by Stacy Reid
Liar. Nicolas wanted her to know that he knew her identity.
A smile curved her lips, and he spied the unusual beauty of it, and that it held a dare. But a dare to do what?
Then she lifted her chin, hauteur and confidence settling over her like a second skin, and she returned a mocking curtsy. So bold, yet so wonderfully oblivious to the dangers of a man such as himself. Something primal in his gut stirred, a direct response to that unique defiance peeking back at him.
Three of her friends turned around, no doubt wondering to whom she bowed. Before their gazes could narrow in on him, Nicolas was back in the shadows, melting away from the ball and the unusual temptation of a wallflower.
Be careful what you wish for, Lady Maryann, for I am of a mind to be wicked with you, too.
…
Maryann couldn’t credit that Nicolas St. Ives would be this outrageous! Her mama had not invited him to tonight’s ball, yet here he was, descending the wide staircase from the upper bowers, confidently striding, casting sardonic glances at debutantes, and with a sensual smirk about his mouth, declaring him every inch the rake society bemoaned.
He was considered improper, disreputable, and was even whispered by some to be cunning. He was also appallingly handsome, and many ladies who should have known better flirted with him shamelessly. He clearly did not give a fig what society thought about him, a thing Maryann had come to believe, since the scandal sheets reported on his exploits weekly.
“Is it really him?” a young debutante asked. “Oh my, he is terribly handsome.”
Her friends dissolved into giggles and drew her away, as if they were saving their fair gazelle from the lion drawing closer. The man seemed sublimely unaware of his masculine beauty and the stir he caused whenever he entered a room. His expression was insouciant; she could not conclude what kind of man he was.
A few gentlemen of the ton were vain about their appearance to the point of being rather excessive. And it seemed Nicolas St. Ives was one of them, dressed in black trousers and jacket, with a bright golden waistcoat and a matching cravat. A cravat pin studded with a large diamond winked at his throat, and his hair seemed carelessly styled, yet curled at his nape and on his forehead perfectly.
The rakehell! How dare he crash her mother’s ball?
The twitter of excitement that went through the throng echoed in Maryann’s veins, and she scowled. Mama would curse his name tomorrow, but the scandal sheets would celebrate his wicked daring, the debutantes would excitedly trade stories about how close their gowns had brushed against the lord the scandal sheets referred to as “the daring and the wicked.” And perhaps a few married ladies and widows would share among themselves some delightful and naughty things they suggested having done with him.
Maryann silently snorted, thinking it all ridiculous. Yet she couldn’t help staring at him, couldn’t help the manner in how her heart ached, yet she didn’t know what she longed for. Certainly anything in regard to a notorious rake could only lead to inevitable disgrace.
Lady Porter, a young widow with a racy reputation, sashayed over to him, and he did nothing to mask the admiration in his gaze as he perused her. A few ladies gasped, and several fans unfurled. The marquess’s smile drew Maryann’s eyes to his mouth and made her think of matters a respectable lady should not wonder about, like kisses from his beautiful lips and whether he would use his tongue.
Fanning herself vigorously, she looked away from him and strolled through the opened French doors leading to the gardens to cool her suddenly heated face. Then she made her way to a small private alcove that was empty and dark enough to hide her should anyone follow.
With a gusty sigh, she kicked off her dancing shoes and wriggled her toes in her silken stockings, then lifted her face to the sky. The soft footfalls crunching on leaves alerted her that someone approached, so she stiffened, clutching her fan.
“Nicolas,” a soft voice called. “Where are you going?”
Maryann stood, her heart jerking. The marquess had come outside…and someone had followed him? A spurt of intrigued amusement shook her.
“Lady Trentman,” his voice said chidingly. “I wasn’t aware you followed me.”
A sweet, affected giggle lifted in the air. “I am astonished you came to Lady Musgrove’s ball. No one expected you.”
“That, my sweet, was the idea,” he replied teasingly.
“I’ve heard whispers that you are a man devoted to sensual pleasures. I have been wanting you in my bed for some time now.”
Maryann was shocked—and keen to hear his reply.
The marquess made a soft purring noise that set Maryann’s heart to racing. It felt like a stroke against her skin. How odd that the sound of St. Ives’s voice could produce such feelings.
“And you wish to affirm the rumors for yourself, Lady Trentman?”
Maryann stifled a gasp. The countess was a married lady!
“Perhaps,” she murmured in a husky, intimate tone.
“Ah, if you are not sure, then I urge you to return inside.”
The lady’s laugh sounded breathless. “I am certain. I sent you three letters of invitations, which you’ve ignored. It is my fortune you showed up here tonight.”
“Half the pleasure lies in the anticipation,” he said charmingly.
“I do not want to wait anymore!”
“As a gentleman, I can only oblige.” His voice was warm, heavy with teasing and sensuality.
The scoundrel! Was this all he did?
“It astonishes me that you would dare to compare yourself to a gentleman,” the countess said flirtatiously.
“And are those hard because you are cold…or are you aroused?”
