You Can't Always Get the Marquess You Want (6 page)

“Oliver?”

“Oliver Brant, Earl of Marcroft.” She had glanced away and missed the recognition and dismay in his eyes. His face was expressionless when her gaze switched back to him. “Are you acquainted with my brother?”

He could not believe his bad luck. Lady Tempest was a Brant. He could not imagine that she would be happy to learn that he was a Rooke. “I do not believe so.”

She tilted her head to the side as she studied his face. “I do not mean to be rude, but I could not help but notice that you have bruises on your face.”

Mathias snorted. “Do I? So nice of you to bring them to my attention.”
Particularly since it was your brother's fist that did the damage.

Lady Tempest pursed her lips. “My brother has bruises on his face, too.”

He had already deduced that the lady was intelligent. Nor was he pleased with her connecting him with her dastardly brother. “Bruises are as common as birthmarks, my lady.”

She ignored his dismissive tone. “Are you positive that you do not know my brother? He won't speak of it, but it's obvious that he was in a fight. Is that how you received that colorful bruise on your cheek? Were you brawling?”

A cold wind blew up his spine. Lady Tempest had mentioned that her brother would be returning. He had no intention of waiting for Marcroft or any other member of the Brant family to appear.

“Your brother is a stranger to me, my lady. I prefer to keep it that way. Now, if you will excuse me, my friends and I have a long ride home.” Mathias formally bowed and walked away from the bemused young woman.

He could not have been more stunned if the lady had punched him in the face. Marcroft was her brother. The Marquess of Norgrave was her father. Mathias was so angry, he was tempted to march back and shake her for being related to his father's enemy. His enemy. Lady Tempest was his enemy.

By God, he wished he had never met her.

 

Chapter Five

Mathias waited several miles before he revealed to his companions that Lady Tempest was one of the infamous Brants.

“Come on, Chance. This is a jest. The pretty chit is not Norgrave's get. I refuse to believe it,” Thorn said, assuming Mathias was amusing himself at their expense.

“Believe it, Cousin. Lady Tempest mentioned that her brother, the Earl of Marcroft had bruises similar to mine.” He gritted his teeth as he recalled their conversation. “She didn't ask me outright, but it was apparent that she wondered if I was responsible for her poor brother's injuries.”

“You were,” St. Lyon added, sounding too cheerful for the occasion.

“This is quite unexpected,” Thorn said, still not convinced Mathias was telling the truth. “What are the odds of meeting a Brant out here?”

“Better than one might assume, considering that we spent twenty minutes with three of them,” Mathias muttered.

“And yet, Norgrave's progeny were well-mannered and nary a hint of fang or tail,” St. Lyon observed, unable to resist poking Mathias about the notorious feud between the Rookes and Brants. “Aside from Marcroft, of course.”

“Of course,” Mathias echoed in a light mocking tone.

The news that Lady Tempest and her sisters were Brants had unsettled him. Over the years, he had heard that the Marquess of Norgrave had sired numerous children, both legitimate and baseborn. He cast a side glance at St. Lyon. There had been rumors that his friend's mother had been one of the marquess's countless lovers, and the speculation within the ton was that Norgrave was the sire of her husband's heir. The earl and the countess fervently worked to quell such whispers when they surfaced from time to time. However, no one could deny that St. Lyon could have been mistaken for one of Marcroft's distant cousins. If there was any truth to the gossip, St. Lyon was content to ignore it.

Thorn guided his horse closer so he did not have to shout. “Do you think the ladies will mention us to Marcroft?”

“It's a possibility, though Lady Tempest seemed more worried about her brother finding out that she was caught spying on half-naked men,” Mathias said as he reflected on the fear she'd tried to conceal from him. “The Brants may litter the countryside with bastards, but their females are protected from their baser instincts.”

“More's the pity,” said St. Lyon with an exaggerated sigh escaping his lips. “If I had known who was watching us, I might have removed my breeches, too. You certainly made an impression on Lady Tempest.”

