You Can't Always Get the Marquess You Want

by Alexandra Hawkins

  “You are smiling,” his marchioness murmured, and he turned his head to see that she was staring at him. “A rare occurrence when we are alone, so I assume that I am not the cause. I trust you are satisfied with the progress of this courtship?”

  Norgrave shrugged. “Warrilow sees the benefits of aligning our families. He did express some concerns about Tempest’s willingness.” He stopped and waited to see if his wife would offer any concern or explanation. When he was met with silence, he continued, “You failed to mention that there was an incident at Lady Henwood’s house.”

  “What incident?” The marchioness cleared her throat. “Oh, do you mean our son’s blatant interest in Miss King? To be honest, it was embarrassing how he fawned over the woman. It was obvious to all that she is his mistress.”

  If he had not been carefully observing Charlotte, he would have missed the flash of panic in her eyes. Which was curious, since it had been a long time since he had managed to fluster her.

  “I don’t care about our son’s flirtations,” he said, dismissing the subject. Whatever Marcroft’s latest sins, he was positive he himself had done worse. “Warrilow told me that Tempest excused herself during Miss King’s performance, and she did not return until the end. He was concerned she invented some tall tale to avoid his company.”

  “Rubbish,” Charlotte said, rising from her seat.

  Norgrave caught her by the wrist, keeping her from leaving. Her reaction to the marquess’s complaint about Tempest had been relief. Intrigued, he tightened his hold.

  His wife glared down at him. “Your young protégé worries for naught. Tempest was visiting with Harriet. You know how devoted she is to her cousin.”

  “Perhaps you are correct,” he conceded. His gaze locked on to hers. He offered her a genial smile when she winced as the pressure of his fingers increased. “So why don’t you tell me about your evening at Lady Henwood’s. It appears I missed something, but I am confident you will want to share every detail with me.”

  * * *

  “You have made us late.”

  “Will you stop prattling on about it!” St. Lyon complained. “No man should appear too eager to see a lady. Have a little pride, for my sake.”

  Mathias chuckled. There was nothing his friend could say or do to ruin his good mood. The two men had arrived at the park on horseback. Although they had not discussed it, he assumed Tempest would travel by carriage to the park. He was even prepared for her not to arrive alone, which was why he had invited St. Lyon. The gentleman could coax a smile from even the dourest lady’s companion. If he and Tempest could not come up with a plausible reason to take a short stroll together, he planned on riding beside her as the ladies’ equipage rocked and rattled its way through the park.

  “Do you think Lady Tempest might bring her pretty sister with her?” the viscount asked, attempting to find a silver lining in what appeared to be a cloudy day.

  “You are too old for Lady Augusta,” Mathias teased.

  “A delightful child, but I was referring to Lady Arabella.”

  Mathias sent a questioning glance at St. Lyon, but he was staring straight ahead. A troubling thought occurred to him as he studied his friend’s profile. With the rumors whispered about his parentage, flirting with a lady who possibly could be your half sister would be frowned upon by even the most dissolute reprobate.

  “You are too immature for Lady Arabella,” he said, shaking off the gloomy thought. There was no reason to interfere unless his friend insisted on causing trouble.

  St. Lyon’s pursed his lips and contemplated his friend’s opinion for a moment. He sighed. “Very true.”

  With his right hand holding the reins, he leaned forward and lifted his backside off the saddle in an effort to see beyond a large carriage in front of them.

  “Well, not to ruin your good humor, but I believe I see a wrinkle in your plans, my friend.”

  Mathias directed his attention to the source of St. Lyon’s concerns. Ahead he peered at the two carriages in the distance. He dismissed the first because he counted four passengers. He observed there were two ladies in the second one. Since both ladies wore bonnets, he could not identify them with any certainty. He guided his horse to the right and he immediately understood the reason for St. Lyon’s remark. The ladies were not alone. A gentleman rode beside their carriage on horseback.

  Lord Warrilow.

  “I do not believe it,” Mathias muttered.

  The viscount’s side glance was sympathetic. “Perhaps it is not her.”

