She evaded her sister’s questioning look. “It is too soon for declarations.” It was obvious that Chance was struggling with his feelings for her. Even if he did love her, a man in his position had too much to lose. He would never defy his family.
“Papa will never grant his blessing for the match.”
Lord Norgrave would rather see her dead than in the hands of his enemy.
If she had any sense, she should cease struggling against fate. Her father had decided Lord Warrilow would be her husband, and he could be very persuasive. The young marquess had never encountered anyone like Lord Norgrave. “There is no reason to court Papa’s approval. Chance has not proposed, and if his family is as difficult as ours, he never will.”
“So you have given up?”
“Not in the least,” she said haughtily. “We Brants have stubbornness bred into our bones.”
* * *
Rainbault braced his forearms on the long wooden table and leaned forward. “Is St. Lyon exaggerating? Did you seduce Norgrave’s daughter while the chit’s mother awaited her return several floors below?”
Mathias glowered at the viscount, who responded with a shrug. “Your loose tongue is going to get me maimed by a sword or dueling pistol.”
“Do not blame me. You are courting death, my friend,” St. Lyon countered. “Dallying with a Brant will end with you staring at the wrong end of a pistol.”
After he and the viscount had escorted his mother and sisters to their coach, the two men had joined Thorn and Rainbault at a tavern. The prince had been in the middle of a brawl when they arrived. The small cut near the corner of his mouth was still bleeding, but he had held his own against five men.
“I thought you were goading Marcroft into challenging you?” the prince asked, his tone revealing what he thought of such an action.
“If you are caught, who do you think will demand satisfaction?” Thorn asked, well on his way to becoming drunk. “The father or the son?”
“Both,” Mathias replied without needing to think about it. He picked up the bottle of brandy and poured more into his cousin’s glass. “And then you can count on my father finishing what the Brants started.
“A man does not murder his heir,” Rainbault said, scoffing at the notion.
Mathias brought the glass of brandy to his lips and drank. “Blackbern would consider it a mercy killing if he suspected his heir suffered from lunacy.”
A throaty laugh rumbled in Thorn’s throat. “Well, as your cousin, I have often questioned your judgment.”
Mathias knocked his cousin’s feet off the bench, causing him to lose his balance. Thorn landed on his arse. “You’re drunk. Your opinion does not count.”
“No one is going to accuse you of lunacy, Chance,” the prince persisted.
“My father would if I were foolish enough to get ambushed by Norgrave and his son,” Mathias replied, rubbing his neck.
“Seducing Norgrave’s eldest daughter would be proof enough,” St. Lyon said, earning another glare from Mathias. “What? You and Lady Tempest missed most of Miss King’s performance this evening. What were you doing? Counting her eyelashes?”
“Or her teeth,” interjected Rainbault.
“This is Chance,” Thorn said, climbing back onto the bench. “His face was buried in her muff.”
Wicked, shrewd laughter filled the air.
Mathias grimaced at his friends’ ribald teasing. He was surprised by his reluctance to discuss Tempest. None of them would understand. “All of you have spent too many nights in the stews to appreciate a genuine lady. Nothing happened,” he said, unable to stop the grin from curling the corners of his mouth as he brought the glass to his lips again.
“Then Lady Tempest has my sympathies,” Rainbault said, shoving his empty glass forward. Mathias obliged him by refilling it. “How long have you been plagued by impotence?”
Mathias choked on a mouthful of brandy. “Bastard!” He struggled to breathe. “Are you trying to kill me?”
“You can hardly”—more laughter—“blame Chance for his lack of concentration,” St. Lyon staunchly defended his friend. “The Duchess of Blackbern and Lady Norgrave provided one hell of a distraction this evening.”
Thorn’s expression sobered. “I still cannot believe Lady Henwood invited both ladies. Are you positive there was no confrontation between your mother and the marchioness?”
