You Can't Always Get the Marquess You Want

by Alexandra Hawkins

  “St. Lyon. You can consider me a friend, my lady.”

  The viscount’s kindness ruined her composure. Her face twisted as the pain and grief of her loss rose up in her throat and threatened to choke her. Suddenly she found her face buried in the curve of St. Lyon’s shoulder. He was on his knees and had pulled her forward to offer her comfort.

  He was the second gentleman this evening who had offered her friendship and compassion while she cried over the man she could not have.

  “There, there,” he crooned as if soothing a child. “Can you talk about it?”

  She felt like a fool. “I—”

  Tempest started as someone enthusiastically slammed the door. She and St. Lyon separated, and she turned to see Chance stalking toward him.

  “First Warrilow and now one of my closest friends,” he growled as if she had betrayed him.

  “Chance,” the viscount began as he braced the palm of his hands on his knees and stood. “It is nothing like that.”

  “Not one word, St. Lyon,” the marquess snarled, knocking the other man’s hand away when he attempted to touch his shoulder. Chance glared down at her tearstained face. “Quite the little seductress. You certainly hoodwinked me. Then again, I would expect that from a Brant.”

  Tempest stood. Rage filled her, and her fingers twitched as if she longed to slap him.

  Noticing that she had curled her hand into a fist, he tilted his chin upward. “Take a shot, darling. I dare you.”

  Her lips thinned at his tone. Oh, she longed to strike him down. If only she had been born a male.

  St. Lyon grabbed his arm. “That is enough. What is wrong with you? Are you drunk?”

  Chance’s ire switched to the viscount. “And you, one of my dearest friends. Do you have to bed every wench who crosses your path?”

  “Leave him alone,” Tempest said, grimacing as she stepped closer to the two gentlemen. “Do not paint St. Lyon with the brush of your sins, Lord Fairlamb.”

  Chance had cured her of her tears. The vile scoundrel.

  “What is she talking about?” the viscount asked. Baffled, his gaze shifted between her and his friend.

  “Your friend favors evening strolls in the garden. A different lady each night,” she said, her face twisted with disgust. “I’ll wager you do not even know her name.”

  “Sabra,” Chance impatiently snapped as St. Lyon groaned.

  “You arrived with Sabra on your arm?” The viscount shook his head with disappointment. “Are you mad? Not a wise decision, my friend.”

  “Did I ask for your blessing?”

  The mystery lady had some history with the gentlemen.

  “I don’t care who she is,” Tempest said, the air hissing through her clenched teeth. “Or whom you stroll with through torchlit gardens, or—or whom you kiss. She can have you!” With her chin high, she marched toward the door. Her ankle hurt, so she did not bother to hide her limp.

  “What the hell is wrong with your foot?” Chance yelled as he followed her to the door.

  “It is none of your business, Lord Fairlamb,” she tossed back.

  St. Lyon pulled his friend back before he could put his hands on her. “She was upset when I ran into her. I intended to calm her and then look for her family. Before Lady Tempest’s arrival, I had been visiting with a—uh—friend.”

  Tempest rolled her eyes. The viscount’s friend had been straightening her clothing when she exited the room. She opened the parlor’s door to leave, but Chance used the palm of his hand to shut it.

  “I will scream if you stop me from leaving,” she threatened.

  “Where is Warrilow?” His harsh tone had her bristling. “Did he say something to upset you?”

  “Did he?” Her eyes narrowed, and Chance and St. Lyon were intelligent enough to deduce that she was furious. Both of them took a step back. “I will have you know that Lord Warrilow is a consummate gentleman, and you, Lord Fairlamb, can go to the devil!”

  No one stopped her when she opened the door. Tempest stepped into the hall and moved as quickly as her sore ankle allowed her. She was too upset with Chance to feel much pain. The man had crushed her heart, and then he had the audacity to be furious at Lord Warrilow for possibly upsetting her.

  She was almost to the stairs when she felt a light tap on her shoulder. Blindly she struck out, but her arm sliced harmlessly through the air. To her shame, she had tried to hit Lord Bastrell.

