You Can't Always Get the Marquess You Want (7 page)

“Augusta will not be included in many of the amusements when we arrive in London,” she said, gesturing toward the marble bench. At his nod, they left the main path and sat down. “Mama has been distracted with all the preparations, and we have seen so little of Papa.”

“He has his own distractions,” Oliver said, almost sounding amused by his explanation. “Father and I shall be leaving for London a few days before you.”

“I am aware of this. If you have a moment, you should visit with Augusta before you depart. It's a small gesture, but she will feel like she is important, too.”

It was one of the reasons why she had suggested the afternoon outing with her youngest sibling. Not that her sister was particularly appreciative of their efforts until Chance and his friends had intruded. Augusta had brightened when Thorn paid attention to her. Her reaction was a subtle reminder that their brother had been slowly withdrawing from their lives. They would see less of him in town because he insisted on setting up his own household. Next he would take a wife and fill the house with children.

Tempest softly laughed at where her fanciful thoughts had taken her. In truth, she could not see her brother marrying for a very long time. He was too young, and too much like their sire in temperament. Their father would agree. The marquess had always been quite vocal on the subject of marriage, particularly when it came to his heir. Nor had their father softened the unpleasant fact that he had married Lady Charlotte Winter out of duress. Her family had insisted on the marriage because they had learned of her affair with the marquess and that a child had been conceived. In uncouth moments, when their father was drunk and full of bitterness that Lady Charlotte had trapped him into marriage, he referred to Oliver as his “child of lust.”

Her father called her the “child of duty.” Tempest assumed he thought another male child was in order to protect the title. Her mother had given birth to a boy after Arabella, but the child was stillborn. There were three other pregnancies over the years, but none of them had come to fruition until Augusta. If her father had names for her sisters, he kept them to himself.

“Care to share the jest?”

Tempest used the toe of her shoe to nudge some of the gravel. “Just an idle thought. I was thinking of our father.”

“Is he lecturing you about last season?” Oliver asked gently. “Or his expectations for this one?”

His attempt to be delicate about the subject revealed that he was well versed in the details. She glanced away to hide her grimace. “Not recently, but I predict he will summon me to the library before he leaves for town. For now, he has left the duty to our mother.”

Oliver was broad shouldered, so there was not much room for her on the bench. So when he affectionately bumped against her with his arm, he almost knocked her off her narrow perch. Laughing, he caught her before she landed on her backside. “You have my sympathies, Pest.”

Tempest grinned at the old nickname. “You haven't called me Pest in ages.”

“I recall the last time I uttered that name, you retaliated by sinking your teeth into my forearm. I had an imprint of your sharp teeth on my arm for months,” he said, absently rubbing the abused forearm.

“I highly doubt it was months, Brother. Besides, you were being unkind when you said it.” She grasped the edge of the bench and leaned back slightly as she tried to remember more details. “Oh, what were we fighting about? It seemed important at the time.”

“Everything is important to a twelve-year-old.”

Oliver was nineteen months older than she, and the closeness in their ages meant that he had been her best friend and her worst enemy. When they were younger, they had often quarreled over trivial things. They had managed to put enough scrapes and bruises on each other that their mother had had to separate them while they waited for their father to decide their punishments. Oddly, it was their shared fate that had brought them together again. Frightened, they had put aside their petty grievances and aligned themselves against their mother and father. Even the punishments were more bearable, knowing she was not suffering alone.

Tempest missed the boy who had been her friend and confidant. Once Oliver was sent away to school, everything changed.

She gave him a sidelong glance. “Why are you here?” she asked, keeping the anger from her voice. Oliver wanted something from her or he was here to do their mother's bidding. “You could have stayed with us this afternoon, but chose to dally with some tavern wench.”

“What makes you think I was dallying with a tavern wench?” Oliver sounded curious, not angry at her charge.

“The bite mark on your neck.”

His hand automatically went to his neck. He was in full evening dress, and the mark in question was concealed by his cravat. “There is no mark.”

