“No!” Mathias shook off the butler’s grip and stepped out of reach. “I was not even brawling. There was a minor incident at a tavern.”
“Who? Your father will want to know.”
That was a conversation he intended to avoid at all costs. If he mentioned the name Brant in his mother and father’s presence, the consequences would be on his head. His father was not quite rational when it came to the Marquess of Norgrave. Mathias understood. There was something about the man’s son that provoked him to violence. Perhaps it was something in the blood, passing from father to son.
“No one. I walked into a man’s fist. The public room was crowded. It happens all the time,” he said, ignoring the disbelief on the older man’s face. “I would appreciate it if you did not mention this to my parents.”
McKee chuckled. “You think you can keep this from them?”
Mathias strode to the large rectangular mirror on the wall and peered at his reflection. He poked the slight swelling at his cheek and grimaced. In the passing hours, the bruises had darkened. Although Thorn and St. Lyon were aware of the animosity between the Rooke and Brant families, he nonetheless reminded them not to mention Marcroft’s name in his father’s presence. With luck, he could bluster his way through a reasonable excuse for the injury that would satisfy his concerned family.
“The bruises are not so bad,” he lied, and the butler snorted behind him.
“I shall have Cook prepare a poultice to see if we can get the swelling down.” McKee turned in the direction of the kitchen. “Before you head upstairs to your bedchamber, stop by the library and greet your mother and father properly.”
Mathias frowned. He was not prepared to face his family or explain away his injuries. “What about the poultice?”
“You cannot get miracles from a poultice, my lord. Or hide from your mother. Go to them. I shall see to it that your friends are comfortably settled into their rooms.”
“You are not being helpful, McKee,” he muttered.
“Do you hear me mentioning the name Brant?” The shrewd old servant nodded when Mathias flinched. “I thought as much. Off with you. And you might want to walk slowly to give yourself more time to come up with a better tale than walking into a man’s fist.”
* * *
Although the butler’s amusement was deserved, Mathias’s pride felt as bruised as his cheek. He also heeded the man’s advice and took his time as he made his way to the library. Unfortunately, it was a short walk as he strolled across the freshly polished patterned marble floor. When he reached the entrance to the library, he noticed that someone had neglected to close the double doors. The two-inch gap gave him a restricted view of the interior. He reached for the gleaming brass doorknobs, but the sound of his father’s voice gave him pause. How many times as a young boy had he faced these doors with his heart filled with dread and remorse over some minor offense? Too many to count, he thought. In hindsight, his father had dealt with him fairly, even though the child had viewed the various penances differently. How little had changed when the sound of his father’s voice could summon the feelings of the boy he thought he had left behind a long time ago?
His grim musings faded at the soft breathy sound of feminine laughter. His mother. Imogene Rooke, Duchess of Blackbern. Just hearing her voice eased some of the tension in his shoulders. The daughter of a duke, she possessed a natural grace and diplomacy that complemented his father’s strength and arrogance. If anyone could prevent the males in her life from pounding their chests as they competed for dominance, it would be his mother.
However, as he leaned forward, Mathias watched through the gap in the double doors and noted almost immediately that his tardiness was not prominent in the duke and duchess’s thoughts. His father circled around his desk, intent on reclaiming some small trinket hidden within his mother’s hand. Even from his position, Mathias could sense the duke’s interest was focused on the flirtatious lady who believed she was evading him. He knew his father was toying with his quarry. Anyone who was acquainted with the Duke of Blackbern knew he was wholly smitten with his duchess. Mathias and his younger siblings had spent their whole lives watching his mother and father play this particular game. In the end, the duke always caught his lady.
Perhaps it was impolite for him to notice, but his mother was not really putting too much of an effort in resisting her husband’s advances. Twice around the desk, and once around the overstuffed sofa, and his father had already caught his duchess by the hips.
“Now are you prepared to be reasonable about this?” the Duke of Blackbern said, pulling his wife so she was pressed against him.
“Absolutely not!” the duchess said, keeping her closed fist behind her back. She kissed her husband’s chin and used the distraction to slip from his grasp.
Laughing, she ran for the desk. Amused, Mathias shook his head as his father gave chase. The Rooke family had a position to maintain in the ton. It was apparent that any sense of respectability had been given the day off. No one would ever guess that his father would be celebrating his fiftieth birthday next year. Especially when the man was behaving like a lovesick youth.
Mathias glanced in the direction of the front hall when he heard the sound of the door opening and male voices echoing as Thorn and St. Lyon greeted McKee. It would be a matter of time before his friends would seek him out, so he might as well get any unpleasant business with his mother and father out of the way.
Mathias grasped both doorknobs and widened the gap so he could enter the library. He took two steps and froze. While he had been distracted by his friends’ arrival, his father had managed to place his duchess in a very compromising position. His elegant mother was splayed across the desk; her usually neat coiffure had partially come undone as his father threaded his hand through her hair to deepen their passionate kiss.
Since he had five younger siblings, he did not want to bear witness to the making of a sixth. Out of respect for his mother’s modesty, Mathias glanced down and discreetly coughed into his fist.