  “Forgive me, I thought you were—him.”

  The viscount held up his hands in surrender. “I told him to stay in the parlor while I spoke to you. Neither one of you is thinking clearly.”

  “Which has always been my problem when it comes to Lord Fairlamb,” was her scathing reply, directed at herself. “Fortunately, I have come to my senses.”

  “Are you leaving?”

  She nodded. “First, I need to find a servant. My mother and sister are in the cardroom. I need to let them know that I have twisted my ankle and plan to retire early.”

  “He did not listen to me when I told him that you were hurt,” St. Lyon muttered.

  Tempest frowned, not catching his all his words. “I beg your pardon?”

  He grinned. “Nothing. Say, I have an idea. While you hunt for a servant and write a note for your mother, permit me to make amends for the misunderstanding I have created between you and Chance by loaning you my coach.”

  “It is unnecessary. Any misunderstandings are Chance’s fault. You are not to blame,” she said generously. “Nor do I care what he thinks.” Not after watching Chance flirt with that Sabra woman. “And you do not have to escort me home. We arrived in the family coach. The coachman can return for my mother and sister later.”

  “Nonsense,” he countered, smoothly taking her arm to make her descent down the staircase less painful. “This is likely the first of several stops for your mother and sister. Why inconvenience them, when I can do this small service for you.”

  “St. Lyon—”

  “Think nothing of it,” he said, sidestepping her protests. “It will be my honor to assist you. Not to mention, my chivalry will annoy Chance.”

  Tempest was still mad enough at the marquess that it was the right thing for St. Lyon to say to gain her consent. “Very well. I will talk to one of the servants.”

  “The coach will be waiting for you when you are ready, my dear,” St. Lyon assured her.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Tempest expected if St. Lyon had been kind enough to lend her his coach that he planned to join her on the drive home. Instead, he helped her settle into the coach and moved to shut the door.

  She stalled him by placing her palm against the side of the door. “You are not coming?”

  The viscount inclined his head. “Pray, forgive me for abandoning you. I confess that I have some unfinished business with that blonde. You know the lady—she was the one who was—”

  “I am truly sorry about that,” Tempest replied, not wanting any details. “You can offer my apologies to your friend as well.”

  St. Lyon wiggled his eyebrows in a leering fashion. For a rogue, he was quite charming. “I will,” he promised, and shut the coach’s door.

  He glanced up at the coachman sitting on the perch. “Look after Lady Tempest, good man.”

  “Aye, milord,” was the coachman’s gruff reply.

  With a final wave to St. Lyon, Tempest settled back against the richly appointed compartment to enjoy the drive home. Exhausted, she thought to close her eyes only for a minute.

  Five minutes later, she was soundly asleep.

  * * *

  Something soft tickled her cheek.

  Without opening her eyes, Tempest slowly became aware that the coach was no longer moving. She yawned and straightened to stretch her back. It was then that she opened her eyes and gasped.

  Tempest was no longer in St. Lyon’s coach. Someone had carried her inside while she slept, placed her on a sofa and covered her legs with a blanket. The depth of her exhaustion and
the trust she had unknowingly granted the coachman left her shaken. She glanced at her surroundings. The interior of the unfamiliar sitting room was illuminated by several oil lamps.

  This is not my father’s house.

  She pushed aside the blanket and sat up so her feet touched the thick rug. While she was asleep, someone had removed her evening slippers. Before she could panic, Chance entered the room with a large pan in his bare hands.

  “Good, you are awake,” he said, kneeling down in front of her. “I was beginning to become concerned that you had not told St. Lyon the whole truth.”

  “About what?” she asked, not understanding how she was sitting in a stranger’s house with Chance.

  “The extent of your injuries,” he calmly explained. “He told me that you had injured your ankle, but you barely stirred when I opened the door of the coach, I thought you might have bumped your head when I rolled one of the wheels over a particularly nasty hole in the street.”

  She sank back down on the sofa. “You were the coachman?”

