You Can't Always Get the Marquess You Want

by Alexandra Hawkins

  “My fault?” Tempest turned away and checked the damage done to her hair and lips. Chance was correct. It would be difficult to explain away the high color in her cheeks and the fullness in her lips. “How so?”

  “You keep taunting me to put my hands on you.” Chance stepped behind her and kissed her bare shoulder. “When can I touch you again?”

  “I do not know.” Tempest stared into the mirror, and their gazes locked. The blinding need that seemed reserved solely for him had cooled, giving her the opportunity to recall the dozen or so reasons why she should stay away from him. “Shall we try the bookseller’s shop again?”

  “Then I wait another ten days? I would rather not,” he said, still annoyed about it.

  “We could meet in the park?”

  “Rotten Row is not a very discreet place to meet,” he mused out loud. “Someone is bound to recognize us and share the good news with our families.”

  And then she would be beaten by her father and sent to one of the estates in the country until he could convince Lord Warrilow or some other gentleman to marry his reckless daughter. Tempest shook her head. “There are other places to meet besides one of the ton’s favorite haunts,” she said, stepping out of his embrace. “Unless you have a better suggestion.”

  “What day?”

  “Three days,” she said, picking the first number that came into her head.

  “Two,” he countered. “My patience does have a limit.”

  “Three o’clock?”

  “Half past the one o’clock hour,” he replied. “It will be too early for the fashionable to make an appearance. If you like, you could bring your sketching notebook.”

  She nodded, touched that he looked beyond his own needs. “I will.” She offered him a shy smile. “I should go. With a little luck, Arabella and I should be able to convince our mother to leave after Miss King’s performance.”

  Her mother would not seek out a confrontation with the Duchess of Blackbern in front of Lord Warrilow, Tempest thought. Not that she intended to share her reasoning with Chance. She curtsied. “Good evening, my lord.”

  The marquess captured her hand and kissed it. “The very best,” he replied as if she had asked him a question.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Tempest slipped into the music room unnoticed. There were half a dozen of Lady Henwood’s guests crowded near the door, so she threaded her way through them to find a place to stand at the back of the room. She was relieved everyone’s attention was still centered on the raven-haired Miss King. The young woman was singing a sad ballad about unrequited love. The emotion vibrating in her voice and the grief twisting her face appeared sincere, and they stirred sympathy even in Tempest.

  Chance had been smitten with Miss King.

  She pouted at the unpleasant thought.

  The marquess had not been immune to the woman’s beauty; however, in his defense, Tempest doubted very few gentlemen were capable of resisting Miss King’s charms when she cared to wield them. It was an enviable talent. Perhaps it was fortunate that the woman had abandoned her attempts to lure Chance into her bed and turned her attentions to Oliver.

  She idly wondered if she should warn her brother, but dismissed getting involved. Oliver was not inexperienced when it came to affairs of the heart. Neither was Miss King.

  It was Tempest who was in over her head.

  She started as everyone applauded. The woman who was the center of all the adulation curtsied and smiled demurely as Oliver presented her with a bouquet of flowers. One by one, guests began to stand and move toward the front so they could be introduced to Miss King. With so many people moving about the room, Tempest could no longer see a glimpse of her mother and sister.

  It was going to be a long evening.

  “Fancy meeting you here, Lady Tempest.”

  Her eyes widened as she recognized Chance’s voice. Without looking at her, he stepped forward until he was standing beside her.

  “What are you doing?” she whispered, resisting the urge to glare at him. “Are you trying to call attention to yourself?”

  “Not at all,” he replied, sounding too calm for their predicament. “It is going to be difficult to convince my mother to leave unless I find her first.”

  “Don’t be obtuse.” When she realized she was frowning, she took a deep breath and carefully blanked her expression. “Why are you standing next to me?”

  “No particular reason, darling,” was his casual reply. “The lighting in the parlor was meager, and I wanted to see your face. You look beautiful this evening.”

