You Can't Always Get the Marquess You Want (9 page)

“A degree of caution can be an asset,” he said, his gaze narrowing. “As for turning strangers into friends, do not think I have forgotten that you managed to befriend the son of one of father's enemies.”

Not this again.

“It was an entirely different situation. I was so worried that Lord Fairlamb and his friends would figure out I had—” Noting her brother's thunderous expression, she swallowed her words. “Nevertheless, I was not flirting with those three gentlemen. I was being polite.”

“Being polite to a Rooke is not acceptable, Tempest. If Father ever learns—”

She trembled at the thought. “I have no intention of telling him or Mama. Will you?”

His silence and measured look were enough to make her squirm in her chair. Finally, he said succinctly, “No.”

“Thank you, Oliver,” she said, resisting the urge to embrace him. “You do not have to worry about me speaking to Lord Fairlamb again. If, by chance, we encounter each other in London, I swear I will turn about and head in the opposite direction.”

He was not entirely convinced. “What if he approaches you?”

“I will give him the direct cut,” she said decisively. “However, the question is moot. The marquess will not deign to speak to me, now that he knows I am a Brant.”

Oliver slowly nodded, and he seemed satisfied with her answers. “You will come to me if Fairlamb bothers you, yes?”

“Of course,” she lied, crossing her fingers that were hidden by her skirt. Tempest would heed her brother's warning about the marquess, but she would not be responsible for the two gentlemen fighting.

If the occasion arose, she would deal with Lord Fairlamb by herself.

 

Chapter Seven

Three weeks later

Mathias never thought he would develop a sudden passion for songbirds.

It had been his third night in London when he was introduced to Miss Clara King. Although the woman was two years older than he, the petite curvaceous soprano had a youthful appearance and hesitant manner of speech that gave one the impression that she had escaped the care of her governess. Nevertheless, there was nothing remotely infantile about her talent or her appetites. Since her arrival in late April, her performances had filled the theater, and she had become quite popular in certain circles of the ton. It was rare for her not to be surrounded by male admirers, but the fair Clara had made it clear that he was one of her favorites.

He understood the clever lady was savoring her success. She wanted to be wooed by her legions of admirers, and by a process of elimination she would select a lover or two who favored her with expensive tokens of affection.

Mathias was confident that he and Clara would be lovers soon. His calculated efforts would earn him more than the few kisses they had shared. She was already favoring him with special considerations. Whenever he called on her in her dressing room, she always requested that everyone else leave so they might have a private moment.

Mathias wondered if this was the evening he would coax her away from the theater and into his bed. He reached into the small pocket of his waistcoat and checked his timepiece. Miss King had already performed, and was likely holding court in her dressing room. As he sat with his friends, a half smile played on his lips as he considered abandoning them so he could ply his skills of seduction on the lady who had captured his interest.

“No.”

Mathias glared at the back of the head of the gentleman who sat in front of him and slightly to his left. “Did you say something, Your Serene Highness?” he said, deliberately using his friend's royal title with enough of a sneer in his voice to gain the man's attention.

“I did. You are not leaving us so you can flirt with your little actress, Chance.”

Antoine Rolland Sevard, exiled Prince of Galien, shifted in his seat so he could casually recline his arm against the top of his chair and the next. His female companion seated next to him did not mind using the prince's arm for support, especially when he traced the line of her neck with his finger. The lady shivered.

“How the devil did you know?” Mathias demanded, annoyed that he had been so obvious. “You were not even looking at me.”

His friend winked and tapped the side of his nose. He laughed when Mathias glowered at him.

The prince had been just under a year old when his mother and father were swept up in
la Grande Terreur
and executed without the benefit of a trial. The small principality of Galien had been seized by the French, and the little prince would have been executed if he had not been smuggled out of the country by several nobles loyal to the late king and queen. It had taken another year before his friend had stepped foot on English soil. The orphaned child was embraced by the royal family, and Mathias's father was one of the noblemen who had offered his support. In England, his friend preferred to be addressed by his lesser title, the Duke of Rainbault. He only used his royal title at court or when he was conversing with people he disliked.