  “Of course it is her.” Her companion was likely Lady Arabella. “The marquess has been Tempest’s most ardent suitor. Lady Norgrave invited Lord Warrilow to sit with the family when they attended Lady Henwood’s musical recital.”

  St. Lyon recognized that particular expression on his friend’s face, and tried to stave off a confrontation. “If the man is searching for a bride, it would make sense that he would court other ladies.”

  Tempest chose that moment to turn so he could see her elegant profile. Mathias’s simmering temper threatened to boil over.

  “Follow my lead,” he said, nudging his horse to advance so they could pass the slow carriage blocking their path.

  “This might not be a good day to pay your respects to Lady Tempest and her sister,” the viscount said, but he dutifully followed behind Mathias. “Whatever you are planning, I beg you to reconsider.”

  “You worry too much,” he said, urging his horse to quicken its pace.

  “Chance!” St. Lyon called out, but he was already falling behind.

  Mathias did not signal the bay to slow down until he had almost reached the rear wheel of the Brants’ carriage. He could hear the hooves of his friend’s horse crunching the gravel behind him, letting him know that St. Lyon had caught up to him.

  However, he was too late to halt a confrontation.

  Tempest must have heard the approach of the two riders, and she glanced over her right shoulder. She noticed his thunderous expression and winced.

  There was nothing I could do, she silently mouthed.

  For an apology, it was a lousy one. Tempest looked quite repentant as she stared up at him with somber eyes and a hint of a pout on her lips. Warrilow had joined the ladies, but not at her suggestion. Some of the tightness in his chest eased. Then her sister laughed at something the marquess said, and the stir of sympathy for both ladies evaporated.

  He touched two gloved fingers to the brim of his hat and acknowledged Tempest with a nod. Pressing his heels into the horse’s flanks, he rode off without a backward glance. He wondered if St. Lyon would linger to offer apologies for his friend’s rudeness.

  When the viscount caught up to him, he was not pleased. “You are an arse!”

  For once, Mathias did not disagree.

  Chapter Twenty

  “It was so kind of you to escort me to the Karmacks’ ball,” Sabra said, hooking her arm through Mathias’s as they entered the ballroom.

  “I thought you were holding out for your elderly earl,” he teased. Four days had passed since he and St. Lyon had ridden off and left Tempest and her sister in Lord Warrilow’s capable hands.

  Since he was brooding, his friends had dragged him from one gambling hell to the next. Rainbault, St. Lyon, Thorn, and he had gotten roaring drunk on cheap wine. He won at some tables and lost at others. There had been a few brawls, and Rainbault was challenged to a duel because he had fondled another man’s wife. The details were a blur, but the prince had managed to charm his way out of his awkward situation without firing a single shot.

  Mathias slept most of the day. When he awoke his manservant presented him with Sabra’s invitation to join her. He felt bad about the way they had parted, so he accepted her offer as a way to apologize. They were good friends again, and now that his head was clear, he vowed never to drink wine of questionable vintage ever again.

  “My earl is not in town,” Sabra informed him. “It aggravates his gout. I believe it is just an excuse
so he can remain in the country and fish.”

  He and Sabra had spent the last hour in the receiving line to greet the earl and countess. By all accounts, everyone was in attendance this evening. Earlier he had glimpsed St. Lyon as he followed a lovely blonde upstairs. Mathias just hoped for his friend’s sake that it wasn’t one of Lord Karmack’s daughters.

  “What do you want to do first? Dance or figure out where our host has set up the cardroom?” She leaned toward him, her mouth nearly brushing his ear. “Thorn’s parents are standing near the window to the right of us. Knowing your cousin, he plans to remain in the cardroom to avoid the lady his mother and father will insist he should meet.”

  The thought of cards reminded him of the nights he had been out drinking. His sour stomach still ached from the abuse. Mathias shook his head. “We can cheer up Thorn later. I will be your dance partner. Do you think your elderly earl approves of dancing?”

  Sabra responded with laughter. “As long as he does not have to dance, he heartily approves.”

