You Can't Always Get the Marquess You Want

by Alexandra Hawkins

  “And you allowed Rainbault to rob Mrs. Sheehan.” Tempest cuddled against him as he tried to shield her against the weather.

  “He took only her pistol and her empty reticule. Everything else was returned to her sewing basket,” he explained, annoyance edging his voice. “If you would prefer to marry Warrilow, I could always leave you and your sister at the nearest inn and continue on my way.”

  “How did you know?”

  “Rumors of your impending marriage had already reached the gossips.” He tightened his hold on her as he recalled seeing the darkening bruise on her cheek. “I assume your father learned about us.”

  Mathias had been assured by certain handsomely compensated individuals that they would be discreet. Nevertheless, he assumed one of them had gone to Lord Norgrave.

  “Lord Warrilow deduced I cared for someone else and was willing to step aside. When my father realized that I harbored feelings for another man, he demanded that I reveal his name.” Tempest shuddered. “Forgive me. My father—he had been drinking. I had to tell him the truth.”

  “Is that when he struck you?” he said angrily, incensed that the man had abused his daughter.

  “No,” she said softly. “That happened earlier. He laughed when I revealed your name.”

  “Did he frighten you?”

  “Arabella and I have never been more terrified of him,” she confessed.

  Learning this, Mathias did not regret taking her sister with them. He had considered leaving Arabella behind with the servants, but he wanted Tempest to have someone she trusted with her. Without her knowledge, he had made decisions on her behalf that would change both their lives.

  “Are you heading for an inn?”

  Mathias knew both ladies were uncomfortable, but since he and his friends had disguised themselves as outlaws, it was not safe for them to rest until they reached their destination.

  Instead of answering her question, he countered with one of his own. “Were you planning to marry Warrilow?”

  Tempest buried her face into his dampening coat. Finally, she said, “My father was determined to see me married to the marquess. I was willing to marry him if it meant my family would leave you alone.”

  He signaled his horse to halt.

  Tempest pulled back to meet his livid glare. “What?”

  “Have you so little faith in me?” he shouted at her.

  “Chance?” Rainbault called out over his shoulder before he alerted St. Lyon to halt.

  Rain flowed down her cheeks like tears. “Of course!”

  “Then you think I am a coward?”

  She shook her head. “No! I was trying to protect you.”

  “From whom? Your father? Marcroft?” He was offended that she believed her family could defeat him. “I could best any challenger.”

  “And you think that makes me feel any better?” she yelled back at him. “That my father or brother would be injured—or worse, die by your hand? That you were forced into a confrontation or hurt because I fell in love with you? There are no victors. Not when it involves you and my family.”

  “Chance, this is not the time—” St. Lyon raised his hand in surrender when Mathias scowled at him.

  “If you weren’t in such a hurry to marry Warrilow—”

  “I did not want to marry him!” Tempest said, shouting over his words.

  “—you would have realized that you had overlooked another way to deal with the situation.”

  “Oh really?” she said, lifting her chin so she could look down her nose at him. “And what, pray tell, did I overlook?”

  “Marriage. To me,” he said, resisting the urge to shake her for giving up on them so quickly.

  “Marry you?” She seemed dazed by the very notion.

  His temper receded at her bemused expression. His voice softened as he explained, “Thorn is waiting for us with a member of the clergy. I already have the special license. If you consent, we can marry this evening. You will be my marchioness—wedded and bedded legally—and our families will have to accept it.”

  Eventually, he silently amended. He was confident that he and Tempest could wear the families down with time and perhaps a few grandchildren.

  “You want to marry me?” Tempest asked, her tears mixing with the rain.

  Mathias cupped the side of her face with his hand. “I know. It surprised me, too. I could come up with a dozen reasons why this is madness. Why you were the last person in England that I should marry.”

  “A dozen? Truly?”

  He grinned as her voice sharpened with annoyance. “There was one unassailable fact that defeated all my arguments—that convinced me to risk everything for you.”

