You Can't Always Get the Marquess You Want

by Alexandra Hawkins

  “There are days when I would be happy to forget that Oliver is my brother,” she said, smiling in coy manner that he found endearing. “Still, he is a good man.”

  Mathias snorted, but thought it best not to contradict her. Whether he liked it or not, Marcroft was her brother. Insulting her sibling would not gain him her trust. “I asked if you had other siblings besides the ones I have met.”

  Her gaze had dropped to the open journal again. “It is just Oliver, Arabella, Augusta, and I,” she said, her pencil waving in the air as she sketched. “I was told that my mother had a difficult time when she was in confinement with Arabella. Everyone feared that she would lose the baby, and my mother almost died giving birth to her.”

  Since he was a bachelor, he could not speak firsthand of such matters. “It can be a difficult time for some ladies.”

  Mathias thought of his own mother. The Duchess of Blackbern had given birth to six children. From a young boy’s perspective, his mother handled the changes to her life with graceful aplomb. It was only as he grew older that he became aware of how difficult these pregnancies were on his father. While the duke doted on and spoiled his wife, in unguarded moments, Mathias saw the strain on his father’s face. The fear the man tried to conceal as he worried about the health of his wife and their unborn child. His mother had been fortunate. All her children were born healthy, and she had recovered from the childbed with minimal fuss.

  “My sister was small when she was born, but she was strong.” Tempest frowned at her work. “It took almost a year for my mother to recover. The next child she bore was stillborn. A boy, I was told. After that, three miscarriages. It was doubtful my mother would carry another child again, but years later, Augusta surprised everyone. What about you? In the bookseller’s shop, I saw your mother—and I assume the two young ladies with her were your sisters.”

  Tempest had been more observant than he had realized. Though, he and his sisters did share similar characteristics if one looked closely. It was apparent that the lady had been curious about his companions.

  The notion pleased him.

  “Yes, my sisters, Honora and Mercy. I also have two younger brothers, Benjamin and Frederick, and the youngest is my sister Constance.”

  “Oh my, such a large family,” she marveled. “How could you bear so many younger brothers and sisters underfoot?”

  Mathias had not really considered it. “Normal, I suppose. Annoying at times. I spent part of the time away at school. I often traveled with my father as he taught me how to manage our estates, so I learned to appreciate the months all of us could be together.”

  Tempest raised her gaze and held his stare. “It was not better for those of us who were left behind. When I was younger, I missed my brother dreadfully.”

  “You and Marcroft are close?” he asked, hoping that was not the case.

  Her expression grew wistful at the question. “We were born eighteen months apart, so we were inseparable as children. However, it all changed when Oliver left the nursery and was eventually sent away to school.” She shrugged, accepting the changes even though the thought of them made her sad.

  To distract her, Mathias tapped the top edge of her journal with his finger. “You have been working so diligently. Can I see what you have been working on?”

  Her hazel eyes narrowed and a mischievous grin brightened her face. “No.” She moved the journal so it was out of reach. “I do not believe I will show you.”

  “Don’t be cruel, darling,” he coaxed, confident that he would get his way. “Art should be appreciated, and I am one of your most ardent admirers.”

  It was the same tone he had used when he was a boy to wheedle extra sweets from the cook. As a grown man, he had similarly seduced ladies into his bed.

  Sticking her pencil into the crease of the journal, she closed it. “Absolutely not.”

  Tempest stood and Mathias mimicked her actions.

  “A quick peek,” he said, relishing their game.

  “I think not,” she said, strolling away.

  She was not evading him so easily. It took only a few steps to catch up to her.

  “What if I purchase the sketch from you?” he asked, choosing a different tactic. If they had not been in such a public place, he would have been tempted to kiss her until she surrendered.

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” she said, continuing past the painting that depicted the judgment of the sons of Brutus.

  A couple sitting on a nearby bench glanced up but quickly lost interest, since neither Mathias nor Tempest was looking to cause a scene.

