Thirty minutes later, Tempest and her companions abandoned their seats in the saloon and strolled away from the festive tents. With colored lamps illuminating from overhead, they enjoyed the music and the evening air.
“I am following them,” he announced to his friends. He refused to give Lord Warrilow an opportunity to be alone with her.
“Do you want company?” St. Lyon asked.
Mathias shook his head. “If I don’t return, walk over to the fireworks stage. It is likely their destination as well. I will find you.”
* * *
Hand in hand, Tempest and Chance hurried down the narrower paths that diverged from one of the main walks where he had lured her away from her companions and into the thick grove. These less traveled paths were sheltered by the leafy canopy of large elm and sycamore trees that were strung with glass lamps. The paths themselves twisted and curved with no specific destination, but benches and tables were scattered throughout for anyone who wished to sit and enjoy their surroundings.
“What if Lord Warrilow finds us together?” she asked, feeling guilty that she had abandoned him.
“I watched him kiss you, Tempest.” From his grim expression, Chance viewed the marquess’s actions as a grievous sin. “And I am not feeling very forgiving about it.”
“He surprised me,” she tried to explain, but it was unfair for the marquess to bear all the blame. She had kissed him back because she didn’t wish to injure his pride. “It meant nothing.”
Tempest and Chance looked back at the first sounds of fireworks.
“I didn’t realize it was so late.” Many of the visitors would be drawn to the explosions and bursts of light in the night sky. “Should we head in that direction so I can return to my sister and you can find your friends?”
“Eventually,” he replied, slowing his gait. The overhead lamps provided some illumination, but his expression was concealed in shadows. “Tempest, what if Warrilow proposes to you? Will you accept?”
“My father is eager for the match, but—no, I would not accept.” She halted. Chance took several steps and then turned back for her. “I am not in love with him.”
Tempest and Chance stared at each other. Neither spoke for several minutes. Music and explosions filled the air. Her nose caught a whiff of gunpowder.
“Whom do you love?”
Tempest crossed over to him. “You. I am in love with you, Chance.” She blinked in astonishment as she noted his disbelief. “Don’t tell me that you didn’t know?”
“Brants don’t fall in love with Rookes,” he said hoarsely, his low voice rich with emotion.
“And Rookes don’t fall in love with Brants,” she replied. “So where does that leave us?”
“Together. In love. I love you, Tempest.”
Warrilow and the fireworks faded into the distance as she and Chance kissed. Tempest slipped her hands under his evening coat and his arms encircled her waist. With their lips locked together, he guided her backwards until they were off the path. They were alone, but he wasn’t taking any risks.
Suddenly, he pivoted and she gasped as he pressed her back against the trunk of a tree.
He broke off their kiss. “I want you.”
“I want you, too.” She grabbed his coat to pull him closer. “Kiss me again.”
“Right this minute.” At her blank look, he clarified, “I want to shag you here. Against the tree. Now.”
Tempest admitted his frank words excited her, but she did not take him seriously. Even though they were alone, this was still a public place.
Surely, he did not mean for them to—
“Now, Tempest.” Chance reached for the front flap on his breeches and unceremoniously unfastened the buttons.
He took her hand and brought it to the rigid length that was thickening at her touch. His manhood was hard, hot, and felt like silk against her skin. She measured the full length of him with her fingers. As her thumb rubbed the tip, a few drops of fluid leaked from the opening.
Her sheath contracted at the thought of him filling her. Of him taking her against the tree, out in the open with the stars glittering overhead.
Without waiting for permission, Chance began to push up the front of her skirt and petticoat. He made a soft sound of appreciation when he touched her bare thigh. “No drawers, Lady Tempest?” he drawled, and she could feel the heat of a blush. “Very naughty—and I know just how to reward you.”
* * *
Mathias kissed her roughly on the mouth. Painfully aroused, he was feeling reckless. He could think of nothing else but claiming her. He pulled Tempest against him, letting her feel the relentless throb of his cock as the length of it pressed against her belly.
“What if someone comes down the path?” she whispered.
As far as he was concerned, a small crowd could gather around them, and they could even watch, so long as they didn’t interrupt him. He tried to think of something that would assure her. “If we are quiet, no one will know what we are doing.”
Tempest was nervous, but he also heard the excitement in her voice. Sliding his hands around to her buttocks, he filled them with her soft curves and lifted her until the head of his cock found the soft yielding core. He dragged in a ragged breath as he eased her slowly down the rigid length, her sheath parting and closing around him until she was fully seated.
“Wrap your legs around my hips,” Chance whispered, his face pressed into the front of her bodice.
The tightness of her sheath threatened his restraint, and he reveled in it. Using the trunk of the tree to keep his balance, he began to thrust deeply into her. Tempest could do little more than hold on. He felt her legs squeeze his hips as he quickened his pace, driving his cock into her over and over.
“Oh my stars,” she gasped.
With his cheek rubbing against her bodice, he forged into her body. Each thrust was a test of balance and endurance, and within minutes his body was drenched in perspiration. He could hear the tempo of the firework explosions increase, and he matched it, driving them to the brink.
