You Can't Always Get the Marquess You Want

by Alexandra Hawkins

  “My other purchase? I have no other,” she said, frowning as the clerk handed her another book wrapped in brown paper and bound with string.

  “Your husband told me to add all purchases to his account,” the clerk said, not looking up from his task and missing the shock on her face.

  “You must be mistaken. I have no husband.”

  Swiftly realizing his error, the clerk gave her an apologetic look. “Forgive me, my lady. I meant no offense. Lord Fairlamb spoke with such familiarity and fondness, I assumed you were his wife. Nevertheless, the gentleman insisted that I give you the book and I credit any additional purchases to his account.”

  He must have secreted a message within the book.

  “Lord Fairlamb is very generous.” She looked over her shoulder to make certain her friends had not eavesdropped on her exchange with the shop clerk. “He is an old friend of the family,” she added to quell any speculation on why the marquess was purchasing books for a lady who was not a relative.

  She need not have bothered. The clerk was too satisfied in gaining the additional sale to question a patron’s motives.

  “All finished.” He handed her the other book. “I hope you enjoy the books.”

  “Thank you. I shall,” she said, turning away and almost colliding with Lord Chandler.

  “You bought a second book,” the viscount said, his tone indulgent.

  “The clerk recommended it,” she said, feeling foolish that she was spinning lies about the book she was currently clutching to her bodice. “Shall we go?”

  * * *

  Several hours later, Tempest entered her bedchamber and shooed away her maid, telling her that she needed a moment of privacy. She wasted no time untying the string bow and unwrapping the book.

  “Poetic Trifles by Ann of Swansea,” she read out loud as she shook her head. “An unexpected choice, Lord Fairlamb. Unless you were as distracted as I was.”

  Tempest opened the book and thumbed through several pages until she reached the first poem. It was there that she discovered his calling card. She turned it over. In pencil, Chance had written the following command.

  Friday. Two o’clock. Egyptian Hall.

  Perhaps she should be insulted by his high-handed manner, but with so many witnesses surrounding them in the bookseller’s shop, there had been little opportunity for politeness or refusal.

  In truth, she was intrigued. Tempest wanted to see Chance again. Meeting him would be not without risks. Should I accept his invitation or reject it? she silently wondered, tapping the card against her chin. She had three days. Her gaze finally focused on the title of the first poem and she laughed with delight as she read the line.

  Tell me, is it love?

  Was she falling in love with Lord Fairlamb? It was too soon to tell, but she accepted the title of the poem as a sign from the heavens that she should keep the appointment with the marquess.

  Chapter Fourteen

  “Any reason why you have a sudden interest to visit Egyptian Hall?” Thorn asked Mathias as they entered William Bullock’s collection of natural history and curiosities. “We have already paid homage to Napoleon’s carriage, and I have no intention of fighting my way through the crowd of spectators to view it again.”

  “I knew I should have invited St. Lyon,” Mathias teased. “He is more agreeable.”

  “Why didn’t you?” He surveyed the central hall with dismay. This time of day, the museum was congested with people as they navigated their way around taxidermy, large cases stuffed with artifacts, and statuary.

  “He and Rainbault had other plans. Tattersall’s, I believe,” Mathias said absently.

  “And this place was preferable?” His cousin sounded appalled. “Did you fall off your horse?”

  Mathias shook his head. “Stop whining. As it is, we may not be here for long.” In hindsight, he should have been more specific in his directions to Lady Tempest.

  “Thank God! At last some good news,” Thorn said, dutifully following Mathias as he searched the main hall. “When can we leave?”

  “Soon.” Mathias halted so abruptly, Thorn nearly collided into him. “She would have felt too exposed in this large hall. Perhaps she decided to wait in one of the small exhibit rooms.”

  “Who?”

  “If she is courageous enough to meet me,” he muttered more to himself than to his cousin. “The last time I saw her, she told me to stay away. You would not believe how stubborn she can be.”

