by Stacy Reid
“What is one of London’s most notorious rogues doing in my chamber?”
“Surely you meant to summon me,” he said with lazy amusement and a far too carnal smile.
The rake!
“Did you not, Lady Maryann? With your clever little mouth?”
This could prove disastrous.
He must have heard the rumors, but even if he did, that truly did not explain his presence. Before she could recover from the astonishing alarm of that, he lunged. His moves were light, more testing her guard than rushing her with the strength evident in his frame. Somehow, she could sense the raw power and grittiness simmering beneath the facade of ease the marquess presented.
With a gasp, she nimbly defended against his terribly impressive and fast attacks, and to her utter shock, with a deft move she had never encountered before, he somehow managed to put his sword under the hilt of her rapier and tug so that it propelled from her grip and sailed in the air. And then he caught it! He did not stop there, and she gasped, stumbling back when he slashed toward her.
The man was mad!
Riiiip!
Then he stopped, backed away, and canted his head.
In a daze, Maryann lowered her eyes to the front of her nightgown. The marquess had slashed it open from the top of her thighs to her ankle. Her bare skin glowed creamy and pale in the room.
Her chest went so tight, she could scarcely breathe.
A hand fluttered to her mouth as she stared at him with ill-concealed shock. Lowering her hand, she asked tremulously, “Should I fear for my virtue?”
The room suddenly seemed to be without air. His eyes darkened and his chest lifted on a deep yet silent breath as his gaze seemed frozen on her tumbled tresses.
This time, he smiled with his entire mouth. “Rakes are known to steal them.”
She felt a primal and unfamiliar rush of physical awareness. Maryann glanced at the door behind her.
“Run,” he murmured. “I have no problem chasing you.”
Every wicked rumor she’d ever heard concerning this scoundrel rushed through her thoughts. She held still when he extended his rapier and used it to lift her hair from her shoulder. It rested against the silver blade like a curtain of burnished copper.
“Is your intention ruin?”
He flicked the blade, allowing her hair to slither off. “You’ve already done that on your own. Or did you think in the morning you would have some reputation left?”
She cleared her throat and gripped the front of her nightgown. “So…it’s ravishment, then? Is that…is that why you’re here?”
How it annoyed her that her voice came as a squeak and not with unruffled confidence.
He dealt her an arresting stare. “Ravishment?” The look in his eyes was curious and amused.
The amusement stung.
“No, Lady Maryann, I’ve no intention of ravishing you.”
As if she would merely take the word of a celebrated libertine! Maryann spun and sprinted toward her door, uncaring that once she screamed, a man would truly be found in her chambers. And not just any man—St. Ives. Again!
Not that it mattered that the first instance had been fabricated. Her fingers brushed the doorknob, but then a fistful of her nightgown was grabbed, and she was yanked back.
To be so manhandled filled her with outrage. “How dare you! Release me at once!”
He whirled her around, then released her. Maryann peered up at him, her heart jerking too fast. Each breath sawed from her throat felt so painful. St. Ives placed a finger below her chin and yanked up her face. She bit back the whimper rising in her throat. How mortifying if he should hear it.
A clean, masculine scent assailed her senses. “What do you want?” she asked.
He leaned forward, his voice a purr of something lethal but also carnal. “You invited me, and I accepted.”
The cat and the mouse.
That amused, provoking drawl lingered within her, and she cast another helpless glance at the door behind her, then faced him once more. “I…most certainly did not.”
“Oh yes,” he murmured, his eyes glinting with humor. “I recall distinctly that I desperately wanted to ravish these lips and simply couldn’t help my wicked heart.”
She cleared her throat, unnerved. “How…how could you possibly know what I said?”
Had they repeated her words exactly as she pronounced them? Maryann had hoped their sensibilities were too mortified by her lack of propriety to repeat her scandal verbatim.
“Is that truly your concern?”
She stepped back, and his finger slipped from her chin. Thank heavens. His touch felt…like strokes of flames over her skin, yet it also felt right. It might take her the rest of her life to figure out why she would ever think such a silly thing.
“I am going to scream,” she said huskily. “It will bring all the servants here.” A bluff, for everyone was below stairs in the servant quarters and would not likely hear her. Her mother always slept soundly after taking the tincture for her headache.
“Go ahead,” he said smoothly.
Gritting her teeth, she thought of a counterattack to his slick assurance. “A few weeks ago, you were overheard at a garden party vowing to not wed before forty.”
The scandal sheets had thought it so newsworthy, it had been mentioned by more than six different presses and for the entire week. It had left many maters disappointed, and also bolstered those determined to nab him to work their machinations harder.
One of those imperious brows arched. “Surely you will make a point soon.”
“If you are caught in my chamber, you will be forced to marry me.”
The provoking amusement around his mouth grew more pronounced. “I wonder how that end would be achieved.”
Maryann’s heart jolted. “Are you saying if you were to be discovered, you would refuse to marry me?”
“Of course. I am the one they call ‘the daring and the wicked.’”