“I watched over the duchess while our friend was failing to impress his lady.” St. Lyon grinned at Mathias’s growl promising retribution. “There was never a moment when his mother was alone.”
“I agree,” Mathias said, recalling his cordial conversation with his mother. She had been pleased to see him, but was unwilling to delay him from joining his friends. “The duchess would have mentioned exchanging words with the Marchioness of Norgrave.”
“Well, well … brace yourselves, my friends. Trouble approaching,” the prince muttered under his breath.
Mathias glanced to the right and sneered. Marcroft was heading toward their table. “If this continues, we are going to have to start drinking in taverns outside London.”
In fairness, Tempest’s brother did not seem pleased to see them either.
“Fairlamb,” the earl said grimly. He placed his large hands against the rough surface of the table. “A moment of your time. We have private business to discuss.”
Marcroft was not acquainted with civility. He bullied and blustered, but he had never been capable of intimidating Mathias. “You are mistaken. My family does not do business with the Brants or anyone who associates with them.”
Mathias ignored the other man’s sharp inhalation and his friends’ murmurs that included warnings and disapproval.
“You have always had more courage than brains,” Marcroft said silkily. “And while I thoroughly enjoy messing up that handsome face of yours, what I have to say should be done in private.”
“I keep no secrets from my friends.”
“Truly?” Marcroft raised his eyebrows in feigned surprise. “Then you are a bigger fool than I had imagined.” He cast a contemptuous glance that encompassed everyone at the table. “Considering the history between our families, you are generous with your trust. Friends will betray you if there is something to profit from it.”
Mathias abruptly stood, causing St. Lyon, Thorn, and Rainbault to freeze. A look in any of the gentlemen’s cold gazes revealed that they were braced for a fight. His friends had proved their loyalty countless times, but he preferred to handle the earl on his own.
“Very well, Marcroft. I will humor you for a few minutes if it will hasten your departure.” He bent down and murmured in St. Lyon’s ear. “Make certain his friends do not follow us.”
Marcroft smirked at the viscount’s curt nod. Even if Mathias had not earned St. Lyon’s loyalties, the two gentlemen would have never been friends.
Mathias was anticipating some kind of trickery from the other man, so he was on guard as they stepped outdoors and walked to the side of the building.
“You have my undivided attention. What do you want?” he asked.
“Ah, there are so many ways I could respond to your question,” the earl replied, stroking his jaw. “Let’s start with this.”
Some things never changed. He hastily ducked and avoided the other man’s fist. The burst of energy resulted in knocking Marcroft off balance, and Mathias took advantage of it. He shoved the earl into the wall of the tavern, twisting his left arm behind his back to hold him in place.
“Let go.”
“I’d rather not,” Mathias said cheerfully. “When given a choice, you always lead our conversations with your fists. So typical of a Brant.”
“You deserve more than a bruise on your chin.” Marcroft grimaced in pain as Mathias twisted the man’s arm higher.
“Suffice it to say, I disagree.” He leaned forward, savoring that he had his foe at a disadvantage. “Are we finished or did you have something to say to me?”
“Aye, I have
something to say: Stay away from my sister, you bloody bastard!” Marcroft struggled against Mathias’s hold, not caring if it increased his discomfort.
The genuine outrage in the earl’s voice concerned Mathias.
“Which one?” he asked, testing the other man. “I believe you have three.”
“There is no one here who is impressed with your wit, Fairlamb,” Marcroft spit, his large body vibrating with rage. “No more games. I am aware you met all three of my sisters. I am also aware that Tempest has caught your eye.”
It was a calculated risk, but Mathias released his grip on the earl and stepped back. He watched the other man roll his shoulders to ease the tightness and lingering cramps. Marcroft slowly turned and leaned against the outer wall of the tavern as he rubbed his abused arm.
“All your sisters are quite lovely, Marcroft,” he said easily. “If you are aware of our meeting, then you also know it was coincidental.”
There was no reason to mention that Tempest and Arabella had spied on them at the river’s edge, or that the ladies had seen more than was proper.