“Your lust makes you fidget, my friend,” the duke said, his blue green eyes twinkling with merriment.

“At least you are not sitting next to him,” St. Lyon drawled. “Stallions paw the soft earth with less enthusiasm.”

“A charming description of our friend's predicament. I shall have to write it down in my next letter to Gideon,” Thorn said, speaking of his twin brother, who had abandoned them to travel the world. “Why don't you just bed the wench and be done with it.”

“I agree. Miss King is leading you and the rest of the fools who are pursuing her about on a string, Chance,” declared St. Lyon, not paying attention to the lady who was seated beside him.

“I am surprised you have not put your head through her noose, St. Lyon,” Mathias muttered, not caring that he sounded churlish.

The viscount cast a quick glance at his companion, who happened to be the daughter of one of his parents' good friends. She was distracted by the bulldogs performing tricks on the stage below. The man was a consummate rake, but for his family's sake, he could exercise a degree of discretion.

He leaned toward Mathias. “If I were interested, I would have tied the wench up with her leading string and tired myself out between her thighs. “However, Miss King is a bit too small for my tastes, if you want to know the truth.”

“I don't,” Thorn interjected. He and Mathias had not invited ladies to join them in their private theater box.

His friend was not boasting. For some unfathomable reason, ladies seemed to love him.

“I like a bit more … here,” St. Lyon said, briefly gesturing chest high with his hands before he lowered them. The slight cupping needed no explanation. “And rounded just so.”

“That is quite enough,” Mathias said, refusing to be amused.

Rainbault laughed. “St. Lyon, have mercy on our friend. We are well aware that your cup runneth over and over. You are an inspiration to us all.”

Mathias noticed that their discussion had not interrupted the prince's slow seduction of his female companion. Rainbault brought the lady's hand to his mouth and rubbed his lips lightly across her gloved knuckles. Her attention was wholly focused on the man sitting beside her.

So far, the women in his and his friends' lives had been nothing more than passing fancies. They were young, so their selfishness could be forgiven by family and friends. The women who sought them out and shared their bodies were not looking for husbands. These women wanted a lover and a protector, but they valued their freedom as much as he and his friends did.

Watching Rainbault and his soon-to-be lover as they anticipated the bed they would later share, Mathias's thoughts returned to Miss King. There was a reason why they called him Chance. He liked taking risks, and most of the time, he was rewarded handsomely for his efforts.

Mathias stood.

The prince groaned as his lady kissed the line of his jaw. He surprised Mathias by grabbing his hand. “Stay. If you are bored, we can go to one of the taverns or a gaming hell.”

“I vote for the gaming hell,” Thorn announced to no one in particular.

St. Lyon cleared his throat to gain Mathias's attention. He gave a slight nod to the lady beside him. “I must stay until the end, but I can meet you later.”

Mathias understood St. Lyon had to fulfill his obligations to his family. There would be other evenings when he would have similar restraints himself.

His gaze shifted back to Rainbault. “Our evening plans stand. You can do without me while I offer my congratulations to Miss King. The lady is expecting me and would think something was amiss if I did not stop by her dressing room.”

The prince's wolfish grin revealed the gentleman heartily approved of Mathias's unspoken intentions. “What if your songbird is amenable to more than a lingering kiss?”

“I will send word if I am delayed.” He clapped his hand on Thorn's shoulder and nodded to St. Lyon as he slipped by him and his companion and left the private theater box.

Mathias made his way down the crowded dimly lit corridor and headed toward the staircase. This was the third incarnation of the theater building. The earlier buildings had been destroyed by fire. The pungent fragrances of animal flesh, dung, hay, and sweat became more pronounced as he descended. Ladies and gentlemen held scented handkerchiefs under their noses as they climbed the stairs with the hope that the air improved in the upper tiers.

