You Can't Always Get the Marquess You Want

by Alexandra Hawkins

  “Fairlamb, you say.” He rubbed his jaw and pondered the depth of his daughter’s betrayal. “Blackbern’s heir.”

  If he had struck her again, Tempest would have conceded that she deserved it. She would have accepted her punishment without protest.

  Instead of attacking her, her father began to laugh. A snort became a few chuckles. His chuckles flowed into belly-shaking laughter that went on and on until he was gasping for breath. Lord Norgrave dragged air into his lungs and kept laughing.

  Tempest had never been so frightened of her father.

  Still holding Arabella, the two sisters moved away from him and escaped upstairs. Even behind her locked door, she could still hear her father’s laughter.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  The rumors of a betrothal between Lady Tempest Brant and the Marquess of Warrilow reached Mathias’s ears the following afternoon at one of his clubs. The unfortunate fellow who shared the good tidings swiftly regretted it once he was interrogated by Mathias. He heard the news again when he encountered a friend at his favorite tailor. When another acquaintance mentioned it when he was at Tattersall’s with Rainbault and St. Lyon, he was too agitated to be near the horses.

  Short of confronting Tempest directly, which his friends strongly discouraged, there was only one gentleman who could confirm if there was any truth to the gossip.

  Marcroft.

  After a few inquiries, Mathias knew where he could find the earl. This time of day, Marcroft often patronized a small tavern that was known for a private room that was off the main taproom where young nobles honed their pugilist skills with anyone willing to fight them. Rainbault and Thorn had witnessed several of the earl’s matches as he tested his fists against hardened opponents who earned their living on the purses of such private fights, but Mathias had been reluctant to tangle with Marcroft in an establishment he often frequented.

  “Have I mentioned what a terrible idea this is, Chance?” Rainbault asked when they arrived at the tavern.

  “Once or twice,” Mathias muttered. “Unless you and St. Lyon are planning to tie me to a wooden post, I highly recommend you cease wasting your breath arguing with me about it.”

  “I cannot fathom why you are obsessed with this chit,” the prince said, sounding equally annoyed. “One is as good as any other.”

  Mathias seized his friend by the front of his frock coat and shoved him against the exterior wall of the tavern. “That is where you and I disagree. If you care about your unblemished chin, do not belittle a lady I hold in the highest esteem or I will put a dent in it.”

  “Good God, you are in love with her!” St. Lyon exclaimed.

  Mathias abruptly released his friend’s coat and took a step back. “I am n—Damn it all!”

  “It is a reasonable explanation for your recent behavior.” Rainbault used his hands to smooth away the wrinkles caused by Mathias’s fingers. “Which even you must admit has lacked a degree of sanity.”

  Mathias gritted his teeth but did not argue. His life has been cast in turmoil since he first encountered Tempest. He was keeping secrets from his family and friends; his temper had been honed to a fine, dangerous edge; and the thought of Warrilow claiming Tempest as his bride was driving him to seek out a man he viewed as an enemy.

  “Let’s find Marcroft, and then we can leave.” He entered the tavern, not glancing back to see if his friends followed him.

  The earl was in the private room that was used for wagered fights; however, he was not one of the pugilists. He sat at a small table in a corner of the room with two friends. Both men stood when they noticed Mathias’s approach with St. Lyon and Rainbault at his heels.

  Marcroft did not appear to be concerned by their arrival. “Gentlemen, I was unaware you favored this tavern.” He turned to address his companions. “A sign of the times, I suppose, when an establishment must open its doors to undesirables.”

  “Normally, I would enjoy trading insults with you, Marcroft,” he said, bracing his hands on the table. It wobbled as he leaned forward. “However, for the sake of brevity, I prefer to get straight to my business with you.”

  The earl gave him an assessing look and sat back in his chair. “I would invite you to join me, but, alas, all the chairs have been claimed by my friends.”

  Mathias gave him a humorless smile. “I do not plan to share a pot of ale with you, Marcroft.”

  The other man glanced over Mathias’s shoulder at St. Lyon and Rainbault. “And what of your friends?”