  “Yes.” At her stunned expression, he hastily explained, “You were never in any danger. I have some experience handling the ribbons. St. Lyon, Thorn—all of us have had a turn or two on the perch. Sometimes we hold races.” She simply gaped at him. He ducked his head and repositioned the pan of water near her feet. “Never mind. Now, which ankle is hurt?”

  “My left,” she said, flexing her bare toes, and grimaced. “It’s still sore, but it feels better.”

  “I heated some water. Bathing your ankle in salt water should ease the pain.” He gently grasped her left foot and placed it in the warm water. “I also made enough if you would like some hot tea.”

  The warm water did nothing to alleviate the dread brewing in her stomach. “Is this your father’s house?”

  Chance shook his head as he fussed and repositioned her foot in the pan of water. “I told you that I no longer reside with my family. This is my house.”

  “Why am I here?” she blurted out. “What is going on, Chance?”

  “No trickery, I promise,” he said, drawing an X over his heart. At some point, he had removed his black evening coat and waistcoat. His cravat knot was still tied, but he had rolled up his sleeves when he pumped and heated the water. “Are you comfortable? I could light the coals if you are chilled.”

  “The blanket is enough,” she said, silently wondering if she had struck her head. None of this made any sense. “You were very angry with me.”

  “And you thought about punching me.” He made a soft scolding noise with his tongue. “St. Lyon claims you took a swing at him.”

  “I thought it was you,” she muttered, still embarrassed by her behavior.

  “Ah,” he said, not sounding too upset that she had been provoked to commit violence. “Well, no harm done. God knows I had it coming if you had managed to hit me.”

  Suddenly it was too much for Tempest to take in. His calm demeanor was too much at odds with his angry accusations. She brought her hands up and covered her entire face so he could not witness her tears.

  “Tempest,” he said, inching forward on his knees until he was close enough to peel her fingers from her face. “My love.”

  Without any hesitation, he pulled her into his arms, encouraging her to bury her face into his shoulder. Tempest felt his hands at her back. Chance held her close while she sobbed. “I am so sorry,” he murmured into her neck. “I was jealous. It shames me to admit that I lost my head when I noticed you dancing with Warrilow. Not to mention how he ruined our meeting at the park. I was beginning to wonder if you had a hand in it, and I took it out on you. I wasn’t being fair, nor did I give you a chance to explain. I said some awful things to you and St. Lyon.”

  “He loves you,” she said, sniffing a little as she raised her head. Chance handed her a clean handkerchief. “St. Lyon obviously has forgiven you. Otherwise, he would have never helped you trick me into climbing into your coach and aiding you in my own kidnapping.”

  “I have not kidnapped you,” he denied, plucking the handkerchief from her hands, and wiped away her tears. “Think of this stop as a delay. You can leave anytime you wish. All you have to do is ask. I just wanted some time alone with you so I could apologize to you properly. I was cruel and I deserve to crawl.”

  Chance looked so grumpy about the notion that she could not help but smile. “Are tending my ankle and the hot tea part of your repentance?”

  He careless lifted his right shoulder. “I suppose. You never told St. Lyon how you injured your ankle, and you were so angry at me that I was worried you had made it worse.”

  “I was watching you and Sabra and not paying attention. I stepped on poor Lord Warrilow’s foot and twisted my ankle,” she explained.

  “Sabra and I,” he began, and took a moment to knead the muscles at the back of his neck. “I was sixteen years old when I first met her. She’s a few years older, and for a few months, I thought I loved her.”

  “She’s very beautiful.”

  “Yes, well … it ended quickly when she ran off and married someone else,” he said, unhappy that he was dredging up a part of his life that he would prefer to forget. “She’s been widowed for a few years, and now she has an elderly earl enamored with her.”

  Tempest did not know Sabra, but she had seen how the woman looked at Chance. She was in love with him. “You are no longer sixteen. This time you might be able to convince her to run off with you.”

  “Maybe.”

  He glanced away, and Tempest realized that Sabra had already tried to seduce Chance. Any sympathy she had for the widow faded. “Where is Sabra?” she asked, praying the lady was not waiting for Chance to return to her.