  Still, there was no reason not to revel in flustering a beautiful lady.

  “Five pounds.”

  She expelled a ladylike snort. “No.”

  “Ten.” He had no idea what she had been drawing, not that he truly cared. She could have drawn lines on the page, and he would have paid a small fortune just to make her smile.

  “Stop it.” She circled around to the other side of a large marble column. “I am not selling it.”

  He peered over the marble. “Just think of it,” he argued. “I could be your first patron.”

  “You are a madman.” She was grinning, obviously enjoying their verbal sparring. “Perhaps I could pay you ten pounds to leave me alone.”

  “You cannot afford my price, so you are stuck with me,” he teased.

  “Lucky me.” Tempest moved to a pedestal that displayed a large vase.

  With his arms crossed behind his back, he stalked her as she zigzagged from one sculpture to the next. She was not putting much effort in escaping him. He was not in a hurry to catch her.

  For now.

  The exhibit room was not so crowded as it had been when he and Thorn first entered it. No one stood between him and his quarry, and he lazily guided her to the far corner of the room, where a very plain-looking woman had been immortalized in marble.

  Mathias noted Tempest’s eyes were gleaming with anticipation, and she was slightly out of breath because of her stays, though it was impolite of him to notice as much.

  She hid the journal behind her back. “Nothing you can say will change my mind, Lord Fairlamb,” she vowed, but the smirk on her face dared him to try.

  “Unpredictable and passionate,” he said, keeping his voice low and seductive. “Traits one expects in an artist.”

  The description also fit most of his lovers.

  It was rather perverse, but he liked difficult females. Without asking permission, Mathias slowly stepped closer and reached around until they were almost embracing.

  “What are you doing?” Tempest whispered, caught between his body and the statue. There was no place for her to escape.

  “Satisfying my—” The front of his coat pressed lightly against the front of her bodice. When he stepped backwards, he held her journal in his hand. “—curiosity.”

  She bit her lip. The nervous gesture was innocent and enticing, and Mathias had to resist the urge to pull her back into his arms and kiss her thoroughly.

  Instead, he opened the journal to where it had been marked by her pencil. His lips parted in astonishment. “You were sketching me.”

  Or rather, parts of him. While they were talking, she had drawn his eyes and eyebrows at the bottom of the page. Another sketch was a profile of his nose and mouth. The third was the beginnings of a full-body drawing as he sat on the bench. There wasn’t much detail, but she had captured his casual slouch perfectly.

  “Am I something you fancy, Lady Tempest?” he asked, recalling his earlier encouragement. He was impressed and amazed that she had managed to sketch him without overtly studying him.

  Mathias expected her to deny it. She was a sweet-tempered lady who had been sheltered by her family. Such ladies were not encouraged to speak openly of their desires. However, even now, she managed to do the unexpected.

  Tempest leaned forward as if to whisper her answer. “Perhaps,” she purred, but the seductive ploy was spoiled by a strangled gasp. She plucked the jou
rnal from his hand and attempted to slip away.

  He touched her on the arm. “What is it?”

  “Mrs. Sheehan and Lord Kempthorn. I have to go,” she said, the urgency in her voice heightening his concern.

  “Wait,” he said, tightening his hold on her arm. “When can we meet again?”

  Tempest stared at him as if he had lost his mind. “I don’t know. Please. You need to let me walk away. Mrs. Sheehan hasn’t spotted me yet, but it is only a matter of time.”

  With his back to the entrance, Mathias was shielding her from discovery. “Return to the bookseller’s shop. I will leave a message for you. Just give your name to the shop clerk.”

  “I may not be able to return to the shop right away,” she said, her body tense and vibrating with distress.

  He gave her an impatient look. “If I do not hear from you, I will send a messenger to you.”

  “Not to the town house!” Appalled by the brazen suggestion, she gripped his arm. “The servants usually give all notes to my mother.”