  As they strolled toward the other dancers and orchestra, Mathias frowned. “It is not my place to judge, but will you be happy marrying a gentleman so sedentary? You have nothing in common with him.”

  Touched by his concern, she stroked his arm to soothe him. “He needs an heir, and I can provide him one. In return, he will give me a good life, Chance. I have not come to a decision, but I would be a fool not to accept.”

  Mathias was about to disagree when a lady attired in a white gauze and satin dress with wide rich green ribbons, fragile lace draperies, and silk roses gracefully danced by him with her male partner.

  Tempest and Lord Warrilow.

  Tempest appeared equally stunned by his presence. He was not aware that he had taken a step in their direction with the sole purpose of separating them until Sabra squeezed his arm.

  “Is that her?”

  His furious expression and need to commit violence were all the confirmation the lady required. “You have an affinity for earls. Lady Tempest collects marquesses.” Mathias cursed, drawing scowls from several guests.

  “Perhaps we should adjourn to the cardroom,” Sabra suggested, tugging on his arm. “From the looks of Lord and Lady Karmack’s guests, he likely has little competition at the table. Together you can recoup your losses from the other night.”

  “Who told you that I lost?” he sneered, insulted by the very notion that he could not play cards while he was intoxicated. “I never lose.” He glared at Tempest and the marquess. “Come. We are dancing.”

  “Honestly, Chance,” Sabra said, refusing to move. “This is not one of your better suggestions.”

  “I disagree.”

  * * *

  It took every ounce of courage for Tempest not to flee.

  She had been unaware that Chance was acquainted with Lord and Lady Karmack. She had arrived with her mother and Arabella, but they decided to start their evening in the cardroom. When the three ladies noticed Lord Warrilow standing in the ballroom alone as if he had been waiting for someone, Lady Norgrave had proclaimed it providence that Lord Warrilow was on hand to amuse Tempest, since she was not interested in playing cards.

  Tempest knew her mother had conspired with the handsome marquess.

  Lord Warrilow approached them before she could protest. It was not his fault that he required a bride and her family had decided she would be perfect for him. Just as during the carriage ride in the park, she was reluctant to make a fuss. He did not deserve her anger or her indifference.

  Seeing Lord Fairlamb only compounded her guilt.

  Until she noticed that he was not alone. The petite blue-eyed blonde in the crimson ballroom dress touched Chance with a familiarity that cut Tempest to the quick. As Lord Warrilow led her to the center of the ballroom, she could see the lady whispering to him.

  Was she begging him to leave the room with her?

  A few minutes later, Chance and the blonde joined the dancers.

  Tempest had to look away, her eyes stinging from the threat of unshed tears. She was jealous, blast him! It was probably his goal, a bold reminder that he could claim any lady he wanted.

  After seeing her with the marquess in the park, had Chance decided she was playing games with him? It didn’t help that he never had a high opinion of her family. Perhaps he had thought it was time to put aside his feelings for her and find a lady over whom his family would not threaten to disinherit him if he continued to court her.

  She choked on a soft sob.

  “Has something upset you?”

  Tempest pasted a smile on her face. “Just a little breathless,” she said. It wasn’t a lie. Seeing Chance holding another lady in his arms had squeezed all the air out of her lungs.

  With her heart aching, she and the marquess danced, weaving their way through the other dancers. She saw glimpses of Chance and his female partner as she executed turns with her hand clasped firmly within Lord Warrilow’s. The other couple was on the far side of the dancing area, and he seemed to be steering his companion near the garden doors.

  Tempest thought of their stroll through Lady Oxton’s gardens. Of the kiss she had shared with Chance. She almost cried out as she saw the couple disappear into the night. Lord Fairlamb was a horrible man. A thief of hearts. She despised him, and if given the opportunity she would happily murder him and dance on his grave.

  Not paying attention, she stepped on the marquess’s black evening pump and stumbled. Lord Warrilow caught her, and her front was pressed against his chest.

  “Forgive me, my lord. I was careless,” she murmured, and moved away. She winced.