“Chance—I—oh God!” Tempest dug her fingers into his shoulders and cried out. Her head fell forward and she smothered strangled gasps by muffling them into his coat.
As she shuddered against him, her sheath milked his cock; he thrust deep and surrendered. His seed exploded from the head of his cock, followed by steady jets of milky fluid pumping into her. The sensation seemed endless, as if her body demanded every drop from him.
Chance staggered, but he regained his balance. His cock was still buried deeply inside her, and if they had not been outdoors, he could have happily remained in this position for the rest of the night. Preferably with them reclining on a comfortable bed.
Tempest gazed down at him in wonder. “That was incredible.”
“Have I told you how much I adore brazen women?”
She grinned, and then she lowered her face until their lips met. In the aftermath, their kisses were leisurely and tender.
As much as he desired it, he could not steal her away. He would have to return her to her friends. To Warrilow. Chance loathed that part the most.
Chapter Twenty-Five
It had been a grand night, even if it ended with Tempest bidding a reluctant farewell to Chance. His temperament had been mercurial during the brief hour she had shared with him. He was furious and jealous when she had first seen him with his friends; next he had been intense, protective, and ruled by lust and the thrill of the claiming; and finally, he had been tender, contemplative, and somehow resolved.
Something was troubling Chance. Or someone. Tempest discreetly glanced at Lord Warrilow as he entered the front hall of the Brant household with her and Arabella at his side.
“Good evening, daughters! And Warrilow, my good friend,” Lord Norgrave said from the threshold of his library.
Her father had been drinking his favorite brandy this evening, and quite a bit of it, if his unsteady gait was any indication. He leaned forward and brushed a kis
s in the air since he missed her cheek. Her father moved on to Arabella.
“Pretty, pretty Arabella. Give your father a kiss.”
Her sister gasped when her father gave her a hard kiss on the mouth.
Her mother was noticeably absent. When her husband was in one of his moods, the marchioness preferred to retire early. If Tempest tried the door, she would discover that her mother had locked it.
“I will bid you all a good night,” Lord Warrilow said, already backing away. The gentleman had been acquainted with Lord Norgrave long enough to know how difficult her father could be when he had been drinking. “Ladies, it was a pleasurable evening.”
Her father pinched his brow and shook his head to clear it. “Warrilow … wait.” He swallowed the remaining brandy in his glass and handed it to Arabella. “Be a good daughter and fill another glass for your papa.”
He pivoted halfway and walked back to the younger marquess. “You cannot end your evening with us. We have not celebrated the good news.”
Tempest untied her bonnet and removed it. “What news, Papa?” She followed her father’s gaze to Lord Warrilow.
“There was no opportunity to speak with your daughter, Norgrave,” the younger gentleman said, his discomfort obvious. “If you prefer, I will call on you tomorrow afternoon.”
“Why wait?” her father argued. He waved his hand carelessly at the staircase. “Make use of our drawing room. Tempest, go with your husband.”
Tempest froze at her father’s order. Arabella was standing in front of the library with their father’s glass of brandy. Both women stared at Lord Warrilow.
Lord Norgrave slapped his hand over his mouth, causing him to sway. He chuckled as his hand fell away. “Not very well done of me, was it?” He staggered toward Tempest and placed his hand on her shoulder. “Don’t dawdle, Daughter. You and Warrilow have much to discuss.”
He gave her a little push when she didn’t move.
“Come, my lady,” Lord Warrilow said, taking charge of the situation. “We can talk privately in the drawing room.”
Tempest glanced over her shoulder at her sister. Arabella appeared as startled as she. It was no secret that Lord Warrilow had come to London to claim a bride, but until he kissed her at Vauxhall, she had been convinced the gentleman’s feelings for her were lukewarm.
Her feelings for the marquess were equally uninspiring. Only Lord Norgrave appeared eager for the match.
Neither she nor Lord Warrilow spoke until they entered the drawing room. Tempest shut the door and almost locked it to keep her father out. In his current condition, his presence would be far from helpful.
She took a fortifying breath. “My lord—”
The marquess held up his hand to halt her speech. “No, allow me to speak first, Lady Tempest.” He took her by the hand and led her to the sofa. “Please, sit down.”
“My father is very drunk, my lord. When he awakens, he may not even recall this conversation,” she said, praying the gentleman would not follow through on Lord Norgrave’s demands.
“This is not about your father.” Lord Warrilow sat down next to her. Discovering his palms were damp, he rubbed them on his thighs. “Forgive me, my lady. I suppose I should have requested a glass of brandy before I rushed you upstairs.”
More brandy was not what this evening needed.
“We can discuss this another day,” she said softly.
The marquess shook his head. “No, I have been working up the courage for days. I had hoped that we might speak earlier … in private. However, I frightened you with the kiss and you ran off.”
And she ran straight into another man’s arms. While the gentleman who wanted to offer her marriage searched for her, she had let Chance push up her skirts and ravish her against the trunk of a tree. It was wickedly wanton, and she had loved every minute of his wild claiming.
“My lord, your kiss startled me, but I do not fear you.” She struggled to find the right words. “You are a good man. I know my father feels we would be a good match, but I think he is wrong. You deserve someone who—”
Tempest tried not to flinch when he claimed her hand.