Had he? The viscount was being ridiculous. “It was nothing like that. The chit could barely look at me once she realized who we were.”

Mathias could tell Lady Tempest was embarrassed by the incident and her own unladylike behavior. Given her family name, he should assume that she was adept at deception, but her discomfort and remorse appeared genuine. He had been prepared to be magnanimous and forgive her until she revealed the name of her brother.

Her family name.

Christ, what a muddle!

“That lady knew exactly who we were when she saw us.” St. Lyon chuckled. “Not surprising, since she glimpsed every inch of us. The only thing she hasn't figured out is that you are one of those awful Rookes.”

Mathias's lips twitched as he tried not to smile. “We Rookes are not awful.”

“I'll wager the Brants say the same thing.”

“Well, they are wrong. There is no such thing as an honest Brant,” he said, mentally banishing the vision of Lady Tempest's guileless face.

“I have to disagree,” Thorn confessed. “Lady Arabella and Lady Augusta were rather sweet and welcoming. Out of loyalty, our family has never associated with Lord and Lady Norgrave, but I have no quarrel with the daughters.”

Mathias almost choked on his own spittle. “If you value our friendship, I pray you will not confess your new affection for the Brant daughters to my father. I would hate to give my own cousin the direct cut.”

The viscount shifted in his saddle. “Your father is not that bad.”

“Yes, he is,” Mathias and Thorn said at the same time. He added, “My father has never faltered in his hatred for the marquess. Over time, his resentment has extended to the man's family.”

“Have you ever asked his reasons for it?” St. Lyon asked.

“Of course. My father refuses to speak of it, but I assume it has to do with some slight or debt.”

“I once asked my mother about it,” St. Lyon admitted. “No one really speaks of it, not even the gossips. Nevertheless, it is rumored that your father and Norgrave both coveted your mother.”

His father had commissioned a painting of his mother after their wedding. The new Duchess of Blackbern had been nineteen years old and recently had given birth to him, although any signs of the pregnancy had been discreetly omitted by the artist. He had no doubt that her beauty and generous heart had enthralled countless gentlemen. It was plausible that the Marquess of Norgrave had fallen in love with her.

“I had guessed as much even as a boy. It must have been a bitter parting when my mother chose my father over the marquess.”

“And thus a feud was born. I cannot fathom fighting with either of you over a woman,” Thorn said.

“Nor I,” replied St. Lyon. “One wench is as good as another.”

“My father would heartily disagree.” Mathias scratched his bruised cheek. “I think it best if we do not mention our encounter with Norgrave's daughters.”

“I agree, though you will owe me another favor,” Thorn teased.

St. Lyon grinned. “I'll add this one to my tally, too.” His smile faded as he thought of something unpleasant. “What will you do if Marcroft learns that you spoke to his sisters and decides to challenge you?”

Mathias was not worried about the earl. “I will accept his challenge. Your appalling taste in lovers has ensured that I practice regularly.”

The viscount growled, “I resent that charge. It isn't
my
fault that they don't always tell me they have a husband.”

“I do not fear Marcroft,” Mathias continued, ignoring his friend's outburst. “It seems inevitable that I will put a bullet in him someday.”

“A pleasant thought,” his cousin said wryly. “And what about Lady Tempest?”

“What of the lady?” He was slightly baffled by the question. As far as he was concerned, there was nothing to be done.

“Are you telling me that you were not aware of the attraction between you and her?”

“There was no attraction, Cousin,” he quickly denied. “Unlike you and our good friend, I do not pursue every lady who has fluttered her eyelashes at me.”

“Ho, what boldface lie, my good man, but we shall save that debate for another day. Assist me, St. Lyon,” Thorn entreated. “Tell me that you noticed it, too.”

“Why do you think I looked after our horses? The lady saw no one but our lad Chance.” The viscount shook his head. “It was truly quite tragic, but she must have seen something about you that she liked.”

“You're both wrong,” Mathias said, stubbornly refusing to acknowledge that he had felt anything at all besides mild annoyance and curiosity. “The lady was grateful. If we had revealed her mischief to Mrs. Sheehan, the widow would have told her brother. The poor girl would have received a sound beating from that scoundrel.”