Shocked, Maryann glided soundlessly toward their voices, peering around the fountain. The marquess’s back was to her, and he still stood some distance away from the woman, but the countess— Good heavens! The front of her dress was lowered, and the pale globes of her breasts were on wanton display, her voluptuous figure arched toward him in scandalous invitation.
“I am not cold,” she replied in an intimate murmur.
Clutching her fan, Maryann took a few steps back, blotting out the provocative sight of the countess offering her breasts to the marquess.
“I heard your prowess between the sheets…or in other places is neither gentlemanly nor genteel.”
Maryann felt a shameful pulse of primal curiosity. What kind of behavior did the countess imply, exactly?
“Ah, mon coeur, you have listened to such gossip and offer yourself up for ravishment?”
The countess giggled, and Maryann rolled her eyes.
“Is it true?” she demanded breathlessly.
“What?”
“Am I really your heart?” Lady Trentham sweetly purred.
His rich chuckle held a careless charm. “So that’s what it means,” he said a bit drily. “My French is terrible. I had no idea.”
Maryann slapped a hand over her mouth to stifle her laugh, but something slipped out, for there was a sharp rustling.
“Oh, Nicolas! Someone is out here,” the countess squeaked, sounding genuinely alarmed. “I cannot be found with you.”
“But you knew the risk…”
Another rustling sound and them a soft oomph!
“I do not think throwing yourself into my arms would help the matter.” Now he sounded tolerably amused and very unconcerned by the idea of discovery. “Off you go and return inside.”
“But Nicolas, we haven’t—”
“Go,” he said firmly, all traces of the careless libertine vanishing from his tone.
And the sound of delicate footsteps hurried away. Maryann slowly shrank back on the bench, knowing she was perfectly hidden in the dark. The scent of a cheroot perfumed the air, and his presence grew closer. It was more of an awareness than a sound. It was as if she fel
t him.
She gripped the edges of the stone bench, her heart quickening.
“Do you not plan to come out?” he drawled with lazy amusement.
Maryann froze, glancing down. The alcove was dark enough that she could not make out her gown. The marquess could not see her; he was hazarding a deduction. She remained quiet, and the scent of his cheroot drifted closer.
He chuckled, and she stiffened, for it sounded so familiar. Very much like the laugh the man in the gardens had given only a couple hours earlier. Was the marquess and the masked man one and the same?
The idea was outlandish. The masked man had been dangerous. She’d sensed it. Several minutes ago, Crispin admitted he wasn’t sure if he had fainted or if someone had acted in a dastardly fashion. Maryann wasn’t certain if it was possible to make someone pass out without them sensing it, but either way, the man had taken Crispin’s mask and left him unconscious on the ground. Not the act of an honorable gentleman. And despite her mask, he had ascertained her identity. She’d seen him in the shadows of the ballroom doorway, and that mocking bow had made her heart pound with a strange secret thrill and alarm.
She only knew St. Ives by reputation, but there was nothing serious or dastardly about the man. Maryann was so very tempted to ask, her mouth parted, but she bit down on her bottom lip.
“I thought a lady of your daring would like a taste of ruin,” he murmured provokingly.
Her heart jolted at his words, and Maryann scarcely dared to breathe. Suddenly the very air in the gardens felt perilous. Had he been aware of her when she slipped from the ballroom? Impossible. They hadn’t met before, and a man like Nicolas St. Ives had no reason to notice Maryann.
And if he knew beyond a doubt she was there, and her identity, why did he not reveal his hand? They were playing cat and mouse…no…he was playing. Who was the cat? I am most certainly not the mouse, she thought and tossed her head.
Somehow his air of expectancy tempted her to be spontaneous, insolent…scandalous. Every prudent instinct hungered to be tossed to the winds, but she disciplined her reckless heart. Rakes were still dangerous to ladies like her who were declared wallflowers and soon-to-be spinsters. Even if she had once wished to dance and risk being burned by his fire, that would have been done from a safe distance, not this close—where she could be fully consumed.
A few weeks ago, she had declared to her dearest friend, Kitty Danvers, that Nicolas St. Ives was the wicked path that she, Maryann, needed to encroach on to achieve her measure of happiness. The plan had been to deliberately walk into his path and try to proposition him to a mutual bargain. The idea was outrageous, but she had been desperate to make the attempt. Maryann had spent days wondering what she could offer him to partake in her ruination and had discarded dozens of ideas.
When she’d heard of Lady Peregrine’s house party, Maryann had thought to sneak into the marquess’s room, just the very edge of it, and allow for the man her parents were forcing her to marry to see or hear she was there. St. Ives would not have been in that chamber, of course; the plan had been to insinuate she was waiting for him in her nightgown at his scandalous invitation. It was the death of the previous marquess and her niggling conscience that had seen Maryann altering her designs on St. Ives.
And that worry had been for naught.
The latest action that had the ton in an uproar was that St. Ives did not seem to be mourning the death of his late father, who had been known to be ailing for some time before his demise.
It had only been a little over six weeks since he attained his inheritance and the marquessate, and the man seemed determined to ignore all the proper etiquette and continue with his raking. He certainly was not avoiding the entertainments, as he had been sighted at balls and the theatre, which was considered shocking so soon after his father’s interment. Of course, noblemen were allowed to get away with so much more than ladies, especially if the nobleman concerned was as devastatingly attractive as St. Ives.
