You Can't Always Get the Marquess You Want

by Alexandra Hawkins

  “Or kissing me.”

  She held her ground as he walked to her. “Stop!” Lady Tempest glanced down and moistened her lips. “You asked for a boon. I should have refused.”

  “And yet you didn’t,” he murmured, tucking his finger under her chin and lifting it until she meet his gaze. “Why is it that I want to kiss you again, even though the first one was quite abysmal?”

  Lady Tempest was so anxious on account of his proximity that it took her a few seconds to comprehend his words. Her expressive hazel eyes widened and then narrowed, reminding him that she was related to a gentleman who would happily shoot Mathias if she asked. “What did you say?”

  “Perhaps ‘abysmal’ is too strong a word,” he said, knowing he was courting danger by teasing her, but her indignation was a temptation he could not resist. “It was probably your first, and no one gets these things right on the first try.”

  “Abysmal, he says,” she muttered to herself. “My first kiss. I will have you know that I have kissed dozens of gentlemen, and not a single one ever complained, you arrogant muttonhead!”

  Feigning disappointment, he shook his head with dismay. “Lying is a sin, you know. If you are looking to practice on someone, I would happily volunteer for the task.”

  Lady Tempest rolled her eyes and walked away without bothering to respond.

  Chuckling under his breath, he followed on her heels. “Aw, come now, Lady Tempest. You cannot be angry over a little kiss. A kiss, I might add, that you did your best to ruin.”

  Forgetting that she was not speaking to him, she said, “I did no such thing, Lord Fairlamb.”

  Mathias caught her arm and pulled her to a halt. “A lady who has kissed dozens of gents would have been more adept at kissing.” He lowered his head until their foreheads almost touched. “Tell the truth. You were frightened to kiss me because I bear the Rooke name. You were worried you might like it.” He pinched his finger and thumb together. “Maybe just a little.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous. Have you considered that I didn’t want to kiss you?” Lady Tempest hissed, tugging her arm free. She rubbed the spot where he had touched her. “Or is your opinion of yourself so bloated that you believe all ladies long for your kisses?”

  “It is not what I believe—it is what I know.” He took a menacing step closer. “You are afraid.”

  “I am not!”

  “You are,” he said, keeping his voice level. “That afternoon by the riverbanks … you felt it. An awareness between us. Attraction. Even St. Lyon and Thorn noticed it.”

  “You are wrong,” she whispered.

  “And then you kissed me,” he continued, ignoring her denial. “Chaste. Brief. Painfully pathetic.”

  Lady Tempest brought her hand to her mouth, and the noise she muffled sounded like a cross between a sob and laughter.

  Mathias wrapped his fingers around her delicate wrist and pulled her hand away from her mouth. “And still that simple chaste kiss struck me like a bolt of lightning. It split my skin, cleaved through muscle and bone, and touched my soul.”

  She would have staggered backwards if he had not held on to her wrist. “This is some kind of prank, is it not? You cannot possibly mean—”

  “Do you honestly believe you are the only one who has something to lose?” His fierce gaze swept over her. “I love my father. I am loyal to my family. I could have my pick of any lady in London, and here I am, consorting with my father’s enemy.”

  “I am not your father’s enemy,” she spit through clenched teeth.

  “Nor am I yours, Lady Tempest,” was his cool reply. “And yet, we have a problem, do we not?”

  She and Mathias stared at each other, both of them feeling the weight of the attraction she stubbornly refused to acknowledge. He had not followed her to the Oxtons’ to confront her, but he could not dredge up any regret about it.

  “It is a problem only if we allow it to be,” she said finally. “We will just stay away from—”

  Mathias silenced her by covering her mouth with his. She had devastated him with a chaste kiss. Now he would show her the unplumbed depths of passion. He devoured her lips, breathing her in as if the taste and scent of her were paramount to his existence.

  “Open your mouth,” he murmured, placing tiny kisses on her pliant lips.