  “And what is that?”

  “I love you. You, my lady, claim my heart, my body, and my eternal soul. I would defy my family and lay down my life for you.”

  Ignoring his friends’ groans, he claimed his beloved’s mouth and poured everything he had into that kiss. He had yet to ask her if she could sacrifice everything for him, but he sensed her answer in the way she pressed herself against him and kissed him until they were both breathless.

  “I was so miserable when I thought that the next time we would meet, I would be Lady Warrilow,” she confessed, the wretchedness and humiliation of the day reflected in her gaze. “He is a good man, I believe. However, I do not love him.”

  Mathias despised the jealousy that surged in his veins whenever she mentioned the marquess, but he had found her before her marriage to the gentleman could take place. “Whom do you love?” he murmured against her hair.

  “I—,” she began.

  “Chance, is it your intention to drown us all?” Rainbault complained, his patience coming to the end. “Gain your lady’s consent and let us be on our way!”

  “Aye, Fairlamb,” St. Lyon added. “I prefer not to be robbed by a genuine highwayman.”

  Tempest glanced away in embarrassment at his friends’ mild teasing. Nevertheless, the rain and the chill were adding to their discomfort. Mathias captured her chin and tipped her face toward his. “Marry me, Tempest.”

  He held his breath at her hesitation. After all his planning, he had never considered that she might refuse him.

  “What of your family? Do not lie and tell me they approve of this match.”

  Mathias was reluctant to tell her that his mother and father were not any happier about his interest in her than her parents were. Of the angry words he had exchanged with his father and the pain in his mother’s eyes when he told them that he planned to marry Norgrave’s daughter.

  “No,” he conceded, because Tempest was the only one who could understand his guilt over putting his happiness above loyalty to his family. “In time, my mother and father will put aside the past. They will come to love you as much as I do.”

  Doubt still clouded her expression, but his response seemed to satisfy her. “Yes, Lord Fairlamb. I will marry you,” she said before he pulled her into a crushing embrace while he struggled to keep control of his horse. “I love you.”

  “Thank God!” heartily exclaimed the prince. “Congratulations to you both. Now, can we be off!”

  * * *

  By ten o’clock, Tempest was a married lady. She stared down at the gold ring on her left hand, proof that she and Mathias Rooke, Marquess of Fairlamb, had exchanged marriage vows with her sister and his three friends as their witnesses. Although her hair had still been damp from their journey, she had to credit the Duke of Rainbault for being a thoughtful highwayman. Instead of searching for valuables to steal, he had managed to stuff several dresses and a few accessories into a satchel so she and Arabella had dry dresses to wear for the wedding.

  Warming herself by the fireplace, she smiled up at Chance when he entered the bedchamber. He carried a candelabrum in one hand and a bottle of wine with two wineglasses in the other.

  “Good evening, Husband,” she said cheekily. Several flashes of lightning flickered through the thin gaps in the drawn curtains, followed a f
ew seconds later by a crash of thunder. “Did you brave the cellar barefoot?”

  The long ride had encouraged everyone to retire shortly after the wedding. Arabella had helped her undress before she wearily staggered to her own bedchamber, leaving Tempest to greet her new husband wearing her chemise and a wool blanket to cover her bare legs. While she prepared for her wedding night, Chance and his friends had celebrated their adventure as highwaymen and toasted the groom downstairs in the library. Along the way, her husband had lost his evening coat, waistcoat, stockings, and boots.

  He bent down and kissed her on the mouth. “Good evening, Lady Fairlamb. I left the task of procuring more wine from the cellar to Thorn, since he had good news to share and it gave us something else to celebrate.”

  “More important than our wedding?” she teased.

  Chance placed the branch of candles on the table, and he eased down on the floor beside her. “It is to my cousin.” He laid one of the empty wineglasses on his lap so he could fill the other glass and hand it to her. Then he retrieved his glass and filled it. “Before Thorn left town to prepare for our arrival, he received news from a family member that his twin brother has returned to England.”