  “No doubt,” Thorn said dryly. “Do you mind revealing the name of this stubborn creature who has the good sense to avoid you?”

  “Let’s search the Roman gallery.” When Thorn grabbed him by the arm, Mathias’s eyes cleared, and he gave the man an impatient look. “Who? Lady Tempest.”

  His cousin tightened his grip and prevented Mathias from continuing his search. “Norgrave’s daughter? What the devil are you doing? I thought you planned to stay away from her if you encountered her in town.”

  Mathias shrugged. “Good intentions, and all that. I guess I might have stuck to the plan if I hadn’t kissed her.”

  Thorn swore under his breath. “Do you have an unspoken fancy to depart this world early, Cousin? Because Marcroft will happily oblige you and dispatch you to the nearest hellgate without hesitation. It is no secret that he will murder you if he catches you looking at his beloved sister. Just think what he might do if he learns you have put your hands on her. Not to mention what the chit’s father will do if he learns that you are lusting after his daughter.”

  “Leave it alone. I have no intention of telling him,” Mathias said, shaking off his cousin’s grip and heading for the Roman gallery. “Can I count on you to keep your silence?”

  “Out of loyalty to you and your family, I should head straight to your father and spare you from this madness that has overtaken your good sense,” Thorn threatened, his words not louder than a whisper, but Mathias heard them.

  He turned around and grabbed his cousin by the front of his coat. “If you speak of this to my father or anyone without my expressed permission, I will tear you apart with my bare hands. Have I made myself clear?”

  “Christ!” Thorn knocked Mathias’s hands away and smoothed the fabric of his coat. His expression was fierce, but he managed to keep his voice even when he spoke. “I would never betray you. Even if you are behaving like an arse. What about Miss King? Or have you forgotten about her?”

  “I have decided to leave her to Marcroft’s tender mercies,” he said, striving to leash his temper. He did not want to frighten Lady Tempest off.

  “So this is revenge,” Thorn said softly.

  Was he attracted to Marcroft’s sister as a means to strike at the brother? No, he silently rejected the thought. If it were revenge, then he would have pursued both Lady Arabella and Lady Tempest. He sensed the younger sister would have given him less grief than the elder one.

  Mathias grimaced. “My interest in Lady Tempest is not tainted with revenge. In fact, when I am with her, I try not to think of her brother at all.”

  Thorn grinned in sympathy. “Shrivels your cock, eh?”

  “Because of him, I have been forced to embrace abstinence, which only makes me despise him all the more,” he said crossly. Thorn’s reminder that he had caught Miss King and Marcroft together did not improve his disposition. “If he learns that I have been courting his sister, it is the least he deserves.”

  His cousin did not conceal his shock. “You are courting the chit?”

  Mathias shrugged carelessly. “For the moment.” When Thorn remained silent, he felt compelled to add, “I offer the lady only friendship. What harm can come of it?”

  His cousin wisely held his tongue as they entered the gallery.

  The room was sixty feet in length and a little more than twenty-five feet in width. There were three cupola windows overhead that illuminated the numerous vases, columns, marble sculptures, and tablets on display.

  Mathias discovered Lady Tempest standing in fr
ont of a bust of a Roman emperor. Her dress was pale yellow with a dark blue spencer. She had not been watching the entrance for him. Instead, her head was bowed as she scribbled something into her journal.

  Thorn had also noticed her distracted state. “The lady is obviously anticipating your meeting.”

  “Amused, are you?” Mathias grinned, unwilling to let his cousin sour his joy. Preoccupied or not, Lady Tempest was waiting for him. “Let us greet our new friend.”

  Lady Tempest sensed their approach and turned before he could touch her on the sleeve. Pleasure suffused her face, but there was a degree of wariness in her hazel eyes as her gaze slid from Mathias to his cousin.

  “Lord Kempthorn and Lord Fairlamb, it is good to see you again,” she said, shutting her journal and curtsying. “Have you come to see Napoleon’s carriage?”