  “My lady, you are hurt,” the marquess said, walking toward her.

  “It is nothing. I merely twisted my ankle.” Tempest grimaced in pain as she took another step.

  “Allow me to assist you.” Ignoring her weak protests, he placed his arm around her waist and helped her cross the ballroom. “I will send someone to inform your mother.”

  “No,” she said, pulling the arm he had raised to signal a servant downward.

  “There is no reason to disturb her or Arabella. The initial pain startled me, but it feels better. I will head upstairs and have one of the maids tend it. If I rest my foot for a while, it will recover quickly.” She offered him a genuine smile. “Then Mama does not have to know how clumsy I am. How is your foot?”

  He fought not to grin. “My foot is fine, Lady Tempest.”

  With her hand on Lord Warrilow’s arm, she fought the urge to limp to demonstrate that her injury was minor. They continued to the staircase in the front hall.

  She released his arm and reached for the newel. “I can continue on my own, my lord.”

  Lord Warrilow glanced at her feet as if he could discern for himself the extent of her injuries. He nodded and his gaze lifted to her face. “I enjoyed dancing with you this evening.”

  “Even the part when I stepped on your foot?” she teased.

  “I believe it was my favorite part,” he shyly admitted, and grinned at her look of astonishment. “It gave me an excuse to hold you in my arms.”

  “Oh.” Although it had been an accident, it was the first time he confessed that he desired a more intimate connection. “It was rather nice,” she said awkwardly.

  “Are you certain you do not want me to send for your mother?” He glanced away, looking uncomfortable. “I have another engagement, and I was planning to leave. I could—uh, stay.”

  Lord Warrilow had stopped at the Karmacks’ for the opportunity to visit and perhaps dance with her. Of course he had other plans for the evening. Her father rarely attended balls, preferring his various clubs.

  “No, there is no reason for you to change your plans. Go … enjoy your evening,” she said, clutching the newel post. “If I need my mother, I will ask one of the servants to get her or my sister.”

  “Very well, then.” He bowed. “I look forward to seeing you again, Lady Tempest.”

  “Good evening, Lord Warrilow.” Her smi
le slipped when the marquess turned his back and headed for the front door.

  When he was gone, she slowly made her way upstairs. Her ankle hurt, but she could put her full weight on it. Tempest blamed her tears on her injury rather than the pain of Chance’s rejection. With her vision blurred by her tears, it dawned on her that she did not know which room was being used by the Karmacks’ female guests. She opened one door, and the interior was dark. The next door was locked. She wiped her wet cheek and tried the door across from the locked one.

  She gasped as she collided with a blond-haired lady. The woman barely glanced at her, but she murmured an apology and strode away. Her hair color reminded Tempest of the lady with whom Chance had disappeared into the gardens. She covered her mouth with her hand and stepped into the room, only to cry out again when a familiar gentleman caught her by the arms.

  “Lady Tempest.”

  She blinked and tried to clear her vision. Of all the rotten luck. She had run into Lord Bastrell, one of Chance’s friends.

  “My lady, are you hurt?” he asked, his hands impersonally checking her arms for injuries.

  “I—I am fine, my lord,” she said, her voice breaking into a sob. “You can leave—”

  Most gentlemen avoided a lady’s tears at all costs. Tempest expected him to flee with her blessing, but the viscount astonished her by pulling her into the room. Ignoring her assurances that she was fine, he led her to the sofa and produced a handkerchief.

  She would have been impressed if she had not longed for him to leave her in peace.

  Instead of sitting in one of the parlor’s chairs or the sofa, the gentleman crouched down in front of her. Tempest refused to look at him. She could feel his worried stare as it lingered on her face.

  “It is kind of you, but you do not have to stay with me.” She wiped the dampness from her cheeks. “I just need a moment of privacy.”

  “Has someone upset you? Insulted you?” he softly inquired.

  “Nothing so dire. I—I twisted my ankle, Lord Bastrell,” she confessed, praying her honesty would hasten his departure. “I am embarrassed that I have troubled you.”