You Can't Always Get the Marquess You Want (8 page)

Good grief—and she had seen a Rooke naked!

Her growing panic must have shown on her face, because her brother pulled her into his arms and hugged her.

“I didn't know.”

“I know,” he murmured into her hair. “Fairlamb has gone too far. I will call him out for this insult.”

Tempest drew back so she could see her brother's face. “No. You cannot.”

He laughed evilly. “It will be a pleasure.”

“Oliver, he didn't know.” She didn't understand this side of her brother. He looked positively bloodthirsty. “Listen, Lord Fairlamb did not know I was a Brant when he approached us. He must have been as stunned as I am now when I told him that my brother was Lord Marcroft.”

“It doesn't change anything.”

“How can you say that? Of course it does,” she argued, assuming she was the only one present who was planning to be sensible about it. “Oliver, once he heard your name, Chance and his friends left immediately. He had no interest in speaking to a Brant.”

He had left so abruptly that her feelings were hurt.

“Bastard.”

She hadn't known Chance and Oliver shared a history. It was obviously an unpleasant one.

“You cannot challenge him.”

Her brother snarled, “Don't be so certain. Fairlamb hates our family. I would not put it past him to have deliberately sought you out.”

“No, Oliver—”

“Yes, damn it. You do not know him like I do. If he could hurt our family through you, he would seize the chance.”

“You can't blame Chance for this.”

“Stop calling the man by his nickname.” His brows lowered as if he hoped to intimidate a confession out of her. “Unless there is something else you'd like to confess?”

She clenched her teeth and fought down the urge to scream at her elder sibling. “Lord Fairlamb is not to blame. It is my fault that he was searching for me.”

Oliver brought his fists to his temples. “Tempest, you are not making any sense. Do you know him or not?”

“I do not.” She held up her hand to signal that he would learn more if he did not interrupt her. “He was looking for the person who was spying on him and his friends.”

Her poor brother looked confused. “What?”

Tempest took a fortifying breath. “It was accident, and I really didn't see too much, since two of them were already in the river.”

“Too much of what?” he thundered at her.

She sent him an apologetic glance. “Ah, flesh. Did I forget to mention that the gentlemen were undressed when I stumbled upon them?”

“Tempest!”

“So you can see why you can't challenge Chance—uh, Lord Fairlamb,” she amended hastily when her brother growled. “Or mention any of this to Father and Mother or to anyone. Please, Oliver, my reputation would suffer if word got out that I was spying on half-naked gentlemen. Think of the scandal. I can't afford another unremarkable season in London.”

“For the love of—!” Oliver marched over to the bench they had abandoned earlier and sat down before his knees gave out.

 

Chapter Six

Tempest should have lied to her brother about her encounter with Lord Fairlamb and his friends.

Although Oliver had dressed for an evening out of the house, he announced to their mother's delight that he would be joining her and his sisters for the dinner. Tempest despaired when she heard the news. His sudden desire to spend the evening with the family had nothing to do with feeling exhausted as he had claimed, and everything to do with her.

As usual, Cook had outdone herself, but Tempest barely sampled each course on account of Oliver. Her beastly brother managed to distract their mother with witty anecdotes while he glared at her from over the rim of his wineglass. Arabella was aware of the discord between the elder siblings and tried to engage their brother, but his attention always seemed to shift back to Tempest. Augusta was the only one at the table who seemed to thoroughly enjoy the cook's efforts, as she happily shared scraps of meat with the marchioness's pug.

Tempest endured her brother's brooding stare and disapproval in martyred silence. Her stomach felt like it was in knots the entire duration of the meal while she waited for him to tell the marchioness that Tempest had not only flirted with a member of the Rooke family, but also managed to admire his naked backside. Oliver's furious expression revealed he was tempted to expose her foolishness. All she could do was sit there and wait for him to deliver the news that would either end with her being banished to one of their father's smaller estates or subjected to a painful whipping delivered by their father. Maybe both, since the Marquess of Norgrave would view her consorting with his enemy's heir as an unpardonable sin.