  His compliment deflated any annoyance she was feeling. “You are too kind.”

  She shuddered as he deliberately grazed the back of his hand against hers. “If I were kind, I would leave you alone,” he drawled. “Two days, Lady Tempest. Do not disappoint me.”

  Chance strolled away without waiting for a response. Tempest looked around her, and no one seemed to have noticed her brief exchange with the marquess. Her shoulders sagged with relief.

  Until she noticed that her mother was staring at her. How long has she been watching me? Her pulse quickened at the thought her mother could have seen her speaking to Chance. Several people crossed in front of the marchioness, momentarily obscuring Tempest’s view, and by the time she did have a clear view, her mother had turned away to speak with someone.

  She did not recognize the gentleman, nor did she care so long as her mother stayed away from Chance and the Duchess of Blackbern.

  “There you are!” Her cousin enveloped her into an enthusiastic embrace.

  “Harriet,” she said, drawing back. “I did not expect to see you this evening.”

  “It was a last-minute decision,” Harriet explained, looking exceptional in her green dress. “Mama was worried Lady Henwood would be offended if we did not make an appearance. I tried to tell her the countess would understand, considering the distressing situation.”

  She had mentioned Harriet to Lord Warrilow, but it had been lie. Had he said anything to Arabella or her mother? Distracted by her own concerns, it took a few seconds for her cousin’s words to register.

  “I beg your pardon. What distressing situation?”

  Harriet looked over her shoulder at the small crowd gathered around Miss King. “Did your mother not tell you? My father has made a fool of himself over a certain lowbred woman.”

  Tempest could not fathom it. “Your father and Miss King? I do not believe it.”

  “Mama discovered a pile of bills from numerous merchants.” Harriet’s eyes were hot with outrage and pain in her mother’s behalf. “When she confronted him, he naturally denied that the woman was his mistress. She threw him out of the house, and Papa has been sleeping at one of his clubs ever since.”

  Tempest watched her brother discourage one of Miss King’s ardent admirers with a dark glance. She could not imagine Oliver sharing his mistress with a gentleman old enough to be her father—not to mention a relative. “Perhaps your mother misunderstood.”

  “The deliveries were made to Miss King, and the bills were sent to my father. What other explanation could there be?” Harriet asked.

  She clasped her cousin’s hand. “I agree, it is damning evidence. However, I know your father. He is a good man. I cannot believe he would betray your mother and his family in such a public and humiliating manner.”

  “Then why is he renting a room at his club?” the other woman said.

  “Well, your mother has a rather formidable temper,” Tempest gently pointed out. “Gentlemen always make fools of themselves over women. It was a harmless flirtation that had already run its course when your mother discovered the bills on his desk.”

  “Harmless or not, when I marry Lord Medeley, I will not tolerate such deceit,” Harriet vowed, her hurt and anger suddenly directed at her betrothed.

  Tempest hoped the earl was not in attendance this evening, as he would be unable to avoid the sharp edge of his beloved’s tongue.

  “Would you?
”

  Tempest immediately thought of Chance flirting with Miss King. Her fingers tightened around her cousin’s fingers until the other woman winced. She hastily released Harriet’s hand. It was unfair for her to be furious about something that had occurred before he met her.

  Unless he was not being completely honest with her.

  “I would quietly murder my betrothed if he betrayed me.” Tempest shook her head. Chance had not asked for her hand in marriage. Nor would he if she persisted in behaving like a woman scorned by her lover. “Nevertheless, I doubt your father betrayed your mother. Once your mother has calmed down, your father will be more inclined to offer apologies and an explanation.”

  “I hope you are right.” She glanced again over her shoulder at Miss King. “Mama thought if she was absent this evening, there would be talk.”

  “There always is,” Tempest said, her voice filled with sympathy. “However, the gossip will be speculation about my brother’s relationship with Miss King.”

