Her family name.
Christ, what a muddle!
“That lady knew exactly who we were when she saw us.” St. Lyon chuckled. “Not surprising, since she glimpsed every inch of us. The only thing she hasn’t figured out is that you are one of those awful Rookes.”
Mathias’s lips twitched as he tried not to smile. “We Rookes are not awful.”
“I’ll wager the Brants say the same thing.”
“Well, they are wrong. There is no such thing as an honest Brant,” he said, mentally banishing the vision of Lady Tempest’s guileless face.
“I have to disagree,” Thorn confessed. “Lady Arabella and Lady Augusta were rather sweet and welcoming. Out of loyalty, our family has never associated with Lord and Lady Norgrave, but I have no quarrel with the daughters.”
Mathias almost choked on his own spittle. “If you value our friendship, I pray you will not confess your new affection for the Brant daughters to my father. I would hate to give my own cousin the direct cut.”
The viscount shifted in his saddle. “Your father is not that bad.”
“Yes, he is,” Mathias and Thorn said at the same time. He added, “My father has never faltered in his hatred for the marquess. Over time, his resentment has extended to the man’s family.”
“Have you ever asked his reasons for it?” St. Lyon asked.
“Of course. My father refuses to speak of it, but I assume it has to do with some slight or debt.”
“I once asked my mother about it,” St. Lyon admitted. “No one really speaks of it, not even the gossips. Nevertheless, it is rumored that your father and Norgrave both coveted your mother.”
His father had commissioned a painting of his mother after their wedding. The new Duchess of Blackbern had been nineteen years old and recently had given birth to him, although any signs of the pregnancy had been discreetly omitted by the artist. He had no doubt that her beauty and generous heart had enthralled countless gentlemen. It was plausible that the Marquess of Norgrave had fallen in love with her.
“I had guessed as much even as a boy. It must have been a bitter parting when my mother chose my father over the marquess.”
“And thus a feud was born. I cannot fathom fighting with either of you over a woman,” Thorn said.
“Nor I,” replied St. Lyon. “One wench is as good as another.”
“My father would heartily disagree.” Mathias scratched his bruised cheek. “I think it best if we do not mention our encounter with Norgrave’s daughters.”
“I agree, though you will owe me another favor,” Thorn teased.
St. Lyon grinned. “I’ll add this one to my tally, too.” His smile faded as he thought of something unpleasant. “What will you do if Marcroft learns that you spoke to his sisters and decides to challenge you?”
Mathias was not worried about the earl. “I will accept his challenge. Your appalling taste in lovers has ensured that I practice regularly.”
The viscount growled, “I resent that charge. It isn’t my fault that they don’t always tell me they have a husband.”
“I do not fear Marcroft,” Mathias continued, ignoring his friend’s outburst. “It seems inevitable that I will put a bullet in him someday.”
“A pleasant thought,” his cousin said wryly. “And what about Lady Tempest?”
“What of the lady?” He was slightly baffled by the question. As far as he was concerned, there was nothing to be done.
“Are you telling me that you were not aware of the attraction between you and her?”
“There was no attraction, Cousin,” he quickly denied. “Unlike you and our good friend, I do not pursue every lady who has fluttered her eyelashes at me.”
“Ho, what boldface lie, my good man, but we shall save that debate for another day. Assist me, St. Lyon,” Thorn entreated. “Tell me that you noticed it, too.”
“Why do you think I looked after our horses? The lady saw no one but our lad Chance.” The viscount shook his head. “It was truly quite tragic, but she must have seen something about you that she liked.”
“You’re both wrong,” Mathias said, stubbornly refusing to acknowledge that he had felt anything at all besides mild annoyance and curiosity. “The lady was grateful. If we had revealed her mischief to Mrs. Sheehan, the widow would have told her brother. The poor girl would have received a sound beating from that scoundrel.”
“Damn me, you believe Marcroft is capable of raising his fist to his own sisters?”
“I have seen nothing in the man’s character that would dissuade me from thinking anything else.” He could not recall a single encounter with the surly gentleman in which he did not employ his fists. “With a brother like that, the most spiteful action I could take is to pursue the chit.”
Thorn and St. Lyon did not have a clever response.
“So no more talk about Lady Tempest. If fate is kind, we shall never meet again. We are leaving for London in a day, and I intend to dedicate my time there to more pleasurable pursuits.”
Thorn cleared his throat. “Lady Arabella told me that her family will be residing in town this season.”
Mathias stifled an oath. “Lord and Lady Norgrave come to London each year. The Brants and the Rookes have managed to avoid any public confrontations. This season will be no different.”
“It was simpler times when it was just the Norgraves and the Blackberns. These days, you and your brother Benjamin spend more time in London. How old is your sister Honora?”
“Seventeen,” he replied, sensing the direction of his cousin’s thoughts. “As well you know.”
“Soon she will enter society. And let’s not forget the Brants have Marcroft, Lady Tempest, and Lady Arabella,” Thorn pointed out. “With more members of the Rooke and Brant families wandering about London this season, it is inevitable that the occasional confrontation with occur.”
“God help us all when the rest of the Rooke brood is old enough to enter polite society!” St. Lyon teased, hoping to ease the tension between the two cousins.
