Her Wicked Marquess

by Stacy Reid

  “Yes.”

  “Yet you are still here in my chamber.”

  “As soon as I borrow a book, I shall leave. You have an eclectic reading taste. It is impressive.”

  Maryann felt the warm admiration of his tone all the way to the pit of her stomach. “What…what do you like to read?”

  “Why do you sound so surprised that I do?”

  She lifted a shoulder in an inelegant shrug. “Well, you are supposed to be a rake.”

  “Ah, and we are creatures who cannot read?”

  “Hmm, too busy with debauchery. Wherever would you find the time or the inclination?”

  His wry chuckle quickened her pulse. They were reaching quite another level of intimacy with their conversation.

  “I like William Wordsworth and E. T. A. Hoffmann. I’ve never told anyone that before, so guard the knowledge with your life.” Slipping her gothic romance book into his pocket, he said, “I will borrow this book and read it for myself. You are blushing so delightfully, that means I made the right choice.”

  Maryann rolled her eyes. “If that is your desire, am I able to stop you?”

  His slow smile made her heart beat suddenly faster, for he surveyed her with disturbing intensity with those brilliant eyes. “No, I suppose you cannot, but I would not take it without your permission.”

  “Are we still talking about the book?” she murmured.

  His eyes darkened. The marquess seemed riveted. Unexpectedly he stood, bowed, and shoved open her window and went through it. A breath escaped Maryann in a rush. Her heart raced in earnest. Would he truly visit her often to ascertain she was safe? She really did not know what to make of him, but a keen awareness lingered that he excited her unbearably.

  …

  Visit three was the very next day. This time he traveled with a card pack and invited her to play piquet with him. When she bemusedly said she did not know how, he lowered himself to the carpet by the sofa and with an enigmatic wave of his hand invited her to sit. Maryann toed off her slippers and joined him.

  “Why are you here again?” she demanded, despite anticipating his presence. Oh, why do I like you so?

  “I told you the consequences of linking our names together.”

  “So, this is you checking in on my safety?”

  “Most assuredly.”

  “I do not believe you.”

  “Then why do you think I came?”

  She arched a brow. “For my charming company, of course.”

  Something wary flashed in his gaze, as if she had hinted at a truth yet not acknowledged by him. Her heart stuttered, and she remained silent for a long time.

  Maryann wondered if he was lonely, then felt bewildered by her supposition. At the balls she’d seen the marquess at, he was always surrounded by a bevy of lady admirers. Even the young bucks seemed like they desired to emulate the marquess. But perhaps he had no genuine friendship with his admirers?

  “What are you thinking about?” he asked, staring at her too intently.

  “Exactly how I am going to talk about you in my diary.”

  “Your diary?” This seemed to surprised him.

  “Of course,” she drawled. “Most ladies do have one. It is a place where we are allowed to express ourselves freely, you know.”

  A glint entered his eyes, one of relish perhaps. “I wonder what secret longings are on those pages.”

  “None you’ll ever be privy to,” she said pertly, fighting a blush, for she had wondered on those pages what it would be like to have the attentions of this dratted rake.

  He leaned in slightly and gave her a decidedly wolfish yet sensual smile. “Is that a challenge, Lady Maryann?”

  That outrageous, inexplicable desire to kiss him filled her once more.

  Considerably shaken, she shifted away so he could not see her expression of want. “Are we to play piquet or not?”

  Devilry danced in his eyes. “Let’s play.”

  After almost an hour of the game, his stomach rumbled, and his sheepish smile made him seem so much more approachable, and not the dangerously mysterious stranger or charming rake who made her pulse trip with alarm.

  Maryann rang for a maidservant and asked for a tray of leftovers from their dinner, delicious slices of roast ham, beef, and asparagus in cream sauce, to be sent to her room on a tray. The maid might have thought it odd she had collected it in the hall but wisely made no comment. They sat there on the carpet, the tray to one side as they both ate from the array of delicacies and continued their game.