“I was assured by Tempest that your meeting was an accident and that she was unaware of your identity since you had introduced yourself to her as Chance.” The earl dragged his hand through his hair. “Do not play games with me, Fairlamb. I was told you approached my sister at Lady Henwood’s house.”
Mathias wondered who had tattled. Lady Norgrave would be his first guess, though the lady would have to be as ruthless as her husband to force a confrontation between him and her son.
“I encountered many of the countess’s guests this evening. Your sister was one of them,” he said, clearly exasperated with the earl and his undisguised hostility. Perhaps Marcroft had good reason to worry about Mathias’s intentions toward Tempest, but he was not foolish enough to admit it. Most days, the man needed little provocation to annoy him.
“This may astound you, but I can be civil, even to someone who bears the surname Brant.”
Marcroft’s eyes narrowed. He took an intimidating step forward but Mathias refused to move. “Despise me all you want, but Tempest is to be left alone. My sister is not one of your ladybirds or merry widows. She is too innocent to comprehend the base and vile nature of a man like you.”
“Or you,” Mathias said softly.
“Aye, or a man like me.” In the gloom, his eyes gleamed dark humor. “My sister deserves to marry a respectable gentleman who will treasure her, give her a home, and fill her arms with children. You and I know that you are not that man.”
“You have no idea what I am capable of, Marcroft,” he said, fighting back the temptation of driving his fist into the earl’s smug face. “Though, I will admit that my friends and I do not sit around a table and lament over our bachelor lives.”
“That’s what I thought.” The earl’s fierce expression lightened into something akin to relief. “Then you have no reason to pursue Tempest.”
“None,” Mathias lied. He had many reasons, but he had no interest in sharing them with Tempest’s belligerent sibling. “Does your sister know you are spying on her?”
“I am not—” Marcroft broke off and his jaw tightened to stop himself from revealing too much. “As her brother, it is my duty and honor to protect Tempest. Consider this a friendly warning. If we must meet again, it will be at dawn. Have I made myself clear?”
“Eloquently.” Mathias inclined his head and began to walk away. He had never been one to brush aside threats, especially when delivered by Marcroft. “Is Miss King under your protection as well?”
The man’s head snapped up. “Miss King?”
“Well, this evening, I spoke to her as well,” he said, relishing the flash of jealousy that crossed the earl’s hard features. “She was quite eager to renew our acquaintance.”
Mathias tensed at the man’s savage expression. He added fuel to the emotional conflagration by grinning. A gentleman like the earl would not willingly admit that he possessed tender feelings for his mistress.
“Do what you will with Miss King,” Marcroft said gruffly. “Just leave my sister alone.” The earl shouldered past him and disappeared around the corner.
It was unlike Marcroft to surrender so quickly. Mathias was almost disappointed. He wondered how Miss King would feel if she knew her lover’s affection was so shallow, he would hand her off to another man. He could not summon much sympathy for the greedy wench. As far as he was concerned, Marcroft and Miss King deserved each other.
As for staying away from Tempest …
Mathias stood in the shadows, listening to the laughter and music drifting from the tavern. Now that he was alone, he could admit that even if he had sworn in blood to keep his distance, it would be a lie.
He could not explain how he knew. It was something he scented in the air, tasted on his tongue, and felt deep within the marrow of his bones—Tempest would be his lover.
Chapter Nineteen
Attired in their carriage dresses, Tempest and Arabella had been waiting in the front hall for one of the grooms to harness two horses for their carriage when the butler told her that Lord and Lady Norgrave had requested her presence in the drawing room.
“Wait here,” she had told her sister, and she headed up the stairs.
She had not realized how nervous she was until she noted that her hand slightly shook when she reached for the doorknob and opened the door to the drawing room. Her father was not at home in the afternoons usually, and seeing her parents together increased her distress.