“I disagree, my dear Croft.” She smiled, using the abbreviation of his title. “When you were hitching the horses to the carriage this afternoon, you loosened your cravat. That's when I saw a very large bite mark.”

“Maybe it was a scratch?” he suggested, clearly uncomfortable with the subject.

“Your tavern wench has a mouth like a fish.” She paused, her eyes twinkling with mischief. “A very large fish.”

Oliver reached for her, but she squealed in feigned fright and leaped up from the bench before he could grab her. She picked up her skirt and dashed down the gravel path.

Tempest glanced back, and to her dismay, her brother was catching up quickly. She veered right and ran across the freshly mown grass.

Oliver scooped her up into his arms and spun her about. “I should throttle you, you little pest!” He allowed her feet to touch the ground, but he wrapped his fingers around her shoulders so she could not escape him. “Didn't anyone tell you that a lady should not notice such details as bite marks on her brother's neck?”

She stuck her tongue out. “No, I believe Mama skipped that particular lecture.”

He laughed at her unrepentance. “Well, oblige me and do not mention the mark to our mother. I would like to avoid her usual lament about how much I remind her of our father.”

His inflection was light, almost teasing; however, she was surprised there was a hint of old pain reflected in his gaze. It was gone before she could comment on it.

Oliver tapped her on the tip of her nose. “And for the sake of honesty, it wasn't a tavern wench. She was a dairymaid.”

Tempest rolled her eyes. It made little difference to her. Due to his youthful good looks and his title, Oliver had half the parish chasing after him. Regrettably, it never occurred to him to refuse any offer.

“Fine. You have my promise,” she said, giving in easily since she was feeling generous. “Not a word about your large fish.”

He laughed with her, but his expression sobered as his fingers cupped her shoulders. “I did wish to speak to you in private. About what happened this afternoon during my absence.”

Tempest shrugged away from his grip. “Mrs. Sheehan told you.” She took a step back when he moved closer. “Of course she did. How long did she wait before she tattled to you and Mama?”

Her brother gave her a level stare. “I thought it best that Mrs. Sheehan not speak of it to our mother. I assured her that I would handle this on my own.”

“Brilliant. So now you have the right to lecture me?” she said, feeling foolish and manipulated.

He was standing between her and the house. If she tried to slip by him and run to the house, she would lose.

“No lectures, Tempest. I thought you might want to tell me your side of the story,” he said, calm in the face of her distress.

“Have you questioned Arabella and Augusta, too?”

Oliver's forehead creased in puzzlement. “Should I?”

Tempest shook her head. She doubted Arabella would have told him about what they had seen at the river. Oliver was too calm to be aware of her accidental encounter with Chance and his friends. “No. Leave them alone. There is no reason to bully them when I am standing right in front of you.”

“I am only asking questions. So far, you have not given me any answers.”

She sighed. “I suppose Mrs. Sheehan told you that we had visitors this afternoon.”

“Yes, she mentioned that three gentlemen were riding along the riverbank and approached when they saw you and the girls.” He stared at her with a thoughtful expression that she found unsettling. “More to the point, why didn't you tell me?”

Tempest shrugged. “It slipped my mind.”

“Truly? That doesn't sound like you.” A half smile softened the hard lines of his mouth. “The girl who can recite portions of her favorite books.”

She bit her lower lip as she weighed how much trouble the truth would cause her. “You are correct. The gentlemen didn't slip my mind. I even told Mrs. Sheehan
not
to mention their visit, because I thought you might conclude the gentlemen had approached us for sinister reasons, which was not the case. We offered them cider and exchanged pleasantries, and then they were on their way.”

There was no need to mention to Oliver that the three gentlemen had been searching for the person who had watched them as they cooled off in the river.

Or that she had seen Chance without his clothes.

Oliver scowled down at her. “That's all that occurred?”

“Yes. What else did Mrs. Sheehan tell you?” she asked, wishing she had the power to sack her traitorous chaperone.

“The widow tells the same tale.”

Tempest tried not to visibly react to his words. “Then you are satisfied. Perhaps we should return to the house.”