  “I was not planning to give your brother a reason to challenge me, Tempest,” he said soothingly. “There will be other occasions for us to meet. If I cannot approach you, I will send someone to you.”

  “As you wish,” she said, sounding distracted, her thoughts focused solely on her escape until he grasped her hand and brought it to his lips. Startled, she met his gaze, and her worried expression relaxed as she smiled. “Until we meet again, Lord Fairlamb.”

  She peered over his shoulder. Knowing Thorn, he was keeping the chaperone distracted so Tempest could walk away from Mathias unnoticed. She nodded and slipped away from him. He did not watch her departure. Instead he scowled at the ugly statue in front of him until he sensed his cousin’s presence.

  “Satisfied?” Thorn asked.

  “Not in the slightest,” Mathias growled.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Tempest had ignored his last note.

  A week had passed since their meeting at the Egyptian Hall. He had been disappointed when he returned to the bookseller’s shop three days later, only to be informed by the owner that no lady had come for Mathias’s note. He had been greeted with the same reply on the fourth, fifth, sixth, and seventh days.

  Rejection, even if it was unintentional, was a ruthless, swift stab to the heart. Doubt left him wondering if Tempest was just a shameless flirt who had no inclination toward meeting him or if her family had learned of their meeting and she was presently locked in her bedchamber as punishment. Short of boldly knocking on the front door of the Brants’ residence and leaving his calling card, Mathias was left with more questions than answers.

  He was unused to waiting for a lady.

  Most ladies adored him. They flirted back and encouraged his pursuit. He had bedded more than his fair share, and he considered many of them a friend. It was just Tempest who was destined to drive him mad with frustration and lust. His family name was an obstacle. She feared his family and was suspicious of his intentions.

  I should stay away from her.

  As he sat brooding in one of Rainbault’s drawing room chairs, he muted the conversation around him as he silently puzzled out his next step with Tempest.

  “I recognize that particular look.” The amusement in the feminine voice prompted Mathias to glance up.

  “Why, Mrs. Kitts, when did you arrive?” he said, stirring from his slouched position in the chair, but she gestured for him to remain seated.

  “Thirty minutes ago, not that you noticed. By the by, when did you start thinking of me as Mrs. Kitts, you heartless rogue?” she replied, sitting down next to him on the embroidered footstool with cabriole legs carved from mahogany.

  “When you married Mr. Kitts, I believe,” he said, unable to keep from grinning. “How are you, Sabra?”

  “I shall be splendid once you have given me a proper greeting,” she said, her pout reminding him of a spoiled child—albeit a very pretty one.

  “I see beauty improves with age, darling.”

  “I tend to agree,” she said, leaning forward in anticipation.

  Mathias saw no reason to deny an old friend. He shifted his body and met her halfway. She offered him her powdered cheek, but turned at the last second so his lips touched hers. Her hand lightly touched his cheek and she kissed him again. Each tender kiss was infused with affection and remembrance. One of his friends cheered in the background, most likely thrilled he was doing something other than brooding.

  Sabra’s blue eyes were damp with unshed tears when she stepped back and stared at him. “By God, I have missed you, Chance.”

  “It has been more than a year, has it not?”

  She fluttered her eyelashes and looked heavenward and offered a silent plea for patience. “Fourteen months, not that I was counting. Nor do you deserve it.”

  He had some history with Mrs. Kitts. However, it was years ago, when she was Miss Battle. She came from a family of wealthy merchants and was thus allowed to mingle on the fringes of polite society. Her respectable dowry drew the interest of fortune hunters and second sons, but the young lady had higher ambitions. He was sixteen years old when he was introduced to the nineteen-year-old Sabra at a large country house gathering, and was instantly smitten. Her pale blond hair, delicate features, and large blue eyes reminded him of an angel. Spending an hour in her company revealed that if she had come from the heavens, then someone had tossed her out. She was a very wicked minx. It took her only three days to seduce him in their host’s orchard.