Her mother sat on the sofa, and her father in one of the chairs. She had not interrupted them from any task that kept her mother’s hands busy or challenged her father’s intellect. The nearby tables were not cluttered with books, newspapers, or her mother’s embroidery. No, her parents had been sitting in the drawing room, absorbed in their conversation. Unfortunately, she had a feeling she knew precisely the subject at hand.
Her.
Tempest swept into the room and curtsied. “Good afternoon, Mama and Papa,” she said, hoping the expression on her face matched her cheerful tone. “Starling just caught Arabella and me before we departed for the park. You wished to see me?”
“Where is Arabella?” her mother inquired.
“In the front hall,” Tempest replied, her gaze moving from her mother’s face to her father’s. “Is something amiss?”
“Not at all,” her father said, rubbing his hands together as if he were pleased with himself or her. The insight immediately put her on guard. He rose from his chair and walked over to join her. Taking her by the hand, he kissed the top of it. With his head lowered, her gaze was drawn to the scar on his face. It was an old wound, beginning near the outer corner of his eye and traveling down his cheekbone. When she was a child, she had asked him about it, but her father told her various tales of its origin, from battling pirates to an escaped bear that had mauled him. Although her curiosity had not diminished, it seemed rude to press him for an explanation that he was reluctant to discuss.
She followed him to the sofa. At his unspoken invitation, she sat down, and the marquess sat in the chair positioned beside her. Flanked on either side by her mother and father, Tempest said, “Is there news? Should I go downstairs and ask Arabella to join us?”
“Your mother and I will not keep you,” her father said. “I forgot to mention at breakfast that I saw your Lord Warrilow the other night.”
“Papa, it would be presumptuous to refer to the gentleman as my anything,” Tempest mildly protested, uncomfortable that her father viewed her connection to the marquess as a fait accompli. “Do you not agree, Mama?”
The fine lines around her mother’s mouth became more pronounced. Tempest could not discern whether she was annoyed by the subject or by the simple fact that she was being drawn into the conversation.
“The frequency of Lord Warrilow’s visits hint that he would welcome any encouragement from you,” her mother replied. “However, your prudence is commendable.”
; “And highly unnecessary,” Lord Norgrave argued. He withdrew his timepiece from his waistcoat and noted the time. “Even now, Warrilow is on his way to our house. When he learned that you and your sister would be at the park this afternoon, he insisted on providing an escort.”
Tempest’s heart sank at the news. While Arabella was willing to overlook meeting Chance at the park, she doubted Lord Warrilow would be so generous.
“Something wrong, Daughter?” her mother asked.
“Not at all,” she replied, rising from her seat. It was too late to ask one of the lads working in the kitchen to deliver a message to Lord Fairlamb. There was also the risk that he might tell one of the older servants, who would feel obligated to share the information with her mother. “I will tell Arabella the good news.”
* * *
Norgrave watched his eldest daughter hurry out of the drawing room as if someone had set fire to the back of her skirt. The girl was skittish, which was unlike her. Out of his three daughters, Tempest had the look of her mother, but underneath, she had more in common with him and her brother. She was cunning, and could be uncompromising when she set a task for herself. It was a pity that Tempest had not been born a male. He would have liked to have another son at his side.
Unfortunately, Charlotte had been utterly useless on that front. A stillborn son after Arabella, and three more failed pregnancies after that. For years, he thought his wife’s womb was a grave, and then Augusta was born.
He had never been so disappointed.
His title and charm had guaranteed that there were many women in his life. Before and after his marriage to Charlotte. Some of those women had given him sons, but he had no use for them. Marcroft was his heir, and most men would have been satisfied, but one son made him vulnerable. A careless accident or a miscalculation during a duel, and Norgrave would swiftly find himself without an heir.
He had contemplated divorce. However, her family was an obstacle. Her ruthless brothers had tied him to that miserable woman, and nothing short of her death would free him. Charlotte’s death. It was a thought that gave him comfort in his darkest hours of despair.
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