  “They have no interest in drinking with you either,” Mathias quipped. “I just need you to answer a few questions and then we will leave.”

  “It must be something awfully important for you to approach me, Fairlamb,” Marcroft said, speculation gleaming in his eyes.

  It was of the utmost importance to Mathias, but he was not going to admit it. “Warrilow. Has he offered marriage to your sister?”

  Some of the amusement in the earl’s gaze faded. “Which one? I have three sisters.”

  “Don’t play games with me.”

  Marcroft’s lips tightened at the unspoken threat. “And I have told you to stay away from Tempest. And yet, here you are, asking questions about her that everyone within hearing distance would agree are none of your business.”

  “Warrilow.” Mathias ground his back molars to keep from losing his temper. “Has he approached your father?”

  The earl’s eyes narrowed. “He has, and I believe my father has accepted. Why do you ask?”

  His heart twisted painfully at the other man’s response. It was followed by a burst of jealousy. “And your sister is agreeable to the match?”

  Marcroft’s eyebrows rose in disbelief. “I have no idea. What’s important is that my father approves of the marriage. Any qualms my sister might have will be addressed once she and Warrilow have settled into their married life.” The earl stood when he noted Mathias’s fierce expression. “Fairlamb, you are not actually thinking of interjecting an opinion in this matter?”

  “Why would he do that, I wonder?” Rainbault muttered.

  “Tempest is not in love with Warrilow,” he said flatly.

  “No, I suppose she is not,” Marcroft replied, sensing the internal struggle Mathias battled with his emotions. “Though, my sister is a dutiful daughter. Even if she had tender feelings for another gentleman, she would acquiesce to her father’s dictates.”

  The notion that the earl was correct was a bitter realization. Still, he had a signed paper in his possession that would tip the outcome in his favor. “Care to wager on it?”

  “Stay away from my sister, Fairlamb,” Marcroft snarled. “My father has already taken steps to ensure that she is protected from you or anyone else who seeks to ruin her happiness.”

  “Norgrave is sending her out of town? When?” he pressed.

  “As if I would tell you,” the other man said, his voice dripping with scorn. “Whatever flirtatious game you were playing with my sister ends now. If you attempt to approach her again, I will challenge you to a duel. Perhaps a bullet will spare other ladies your unwanted attentions.”

  “Consider this my acceptance in advance.”

  Before anyone could react, he punched Marcroft. His fist clipped the other man’s chin and sent him sprawling into his chair. The wall behind him was the only reason the earl was upright. He looked as startled as everyone else by Mathias’s unexpected violence.

  “We can set a date when I deserve it.” He turned and met Rainbault’s admiring gaze. “I am finished here.”

  If Norgrave thought it necessary to send Tempest out of London, her departure was likely immediate, and he did not have much time to put his own plans into action.

  * * *

  “I am sorry you were caught up in all of this, Arabella,” Tempest said as London vanished in the distant horizon.

  Because of her, she and Arabella had been banished to the country by their father.

  “You are not to blame,” was her sister’s generous reply.<
br />
  “Aye, she is,” Mrs. Sheehan said, adding an insulting snort. “Behaving like a brazen hussy as you traipse about town with that Rooke fellow. It is fortunate Lord Warrilow will take you to wife after all is said and done. To be certain, the gossips will be counting on their fingers to see how quickly your belly swells and you present your husband an heir. You should be thanking Lord Norgrave for protecting you from—”

  “That is quite enough from you, Mrs. Sheehan,” Tempest said, her tone sharp. It was so unlike her, the older woman swallowed the rest of her words and returned to her sewing.

  In spite of her mother’s pleas and arguments, Norgrave announced that Tempest and her sister would return to the country and remain there until her wedding to Lord Warrilow. She had not even been allowed to bid her future husband farewell. Her father assured her that the young marquess would understand a man’s need to protect his daughters from unscrupulous gentlemen.

  There was only one gentleman her father needed to worry about, and he had taken steps to guarantee that she had been unable to send him word of her departure.