  “Chance and I viewed the exhibit our first week in town,” Thorn revealed. “However, our afternoon stroll through the museum has become more enchanting by meeting you again.”

  To Mathias’s annoyance, his cousin moved closer and gently captured the lady’s hand and bowed over it gallantly. Lady Tempest’s lips quivered as if she fought not to giggle. As the man straightened, Mathias was tempted to cuff Thorn on the back of his head for showing off.

  She extended her arm to Mathias and she looked at him expectantly. Not to be outdone, he bowed over her hand and lightly brushed his lips over her gloved knuckles.

  “That was quite well done, my lord,” she teased him as he released her hand. “A Rooke with manners. How unexpected.”

  There was no hint of insult behind her words. It appeared they were proving that a Rooke and a Brant could share the same room without coming to blows. “I rarely waste them on a Brant.” He winked, drawing a reluctant smile from her. “Where is your chaperone?”

  “Mrs. Sheehan?” Lady Tempest glanced around the room, but there was no sign of the widow. “Earlier she was complaining that there was a small stone in her shoe. There was a slight limp to her gait and she begged to sit down for a few minutes. I told her that I would be spending time in the Roman gallery. I thought she would have joined me by now.”

  “Perhaps Thorn could find your companion.” Mathias looked pointedly at his cousin. “If her foot is still sore, he could sit with her until you are ready to leave.”

  Thorn cleared his throat. “I would be honored to take up the task.”

  Lady Tempest noted the silent exchange between the two gentlemen. “It does not seem quite fair for you—”

  “Think nothing of it,” his cousin said smoothly, dismissing her halfhearted protest. “Chance will keep you company while I search for your companion, since this will likely take a long time.”

  As Mathias and Lady Tempest observed Thorn’s departure, she murmured, “That was rather clever of you to bring your cousin along to distract Mrs. Sheehan.”

  “I thought so,” was his smug reply. “You never mentioned if your chaperone has been given my full name.”

  “No,” she said quietly. “My brother thought it prudent not to reveal your name out of concern that Mrs. Sheehan might mention it to my mother and father. She does have orders to discourage any gentleman who lingers beyond a cordial greeting.”

  “Well, that does put a wrinkle in our afternoon outing,” he said, not particularly concerned. Thorn was fully capable of distracting the widow.

  “I thought so, too.” Lady Tempest hugged her journal to her chest and turned back to the marble bust she had been admiring before his arrival. “That is why I put the stone in her shoe.”

  * * *

  Lord Fairlamb’s laughter surrounded her like a warm embrace.

  “That was very wicked of you,” he said, lightly touching her on the center of her back to guide her toward one of the benches positioned in front of the wall so spectators could sit and enjoy the numerous paintings displayed on the walls. “I shall have to remember that bit of trickery in the future.”

  “I highly doubt you are saddled with chaperones at your age.”

  “A man of my age would not think of a pretty widow as a burden,” he pointed out, gesturing for her to sit.

  “Very amusing,” she said, settling down on the bench. Tempest stiffened, straightening her spine when the marquess sat down with only four inches separating them. “Do you believe it wise for us to sit so closely?”

  “No one is paying attention to us, my lady,” he said with an air of confidence that seemed to be as much a part of him as his good looks. “The public room will ensure that I will behave myself, though I give you permission to be as reckless as you desire.”

  Tempest smiled at his invitation. Before she met him, she had not viewed herself as an adventurous person. “Why did you ask me to meet you, Lord Fairlamb?”

  “Several kisses warrant a degree of familiarity, do you not agree?”

  She inclined her head to acknowledge his mild chastisement. “Chance. Your nickname is rather appropriate.”

  “Just as I suspect that Tempest suits you as well.”

  “What? You do not like my name?”

  “On the contrary, I adore it—just as much as I have always enjoyed the unexpected turns in life.”

  Tempest did not know how to respond to his remark.