When the marchioness stood and announced they should adjourn to the music room, Tempest asked to be excused. She told her mother that she felt unwell and planned to retire to her bedchamber. Oliver's gaze had followed her movements as she left the dining room. If he intended to betray her to their mother, he was not going to have the satisfaction of her being present for it.

With her maid's assistance, she undressed and prepared for bed. She dismissed the young maid and told the servant that she would not need her for the rest of the evening. Unfortunately, it was still early and sleep eluded her. She sat down at her small writing table and opened her sketching notebook. Drawing always soothed her when she was troubled, and it would give her something to do in the quiet passing hours.

Two hours later, a soft knock at the door disturbed Tempest's self-imposed solitude. Rising from her chair, she shut her notebook and then walked to the door to let Arabella into the chamber before her mother discovered that she was still awake. Her sister had a kind heart, and must have guessed from Oliver's demeanor at dinner and Tempest's distress that he had learned of their uninvited visitors this afternoon.

Tempest turned the doorknob and prepared to greet her sister. She opened the door. “Oliver,” she said, unable to hide her surprise. “This is unexpected.”

Balanced in his right hand was a small tray that was covered with a white cloth. “May I enter?” he politely asked, his expression giving her no hint to his current mood.

“Of course,” Tempest said, stepping back so he could enter her bedchamber. She waited until he stepped into the middle of the room before she closed the door.

Oliver glanced at the bed. The maid had pulled back the bedding, but it was obvious from the unruffled pillows and sheets that she had not been sleeping. “Mother chastised me for our afternoon outing.”

“Why would she do that?”

“Your lack of appetite and request to retire early have her concerned. She blames me for overtaxing your delicate system.”

“I suppose you denied her claims.”

“I told her that you have always possessed a healthy constitution,” he replied, moving to her writing table. With his free hand, he slid her sketch notebook to the side and set down the small serving tray. “I did, however, suggest that, like all vain females, you might be fretting about fitting into the new dresses our mother has ordered for London.”

Forgetting that she should be kind to him, Tempest marched over and pinched Oliver on the arm. “How dare you imply I am too fat to fit into my dresses!” There was nothing wrong with her body. She was neither too fat nor too thin.

Her brother rubbed his sore spot and chuckled. “I never said that you were too fat. Merely that you might be worried about the fit of the dresses. My explanation for your odd behavior this evening was less upsetting than the truth, I daresay.”

“So you did not make a grand confession to Mother?”

“I thought about it,” he admitted, and his stern expression revealed that he was still angry. “However, who will keep you out of trouble if you are banished to the country while the rest of the family is in London?”

Tempest nodded at the covered tray on her writing table. “What did you bring me?”

“Beef tea and buttered toast,” he said gruffly. “I told Cook that you were feeling poorly this evening and to prepare something light for your stomach. You need to keep up your strength.”

His thoughtfulness was unexpected, and she was touched by the gesture.

She leaned around him to remove the cloth covering from the tray. A silver lid covered the beef broth and she left it undisturbed. Instead, she picked up a slice of buttered toast and took a bite.

“A truce offering?” she asked while chewing and swallowing the piece of toast in her mouth.

“Not precisely.” He pulled out her chair and invited her to sit down. When she did, he dragged another chair closer so they could sit side by side. “Think of it as a small bribe.”

Her right eyebrow arched. “Very small, indeed. If you think to bribe me, you should have also brought me dessert.”

Tempest was teasing, but his glare told her that her brother found nothing humorous about their situation. He reached into his evening coat as if to search for something. Her eyes widened as he retrieved an apple from a pocket and placed it next to her tray.

“Dessert.”

“Why, Oliver, you do still love me!” Tempest leaned over to kiss him on the cheek, but he stiffened and pulled away. She sighed and tried not to feel hurt by his rejection. “Or perhaps I am wrong. You spoke of a bribe.”