Mathias knew Thorn was correct. He just didn’t want to admit it. “Let’s hope the younger Brants have the good sense to stay out of our way.”
The viscount looked startled by his friend’s harsh tone. The feud between the Rookes and Brants was none of his business and easy to ignore since he did not have any affection for the Norgrave heir. However, the man would draw the line at being cruel to innocent young women. “Marcroft is a lost cause.”
“The earl can go to the devil. If he has any love for his sisters, he will keep them away from me and my family,” Mathias said, his face grim and his heart icing as the image of Lady Tempest faded from his mind.
His loyalty belonged to the Duke and Duchess of Blackbern. No one could sway him to betray his family.
* * *
Before the evening meal, Tempest eschewed the drawing room for a stroll in the garden. She had spent the entire afternoon in Arabella and Augusta’s company, and she was in no mood to listen to her mother’s expectations for her when they journeyed to London. The quiet and the beauty of the gardens soothed her. Her thoughts kept returning to what she glimpsed at the river and the curious exchange she had had with Chance. The gentleman had seemed friendly, even though he had thought she deliberately spied on him and his friends. Even flirtatious—that was, until she mentioned her brother.
Chance had denied knowing Oliver, but she suspected the man was not being truthful.
Or perhaps it was the bruises. She had implied that he had been brawling. Had she insulted him by pointing out his injuries?
“Good heavens, I cannot believe I even mentioned it.”
“Mentioned what, brat?” asked Oliver as he closed the distance between them. He had changed into fashionable evening attire. However, even his skilled tailor could not conceal her brother’s rakish nature.
She wondered if he had dressed for dinner or was planning to depart for the evening. Their father had left the house over an hour ago.
“I thought I am too old to be called brat,” Tempest said, holding her hand out. She was pleased when he grasped it.
He pulled her closer and kissed her on the cheek. “I disagree. You have definitely not outgrown all your annoying habits.”
“Annoying, you say?” She huffed in feigned outrage. “I take exception to that remark. If you persist in calling me brat, I recommend not doing it in Augusta’s presence.”
“Why is that?” He held on to her hand as they walked the gravel path.
“She has laid claim to the endearment, and her feelings would be hurt if she thought she was not worthy of a special name,” Tempest explained. “With all this talk about London, Augusta is feeling left out.”
“No one is leaving her behind,” Oliver argued, sounding mildly exasperated.
As the Marquess of Norgrave’s heir, he had never been excluded from anything. Even as a child, he had often joined their father in his travels, while his sisters were expected to stay home and tend to their studies.
“Augusta will not be included in many of the amusements when we arrive in London,” she said, gesturing toward the marble bench. At his nod, they left the main path and sat down. “Mama has been distracted with all the preparations, and we have seen so little of Papa.”
“He has his own distractions,” Oliver said, almost sounding amused by his explanation. “Father and I shall be leaving for London a few days before you.”
“I am aware of this. If you have a moment, you should visit with Augusta before you depart. It’s a small gesture, but she will feel like she is important, too.”
It was one of the reasons why she had suggested the afternoon outing with her youngest sibling. Not that her sister was particularly appreciative of their efforts until Chance and his friends had intruded. Augusta had brightened when Thorn paid attention to her. Her reaction was a subtle reminder that their brother had been slowly withdrawing from their lives. They would see less of him in town because he insisted on setting up his own household. Next he would take a wife and fill the house with children.
Tempest softly laughed at where her fanciful thoughts had taken her. In truth, she could not see her brother marrying for a very long time. He was too young, and too much like their sire in temperament. Their father would agree. The marquess had always been quite vocal on the subject of marriage, particularly when it came to his heir. Nor had their father softened the unpleasant fact that he had married Lady Charlotte Winter out of duress. Her family had insisted on the marriage because they had learned of her affair with the marquess and that a child had been conceived. In uncouth moments, when their father was drunk and full of bitterness that Lady Charlotte had trapped him into marriage, he referred to Oliver as his “child of lust.”
Her father called her the “child of duty.” Tempest assumed he thought another male child was in order to protect the title. Her mother had given birth to a boy after Arabella, but the child was stillborn. There were three other pregnancies over the years, but none of them had come to fruition until Augusta. If her father had names for her sisters, he kept them to himself.
“Care to share the jest?”
Tempest used the toe of her shoe to nudge some of the gravel. “Just an idle thought. I was thinking of our father.”
“Is he lecturing you about last season?” Oliver asked gently. “Or his expectations for this one?”
His attempt to be delicate about the subject revealed that he was well versed in the details. She glanced away to hide her grimace. “Not recently, but I predict he will summon me to the library before he leaves for town. For now, he has left the duty to our mother.”
Oliver was broad shouldered, so there was not much room for her on the bench. So when he affectionately bumped against her with his arm, he almost knocked her off her narrow perch. Laughing, he caught her before she landed on her backside. “You have my sympathies, Pest.”
Tempest grinned at the old nickname. “You haven’t called me Pest in ages.”
“I recall the last time I uttered that name, you retaliated by sinking your teeth into my forearm. I had an imprint of your sharp teeth on my arm for months,” he said, absently rubbing the abused forearm.