That was said with some derision, as if he found the ton’s penchant for monikers tiresome and uninspired. For the first time since becoming aware of St. Ives, she wondered if more rested beneath the facade he presented to the ton.
Do you wear an armor like I do?
She delicately cleared her throat. “You’ve already heard the gossips naming me as the lady’s chamber you climbed from at Lady Peregrine’s house party.”
His head lowered another fraction; his breath wafted against her lips. “The gossip you initiated. Very clever of you.”
Oh God, we are standing so close. It was also exceedingly frightening that he hadn’t just ignored the gossip but instead had broken into her home. What kind of gentleman did such a thing? Silly, he is a libertine! “I can explain why I did what I did, my lord.”
“You wished to use my reputation to escape an engagement with Stamford.”
She froze. “Yes.”
He tipped an imaginary hat in her direction. “Well done. The earl might be offended enough to withdraw his offer.”
With some amazement, she noted the marquess was not angry. Perhaps his tone was even tinged with admiration. “I hope so,” Maryann said, watching the marquess carefully.
“Why do you wish to escape marriage to the earl? He is thought a decent sort.”
“Only another libertine would think that man decent.”
His lips twitched slightly before his expression smoothed. “Tell me.”
This demand was hard and a bit intimidating. She saw nothing of the flirting charmer she had observed a few times at society events. This man…he was an enigma. He did not seem furious she had thought to use his reputation so callously, and a silent breath of relief escaped her. Maryann hoped a bit of honesty would keep him this indifferent to the notion. “I was given away to him, without any considerations to the kind of gentleman I’d
hope to marry.”
“Ah, so if you were consulted, you would have consented.”
“No.”
“Oh?”
“Perhaps if I had been courted,” she said softly.
“A few poems, long walks, a carriage ride or two from Stamford would have been enough to turn your head?” he asked caustically.
As if he expected more from her. The idea was outrageous and laughable.
“It would have at least revealed to the earl that we do not suit.”
“And how are you so certain of this unsuitability if you’ve not given him a chance?”
She held up three fingers, slowly lowering one after the other as she made her points. “Gentlemen of society do not like ordinary ladies, or ladies with opinions and a modicum of intelligence, and most certainly not ladies with simple but unbending expectations.”
“You are intelligent…even shrewd, and I shall discover your expectations, but you are no ordinary lady,” he said. “I am astonished you should believe it to be so.”
Warmth fluttered through her heart that he would think her shrewd. And he said it with such admiration, too. “Of course I do not consider myself ordinary, but I daresay gentlemen of the ton do.”
She flashed him a deliberate mocking glance from beneath her lashes. “I am a blazing star that no gentleman has any notion what to do with. My wit skewers, my laugh enthralls, and they are daunted by my mouth. Should I continue?”
His expression shuttered. “You are not what I expected.”
“Oh, what did you anticipate?”
“A mouse. But instead I found a lioness.”
He robbed her of speech for precious moments. A lioness. A most particular compliment. The rake was determined to worm his way into her good graces, Maryann decided, almost fondly. “Better than a racoon!”
A quick flash of a smile from him had her looking away to regather her wits. “You were there, tonight, in the gardens,” she said, assessing every nuance of his beautiful expression. It was an injustice for a man to be so handsome and yet rotten to the core. “That is how you know exactly what happened.”
His head dipped ever so slightly, and she took that as confirmation. The charming scoundrel she glimpsed whenever she saw him in public settled over his face, causing an odd sense of fascination to blossom through her. The change was quicksilver fast, but somehow that dangerous aura melted away with effortless ease. This man was now the rogue, and the idea that he could have such a duality of nature sent a thrum of curiosity through her veins.
He shifted, and it was then she acknowledged how remarkably still he had been. He came closer, and the scent of him roused her senses alarmingly. Maryann instinctively stepped away until her back was flushed against the wall by the door. She stared at him helplessly, terribly aware that her thigh and legs were on display. Why were they conversing so intimately close?
“What are you doing?”
She loathed how breathless and nervous she sounded, and in response lifted her chin defiantly so she peered up at him. He placed the flat of each palm by her head, effectively caging and surrounding her with his bulk.
“You declared to the world that I ravished your lips thoroughly.”
“I… Only two or three ladies overheard,” she muttered.
Looking down at her, he arched one of his dark, slashing brows. “We both know there is an intrepid scandal sheet reporter burning the midnight lamp to ensure that story is run this week. Possibly even tomorrow. I’ve always not liked being accused of liberties I did not take. Surely I must rectify the matter.”
“You are here to…to kiss me?”
“I’ve never kissed an innocent before.”
She scoffed with a breath that trembled. “With all the ungovernable debaucheries laid at your feet, I highly doubt that sentiment.”
“I’ve never kissed a lady who didn’t want to be kissed.”