His head lifted at his mother’s soft gasp. She had to tilt her head back to verify that it was her firstborn son standing near the doorway.
“Mathias!” The Duchess of Blackbern tried to push her husband away, but he only laughed at her flustered expression. “Let me up, you scoundrel,” she said, sending their son an apologetic look. “We were not expecting you.”
The duke sent Mathias a mischievous grin. “There is no need to fret, love,” he murmured, gallantly helping her off the desk. He gave the front of her bodice a playful tug. “This isn’t the first time one of our children has caught us kissing, and it won’t be the last.”
“Could you at the very least be a little repentant when it comes to scandalizing the children,” she muttered as she picked up a hairpin on the desk and used it to secure a loose strand of blond hair. She walked toward her son, but he met her halfway.
“It is good to have you home again,” she said, embracing him. When he lowered his head, she kissed him on the cheek. Still off balance, she did not focus her eyes on his bruised cheek right away. But then her gaze narrowed as she lightly inspected the swelling with her fingertips. “Good grief. What have you done to yourself?”
“If I had done this to myself, it would not have hurt so much,” Mathias teased, meeting his father’s amused gaze. “It is nothing to worry about, Mother. I barely notice it.” He sent a desperate look to his father, silently pleading with him to come to his rescue. “I realize I am late, and I also have rotten timing when I do get around to presenting myself. My sincere apologies to both of you.”
“Nonsense,” his mother protested, moving aside so her son could greet his father properly. “I wish to learn more about what happened—”
“Let the lad catch his breath, Imogene. Apology accepted,” his father said smoothly as the two men clasped hands. The duke winked as he placed his other hand on Mathias’s shoulder to draw him into a brief embrace. “However, your timing was quite exceptional
. A few more minutes, and your mother and I—”
“You will be sleeping in the stables if you finish that sentence, Your Grace!” his mother warned, the color in her cheeks deepening at her husband’s teasing. Adept at changing the subject, too, she touched Mathias on the arm. “So … have you come alone or have you brought me guests?”
“Thorn and St. Lyon,” he replied. “I promise we will not trouble you for long.”
His mother wrinkled her nose, and she dismissed his vow with a wave of her hand. “Stay as long as you like. Nevertheless, we are already making preparations to travel to London. If you wish, you and your friends may travel with us.”
“Darling, I doubt Chance, Thorn, and St. Lyon want to be slowed down by the family.” The duke gave him a measured stare. “I assume you are eager to continue your journey to London once we’ve discussed estate business.”
Mathias was, but he swallowed his agreement when he noted his mother’s disappointment. “We plan to stay a week, and then we are returning to London.”
“Returning?” she politely inquired.
His father’s gaze sharpened at his slip of the tongue. Mathias winced and casually reached up to rub the back of his neck. “We, uh, I made a brief stop in London before heading home.”
“What was so important that it could not wait?” the duchess asked, sounding perplexed by his decision. “Is that where you had trouble?”
Trouble? Mathias scowled. Ah yes, his face. He had no intention of mentioning Marcroft. Ever. “No, not London. I was at the Black Goat Tavern and—never mind. It was a slight misunderstanding.”
“I see.”
Unfortunately, all he was proving was that his mother had managed to muddle his thoughts as he tried to come up with a proper lie to explain away his bruises. He kissed her on the cheek. “Quit fretting. It was a minor incident. Happens all the time.” At her appalled expression, “Or not at all. Forget I said anything.” Mathias sighed.
His father laughed. “Imogene, you are embarrassing the lad. No one dies from a few bruises.” To take any sting out of his mild rebuke, he placed his arm around her. “I’m certain Chance had business in town that could not wait. Am I correct?”
“Yes.” Mathias nodded, grateful for his father’s assistance. “Nothing too important, but it gave me the opportunity to inspect the premises and hire some staff.”
“A sweet gesture, but there was no need—your father wrote his solicitor over a month ago to let him know of our arrival,” the duchess explained.
“Forgive me, I meant the other house.” He glanced at his father. “Instead of renting rooms, I’ve decided to open up your mother’s old house.” There was subtle tension creeping into the room that made his neck itch. “You offered me the house last season, Father. Have you changed your mind?”
The Duke of Blackbern shook his head. He stepped forward and deftly urged his son toward the door, placing distance between Mathias and the duchess. “No, of course I haven’t. The house is yours to do with as you like.”
Mathias cast a wary glance at his silent mother. “St. Lyon and Thorn are waiting for me. Shall we discuss business after supper?”
“We can talk about the estate tomorrow,” the duke said easily. “Why don’t you run along and see to your friends.”
His father did not give him any choice. The door was closed in his face before he could speak another word to his mother. Mathias took a deep breath and slowly exhaled. The worst part of the visit was over. With a smile forming on his lips, he walked off to look for his friends.
* * *
Inside the library, the Duke of Blackbern turned away from the door and headed back to his wife’s side. “How angry are you?” he quietly inquired.
The question cleared Imogene’s unfocused gaze and brought her chin up. “Why would I be angry?”