“Not quite,” Oliver said, his low voice sharpening as his eyes narrowed. “Mrs. Sheehan noted that you and one of the gents spent a considerable amount of time talking. In her opinion, there was a familiarity between you. She was concerned that you have met this gentleman before. Perhaps in secret.”

Her lips parted in surprise. “I beg your pardon? That's utter rubbish!”

“Is it?” Her brother came closer, and she didn't back away this time. “Mrs. Sheehan thinks otherwise.”

“Well, Mrs. Sheehan is wrong. She was either drinking something stronger than cider or she needs a new pair of spectacles.” Tempest grasped the front of her skirt and tried to walk by her brother, but he blocked her exit by stepping in front of her. “What else do you want me to say?”

“The truth, damn it! Who is this man? How long have you been meeting him in secret?” Oliver demanded.

“You are the Brant with the secret trysts, Brother.” Her hazel eyes darkened and sparked with anger. “Not I.” Tempest had had enough. She stepped around her brother and headed toward the house.

His next words caused her to halt. “It will get worse for you if Father learns about it.”

She turned around to confront her elder sibling. “Are you threatening me, Croft? Seriously?”

Oliver smoothed back a lock of hair that had fallen in front of his left eye. “Just tell me the truth. Who is this man to you?”

“Why do you keep insisting that Chance means something to me? I told you, I just met him this afternoon. If Mrs. Shee—”

“Chance,” he said, cutting her off. “The gentleman Mrs. Sheehan thought you had formed an intimate connection with is Chance.”

Oliver didn't know their names.

Tempest wished she could howl in frustration at her mistake. She had assumed the chaperone already told her brother the names of the three gentlemen.

“How many times do I have to tell you that I don't have an intimate connection with the man? Or any of the men?” she asked, her voice lowering into a furious growl.

“What were the names of the other two?”

“See here, Oliver—”

“Names,” her brother said, his calm demeanor melting like late winter ice on a hot day. “I want them now.”

There was something in his eyes that told her she would not like the consequences if he learned that she had lied to him. “Uh, Thorn … and the other one called himself St. Lyon.”

She was unprepared for him to grab her by the shoulders and lift her up so that only her toes touched the ground. “Chance, Thorn, and St. Lyon. You little fool, do you know who they are?”

“Oliver, you are hurting me,” she said, despising the slight tremor in her voice.

He released her so swiftly, she stumbled to catch her balance.

Tempest eyed him warily. “I wasn't lying. I don't know these men. They didn't even stay long enough for a formal introduction.”

“So they didn't know who you were?” He swore when she winced.

“I asked Chance if he knew you.” Suddenly the man's reactions all made sense. “I told him your name.”

“And what was his response?”

She stared at her brother with an unreadable expression. “He denied knowing you. I assume that was a lie.”

“That man who introduced himself as Chance is Mathias Rooke, Marquess of Fairlamb.”

Tempest felt the blood drain from her face. “He's a Rooke. Are you certain?”

“Of course I'm bloody certain, Tempest!” Oliver paced in front of her. He tapped his forehead. “Who do you think is responsible for my bruises? The bastard rammed my head into a wooden post.”

Tempest resisted pointing out that Chance did not walk away from their skirmish unblemished. “I swear I didn't know he was a Rooke. Were the other two his brothers?”

Her brother shook his head. Had there been a tree nearby, he looked furious enough to punch it. “St. Lyon is Viscount Bastrell. Thorn is the Earl of Kempthorn. He is related to Fairlamb. I believe they are cousins.”

“I didn't know.”

Tempest glanced down at her hand and realized it was shaking. She was stunned that the gentleman who had flirted with her was a Rooke. Chance had not seemed like a Rooke at all. Not that she knew what a Rooke looked like. The way her father spoke about the Duke of Blackbern, she was expecting the man's heir to be an ugly hunchback creature with blackened teeth and eyes that burned with hellfire. Her family and the Rookes did not share the same social circles. She could have passed the entire Rooke family on the street and never known it.