She believed him, but Maryann wasn’t about to reveal that in the dark of her room, she had thought about kissing this rogue more than once. His head dipped, and Maryann felt certain she was about to faint. She placed the flat of her palm over her lips to protect them from his ravishment. A gleam, one of amusement, stole into his eyes, and he pressed his lips to her knuckles. His lips felt like the softest brush of a butterfly’s wings against her flesh. Her lashes briefly fluttered closed at the feel of his mouth on her fingers.
It wasn’t a kiss…but her knees weakened.
Silly, silly knees.
“How interesting that you’re not skewering me with this clever mouth of yours.”
Her breath softly hitched. He had perceived that she was not as indifferent to him as she’d like him to believe. They stared at each other through the space between her fingers. Maryann wondered if his heart raced as fast as hers did, or was this a game to him? A flirtation that only amused him?
A quick flick of his tongue, and he licked between the vee of her fingers. A sweet, wicked ache trembled low in her belly, and Maryann’s entire body blushed hot. For the breath of a moment, her gaze locked with his. The eyes watching her were hard and sharply intelligent.
Noting her reaction, his hard, sensual mouth slowly curved.
“You want me to kiss you,” the devil murmured.
“I once wanted a pet skunk, too.”
The marquess chuckled, and she couldn’t suppress a dismaying ache of want.
His head shifted to the side, and he pressed his diabolical mouth right next to her smallest finger, at the corner of her mouth, then bit down. The slow nip against her mouth was shocking and sudden and shatteringly erotic.
“You scoundrel!” she gasped, hating how husky her voice sounded. Hating how her heart pounded. Hating how she trembled infinitesimally.
She only needed to lower her hand and turn her head the smallest of fractions, and their mouths would meet. Her entire awareness became centered around the featherlight pressure of his lips at the corner of her mouth. Maryann could feel his heartbeat in the space between them—or was it hers?
He was lacking in morals and propriety…but he was so tempting to her senses. What if she could do all the things she secretly dreamed of doing? Like kissing this rogue. She stood on the precipice of madness…of feeling something other than a vague hope, yet she did not move her head that slight inch that was needed to taste his mouth.
Before she could gather her wits and push him away, he lifted his head. The marquess kept his eyes closed for several moments before peering down at her.
“In the coming days, if anything odd should happen to you, you will let me know right away.”
The shift in his mood and conversation rattled her for a moment. How mercurial you are. “Anything odd? Whatever do you mean?”
“You were reckless enough to link our names together. So now…my friends are your friends.”
“I dearly hope not,” she said with a scoff. “I assure you my intention was never to importune upon your undesirable connections.”
He laughed, the sound rough yet so charming. “And my enemies are now your enemies,” he murmured, staring at her with an indefinable expression.
There was a flash of an unfathomable emotion in his gaze when he said that, and despite the bemused smile above his sensual lips, he was most assuredly serious.
“Enemies?”
“Yes.”
“I do not understand.”
“You were happy to use my name to escape an engagement, so you will accept the consequences that come with the ruse.”
Good heavens. “Consequences such as you breaking into my room, scaring me out of my wits…and anticipating odd occurrences in my life?”
“Yes.”
“You are a madman,” she said faintly.
“There is more.”
“Surely not,” she said with a sarcastic bite.
“You will still owe me a kiss.”
A flash of heat went through her. It appalled her, knowing he was not the man for her, that she could still be so drawn to him. “I owe you nothing of the sort.”
His chest rumbled with a low, primitive sound, drawing a startled gasp from her.
Palpable tension infused his frame. “Do you want me to take it now?”
Take it? How crude, unflattering, and unromantic. But also, raw, honest, and real. A surge of wild heat flamed between her thighs, and her heart quickened. “I… No!”
“Is this all you wanted of me, to use my reputation?”
The low roughness of his voice and his unexpected intensity had the strangest sensation twisting low in her belly. Maryann had never felt it before, and it rattled her nerves. “Yes.”
“What about this?”
He dipped into his pocket and produced a wrinkled paper. He flicked it open and she recognized… It was her list! Mortification struck her like lightning. She snatched it from him and crumpled it in her fist, the memory of writing about wanting his kiss making her wish she were the fainting sort. A swoon into oblivion would do right about now.
“Where did you get this?” she whispered, so very aware if she leaned in only slightly, and tipped, their mouths would meet.
“You dropped it in the gardens at our first meeting.”
She stared at him, her breathing ragged. He reached out and gently encircled her throat, his thumb rubbing a soothing motion over her racing pulse. The touch was dominant, possessive, and sent a new wave of shock and heat hurtling through her senses. Maryann’s lips parted. “It was really you that night…the man in the mask.”
He seemed fascinated with the hand he held to her throat. His touch was tender, but somehow, she felt the power in it.
“I’ll be seeing you around, Lady Maryann.”
Her heart jerked, and she made no reply. He released her and whirled around, his coat swirling at his ankles. Then he dipped and went through her windows, closing them from the outside.
Several minutes passed, and Maryann did not move from where she leaned against the wall, quite aware her heart had not settled. She kept waiting for the man to reappear. Hurrying to the window, she closed the latch and rested her forehead against the cool pane.