine, dangerous edge; and the thought of Warrilow claiming Tempest as his bride was driving him to seek out a man he viewed as an enemy.

“Let's find Marcroft, and then we can leave.” He entered the tavern, not glancing back to see if his friends followed him.

The earl was in the private room that was used for wagered fights; however, he was not one of the pugilists. He sat at a small table in a corner of the room with two friends. Both men stood when they noticed Mathias's approach with St. Lyon and Rainbault at his heels.

Marcroft did not appear to be concerned by their arrival. “Gentlemen, I was unaware you favored this tavern.” He turned to address his companions. “A sign of the times, I suppose, when an establishment must open its doors to undesirables.”

“Normally, I would enjoy trading insults with you, Marcroft,” he said, bracing his hands on the table. It wobbled as he leaned forward. “However, for the sake of brevity, I prefer to get straight to my business with you.”

The earl gave him an assessing look and sat back in his chair. “I would invite you to join me, but, alas, all the chairs have been claimed by my friends.”

Mathias gave him a humorless smile. “I do not plan to share a pot of ale with you, Marcroft.”

The other man glanced over Mathias's shoulder at St. Lyon and Rainbault. “And what of your friends?”

“They have no interest in drinking with you either,” Mathias quipped. “I just need you to answer a few questions and then we will leave.”

“It must be something awfully important for you to approach me, Fairlamb,” Marcroft said, speculation gleaming in his eyes.

It was of the utmost importance to Mathias, but he was not going to admit it. “Warrilow. Has he offered marriage to your sister?”

Some of the amusement in the earl's gaze faded. “Which one? I have three sisters.”

“Don't play games with me.”

Marcroft's lips tightened at the unspoken threat. “And I have told you to stay away from Tempest. And yet, here you are, asking questions about her that everyone within hearing distance would agree are none of your business.”

“Warrilow.” Mathias ground his back molars to keep from losing his temper. “Has he approached your father?”

The earl's eyes narrowed. “He has, and I believe my father has accepted. Why do you ask?”

His heart twisted painfully at the other man's response. It was followed by a burst of jealousy. “And your sister is agreeable to the match?”

Marcroft's eyebrows rose in disbelief. “I have no idea. What's important is that my father approves of the marriage. Any qualms my sister might have will be addressed once she and Warrilow have settled into their married life.” The earl stood when he noted Mathias's fierce expression. “Fairlamb, you are not actually thinking of interjecting an opinion in this matter?”