  Sabra had been his first lover. She had been generous with her body and taught him how to please her. He was so blinded by lust that he had not given much thought beyond their next coupling. When her family discovered that she had seduced the Duke of Blackbern’s heir, they had whisked her away to avoid any unpleasant confrontations. He had not been Sabra’s first lover. She had collected quite a string of young noblemen before they had met, so her practical father knew the duke would not consider his untamed daughter a potential bride for his heir.

  It was not until eight months later that Mathias had come across her again in London. They had a very pleasurable reunion. It was only afterwards that Sabra confessed that her father had married her off to the second son of a baronet. The marriage had paid off her husband’s gambling debts and opened more doors for her and her family. It was a loveless marriage, but that had not swayed Mathias into continuing the affair. Even if she had spoken the truth, he doubted Kitts would have approved of his wife taking lovers. He and Sabra eventually had settled into a casual friendship, and three years later, word had reached him that her husband had died in a duel. Whether it was over gambling debts or Sabra’s unfaithfulness, Mathias never bothered to inquire.

  “What has brought you to Rainbault’s door this evening?” he asked out of politeness.

  “I encountered him at the park the other day. He mentioned you in passing, and I lamented that I had not seen you in ages.”

  “I was unaware that you were in town this month,” he explained, placing his hand over the one she rested on the ornate arm of his chair.

  “Not that you ever trouble yourself to find out.” She was pouting again. It made less of an impact now that she was a twenty-six-year-old widow than it had when she was a nineteen-year-old.

  “My darling Sabra, what you and I had is old history. You have been widowed for three years, and for all I know, you could be married again.”

  “Have you bothered asking anyone?” she huffed.

  “Sabra.”

  His calm manner and patient expression reminded her that he was no longer that reckless, passionate boy she had seduced, and could bend around her little finger.

  “Oh, very well. You are correct, of course.” She sighed. “Perhaps it was vain of me to hope that you have waited for me.”

  Her outrageous statement was rewarded with a hearty laugh. “Just as you have saved yourself for me, Mrs. Kitts?” Mathias picked up his brandy from a small round table beside the chair. He t
ook a contemplative sip as he studied her through his veiled gaze. “No, I think not. So why do you not tell me the real reason you have sought me out.”

  Ten minutes later, he held Rainbault by the front of his evening coat and was shoving his back against the wall just outside the drawing room. “You told Sabra I was looking for a lover,” he growled into his friend’s smiling face.

  “I might have mentioned it.” The prince did not appear to be troubled by Mathias’s anger or his precarious position. “Releasing your seed into a willing woman does wonders for a man’s disposition. From the perpetual snarl carved into your face, I would deduce that considerable time has passed since you’ve had the pleasure.”

  “Chance.” St. Lyon placed his hand on Mathias’s shoulder. “Rainbault wasn’t alone that day in the park when he encountered Mrs. Kitts. I was there, and it was my suggestion that she join us this evening.”

  The prince glared at St. Lyon. “Don’t steal all the credit, my friend. I thought it was a grand idea.”

  “Which one of you told her that I often speak of her fondly?”

  Both his friends shrugged, or at least Rainbault tried. It was difficult to move since Mathias had him pinned to the wall.

  St. Lyon said, “You may not have mentioned her of late, but I know you well enough to know that you are fond of the lady.”

  He could not believe that his friends had conspired to get him into Sabra’s bed. “What I had with Sabra ended when she married Kitts. If I had wanted to renew my friendship with her, I would have comforted her when I heard the news that her husband was killed in a duel. Your meddling has placed me in an awkward position.”

  “How so?” Sabra demanded, standing in the open door of the drawing room. Inside, the room was silent as the occupants tried to eavesdrop on the argument in the passageway. “All you had to do is tell me the truth.”

  Her smile wasn’t as bright as it had been when she first sat down on the footstool. “I think I will take my leave. Good evening, gentlemen.”

  Mathias scowled at Rainbault before he released his grip. “This isn’t finished between us.”