  Would he attempt to find her, Tempest silently wondered. Or would he accept that what they had shared was over now that her father was aware of their friendship? Even if Chance was determined to pursue her, her impending marriage to Lord Warrilow would cool his ardor. He could not stand up against his father any more than she could defy hers.

  In the quiet confines of their traveling coach, Mrs. Sheehan’s sneering words about the gossips counting on their fingers tormented her. In their haste, neither she nor Chance had considered that a child might result from their passionate coupling. Even now, the notion of carrying his child did not strike fear into her heart as perhaps it should. Selfish or not, if she could not keep the gentleman she had fallen in love with, then she wished for his child. Her father would see to it that she and Lord Warrilow married quickly. If there was a babe growing in her womb, everyone would assume it was her husband’s.

  “All will be well, Sister.”

  Tempest started at the touch of her sister’s hand covering hers. She did not realize she had made a soft mournful sob that alerted Arabella to her distress or the tears on her cheeks. Wiping them away with her fingers, she tried to smile in an attempt to reassure her sister.

  “You slept only a few hours,” her sister pointed out, since Tempest had cried for hours after her argument with their father. “Try to sleep. It will pass the time until we reach our destination.”

  Tempest closed her eyes, letting her sadness and fears slip away as the sounds of the horses and coach lulled her to sleep. It seemed only minutes had passed when she abruptly awoke to masculine shouts and pistols discharging.

  “What is wrong?” she asked, instinctively reaching for Arabella’s hand as the coach slowed. She must have slept for hours, because someone had lit the interior lamps, and through the window the sky revealed it was almost twilight.

  “Highwaymen,” Mrs. Sheehan whispered, her face ashen. “Three helpless women. They will murder us.”

  “Not if we give them our valuables,” Arabella replied, keeping her voice low.

  Tempest was in agreement. “We need to keep calm.”

  “Stand, good sir!” one of the thieves shouted to the coachman. “Set aside the ribbons and climb down from your perch.”

  Resisting the urge to press her face to the window, Tempest peered through the dusty glass and could discern at least two men on horseback. The door suddenly opened, and all three ladies shrieked in fright.

  “What ’ave we ’ere?” A hooded man braced his hands on each side of the door to block their escape. “Three ladybirds in the cage,” he called out to his companions.

  “Comely lasses?” one of the men inquired.

  A low chuckle rumbled from beneath the black hood. “Fair enough for us.”

  He reached for Tempest, who shrank away from his touch.

  Mrs. Sheehan slapped the man’s hand. “Leave my lady alone! These ladies are under my protection, and you will not lay a filthy hand on either one of them.”

  “Trouble?” a third male voice inquired, clearly amused.

  “Nothing I can’t ’andle,” he replied, reaching against for Tempest. He grabbed her hand with the intention of pulling her out of the coach.

  “No!” shouted Mrs. Sheehan.

  Tempest took advantage of the man’s distraction and sank her teeth into his forearm. He yelped in surprise and hastily released her. Outside the coach, she could hear the other men laughing.

  “Sharp-toothed wench!” he growled before he roughly seized her by the arms. She cursed him and fought back, but he was too angry with her attack to be gentle. He pulled her out and shoved her into the arms of another hooded man. “Ye kin ’ave this one, and good riddance!”

  The other man caught her and held her too close for decency. When she attempted to pull away, he raised his unencumbered hand to reveal the pistol he was holding.

  Tempest immediately stilled.

  Helplessly, she watched her sister and Mrs. Sheehan disembark from the coach. The highwaymen had the two women stand next to the coachman. Softly their chaperone sobbed into her handkerchief.

  “Watch ’em,” the man who had hauled her out of the coach ordered the man who remained on horseback.

  “Aye. Nary a twitch or I’ll shoot,” the man said coldly.

  No one moved as the thief searched the compartment for valuables. Tempest bit her lip to muffle her groan when the man revealed the pistol Mrs. Sheehan had concealed in her sewing basket. Chuckling to himself, he secreted the pistol beneath the fabric of his woolen cloak.