His gaze casually glided from face to face, and he politely nodded to the few he recognized. The slow-moving congestion of pedestrians did not permit any discourse, which was a blessing because he had tarried too long with his friends. Miss King's affections were fickle, and his rivals were benefiting from his absence.

Lost in thought, he was not certain what initially had caught his attention when his gaze locked on to one of the ladies walking toward him. In the gloomy interior, her lace frock worn over a white satin slip gleamed like muted moonbeams. The square bodice and the short sleeves revealed its owner was artfully formed as he appreciatively noted the graceful slopes of her shoulders and the fine line of her neck and profile. The lady was speaking to her friend, so her face was partially concealed by her fan. Her maid had pinned her dark brown hair and tucked most of it under a
toque
à
la Reubens
headdress that was decorated with precious stones and white feathers. She was not the only one who was flaunting her wealth, but this part of town was at the edge of respectability.

Was she a foolish chit or a prosperous courtesan?

If his meeting with Miss King was short, perhaps he could persuade the mystery lady and her companion to join him and his friends for the evening. As if sensing his perusal, the woman lowered her fan and met his gaze.

Recognition lit her eyes, which he knew were a hazel with tiny amber flecks.

Lady Tempest Brant.

Mathias's jaw tensed as her surprise gave way to dismay.

When did she arrive in London?

She whispered something to her companion, whom he now recognized as her sister, Lady Arabella. Delight brightened the other woman's face as she saw him, but her enthusiasm dimmed at what he assumed was her sister's hasty explanation of why he should be avoided at all costs.

Yes, ladies, I am one of those dreadful Rookes!
he longed to shout at them.

He should have found their reactions amusing, but all he felt was annoyance. He bowed as he passed the Brant sisters, and Lady Tempest did not disappoint him. Her stubborn chin shot up and she glanced away as if the very sight of him offended her.

Lady Arabella offered him a weak smile, but she allowed her sister to lead her forward. It was then he noticed Mrs. Sheehan, who was lagging behind her charges.

“Why, Chance, how are you, my good sir?” the widow said, glancing over her shoulder, since she was unable to stop her ascent.

“Very well, ma'am,” he replied. He saw no reason to be rude to the woman. It was not her fault that her employer was a blackguard. “Enjoy your evening.”

Belatedly, Mathias wished there had been time to warn Mrs. Sheehan to be on her guard. Lady Tempest and her sister were ripe for the plucking if they encountered an unscrupulous fellow who coveted their jewelry.

Why the devil he should care one way or the other was something he did not wish to examine closely.

*   *   *

It was
him
.

Chance … no, Lord Fairlamb, Tempest silently rectified her error. There could be no familiarity between them. One polite exchange did not make them friends.

Nor did it make him my enemy,
was her traitorous thought.

No, her brother was correct. Her father would not approve of any association with a member of the Rooke family. It was her duty to stay away from the marquess. She owed her family her loyalty, and if his cool mocking glance was any indication, Lord Fairlamb considered her his adversary, too.

“Why did you discourage me from speaking to Chance?” Arabella whispered to her. “It was obvious from his expression that our lack of civility offended him.”

Tempest frowned and resisted the urge to rub her forehead. The headdress was beginning to give her a headache. “He will recover from his disappointment. I doubt this is the first time Chance has received a less than cordial greeting from a lady.”

She silently wondered if his friends were joining him this evening. Allies of the Rooke family were not to be trusted as well.

Tempest regretted that she could not tell her sister the true reason why they could not associate with Chance or anyone associated with him. The evening Oliver had paid her a visit, he persuaded her not to reveal the gentlemen's names and their connections to the Rooke family to Arabella and Augusta out of concern that one of them would tell their father and mother. At the time, she thought her brother was being unreasonable. The odds of seeing Lord Fairlamb or his friends again were slight, since they had failed to run across each other last spring. However, Oliver had disagreed and it vexed her that he had been right to be concerned.