“Damn me, you believe Marcroft is capable of raising his fist to his own sisters?”

“I have seen nothing in the man's character that would dissuade me from thinking anything else.” He could not recall a single encounter with the surly gentleman in which he did not employ his fists. “With a brother like that, the most spiteful action I could take is to pursue the chit.”

Thorn and St. Lyon did not have a clever response.

“So no more talk about Lady Tempest. If fate is kind, we shall never meet again. We are leaving for London in a day, and I intend to dedicate my time there to more pleasurable pursuits.”

Thorn cleared his throat. “Lady Arabella told me that her family will be residing in town this season.”

Mathias stifled an oath. “Lord and Lady Norgrave come to London each year. The Brants and the Rookes have managed to avoid any public confrontations. This season will be no different.”

“It was simpler times when it was just the Norgraves and the Blackberns. These days, you and your brother Benjamin spend more time in London. How old is your sister Honora?”

“Seventeen,” he replied, sensing the direction of his cousin's thoughts. “As well you know.”

“Soon she will enter society. And let's not forget the Brants have Marcroft, Lady Tempest, and Lady Arabella,” Thorn pointed out. “With more members of the Rooke and Brant families wandering about London this season, it is inevitable that the occasional confrontation with occur.”

“God help us all when the rest of the Rooke brood is old enough to enter polite society!” St. Lyon teased, hoping to ease the tension between the two cousins.

Mathias knew Thorn was correct. He just didn't want to admit it. “Let's hope the younger Brants have the good sense to stay out of our way.”

The viscount looked startled by his friend's harsh tone. The feud between the Rookes and Brants was none of his business and easy to ignore since he did not have any affection for the Norgrave heir. However, the man would draw the line at being cruel to innocent young women. “Marcroft is a lost cause.”

“The earl can go to the devil. If he has any love for his sisters, he will keep them away from me and my family,” Mathias said, his face grim and his heart icing as the image of Lady Tempest faded from his mind.

His loyalty belonged to the Duke and Duchess of Blackbern. No one could sway him to betray his family.

*   *   *

Before the evening meal, Tempest eschewed the drawing room for a stroll in the garden. She had spent the entire afternoon in Arabella and Augusta's company, and she was in no mood to listen to her mother's expectations for her when they journeyed to London. The quiet and the beauty of the gardens soothed her. Her thoughts kept returning to what she glimpsed at the river and the curious exchange she had had with Chance. The gentleman had seemed friendly, even though he had thought she deliberately spied on him and his friends. Even flirtatious—that was, until she mentioned her brother.

Chance had denied knowing Oliver, but she suspected the man was not being truthful.

Or perhaps it was the bruises. She had implied that he had been brawling. Had she insulted him by pointing out his injuries?

“Good heavens, I cannot believe I even mentioned it.”

“Mentioned what, brat?” asked Oliver as he closed the distance between them. He had changed into fashionable evening attire. However, even his skilled tailor could not conceal her brother's rakish nature.

She wondered if he had dressed for dinner or was planning to depart for the evening. Their father had left the house over an hour ago.

“I thought I am too old to be called brat,” Tempest said, holding her hand out. She was pleased when he grasped it.

He pulled her closer and kissed her on the cheek. “I disagree. You have definitely not outgrown all your annoying habits.”

“Annoying, you say?” She huffed in feigned outrage. “I take exception to that remark. If you persist in calling me brat, I recommend not doing it in Augusta's presence.”

“Why is that?” He held on to her hand as they walked the gravel path.

“She has laid claim to the endearment, and her feelings would be hurt if she thought she was not worthy of a special name,” Tempest explained. “With all this talk about London, Augusta is feeling left out.”

“No one is leaving her behind,” Oliver argued, sounding mildly exasperated.

As the Marquess of Norgrave's heir, he had never been excluded from anything. Even as a child, he had often joined their father in his travels, while his sisters were expected to stay home and tend to their studies.