“I confess I had my doubts at first, but I have changed my opinion.” Lord Warrilow placed his other hand over hers. “My lady … Lady Tempest, would you do me the honor of becoming my bride?”
His words were everything Lord Norgrave wanted to hear. When Tempest tried to envision herself as Lady Warrilow, all she saw in her mind was gray fog. How could she love him when her heart and body belonged to another?
“You overwhelm me, my lord,” she said, staring at their clasped hands. Tempest let her shoulders sag as she shut her eyes. “I was about to tell you that I needed a few days to give you my answer, but that is a lie. Lord Warrilow, I cannot marry you. You are a kind man, and I have enjoyed your company, but I am simply the wrong lady for you.”
The marquess flinched and then slowly released her hand. He avoided her gaze. “Is there someone else?”
She hesitated. However, Lord Warrilow deserved the truth. “Yes.”
“Does he—?” He cleared a blockage in his throat. “Has this gentleman declared himself? Are his intentions honorable?”
Tempest glanced forlornly at the door. They should have asked Arabella to bring up the decanter of brandy.
“He has not declared himself to my father.” Nor would she ask him to, since it would result in Oliver challenging him. She and Chance would have to confront both families if they planned to build a life together. “There are a few obstacles.”
Lord Warrilow gave her a pitying glance. “Of course there are, though I feel compelled to offer you some advice. A married gentleman rarely divorces his wife.”
Tempest’s head snapped up. “He’s not married. It’s—Oh, suffice it to say, my family will never approve of him.”
“If it is hopeless between you and this fellow you love, then there is no reason why you couldn’t marry me.” The marquess’s tone was light, but she sensed he was not teasing.
“Even if I had not met this other gentleman, I would still decline your generous offer. In truth, I look on you as another brother.”
Lord Warrilow clasped his heart and chuckled. “My lady, you wound me.”
“I care, my lord,” she said, praying he would forgive her one day. “I care enough to reject you for your own sake.”
“Another arrow pierces my heart.” The marquess shook his head and wearily stood. “I cannot bear any more truths between us, my lady. I hope you understand.”
“I do.” Tempest said, rising.
* * *
She solemnly followed the marquess downstairs, where her father and sister waited for them to share their good news.
Lord Norgrave squinted at Tempest and then the unsmiling Lord Warrilow. “Well? Shall I have one of the servants wake your mother so we can have a proper celebration?”
The young marquess retrieved his hat and gloves from a narrow table. “Allow your lady to sleep. There will be no marriage.”
“What?” Lord Warrilow’s announcement momentarily sobered the older gentleman. “Of course there will be a marriage between you and Tempest.”
“I cannot marry a lady who loves another.” Lord Warrilow turned to her, and there was a glimmer of bittersweetness in his expression. “You deserve happiness, too, my lady. You will never achieve it if you are not honest with your father.”
Tempest closed her eyes in despair.
Lord Warrilow bowed and bade everyone good night.
“Listen to your daughter, Norgrave,” the marquess advised. “I will see you tomorrow at the club.”
Arabella, Tempest, and their father remained frozen in place. The front door shut behind Lord Warrilow.
“Who?”
Her gaze shifted to Arabella’s after her father’s soft question.
“After all my efforts to secure you a husband, you refused him. I want the name of the gentleman who is behind your betrayal of me and your family,” he sai
d, his teeth snapping together.
“There is no reason to involve him,” Tempest hedged. “I am not marrying him.”
“Ah, so you have betrayed me for no reason.”
His sudden calmness should have warned her. Lord Norgrave turned and slapped Tempest across the face, the force behind it knocking her to the floor. Her hand covered her sore cheek, but she did not make the mistake of rising.
“Tempest!” Arabella cried out, rushing to her side. “Papa, please … it is not her fault.”
“Do not defend her!” he bellowed.
Her sister clapped her hands over her ears and buried her face into Tempest’s shoulder.
“I want the scoundrel’s name, Daughter.”
Tempest glared at her father. “No! He has nothing to do with my decision to turn down Lord Warrilow.”
With a roar of frustration, he staggered to Tempest and hauled her to her feet. Arabella began to cry as he shook his eldest daughter, her head snapping forward and backwards.
“A name!” he screamed into her face.
Tempest had never defied her father or her mother. She was terrified, but she refused to reveal Chance’s name. She did not trust her father or brother not to hold him responsible for her defiance.
“I cannot,” she whispered.
Lord Norgrave raised his hand again.
“I know who he is, Papa!” Arabella sobbed. “Please don’t hurt my sister.”
Burning with fury, his light blue gaze centered on Arabella. “Give me his name, Daughter, or I will take my whip to your sister’s back.”
Tempest shivered, but she refused to believe her father would whip her. “Don’t, Arabella.”
“Mathias Rooke … Lord Fairlamb,” she confessed, unable to meet Tempest’s gaze.
Lord Norgrave was so surprised, he released Tempest. She edged away from him and gathered her sobbing sister into her arms. Her father did not seem to notice. His lips parted as he shook his head.
You Can't Always Get the Marquess You Want Page 25