  “Why did he not join us?” Tempest was looking forward to meeting Gideon, since he and Thorn were now part of her family.

  He took a sip of his wine and set the bottle aside. “Word has reached the family that his ship has arrived in port. My cousin has yet to present himself.”

  “I like Thorn,” she said, privately pleased that Chance’s gruff cousin had treated her and Arabella as beloved sisters. “Is Gideon very much like his brother?”

  “In looks, yes. When they engage in a bit of trickery, it is difficult to tell them apart. However, Thorn and Gideon are as different as you are from your sister when it comes to temperament. I doubt the years apart have improved the situation.”

  There was more to the tale, but Chance seemed reluctant to continue the conversation about his cousins. He confirmed her thoughts with his next words. “Enough talk about my cousins. I am more curious about what you are wearing under that blanket, Lady Fairlamb.”

  Her eyelashes fluttered in a flirtatious fashion. “Why do you not see for yourself?”

  Chance swallowed the remaining wine in his glass and placed it on the table. With their gazes locked, he took her unfinished wine and set the glass on the table. With the edges of the blanket tucked loosely around her waist, Tempest assumed he would grasp the edge and peel it back. He surprised her by inching closer. His hand stroked her unbound hair before he speared his fingers through the thick mass until she felt them at the nape of her neck. Slowly, he urged her to lean forward until their lips met.

  His mouth tasted of the wine, and of the brandy he had drunk with his friends. Her tongue unfurled and teased his. He smelled of rain, wool, and smoke.

  “It feels like it’s our first time,” she said, kissing the underside of his jaw. The lace strap of her chemise slid off her right shoulder. She felt his fingers skim her bare arm.

  “It is.”

  Chance had removed his cravat; however, his shirt hindered her questing lips, and her trail of kisses had moved down the side of his neck.

  Anticipating her request, he drew back and pulled his shirt over his head. Bare-chested, his skin appeared golden in the candlelight. Tempest sat up on her knees, allowing the wool blanket to slide lower as she shuffled closer. She kissed his collarbone and stroked the dark coarse hairs on his chest.

  “Have mercy on me, Wife,” he entreated, his husky voice thick with restraint. “I do not want to disappoint you on our wedding night.”

  Emboldened, she reached for the buttons on his breeches. A discreet glance at the front of his breeches revealed the proof of his desire for her. Tempest recalled how it had felt when Chance pierced her body with his manhood and filled her until she could barely breathe, and she shivered.

  “Cold?” He urged her closer so he could warm her with his body.

  “You,” she whispered, opening his breeches and filling her hands with his aroused, rigid flesh. Like the rest of him, the velvet length was hot to the touch and Chance trembled as her fingers stroked him.

  The subtle musk of his arousal filled her nose and lungs. She sat on her heels and wondered how he might taste.

  “Is anything forbidden?”

  His heavy-lidded gaze widened as he sensed the direction of her thoughts. “Nothing. I am yours to command,” he said, shoving his breeches down over his slim hips. He sat down on the floor to free his legs and tossed the breeches aside.

  With a playful push to his shoulder, she silently encouraged him to lie down, and he eagerly obeyed. Jutting from the nest of hair between his legs, his manhood was thick and firm and rising as if begging for her touch. At its base, the texture of his flesh changed. Even so, it was no less sensitive to her exploration.

  Her long brown hair pooled around his hips as she trusted her instincts and lowered her head. Chance tensed at her first tentative taste as she licked at the salt coating the head of his manhood.

  “Do you like it?” she asked, curious about the tension in his body. Her husband was as tight as a bow.

  “Yes,” his reply hissed through his lips. “You can take more of me.”

  Intrigued, she lifted her head so she could see his face. “How much?”

  “As much as you like.”

  The back of Chance’s head hit the floor when she lowered her head and took the head of his manhood into her mouth. The salty taste increased as her tongue lapped at the trickle of fluid leaking from the opening. Her husband moaned and his hips lifted off the rug as if silently urging her to take more.