“Fairlamb.”

Ah, so her brother was not finished berating her about Chance and his friends. “Why are we speaking of him again? Oliver, I told you the truth. I was unaware that the gentleman I spoke to this afternoon was a Rooke.”

His expression lost some of the harshness. “I know. As I watched you sulk at dinner, I thought about our conversation in the gardens and realized that I owe you, Arabella, and Augusta an apology.”

Again he'd surprised her. “For what?”

“For leaving you and the girls unprotected.” He lowered his gaze to his large bare hands, which bore evidence that he did not always wear gloves to protect his skin. “I was annoyed that I had been given the task to watch over you when Mrs. Sheehan was wholly capable of seeing to the task. If I had stayed, you would not have gotten into mischief at the river. If Fairlamb had still wandered into our camp, then I would have been there to deal with him.”

“It would have been three to one, Oliver,” she reminded him.

“You underestimate my skills and my hatred, dear sister.”

In spite of the heavy shawl draped over her shoulders, she shivered. Tempest did not understand why her brother despised Lord Fairlamb so much. Then she recalled the marquess's reaction when he discovered that she was one of those dreadful Brants. Any warmth he had displayed toward her and her sisters vanished as he bade them farewell. It appeared there was hate in his heart as well.

Tempest nibbled on her toast. “I do not want to be responsible for you challenging Lord Fairlamb.”

“That is why I wished to speak with you privately. When the family resides in London, there is a chance that you might encounter him again.”

She wrinkled her nose. “Highly doubtful. I did not meet him last spring.” She was positive she would have remembered a handsome gentleman such as the Marquess of Fairlamb.

Her brother gave her an impatient look. “Father saw to it that another gentleman was occupying your thoughts last season.”

“Yes, so kind of you to remind me of my failures, Brother,” she muttered, dropping her half-eaten toast onto the plate. “Unfortunately for everyone involved, the Marquess of Rinehart fell in love with someone else.”

Oliver swore under his breath. “Rinehart was a fool!”

“Papa thought he would make me a tolerable husband, but he would have been a highly valuable son-in-law.” She said lightly, “I believe our father still mourns the loss.”

Tempest's pride had taken a mild blow because Rinehart's affections were bestowed to another lady, but she had never allowed herself to fall in love with the gentleman. Perhaps her heart had figured out before her head that she and the marquess were not the best match when it came to temperament.

He reached over and clasped the hand she'd rested in her lap. “Did Rinehart break your heart, Pest?”

No one in the family had thought to ask her that particular question. Especially since their father had such high expectations for the betrothal.

She shook her head. “It would have been grand if I had fallen in love with the gentleman our father had handpicked for me. And yet, I felt nothing akin to love. A mild fondness … yes. He was a kind man. There was no ground swell, no spark, or music in the air.” She paused and moistened her lips. “I have a confession. Promise you will not tell anyone?”

“I promise.”

Tempest avoiding looking her brother directly in the eye. “I often wonder if the lack is within me, Oliver. Perhaps I am unable to fall in love.”

“Nonsense,” her brother protested. “You are placing too much value on the sentiment. You love your family, do you not? There is room in your heart for another.”

Oliver did not understand. She turned his hand palm up and casually traced the lines she found there. “Would you say that there is love between our mother and father?”

“I have never given it much thought.”

No, it was not something anyone discussed.

“There is duty and perhaps a degree of affection because they have been together for so long.” Tempest frowned in concentration as she tried to put order to her thoughts. “However, I would not describe what they share as love.”

“Whatever they have, our mother and father are satisfied.” Oliver stilled her fingers by covering her hand with his. “Tempest, what has brought on such deliberation?”

“Expectations, I suppose.” She carefully withdrew her hand. “I am not like Arabella, who can always discover new friends in a crowded ballroom filled with strangers. I assume love will come as easily to her. I am just not fashioned that way.”