“I highly doubt it was months, Brother. Besides, you were being unkind when you said it.” She grasped the edge of the bench and leaned back slightly as she tried to remember more details. “Oh, what were we fighting about? It seemed important at the time.”
“Everything is important to a twelve-year-old.”
Oliver was nineteen months older than she, and the closeness in their ages meant that he had been her best friend and her worst enemy. When they were younger, they had often quarreled over trivial things. They had managed to put enough scrapes and bruises on each other that their mother had had to separate them while they waited for their father to decide their punishments. Oddly, it was their shared fate that had brought them together again. Frightened, they had put aside their petty grievances and aligned themselves against their mother and father. Even the punishments were more bearable, knowing she was not suffering alone.
Tempest missed the boy who had been her friend and confidant. Once Oliver was sent away to school, everything changed.
She gave him a sidelong glance. “Why are you here?” she asked, keeping the anger from her voice. Oliver wanted something from her or he was here to do their mother’s bidding. “You could have stayed with us this afternoon, but chose to dally with some tavern wench.”
“What makes you think I was dallying with a tavern wench?” Oliver sounded curious, not angry at her charge.
“The bite mark on your neck.”
His hand automatically went to his neck. He was in full evening dress, and the mark in question was concealed by his cravat. “There is no mark.”
“I disagree, my dear Croft.” She smiled, using the abbreviation of his title. “When you were hitching the horses to the carriage this afternoon, you loosened your cravat. That’s when I saw a very large bite mark.”
“Maybe it was a scratch?” he suggested, clearly uncomfortable with the subject.
“Your tavern wench has a mouth like a fish.” She paused, her eyes twinkling with mischief. “A very large fish.”
Oliver reached for her, but she squealed in feigned fright and leaped up from the bench before he could grab her. She picked up her skirt and dashed down the gravel path.
Tempest glanced back, and to her dismay, her brother was catching up quickly. She veered right and ran across the freshly mown grass.
Oliver scooped her up into his arms and spun her about. “I should throttle you, you little pest!” He allowed her feet to touch the ground, but he wrapped his fingers around her shoulders so she could not escape him. “Didn’t anyone tell you that a lady should not notice such details as bite marks on her brother’s neck?”
She stuck her tongue out. “No, I believe Mama skipped that particular lecture.”
He laughed at her unrepentance. “Well, oblige me and do not mention the mark to our mother. I would like to avoid her usual lament about how much I remind her of our father.”
His inflection was light, almost teasing; however, she was surprised there was a hint of old pain reflected in his gaze. It was gone before she could comment on it.
Oliver tapped her on the tip of her nose. “And for the sake of honesty, it wasn’t a tavern wench. She was a dairymaid.”
Tempest rolled her eyes. It made little difference to her. Due to his youthful good looks and his title, Oliver had half the parish chasing after him. Regrettably, it never occurred to him to refuse any offer.
“Fine. You have my promise,” she said, giving in easily since she was feeling generous. “Not a word about your large fish.”
He laughed with her, but his expression sobered as his fingers cupped her shoulders. “I did wish to speak to you in private. About what happened this afternoon during my absence.”
Tempest shrugged away from his grip. “Mrs. Sheehan told you.” She took a
step back when he moved closer. “Of course she did. How long did she wait before she tattled to you and Mama?”
Her brother gave her a level stare. “I thought it best that Mrs. Sheehan not speak of it to our mother. I assured her that I would handle this on my own.”
“Brilliant. So now you have the right to lecture me?” she said, feeling foolish and manipulated.
He was standing between her and the house. If she tried to slip by him and run to the house, she would lose.
“No lectures, Tempest. I thought you might want to tell me your side of the story,” he said, calm in the face of her distress.
“Have you questioned Arabella and Augusta, too?”
Oliver’s forehead creased in puzzlement. “Should I?”
Tempest shook her head. She doubted Arabella would have told him about what they had seen at the river. Oliver was too calm to be aware of her accidental encounter with Chance and his friends. “No. Leave them alone. There is no reason to bully them when I am standing right in front of you.”
“I am only asking questions. So far, you have not given me any answers.”
She sighed. “I suppose Mrs. Sheehan told you that we had visitors this afternoon.”
“Yes, she mentioned that three gentlemen were riding along the riverbank and approached when they saw you and the girls.” He stared at her with a thoughtful expression that she found unsettling. “More to the point, why didn’t you tell me?”
Tempest shrugged. “It slipped my mind.”
“Truly? That doesn’t sound like you.” A half smile softened the hard lines of his mouth. “The girl who can recite portions of her favorite books.”
She bit her lower lip as she weighed how much trouble the truth would cause her. “You are correct. The gentlemen didn’t slip my mind. I even told Mrs. Sheehan not to mention their visit, because I thought you might conclude the gentlemen had approached us for sinister reasons, which was not the case. We offered them cider and exchanged pleasantries, and then they were on their way.”
There was no need to mention to Oliver that the three gentlemen had been searching for the person who had watched them as they cooled off in the river.
You Can't Always Get the Marquess You Want Page 5