  With her fingers curled around the base of his rigid length, her mouth widened and his manhood slid deeper. Sensing she was uncertain how to proceed, Chance guided her by showing her how much he enjoyed the feel of her mouth and tongue as the hot flesh slid deeper and retreated. She gagged a little when the thick head bumped the back of her throat, and the minor setback allowed her to set boundaries for herself and revealed the telltale signs of her own arousal.

  As she suckled and teased the head of his manhood with her tongue, her nipples tightened as the swollen nubbins rubbed against his legs. Warmth flooded and expanded in her lower belly as wetness collected in the womanly folds between her legs.

  Tempest moaned, drawing him deeper as she envisioned him filling her. She squeezed her thighs together in a feeble attempt to ease the heightening ache.

  She needed him inside her.

  Now.

  Tempest released his manhood, the tip of her tongue licking her lower lip so she could savor the taste of him. Could a man release his seed in his lover’s mouth, she wondered.

  “Chance?”

  His eyes snapped open at the need in her voice. His pupils had swallowed most of the gray color in his eyes until it was thin rings. Chance reached for her and dragged her up until she reclined on top of him. He rolled them until their positions were reversed and his manhood, wet from her mouth, pressed against her belly. He braced most of his weight on his arm and used his free hand to part her thighs. In her next breath, his hot flesh found the heart of her and filled her with a single hard stroke.

  It was precisely as she had remembered.

  The fullness of him expanding the inner muscles of her sheath, which constricted around his manhood as Chance plunged wildly into her. Tempest tugged his head down to her breasts, which were still covered by her linen chemise, but the thin fabric was no hindrance to his hungry mouth. The fabric dampened as he roughly sucked on her nipples as he drove his flesh deeper into her. She writhed against him, silently demanding more. In response, he lightly bit down on one of her nipples.

  Tempest cried out, but not from pain. The sweet agony Chance had created within her exploded and flickered madly as lightning crackled overhead. Her release rumbled like thunder vibrating her and the floorboards. She opened her eyes in time to see her husband rising above her l
ike a pagan god, his gray eyes dark with lust and the clawing need for completion.

  It was her name he roared as his tempo became more frenzied, and then he delivered one final thrust so deep, she was pinned to the floor as his seed burst out of him, filling her with thick steady pulses.

  With their skin slick with sweat and her muscles trembling from the carnal onslaught, she had never felt so complete or powerful as in that singular moment.

  She wished she and Chance could stay like this forever.

  “No regrets?” he murmured lazily against her shoulder.

  “Not at all.” She sighed. “You?”

  His labored breathing teased her neck. “Just one.”

  She stiffened, but he merely chuckled. He kissed her shoulder and gently withdrew his softening manhood from her sheath. His fingers teased and parted the womanly folds that were wet with her arousal and his seed. She gasped when he unerringly found the sensitive knot of flesh hidden within.

  “I never got around to undressing you properly.” Chance picked her up and carried her to the bed. “Don’t worry, darling. You will enjoy how I make it up to you.”

  Completely enthralled with each other, neither Chance nor Tempest thought about their families or the difficulties that would be waiting for them when they returned to London.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  “My father will kill you.”

  His new bride’s lack of faith in his abilities should have annoyed him, but the dark bruise on her cheek was a vivid reminder that Lord Norgrave was capable of violence. “You will not be wearing widow weeds, Lady Fairlamb. Your father might try to contest our marriage, but I assure you that our marriage is quite legal, not to mention fully and most pleasurably consummated. You are my wife in every way possible. He cannot take you away from me.”

  Tempest was too worried to be distracted by his gentle teasing. “Why are you convinced that my father will accept our marriage, when your own family is still struggling with it?”

  Mathias leaned forward, prepared to refute her claims until his automatic defense of his family was overruled by the unpleasant reality of their situation. He sat back and rubbed the ache in his chest. “An excellent point.”