  His behavior this evening was likely embarrassing their mother.

  “True.” Harriet put her arm around Tempest’s waist. “Remind me to thank Oliver later. You can always count on family.”

  “Speaking of family, perhaps we should rejoin them.”

  Harriet nodded. “By the by, I know it is none of my business, but I have to ask. Whom have you been kissing? Is it anyone I know?”

  Tempest could feel the blood drain from her face. “Is it so obvious?”

  “I’m afraid so, Cousin.”

  * * *

  On the other side of the room, Mathias was also about to pay for his sins.

  After he had walked away from Tempest, he headed for the general area where he had last seen his mother and sisters. Neither St. Lyon nor his family was in sight. He stared down at the empty chairs, but he was not worried. Lady Norgrave was still holding court on the opposite side of the music room. Or she was just minutes ago. There were too many people standing around him to keep track of her, and that was just fine with him. If she recognized him, the marchioness would be less than thrilled to see another Rooke.

  It would be the least of her worries. Lady Norgrave would require smelling salts if she learned about her daughter’s latest mischief with him.

  If the poor lady could glean his wicked thoughts about Tempest, she would lock her daughter away and take to her bed.

  However, Tempest was safe, and she was returning to her family well kissed but otherwise untouched. Mathias was not ruled by his cock. He was not planning to give Marcroft a reason to call him out.

  The thought brought him up short.

  It seemed only weeks ago, he had been baiting the earl into a duel. Mathias still despised the man, but if Marcroft challenged him, Tempest would not be the reason for it. He intended to keep her out of his quarrel with her brother.

  “They are probably waiting for the coach,” he said, confident St. Lyon was protecting the duchess and Mathias’s sisters.

  He turned and halted when he noticed Clara King was standing in front of him. He hadn’t given her a thought when he returned to the music room. When he wasn’t paying attention, she had excused herself from her admirers—even Marcroft.

  “My compliments on a fine performance, Miss King.” He bowed, but did not step closer or attempt to kiss her hand. “I will leave you to your admirers.”

  Clara King was just as lovely as he remembered. The floral scent teased his nose as she closed the distance between them. “Why? Are you not one of my most devoted admirers, Lord Fairlamb?”

  The impact of her liquid blue gaze could muddle a man’s good sense. He had learned that lesson firsthand. Still, he was not completely immune when she was standing so close to him.

  Then he recalled that Marcroft had bedded her, and annoyance cleared his head. “Admirers can be as fickle as the lady they worship, Miss King.”

  She appeared puzzled by his statement. Or perhaps she was a better actress than he had credited. “I have been worried about you. You never returned to the theater, nor have you called on me at the hotel.”

  “I have no doubt you have found other amusements, Miss King,” he said dryly. If he had not witnessed what a heartless jade she was, he might have felt obliged to apologize for his rude behavior.

  The singer was visibly taken aback by his coolness. He gave her credit for her swift recovery. “The last time we spoke, you called me Clara.”

  A lot had occurred since that last meeting. He and Clara would have become lovers if he had not chased after Tempest. The decision had changed everything.

  “I regretfully must take my leave,” he said politely. “My family awaits my return.” He turned to walk away.

  “No, wait!” Miss King said, taking a step forward and then stopping when he halted. It was the first time he had seen her appear indecisive about her next move. “Will I see you again?”

  “While you reside in London, your popularity with the ton makes it inevitable,” he said, not unkindly. “There is no reason to pout, Miss King. After all, you still have Marcroft dancing on a leading string.”

  Mathias did not wait for her reply. He pivoted on his heel and walked away. Clara King might lament that a rich fish had slipped her hook, but she was wise enough to cut her loses. She was not in love with him any more than he had been in love with her.

  He glanced up and to his chagrin, Tempest was heading in his direction. Their gazes met, but she deliberately slid hers and stared at something over his shoulder. Or someone. Clara King. Mathias silently cursed his rotten luck. Tempest had observed his exchange with Miss King and assumed that he had lied to her.

