Lady Tempest would be lucky if she was not robbed of her headdress and jewelry before she left the theater or later when they sought to find their coach. Mrs. Sheehan and her two charges would not be a match for a determined footpad.
Mathias glanced up at the sound of a disturbance at Miss King’s door. Two gentlemen were discussing their evening plans as the pair exited the room. Three more gentlemen followed in their wake, and fifteen seconds later, another man crossed the threshold. He nodded to Miss King’s servant and then noticed Mathias.
“Good luck,” the man said before he walked down the narrow corridor that would lead to the stairs.
“Miss King will see you now, Lord Fairlamb,” the servant intoned, gesturing him to enter.
Mathias found his little songbird perched in front of her dressing table. She observed his entrance as she admired her face in the small square mirror that was mounted to the table.
“Lord Fairlamb,” she said, adding a touch of color to her lower lip. “I almost had given up on you.”
“We are beyond titles, are we not? At our last meeting, you called me Chance.” Confident that she would not turn him away, he strode toward her dressing table. “Forgive me, sweet Clara. I did not arrive at the theater alone.”
She rose from her chair, and he noted that she had changed her dress. Earlier, she had appeared like an angel in white when she walked onto the stage. The dress she selected for the evening was scarlet. With her black hair unbound, she looked positively delectable.
He bowed formally and she curtsied. Neither one of them broke the connection of their gazes.
“I pray your companion was not a lady,” Clara said, her eyebrows lifting in an unspoken challenge.
“Just St. Lyon and a few other friends you have yet to meet,” he said, closing the distance between them. “I would have asked them to join me, but I was not in the mood to share you.”
“A wise decision,” she replied with a saucy swing of her hips. She held out her hand and he did not hesitate to clasp her fingers. “I dismissed the others so we might enjoy our time together in private.”
Clara led him to the dark blue chaise longue that was partially hidden by a four-panel dressing screen adorned with a floral tapestry and walnut frame. She drew him closer so they were concealed from view.
“I have missed you, my lord,” she said, staring up at him with guileless green eyes that always stirred more than his protective instincts. In fact, when he thought of Miss King, his thoughts turned positively wicked.
Mathias sat down on the chaise longue and impulsively pulled her onto his lap so he did not have to strain his neck when he kissed her. Clara expelled a soft pleasing sigh and gracefully settled into his arms.
“Did you receive my flowers?” he asked, his fingers stroking her arm in a possessive fashion.
“Yes. Your generous bounty filled three large vases.” She smiled coyly at him. “I have yet to thank you properly for your gift.”
With her curvaceous backside pressing against the front of his breeches, there was nothing he could do with his unruly body. His cock thickened as she lifted her mouth to his in a silent invitation and the heavy floral scent clinging to her filled his nose. The male servant had closed the door when Mathias entered the room. With the privacy of the dressing screen, he had the sudden desire to undress her until she was gloriously naked as she reclined against the dark blue cushions and he was filling her with his cock. The only thing that made him hesitate was that he was not seeking a hasty coupling. He wanted to take his time as they learned each other’s bodies.
“Will you not kiss me?” she whispered seductively.
He cupped the back of her neck and pulled her closer as their mouths collided. His kiss was carnal and possessive. He tasted the Madeira she must have enjoyed after her performance as she flirted with her male admirers. She wiggled closer and opened herself to his slow exploration of her mouth. It was another sign that she was eager to take their friendship to a more intimate level.
Mathias groaned as Clara slipped her hand under his waistcoat. Perhaps their first time together would be on the old and worn chaise longue. The lady seemed as hungry as he was. His hand at the nape of her neck slid forward and his fingers caressed the gold and ruby necklace she was wearing.
The moderately expensive necklace reminded him of Lady Tempest and the small fortune she was displaying in public. Christ, why was he thinking of her, of all people! He finally had Clara warm and soft in his arms, and if he was reading her intentions accurately, she was a willing participant in her seduction.
Clara moaned when he put a little too much enthusiasm into his kiss. His cock was folded into an uncomfortable angle in his breeches, and the thickening flesh throbbed. If he unfastened the buttons to give himself some relief, the lady in his arms would end up flat on her back, his cock buried deep within her.
Mathias doubted the haughty Lady Tempest had ever sat in a gentleman’s lap. He stilled at the thought. What was wrong with him? It was none of his business what the lady did or whom she did it with.
“My lord—Chance?” Clara asked, bringing his attention back to her face.
Miss King was exactly the kind of distraction he was seeking while he resided in London. She was beautiful, comfortable with her body, and willing to share it with him. When they parted company, there would be no expectations or tears.
Unlike Lady Tempest Brant. There was nothing about her that wasn’t complicated. It was guilt, he thought. His instincts had warned him that the lady and her companions were courting trouble, and he had turned his back on them. She was not his responsibility. More important, he was not interested in offering a Brant his protection.
His cock withered as his desire fled.
Damn Marcroft! Where the devil was her brother? He was the one who should be watching over his sisters. Not him!
Clara could sense that his thoughts were elsewhere. “Chance, have I done something wrong?”