“That I offered Mathias use of the house without telling you. I would have mentioned it earlier—” He swallowed the rest of his excuse when she abruptly raised her hand to silence him.
She turned away, wrapping her arms around her waist in a small gesture of comfort that cut him to the quick.
“I should have burned the house to the ground.”
The emotion in his voice caused her to look at him. Imogene sat down on the sofa. With her arms still crossed, she stroked her upper arms with her fingers. “You made that offer to me twenty-four years ago. If you recall, I turned you down.”
Tristan moved to the sofa and dropped to his knees in front of her. “This is hurting you.”
She shook her head in denial, but her eyes were wet with unshed tears. “It is a house. Just a house.”
Helpless, he did not know whom she was attempting to convince. “I could rescind my offer. I could tell him that I have already rented it.”
That earned him a wry smile. “You rarely rent the house. Besides, he has already inspected it. He will know you are lying to him, and he will begin to question you about it.”
“The lad will have other things to worry about if he challenges my dictates,” Tristan said gruffly. He was furious with himself. In spite of her assurances over the years, he should have known that the thought of any of their children residing in that particular house would be upsetting to her. “Forgive me.” He lowered his face to her skirts and inhaled, drawing comfort from her scent. Tristan shut his eyes at her touch.
“There is nothing to forgive, love. We discussed this years ago, when it was so obvious that Mathias was craving his independence. He is spending less time with us, so I knew—” She trembled.
Tristan lifted his face from her skirt and clasped her hands.
“It is merely a house. Has allowing it to stand empty year after year changed the past?”
Old hate simmered just beneath the surface. “No. Still, it’s not too late to burn the damn house to the ground.”
A soft laugh or sob escaped her lips. “I believe you, but my feelings haven’t changed. That house was your mother’s legacy to you, and now you will pass it to our son. Besides, the property is too valuable to torch it because I was startled by Mathias’s announcement.”
Tristan reached up and cupped her face. “You were more than startled, love.”
Imogene did not bother to deny it. “We cannot watch over him as we did when he was a boy. I worry that … someone might say something to him.”
“It has been twenty-four years, Imogene. There is no reason for anyone to dredge up the past.”
Tristan pulled her onto his lap and she offered him no resistance as he shifted his position to make her more comfortable. Imogene wiggled closer until her face was pressed against the side of his neck. Neither one of them spoke, but his thoughts drifted to the house he had inherited from his mother. The old place was a stately relic of his wild youthful indiscretions and painful memories. Twenty-four years ago, he wanted to raze the damn place. One night, in a fit of drunken anger, he had set fire to his mother’s old bedchamber, and the east wing of the house was destroyed in the fire. Imogene had not questioned his motives. It was at her insistence that the wing had been rebuilt. To this day, his wife had never returned to the house. Tristan avoided it as well.
He must have been foxed when he invited Mathias to use the property as he saw fit.
Tristan tightened his hold on his wife. He was willing to let her have her way about the house, but if the situation became too upsetting, he intended to do something about it. Mathias could make other arrangements.
His thoughts took a decidedly darker turn as another name drifted into his mind like musty air in a room that has been locked for years. More than the house, this individual was the source of Imogene’s concerns. This angered Tristan more than he was prepared to reveal to his wife. It was also a reminder that he had failed her once. Never again. Not her. Not his family. If he dared to approach Mathias or any other member of his family, the bastard was a dead man.
Chapter Three
Lady Tempest Elizabeth Brant could not have imagined a more perfect
day. The sun was unencumbered with clouds, the air was fragrant and pleasing, and the occasional breeze kept the temperature temperate. With her drawing notebook under her arm, she stood and shook out her skirts. Her brother Oliver had set up a chair and easel so she might continue working on the landscape she had sketched the other day. However, she had grown restless after an hour. She decided a walk would ease some of the stiffness in her limbs.
Her actions had not gone unnoticed by her younger sisters. Arabella glanced up from the book in her hands and squinted at her since the sunlight was in her eyes. At nineteen, she had grown into quite a beauty. Her blond hair and hazel eyes made people comment often on how much she resembled their mother. Beside her sat their ten-year-old sister, Augusta. The youngest Brant was lying on her stomach as she examined an ant or some other insect that had caught her attention. Sitting in a nearby chair was their chaperone, Mrs. Sheehan. The thirty-two-year-old widow had been hired to chaperone the Brant girls six months earlier.
“And just where are you going, Lady Tempest?” Mrs. Sheehan inquired without glancing up from her sewing.
“Not far,” she replied, patting her notebook. “I thought I would explore a bit to see if there are any interesting plants to sketch.”
Augusta smiled up at her. “Are you going to pull off your shoes and stockings to wade into the river?”
“Certainly not,” Tempest replied, knowing it was precisely what Augusta would do if left alone. The small river was scenic, but too shallow for anything but small boats. “I have little desire to have mud drying between my toes for the rest of the day.”
Augusta giggled because she sounded haughty, even to her ears.
“Do you want company?” Arabella asked. “I can finish my book later.”
Tempest shook her head. “No need. I am really just looking for an excuse to stretch my legs.”
You Can't Always Get the Marquess You Want Page 2