She silently snorted. Given his scandalous behavior, her using him to start a minor scandal probably would have only amused the marquess. The sound of laughter and revelry filtered on the night air, yet she did not move. Nor did the marquess. They stayed like that in the dark of the gardens, him smoking his cheroot and Maryann reposing on her bench, prepared to wait out the marquess.
“You are a worthy and unflappable opponent,” he said.
Perhaps we are both cats, she thought a bit smugly, leaning back against the bench to wait him out.
Chapter Three
A few days later…
“A most delightful tidbit has flown its way to Town. I have it on good authority that the recently minted Marquess of Rothbury has been seen climbing from the bedchamber of a lady at a certain house party. N. St. Ives is notorious for his wicked, salacious pursuits, and has never been known to act in a circumspect manner before. This very odd and suspicious behavior has led this author and her coterie to believe that the lady whose chamber he climbed from is believed to be an ‘innocent’! Is London’s most notorious and sought-after marquess up to his usual naughty debauchery with a lady of quality? I promise, dear readers, to conduct a thorough investigation to who could have captured St. Ives’s wicked attentions.” -Lady Gamble
Maryann read the scandal sheet a third time, her mind churning, skipping ahead, opening possibilities and assessing their plausibility. This was it; she was certain. The way forward, the path toward freedom. A most timely providence.
“Oh, Maryann, what are you really thinking?” she muttered, pacing by the windows of the small sitting room she had commanded for her personal use in her family’s town house in Berkeley Square.
With a sigh, Maryann lowered the paper. She had not been brave enough to see through her previous plans, and now she might have lost the opportunity to use St. Ives. Maryann winced at the notion of using anyone but consoled herself that she was only borrowing the reputation of someone truly disreputable and who would probably not mind in the least. “Oh, Kitty, I wish you were here!”
A few weeks ago, Kitty had bravely acted in a far wickeder manner than Maryann by pretending to be the fiancée of a reclusive duke and had ended up finding something wonderful. Even Kitty’s sister, Miss Annabell, was engaged to Baron Lynton, and their union was being celebrated as a love match. Maryann and their other friends who belonged to their intrepid Sinful Wallflowers club felt greatly inspired by Kitty’s success, for it proved enjoying life on their terms could lead to a most desirable happiness.
The door to the drawing room was shoved open, and her brother sauntered inside. His rich auburn hair, very much like her own, was tousled by the wind, and when he smiled wide, his green eyes twinkled. He had clearly been riding earlier and made no effort to tidy his appearance after a vigorous trot around Hyde or Green Park.
Her heart lightened as it always did whenever she saw Crispin. He was one of the only people who understood her, and they’d had the best relationship for as long as she could remember.
“Mother tells me you need an escort to tonight’s ball. She has a headache and will not be able to make it,” he said by way of greeting.
With a scowl, Maryann flung herself into the single sofa by the hearth. “Why does Mama bother to worry about a chaperone for me? No one ever asks me to dance or take a turn in the gardens.”
No bouquets of roses and lilies filled the hallways and parlors for her the morning after a ball. Yet she stubbornly attended those she was invited to because she enjoyed the music and the gaiety. While she hardly danced, Maryann had great fun at balls catching up with her friends, the other merry members of their club.
Ha! Sinful. Pitiful lot they were, promising to be wicked and grab life by the horns, but here she was, unable to think of a way out of the life her parents had planned for her.
“As I understand it, your soon-to-be betrothed will be in attendance.”
“I w
ill not marry that man!”
Her brother frowned. “Maryann, will—”
“I will not!”
Crispin sighed and made his way over to her, then stooped. “What is your aversion to the match?”
It felt baffling to explain how scary it was to commit her life and happiness to a man with whom she had no connection. Her throat ached with the need to yell as frustration bubbled inside her. “It is awful to not be able to make a choice for myself, Crispin! And what is the rush in me marrying?”
“You are already three and twenty,” he said gently. Her brother hesitated slightly. “Could a part of your objection be because of Stamford’s age?”
Maryann scoffed. “Can a lady not have a dream to be a happily independent spinster?”
Her brother appeared contemplative. “Even as a woman of some means and independence, you will be under the scrutiny of society.”
“Perhaps I shall live away from the eyes of the ton, or perhaps by then I won’t give a fig what they think.”
Crispin sighed. “Stamford is a good friend of Father’s. Do not let the age gap be a deterrent to you making such a good match. Papa is still very handsome and is in the prime of his life; perhaps Stamford will be just as charming to you.”
She waved her hands in a dismissive gesture. “We met once, Crispin, and I felt no warmth or connection between us. How do we move from that indifference to a marriage and intimacy? The earl does not invite me to ride with him in Hyde Park or even to stroll through Mayfair. We do not converse or dance at balls. This man does not care to know me, and I daresay this supposed courtship is an indication of how cold and loveless any potential union might be, and I am angry that my opinion was not considered. It is I who will be marrying the man, for heaven’s sake!”
At Crispin’s silence, she asked, “Do you approve of Lord Stamford as a match for me?”