  To his wonder, Lady Tempest complied. His tongue caressed the seam of her lips and slipped inside. She moaned against his lips as the edge of her tongue tentatively touched his as she swayed closer. For several minutes, he lost himself in the seductive duel, savoring the taste of her.

  Her eyes fluttered open the moment he ended the kiss. She had no idea how beautiful she looked. Her hazel eyes were dark and heavy with desire, her lips reddened and slightly swollen from his kiss.

  “Chance,” she said, staring at him with a bemused expression on her face, as if she were truly seeing him for the first time.

  “You are a very dangerous lady, Tempest,” he said, kissing her again because he knew she would not push him away. “Fortunately, I like to court danger.”

  “But—”

  Mathias kissed her again to silence her protest. “Hush. I am not asking for anything but a chance to spend time with you.”

  Her hazel eyes were gradually clearing of the passion he had stoked within her. “What you are asking for is impossible. My family—”

  “Our families,” he corrected, wanting her to understand that she was not the only one taking risks, “are not part of this. We can be friends. What harm does it cause any of them?”

  She studied him in the darkness. “Is that what you want from me? For us to be friends?”

  Mathias was reluctant to put a name to his feelings or what he would demand of her before they parted ways. “Would it make you feel better if I called us friendly enemies?”

  “No.” She stepped away from him. “It only reminds me of the consequences if my family catches us together.”

  He was confident he could handle Marcroft or her father if they decided to interfere.

  Mathias tangled his fingers with hers. “Then we will have to make certain we do not get caught.”

  Chapter Twelve

  Tempest swallowed the sharp rising urge to scream when she opened the door to the library and was confronted by an unknown man.

  “Zounds girl, you cannot go about frightening people,” the sixty-year-old gentleman with more hair on his chin and eyebrows than on his head scolded as he worked his way around her. “I have a bad heart, you know.”

  “I beg your pardon, sir.” She curtsied and turned to the side so she could offer him a clear path. “No one told me that my father had a visitor.”

  “Tempest, is that you?”

  “Yes, Papa,” she called out, and she turned back to the man she had practically collided into. “I—”

  Tempest saw a parting glimpse of his back before the door closed. She walked into the room and glanced to the right. Her father was returning a book to the shelf. He opened his arms and she rushed up to him. The familiar weight of his arms wrapped around her as she pressed her face into his frock coat.

  “Good afternoon, Papa,” she said, soothed by his scent and warmth. “I hope I am not interrupting anything important.”

  “Oh, do you mean Mallory? No, he was only delivering some papers that I had requested.” Lord Norgrave pulled away and studied his daughter’s face. “I hear you had an adventurous evening.”

  Her stomach clenched and immediately her thoughts centered on Chance. She forced herself to relax. It was absurd, really. There was no possible way her father could have learned of her walk with Lord Fairlamb or their illuminating kiss.

  “Which part? Being trapped in a coach with Oliver? The awful crush at the theater, which meant I spent the entire time standing in the back so I missed all the performances? Or Lord and Lady Oxton’s ball?”

  The marquess pinched her chin. “You look quite happy in spite of your misadventures.”

  Tempest followed him as he
returned to his desk. She sat down in one of the chairs positioned near it. “Well, I am your daughter. I am made of sterner stuff than that.”

  He slipped on his spectacles and swiftly inspected a letter before he put it aside. He glanced at her over the lenses. “I was actually referring to Lord Warrilow. Your mother tells me that he insisted on an introduction.”

  “An introduction likely orchestrated by you, I would guess,” she teased.

  Her father’s unabashed grin revealed all she needed to know.

  “I thought so. I suppose Mama told you that the marquess was a perfect gentleman. He flattered Mama—”

  “Which positively delighted her,” murmured Lord Norgrave.

  “And Arabella and I accepted his invitations to dance.” She leaned forward. “I can attest that he is a competent dance partner. He stepped on my toes once.”

  “So you liked him?”

  Amused by her father’s nonchalant demeanor, she said, “Lord Warrilow appears to be very likable. So much so, I predict every matron who has a daughter will be inviting him to call on her household.”