  Thunder rumbled in the distance.

  “Finished?” the man on horseback asked. “Best not get caught in foul weather.”

  Tempest’s head lifted as she turned toward the man. All three men were covered from head to toe to conceal their identities, but there was something about this man’s voice that seemed familiar.

  She flinched at the flash of lightning overhead.

  “Give that back!”

  Tempest looked away from the highwayman and switched her attention to Mrs. Sheehan, who was tussling with one of the highwaymen for her reticule. The widow cried out in despair as the man won the battle and searched the bag for valuables.

  “Filthy blackguard!” Mrs. Sheehan sobbed as the man emptied the contents of her reticule on the road.

  He held out the empty bag and motioned to Arabella. “Put yer baubles in ’ere!”

  Silently, her sister obeyed his hoarse order. Anticipating that she was next, she hastily removed her earrings and a gold ring that her grandmother had given her. She dropped her jewelry into the reticule the moment it was pushed in her face.

  “That’s a lass,” the man holding her murmured.

  She shut her eyes and said nothing when he patted her on the hip.

  “Tie those two up,” the thief on horseback ordered, gesturing toward the coachman and their chaperone.

  “See here, sirs,” the coachman protested as his hands were secured behind his back with a length of rope the highwayman produced from underneath his cloak. “These are noble ladies. There is no need to truss them up.”

  Tempest glanced up at the darkening sky as she felt drops of cold rain strike her face.

  Once the man was finished with the coachman and Mrs. Sheehan, he ordered them into the coach and shut the door. Next, he walked to Arabella.

  “Wrists together, milady,” he said gruffly. “As in prayer.”

  Arabella nodded and complied. Ignoring the widow’s pleas for mercy, the highwayman led her sister to the man on horseback and lifted her up. The other man caught her by the waist and settled her on his lap.

  Tempest tensed as the man approached her. A part of her wanted to flee their captors, but the prospect of getting shot in the back for her efforts forced her to stand still.

  “Behave yerself, milady. Else I’ll paddle yer backside fer biting me,” the highwayman said, binding her hands.
The man holding her handed over his pistol to his comrade so he could mount his horse. By the time she was settled on the highwayman’s lap, it began to rain in earnest.

  “Please, sir,” Tempest said, keeping her voice low. “Let us go. You already have our valuables. Kidnapping my sister and me will slow you and your companions down in this foul weather and increase your odds for the hangman’s noose.”

  It was a calculated risk appealing to a highwayman. The one who had held her had been gentle, and seemed kinder than the other two. If she could not convince him to release her and Arabella, perhaps he might protect them from the other two.

  She stiffened in his arms as he pulled her body firmly against him. Belatedly, she realized his intentions as he pulled the edges of his cloak around her to protect her from the rain. She leaned into his warmth and inhaled. Her eyes widened as she took in his familiar scent.

  His lips brushed against her ear, and she sagged against him in relief.

  “I lost my head the moment I met you, Lady Tempest,” Chance whispered into her ear. “I’ll risk the hangman’s noose to keep you.”

  Altering his voice, he said to his friends, “We ride!”

  * * *

  Once they were several miles away from the coach, Mathias, St. Lyon, and Rainbault removed their dark masks but kept their hoods in place because of the steady rainfall. Tempest’s sister had not screamed at her kidnapper when St. Lyon removed his mask, so Mathias assumed the viscount had already revealed his identity to put the lady at ease.

  “I cannot believe you left the coachman and Mrs. Sheehan bound in our coach,” Tempest muttered for the third time. Her relief at learning that she was acquainted with the highwaymen swiftly faded as she pondered the fate of the servants. “The poor woman was terrified.”

  “We had to be convincing,” Mathias argued. “The coachman had his orders. As did your Mrs. Sheehan. Both servants were armed with pistols. Neither one of them was going to hand you over without a fight, and we did not leave them helpless. Rainbault took the time to pull the coach off the road and secure the horses. If the coachman doesn’t free himself and the widow right away, they have shelter for the night.”