  “I abandoned her in Lord and Lady Karmack’s garden. We quarreled when I told her that I was planning to confront Warrilow, but when I entered the ballroom, both you and Warrilow were gone. I asked St. Lyon to see that she gets home,” he said, refolding a portion of her skirt because a section of the hem had been sitting in the pan of water.

  His lack of concern for his former lover’s welfare should not have lifted Tempest’s spirits, but she was a selfish woman. She silently rejoiced that the beautiful Sabra would be returning to her elderly earl.

  “What happened to Warrilow?” He had kept his voice level, and infused a touching note of curiosity not to arouse her suspicion that her answer mattered to him. “It is difficult to believe he would have left you, especially when he was aware you were injured.”

  Ah, so that was the reason he was so angry when he had entered the parlor. Chance had expected to catch Tempest and Warrilow in a scandalous embrace. Finding his roguish friend alone with her had further ignited his temper.

  “Lord Warrilow had other plans for the evening. He offered to stay, but I encouraged him to leave.”

  “I accepted Sabra’s invitation to escort her this evening only because I did not want to spend another night drinking myself into a stupor so I did not have to think about you and Warrilow,” he confessed, threading his fingers through hers until their hands clasped. “I was there as her friend. Nothing would have happened between us, even if we had remained in the garden.”

  Tempest held her breath when he lifted his lowered eyelids and held her gaze.

  “There is only one lady I conspire to lure into a garden at midnight.”

  Finally remembering to breathe, she noisily exhaled. “Who?”

  “Why, it is you, my darling girl,” he replied, his eyes glowing with affection and humor.

  “Does this place have a garden?”

  He highly approved of her suggestion. She could see it in his expression, the way his mouth curved and his nostrils subtly flared.

  Then he shook his head.

  “No?” Tempest tried not to pout. “You disappoint me, Lord Fairlamb.”

  “You have a sore ankle, love,” he reminded her as he unfolded his body so he could cage her against the sofa. Tempest fell against the pillows on the sofa. Her bare foot kicked the
surface of the water, sending a liquid plume across the rug. “Besides, you are right where I want you.”

  “I am?” she coyly asked, but she was unafraid. It was when she believed she had lost him that her fears and regrets had tormented her.

  “Yes, my lady.” He leered, looking very much a scoundrel. His mouth hovered enticingly just above hers. “Do you welcome my kisses?”

  “Ye—”

  Chance crushed his lips against hers.

  Hunger long denied collided with the growing swell of relief. Tempest welcomed the sharp sting from the edge of his teeth, and she wrapped her arms around his neck to draw him closer. She ignored the discomfort and teased him with her tongue. Using the nimble tip, she poked and stroked, testing the narrow part for weaknesses.

  Abruptly he opened for her, allowing her to sink deeper into him. Her tongue curled and unfurled against his, giving him pleasure even as she laid claim to her own.

  Tempest made soft sounds of surprise when he covered one of her breasts with his hand.

  His mouth tore away from hers. “We should stop,” he said, giving her another opportunity to push him away.

  Chance had told her that she was free to leave. All she had to do was ask.

  The fact that the choice had always been hers endowed her with a power she had been unaware she possessed. Tempest brazenly moved closer and played with the clever knot of linen at his throat. She could feel his heart thundering in his chest. “Do you truly wish to stop? Send me away when you went to so much effort to bring me here?”

  “I want you to stay,” he said, his eyes hot with desire. “Every time I kiss you, it is becoming more difficult to remember that you are an innocent. Every time I touch you, I am greedy for more.”

  “It is the same for me,” she said, knowing her eyes reflected the same longing she glimpsed in his. “When we are apart, all I do is daydream of the next time we can be together.” She pressed her face against his shirt.

  “Tempest,” he groaned, still fighting her.

  Himself.

  “I never thought wanting could hurt so much,” she murmured against his chest and nibbled at the small button on his shirt. “You know how to ease it. For both of us. Show me. I want to give you pleasure.”