Mathias claimed her mouth again. It was not much of an apology, but he refused to leave her believing she had offended him. “No, my sweet lady. You are enchanting and perfect. I am mad with desire.”
“But?”
He brushed a quick kiss against her pouting lips. “I have to leave you.”
“What?”
He gently slid her from his lap and stood.
Clara remained seated on the chaise longue, which gave her a level view of the front of his breeches. There was no sign of his earlier desire, and the realization distressed her. “Where are you going?”
“I forgot that there was—” He could not admit that he was going upstairs to search for another lady. “—I have an appointment. A very brief meeting. It won’t take much time at all. Can you wait for me?”
“Wait for you,” Clara echoed his words, and her darkening complexion warned him that she was unused to being rejected by any man. “After the last performance, I am supposed to attend an intimate gathering at a nearby hotel.”
Clara did not sound very welcoming, but he seized the chance to make amends. “I should be finished before the final act. I will return to the dressing room. If it pleases you, I can escort you to the hotel.”
Perhaps he could secure a room and offer her a private apology.
She gazed at him with stormy green eyes. “If you are certain that you will return—”
“I am.” Once he found Lady Tempest and her sister, he would take them to Thorn, St. Lyon, and Rainbault and leave the ladies in their care. His friends would see to it that they were safely escorted to their coach. Then he could banish the Brant sisters from his thoughts and enjoy the rest of his evening.
She inclined her head. “Then I would be honored to have you join me at the hotel.”
Mathias was grateful for Clara’s understanding. “You will wait for me.”
A demure smile brightened her expression. “Of course.”
Chapter Eight
From the back of the theater box, Tempest watched
as her sister leaned forward and clapped at the spectacle in the ring below. She could not see much from her limited view, so as the minutes passed, she had grown bored.
What was delaying her brother? She was going to throttle Oliver for abandoning them. Again.
None of the gentlemen seated thought to offer her their seat. It was horribly rude for them to ignore her. If she ever recognized one of them in a drawing room or ballroom, she fully intended to give the unfortunate man the direct cut.
Tempest was not the only person who was standing. The private box was overflowing with people. So much so, she had been nudged farther away from her sister. For the hundredth time, she flexed her cramped toes because her shoes were pinching her feet. While her elegant attire was lovely, the longer she stood in the gloomy theater box, the more uncomfortable she became. Her feet hurt, her back itched, and the headdress was threatening to list to the right. If not for Arabella, she would have told Mrs. Sheehan that she was ready to depart. Standing beside her mother was preferable to remaining a minute longer in this hot, smelly theater.
Most of all, she hated that her circumstances had reduced her to whining. Tempest despised complainers. They were unhappy people who loved to share their misery with others. Tempest straightened her spine and was determined to persevere.
Blast it all, where is Oliver?
A burst of laughter erupted in the theater. She had only her imagination to deduce what those clever horses and their riders were doing below. Something wonderful, she thought dourly. The couple in front of her shifted and she had to take a step back to avoid colliding into them.
The step nudged her out of the private theater box entirely.
Tempest lost sight of Arabella and Mrs. Sheehan. “I doubt this evening could get worse,” she uncharitably muttered.
Five minutes later, she would come to regret those words.
As she tried to peer over the heads of the other spectators, she felt a masculine hand curl around her left upper arm and responded to the heat of his body. Tension slid into her muscles and then it eased. No one but her brother would dare to touch her so intimately.
“So nice of you to join us, Oliver,” she said without looking at her errant elder sibling. “Arabella and Mrs. Sheehan are toward the front. Perhaps we can ask someone to get their attention.”
When her brother didn’t reply, Tempest turned her head to address him and gasped. The man standing so close was definitely not Oliver. This man was three inches shorter and from his grip she deduced his extra weight gave him the advantage. He was older than she by ten or more years, and his reddened nose and bloodshot brown eyes suggested he had been drinking.
“Who are—oomph!”
For a drunkard, he was agile. Before she could finish her question, he pulled her away from the entrance to the private box, pushed her against the wall, and slapped his hand over her mouth.
“You’re a pretty one, eh?” The man leaned closer so she could smell gin on his fetid breath. He turned her head from side to side to examine her face. “Are you looking for a friend?”
Tempest nodded, but the gleam of excitement in his eyes revealed that she had given him the wrong answer. She furiously shook her head. He was not asking if she was looking for her friend, but rather he wanted to know if she was looking to make a new friend.
Him.
“What? You aren’t the friendly sort?” He sounded disappointed.
Tempest glanced to the right and left, but the narrow passageway was empty. The shouts and laughter coming from the various theater boxes guaranteed that no one would hear her cries of help. Not that she would permit herself to be deterred by any obstacle. The first in gaining her freedom was to convince the man to remove his hand from her mouth.
Her wide eyes and muffled protest reminded him that he was preventing her from speaking.
“If I take my hand away, you won’t cause a fuss by screaming, will you?” he asked, squinting up at her.
Tempest swallowed and slowly shook her head. Any man who grabbed an unwilling lady was not exactly harmless, but his drunkenness might have made him bold. The private box was in sight. If she could catch the man off guard, she could push her way inside or alert one of the gentlemen within that she needed some assistance.