  The pain in her gaze felt like claws digging into his gut.

  Mathias ground his back molars together in frustration. He wanted to go to her and explain that the singer had approached him. Unfortunately, he was not in a position to offer explanations. Tempest was not alone. Lady Harriet was at her side, and from the corner of his eye, he saw Marcroft making his way toward his sister. The only thing that would make the situation worse was if Lady Norgrave tapped him on the shoulder.

  It was definitely time to leave.

  Switching directions, he strode toward the nearest door and exited the music room.

  * * *

  Charlotte stepped away from one of Lady Henwood’s potted plants and into the brighter glow flickering from the wall sconces as she watched Blackbern’s heir disappear around the corner.

  Yes, I know who you are, Lord Fairlamb.

  With two daughters ripe for marriage, she had made a point of studying potential husbands for them. Norgrave had selected his favorites for the season without asking her opinion. Not that he would have listened to her. Her husband handpicked gentlemen who fit his aspirations, confident that their girls would blindly accept his dictates. Last season’s debacle with Rinehart should have been a hint of things to come.

  The walking nightmare this season had taken the form of a Rooke.

  It was enough for Charlotte to believe in curses.

  In the last few years, she had observed Lord Fairlamb whenever fate was cruel enough for their paths to cross. It was obvious to her that the young nobleman had the look of his father and his mother. She knew precisely who he was before a friend confirmed her suspicions. From the gossips, she had gleaned that the marquess had inherited his father’s carnal appetites. It was all Charlotte needed to know to condemn him.

  When had Tempest met him?

  Although Fairlamb and her daughter behaved in the music room as if they did not know each other, Charlotte had taken one look at them standing close together and she knew. Perhaps it was a mother’s instinct. Her eldest child was in danger. Gently reared and spoiled by her family, Tempest believed in the good in people. She had no idea of pain, of cruelty … of the ruthlessness of a man’s nature.

  Something had to be done.

  Her mind made up, Charlotte walked down the passageway. A footman stood near one of the open doors. He held a silver tray lade
n with sparkling wine. Only the best for Lady Henwood, she thought as she plucked a glass off the tray without slowing her stride. She continued down the hall until she came to the stairs.

  “Up or down?” she murmured. Should she confront young Fairlamb with her accusations? No, he would only deny them. Men were such duplicitous creatures.

  She sipped her wine to steady her nerves.

  “Upstairs it is.”

  A lifetime had passed since she last sought out the company of this woman. Once she had considered her a friend. Later, she realized that she had been nothing more than a nuisance. She had been a naïve girl who had been merely tolerated by the people around her, who later stared at her with various measures of pity.

  Only one lady knew her secrets, and Charlotte despised her for it.

  She opened the door to the parlor their hostess was using as a private room for the ladies. The room was not empty. As she entered the room, a maid dipped into a curtsy and would have spoken to her if Charlotte had not dismissed her. Three ladies sat in a group and were chatting about their children. Another woman was partially hidden behind a screen as the harried maid she was berating was loosening her tight stays.

  She discovered her quarry sitting in one of the chairs near the hearth. The Duchess of Blackbern had her back to the door, so she had not noticed Charlotte’s entrance. However, her friend was more observant. The matron leaned forward and whispered something to the duchess. Although Her Grace was too polite to turn around, Charlotte took some pleasure in observing how the news of her arrival caused the other woman’s shoulders to stiffen.

  She took another sip of her sparkling wine and stared down at the woman who had played a role in ruining her life. “Good evening, Your Grace.”

  The Duchess of Blackbern slowly stood up and turned to greet her. Charlotte could not recall the last time she had spoken to the woman she had once considered a close friend. Time had been kind to the duchess. Her youthful features had matured, leaving her with an almost ageless beauty. It seemed unfair that this woman had been rewarded while Charlotte had been punished.