  …

  Visit four, Maryann pled a headache and did not attend Lady Gladstone’s soiree. After dinner, she raced up the stairs and flung her door open. Disappointment pressed in on her gut, for the marquess wasn’t in the chair by the window.

  Maryann went over to her vanity, sat, and slowly unpinned her hair, intending to ring the bell for her lady maid. It was then she felt the profound power of his stare and whirled around to see him lounging on her bed.

  “You are unpardonable,” she gasped.

  “More like tired,” he replied, a twinkle in his eyes. “Did anything out of the ordinary happen today?”

  A thrill went through her. “If you truly have someone watching me, Lord Rothbury, you know this already.” He hadn’t come to check on her safety; it was an excuse. And God help her, Maryann was almost afraid to wonder what it meant.

  “Perhaps I missed you,” he said with lazy amusement.

  Yet there was a most astonishing flush along his jawline. He shifted, casting himself perfectly in the shadows.

  You are hiding from me.

  She scoffed, even as her heart raced. “Do you know how outrageous it is for you to sneak into my room once more?”

  “I was exceedingly careful.” He propped a pillow behind him and the headboard. “Why did you stop?”

  She became aware her fingers were still frozen on a pin in her hair.

  “I have never seen hair so beautiful. The dark russet fire of sunset.”

  Maryann was silent for a few breaths. “It is brown,” she said, staring at him, an inexplicable feeling stirring inside.

  “Let me see it unpinned.”

  That provocative urging set her heart into an alarmed start.

  “Absolutely not.” And for good measure Maryann repinned her tresses even tighter than before.

  The man only smiled, stood, and stumbled slightly. It was then she noted the dark shadows of exhaustion beneath his eyes. “How long have you been awake?”

  “Since I last saw you.”

  “I will allow you three hours of sleep.”

  Now he faltered into stillness. “Here?”

  “Yes.”

  “Living dangerously, I see,” he drawled teasingly but tumbled into the bed. “I might need a bedtime story.” The marquess patted the mattress beside him. “I will not object if you wish to sleep as well.”

  The scoundrel!

  Maryann stood and plucked a book from the small pile on the table. “How apropos. The mating habits of sheep.”

  He laughed, then a second later his deep breathing echoed in the room. She walked over and peered down at him, charmed at how boyishly handsome he appeared in sleep. Almost vulnerable.

  No doubt he had spent a full day carousing and was deeply exhausted, but why had he still insisted on visiting her?

  “I cannot pretend to understand what drives your interest in me,” she whispered in the stillness of the room.

  Maryann eventually fell asleep on the sofa, but when she stirred some hours later, she was in her bed and the marquess gone.

  …

  A few days later, as she woke, Maryann sat before her small writing table and poured her emotions and thoughts onto the pages of her journal.

  Dearest Diary,

  I am beginning
to wonder if it is possible to form a friendship with one of London’s most notorious rakes.

  Maryann paused writing and closed her eyes. Friendship? Oh, what am I thinking?

  The marquess has stolen into my chambers on five occasions. He never stays long, and I do not believe in the reason he gives for being so improper. Nor do I understand why I indulge his actions. And I do, for I increasingly look forward to his visits.

  It has been a week since I last saw him, and my silly curiosity wonders why he has stopped visiting me. There are times I feel his stare from across a busy street but when I look, no one is there. I saw him once this week, on High Holborn, and I maintained a respectable distance, fearing all of society would see my fascination. Fearing he would see it. The marquess watched me discreetly, the curve to his lips provoking, and his gaze stroked against my skin, a delightful caress that I know is not real.

  That man is unequivocally intrigued by my mouth.

  I think perhaps that night he visited me, I woke to find my nightcap missing and my hair spread across my pillows. I should have been startled, but I was everything but. Instead I wondered how long he had stayed, wondered if he had watched me sleep as I had watched him, wondered if he too dreams of kissing me. Something unknown quivered through me, hot and startling. What are these feelings I cannot say, for I’ve never encountered them before, though they felt remarkably like how desire is supposed to be.