  “Invitations he would ignore if I could give the young man some encouragement that he would be welcome in our house.”

  “I cannot speak for Arabella—”

  “I am not asking for your sister’s opinion. I would like to hear your thoughts.”

  “Lord Warrilow left a favorable impression, Papa,” Tempest replied sincerely. “There was little opportunity to speak when we danced, but he seemed earnest in his quest for a bride this spring, so there is little doubt that Arabella and I are on his list of prospective candidates.”

  Lord Norgrave removed his reading spectacles. “My friendship with Warrilow has put you and your sister at the top of his list.”

  Tempest was not surprised by the news, yet her heart plummeted to her stomach. Last year, her father had taken great pains to ensure that she was at the top of Lord Rinehart’s list, and the results had been disastrous.

  “What? You have nothing to say? No words of thanks for your dear papa?”

  “Naturally, I am grateful, Papa,” she began.

  “Good God, you are not thinking of debating me on the issue. Not after what happened with Lord Rinehart.”

  “Lord Rinehart is precisely the point,” she argued, her courage wavering when she noticed his stern look. “You cannot govern another’s heart. Warrilow will not marry me because it is the outcome you desire.”

  “You think not?” He leaned back in his chair and studied her. “Is that why you chose to walk in the garden with Vanewright?”

  How did he know of her walk in the Oxtons’ gardens? Her mother? Tempest frowned. When Lord Vanewright had invited her to join him, he told her mother that it was to see his sister, Lady Ellen. After her walk with Chance, the earl had kept his promise and escorted her to his sister. She had a pleasant visit with the young woman, who seemed unaware of her brother’s machinations with Lord Fairlamb. However, if her father was aware she had been in the back gardens, then someone had been watching them.

  What else had his spy glimpsed?

  “You are well-informed. The walk was nothing more than a slight detour so I could admire the Oxtons’ gardens.”

  “Vanewright would not have been my first choice if you hoped to catch his interest. He is a bit of a scoundrel, you know.”

  “Oh.” She pursed her lips as she contemplated this bit of news. “I found his manners above reproach.” Well, so long as she overlooked the fact that the earl had lied to her mother and handed her off to the son of her father’s enemy. In that light, Lord Vanewright was a very wicked fellow. “Nor am I casting any aspirations in the earl’s direction.”

  Her father gave her a look of approval. “It is just as well. Vanewright is enjoying his bachelorhood too much to be content with a wife, and his family’s influence has diminished since Lord Netherley has withdrawn from town life.”

  Tempest had heard last season about Lord and Lady Netherley’s tragic loss of not just one son, but two. Of Lord Netherley’s inconsolable grief and his frustrations with his current heir. However, that was the problem with gossip. It was a mixed bag of truth and speculation. Such things did not matter to her father. He weighed the value of a prospective son-in-law by his family’s influence and what benefits he could achieve from the alliance.

  Some might view it as coldhearted, but it has served her father well, since his marriage to her mother had been approached in a similar manner.

  “My conversation with Lady Ellen did not include her brother or her family beyond the usual pleasantries,” she said lightly as she rose from her seat. “Suffice it to say, Lord Warrilow did precisely what you asked of him.”

  “I will have your word that you will not discourage the young marquess.”

  “Heaven forbid.” Tempest leaned over the desk and kissed her father on the cheek. “I shall not keep you. Harriet should be arriving soon and I must change my dress before we leave.”

  “What do you and your cousin have planned for the afternoon?” he asked, rising from his chair and following her to the door.

  “A little shopping while I run a few errands for Mama,” she said, her attention switching to which carriage dress she intended to wear. She waved and headed for the grand staircase.

  Lord Norgrave’s smile had a hint of indulgence as he watched his eldest daughter mutter to herself about the weather and dresses. She was a sweet, kindhearted girl who was determined not to disappoint him this season. He intended to make certain that nothing spoiled his plans for her to marry Warrilow.