  Chance brushed his fingers against hers, bringing attention to the thin book in her hands. His light touch sent a wave of tingles up her arm, giving her gooseflesh on her upper arms. Fortunately, her sleeves concealed her reaction to his caress.

  “Are you writing of our meeting in your journal?”

  She covered her lips with her hand and smothered a giggle. “That would not be very prudent, since we went to so much trouble to meet in secret.”

  “Of course.” He cleared his throat and looked mildly uncomfortable.

  “Unless you feel this meeting is so important that it should be documented properly.”

  “Not at all—I only commented on it because it looked—” He noticed her smirk. “You are teasing me.”

  “A little,” she said, opening the book. “You are correct. It is a journal, but I use it for quick sketches and notes of things that capture my interest.”

  Tempest turned a few pages until she came to her recent sketch. “As you can see, I was working on Nero’s nose when you and Lord Kempthorn arrived.”

  Chance took the journal from her hands so he could inspect her work. He remained silent, and her nervousness increased with each passing second. “You have an extraordinary talent, Tempest,” he said, not taking his gaze off the page. “Do you paint as well?”

  His approval and genuine interest in her work thrilled her. “Most of my work is done in watercolor, but I have dabbled in oils.”

  The marquess lifted his gaze to hers, and the startling impact of the connection she felt did fascinating things to her pulse. “I imagine what you view as dabbling is rather remarkable.”

  “You flatter me.”

  “You are too humble,” he countered. “You should solicit one of the members of the Royal Academy as a mentor.”

  It was unsettling to hear one of her private dreams spoken aloud. Especially by a gentleman she should be avoiding at all costs. Tempest shook her head. She was touched that he thought so highly of her work, but her father would never approve of her consorting with artists.

  She retrieved the journal from Chance. “My skills are adequate, but not worthy of the Royal Academy.”

  “How do you know unless you seek out an opinion?”

  Tempest rolled her eyes in exasperation. “Because I do,” she said sharply. “A simple sketch of an emperor’s nose does not mean that I should be pestering members of the Royal Academy.”

  “Tempest—,” he began.

  She shut the journal closed with muffled clap. “If you are planning to bully me into doing something I do not want, then we might as well part ways.”

  Tempest rose from the bench, but Chance captured her wrist.

  “Stay. I promise to let the subject drop on
one condition.”

  The marquess appeared to be contrite, but humbleness did not suit him. She sighed loudly, knowing she was going to regret listening to his condition. “What is it?”

  “Sit beside me and draw,” he coaxed, already pulling on her arm so she had the choice of causing a scene or complying with his simple request.

  Tempest sat down.

  “You want me to sketch something,” she said, convinced that he was merely indulging her so she would not leave.

  “Anything you fancy,” he replied, willing to use his considerable charm to sway her. “Your heart’s desire.”

  She tilted her head to the side, giving him a quizzical glance. “And what will you do, my lord?”

  “I will keep you company.”

  * * *

  Tempest was wary of his motives, not that he could blame her.

  It was difficult to put aside prejudices a villainous name could evoke, to ignore the guilt tickling one’s conscience for even flirting with the enemy.

  She was not his enemy any more than he was hers.

  Mathias also was coming to the realization that the initial attraction he’d felt for the lady beside him was deepening. He knew Tempest sensed it as well, but she was still fighting it.

  Her presence this afternoon was only confirmation that it was a losing battle.

  Mathias admired her profile as she sketched in her little journal. He would have enjoyed thumbing through the pages to view her other sketches and little notes, but he had already pushed her enough for this day.

  “I have met your younger sisters and regrettably Marcroft,” he said, wishing to learn more about her life. “Do you have any other siblings?”

  Lost as she was in her work, it took a few minutes before she became aware of his regard. Straightening, she blinked several times. “You said something of my brother?”

  “Not really. If it is all the same to you, I would prefer to forget he is related to you.”

  Tempest shifted on the bench, turning so her knees would have touched the side of his upper thigh if they were sitting closer. The new position prevented him from observing her work, but it did afford him an appealing view of her face.