Her companion eased his hand away and then thought better of it. She groaned when he pulled her farther down the corridor and away from her sister. It was darker in this section, so if anyone approached them, the person might assume she was willingly keeping this man company.
“This will do us nicely, don’t you think?” Again he eased the hold on her mouth. “No screaming or I’ll knock you out with my fist. Do you understand me?”
Tempest nodded.
She sagged with relief when his hand fell away. When she wasn’t so frightened, she had a quick mind, and she could put it to good use if she remained calm.
“Thank you, sir,” she said, and tried to smile. Her lips trembled, but she doubted the man noticed.
“What’s your name, pretty?”
“Elizabeth,” she replied, giving him her middle name.
He grinned. “Does your family call you Bessie?”
Not a soul, but that kind of reply was not very sociable. “How did you know?”
He was still crowding her and blocking her way to the theater box. “I’ve a cousin named Bessie. And I’ve known a few maids with the name.”
Tempest nodded approvingly. “And might I know your name, good sir?”
The man inclined his head. “You can call me Archie.”
“A pleasure to meet you, Mr. Archie.” If she curtsied, there was a chance her body would rub against him, and she did not want to encourage him.
“Mr. Archie,” he said, testing the name. “I like it.”
Her unwanted admirer wore a brown suit, but it smelled of stale sweat. He touched the lace at her shoulder. “Such a fine dress. I have never seen one so white. Even the hem of your skirt is clean,” he said, marveling that she had managed not to spill anything on her clothes.
“I arrived in a coach with my family.” She cleared her throat. “My brother and sister are waiting for me in the private box. Perhaps you would like to meet them.”
He ignored her offer. “And look how your fancy hat glitters when you move your head.” He said, tilting his head to observe how the stones winked in the shadowed passageway, “Are those stones real?”
“Just paste,” she lied. “There is no point in wearing jewels I can’t admire.”
He laughed and she flinched when he pounded the wall near her head. “I can’t fault your logic, Bessie. Now, why don’t you give me a kiss and then we can go find a quiet place to have a drink.”
She would rather kiss a mangy wet cur than him.
“I can’t leave without telling my brother, Mr. Archie,” she said gently. Tempest loathed to touch her odorous companion, but she tried not to grimace as she patted him on the arm. “We can have that drink if you permit me to pass.”
Archie stepped in front of her to block her escape. “There’s no need to trouble your brother when all we’re doing is being friendly. If he’s your brother at all. Now, why don’t you give me that kiss, Bessie darling?”
Tempest was getting nowhere with the unreasonable drunk. The way he was touching her arm and dress, she doubted a single kiss would satisfy him even if she fancied kissing him. Which she didn’t.
“There will be no kisses, sir,” she said coldly. If kindness did not sway the man, then it was time to try another approach. “You have detained me long enough, and now I intend to return to my family.”
Tempest knocked his arm aside and managed three steps before he grabbed her by the waist and half dragged her down the passageway. Her headdress fell to the floor. She screamed and fought him, but he was too strong. No one seemed to hear her over the music and the laughter. It appeared Archie had changed his tactics, too.
“Hush, Bessie!” He pulled her close so her back was flush against his front. “I
don’t want to use my fists on you. Not yet, at any rate.”
She screamed and drove her elbow into his chest. He held her tighter as if he hoped to squeeze the breath out of her.
“I do beg your pardon.” The male voice caused them both to cease their struggles. “I hope I am not interrupting anything.”
When Tempest recognized the gentleman approaching them, tears blurred her vision. It was Lord Fairlamb. She had never been so relieved to see a familiar face in her entire life.
Archie held her as if she were a shield. “That you are, sir. Can’t you see me and Bessie wish to be alone?”
“Bessie, you say?” His lips quirked as if he was tempted to smile. “A dreadful name, my dear. You have my sympathies.” He touched his hat as if he was prepared to leave her to her fate.
Tempest felt a chill waft through her. Before she learned he was a Rooke, she had thought him a decent gentleman. Did he hate her family so much that he would walk away?
“Blast it all, Chance, you cannot leave me!” she shouted at him. If she had to cast all pride aside, she was willing to beg.
“Do you know this fellow, Bessie?” Archie peered at the marquess. “Are you the brother?”
“Yes!” Tempest said, not waiting for Lord Fairlamb’s response. “He’s my brother. Now, let me go before he challenges you.”
Her would-be rescuer appeared offended by the question. “Are you drunk? Do I look like her brother, you filthy twit?”
The anger in the marquess’s voice befuddled the drunken Archie. “Then who are you?”
There was a mischievous glint in His Lordship’s eyes. “I’m the gent who is stealing the lady from you.”
Tempest’s eyes widened in surprise as Chance loosened the fist in his right hand and the walking stick he had concealed slid down the length of his arm to the floor. Before her captor could react, the marquess lunged forward as if he had a sword and stabbed the tip into Archie’s shoulder.
You Can't Always Get the Marquess You Want Page 8