  “Did she admit that she and Lord Vanewright were in the gardens?”

  Tempest was no longer in sight, but he could not resist sending his wife a censuring glance. “She explained everything.” Noting his marchioness’s doubt, he added, “The girl has no propensity for deceit. Unlike her mother.”

  “Or her sire,” Charlotte replied crisply.

  Norgrave inclined his head in an abbreviated bow. “Just do your part, Wife. Warrilow is ripe for the picking. I will have him for one of my daughters.”

  His wife frowned at this revelation. “I thought he was meant for Tempest.”

  “Naturally, she is my first choice, since she is the eldest daughter,” he conceded. “However, the debacle with Rinehart proved that there are advantages to having more than one daughter.”

  “Such a clever man,” she softly mocked, curtsying. “You have thought of everything.”

  Charlotte was baiting him, but he resisted the urge to punish her for her impudence. “I do what I must.”

  * * *

  “This is not precisely how you expected to spend your afternoon.”

  Mathias shrugged at his mother’s observation, neither confirming nor denying it. Seated beside his sister Mercy, they sat opposite their mother and Honora in the family’s barouche-landau. His mother’s note arrived while he was eating breakfast, asking him to join her and his younger sisters on a shopping jaunt. To indulge her, he’d canceled his appointments for the day.

  “Why would I deny myself the pleasure of spending the day with three of the prettiest ladies in London?” he said, tickling his fifteen-year-old sister under the chin to make her giggle. “If you had not sent a note, I would have been forced to come up with an excuse to visit.”

  “You do not need excuses to visit your family, Mathias,” the duchess said, her dark blue eyes vibrant with amusement, aware that her eldest son was deliberately flattering her. “You and your friends are always welcome.”

  “Just another reason why my friends are in love with you,” he teased. “If you were not already married, I fear I might have to fight St. Lyon and Rainbault to protect your honor.”

  “Oh, Chance,” the duchess sighed, though it was obvious she was not offended.

  Honora rolled her eyes and turned her head so she could watch the pedestrians that strolled by them. Their carriage had slowed because several barrels had fallen from a wagon and now blocked a p
ortion of the street.

  Mercy tapped him on the arm. He stared at her and marveled how much she looked like their mother. “What would St. Lyon and the prince want with Mama?”

  The duchess laughed when he appeared incapable of answering his sister’s question. “Oh no, my dear boy, you are on your own,” she said in response to his silent plea for assistance.

  “I was merely teasing, honeybee,” he said, the endearment a long-standing reference to her honey and golden locks. “Our mother is so beautiful that every gentleman she meets falls instantly in love with her.”

  The duchess poked his leg with the end of her unopened parasol. “Does that tongue of yours ever stop waggling?”

  “Now, look what you’ve done. You have made Mama blush,” Mercy said, enjoying the exchange between mother and son. “Though if the prince cannot have her, then maybe I should marry him. After all, I would be a splendid princess.”

  “The Prince of Galien would never marry a child,” Honora said, dashing her younger sister’s ambitions without even glancing in her direction. “Besides, he is old.”

  “He is not,” Mercy said, sliding into a slouch as she crossed her arms over her breasts. “And I am not a child. In a few years, the prince and I could marry and then you would have to curtsy whenever I entered the room.”

  Outraged at the very thought, Honora’s blue gray eyes narrowed as she glared at her sister. “You will never marry the prince, so I will never have to curtsy in your presence. Never!”

  “Honora and Mercy, I have heard quite enough from both of you,” the duchess said sharply. “Honora, I expect better manners from you … and Mercy, you might as well put aside your aspirations to marry Rainbault. The gentleman is too old for you.”

  “How can that be? Papa is seven years older than you, and yet you were permitted to marry him,” Mercy argued with the passion of a child who would not be denied. “The prince is older than I by only six years.”

  The duchess was momentarily silenced by her daughter’s argument. To her credit, she recovered rather quickly. “His age does not matter. Even if Rainbault were the same age, he would still be older than you.”