  Maryann lowered the quill and closed her diary. Just thinking about the marquess made her entire body grow warm and flushed. Since that fateful night she had spread the rumors, Maryann hadn’t been to another ball. Her parents forbade it, hoping her absence would urge society to forget. To her regret, her parents were using their influence to squash all murmurings linking her name with the marquess. Tonight, she would be attending a ball, a test to see if they had successfully undone the damage she’d willfully casted upon her reputation.

  And her mother had sternly warned Maryann to ignored Nicolas St. Ives, Marquess Rothbury at all cost. Maryann closed her eyes, hoping that the curious hunger she felt growing inside did not lead her to ruination…or something far worse.

  Chapter Nine

  Almost three weeks after the first night the marquess stole into her chamber, Maryann stood on the terraced balcony of Lady Trembly’ s home, escaping the stifling heat of the overly crowded ballroom. She lifted her hand to her mouth to hide an indelicate yawn. Maryann felt a bit weary and wished she were at home snuggled in bed reading or working on her latest embroidery. The late summer day had been unusually dreary and overcast, and she had spent the day indoors, canceling a shopping date she had with her friend Ophelia.

  This midnight ball was her second affair this week, the first a picnic at Hyde Park. Maryann had tried to escape attending this ball, hating the very idea of encountering Lord Stamford without a new plan. The countess insisted the first step in proving the rumors untrue was to make a united show to the ton. They were all at the ball, even her father, who spent most of his evenings at White’s with his cronies, a glass of brandy, and their political debates.

  There was a faint stir when they had entered, but their hostess had hurriedly greeted them, signaling her belief in the Fitzwilliams’ impeachable reputation. Once in the ballroom, a few sly speculative whispers had reached their ears, but her mother acted as if those persons were ants below her heels. Maryann had danced three times, once with her father and twice with Crispin.

  Lady Sophie stood in a circle of admirers, her humiliating spectacle of a few weeks prior forgotten. Or no one dared mention it when her brother, the duke, attended the same event. Old gossips were quickly forgotten in lieu of new gossips, and tonight it was Maryann’s name on those wagging tongues. Maryann suspected it was her scandal which had forced the duke’s sister to attend. It would not do for her to stay at home and gloat at another’s downfall. That must be done in person.

  It was Lady Sophie and her coterie sauntering in Maryann’s direction with malice on their faces which prompted her to seek fresh air on the balcony.

  They had not witnessed her escape, and she reminded herself that she was not running or cowering away. “There are other days to fight,” she whispered.

  With a heavy sigh, she lifted her face to the sky, pleased to see a few stars out. Knowing that her family was disappointed in her hurt. She had told Crispin earlier it was that same disappointment she had endured when they had plotted her future without a single say-so from her.

  The feel of eyes on her body had her scanning the crowded ballroom. A gasp stifled in her throat when she spied Stamford by a potted plant. The manner in which he stared at her was decidedly outrageous; he did it boldly, and quite uncaring that people might see and speculate. His insolent inspection was enough to create another scandal.

  Horror darted through her when he started to discreetly move toward her. If she hadn’t been watching him, it would have slipped her notice. With a stifled curse, she hurriedly slipped inside the ballroom, scanning the crush for her mother or even Crispin.

  Her brother danced the waltz with a young lady she did not recognize, and she did not see her mother or father. Now that she was in the thick of the crowd, she stayed on the sidelines watching the twirling couples. How graceful and charming they all appeared.

  “Lady Maryann,” Lord Stamford greeted, coming to stand before her.

  She dipped into a quick curtsy. “Lord Stamford.”

  “Business had taken me to Derbyshire for a few days, but now that I am back in town, I feel we should have a private chat that is long overdue. Might I ask you to join me on the terrace?” he said with a mocking smile. “You will go first and then I will follow, discreetly of course.”

  She smiled up at him, and he sucked in a sharp breath, looking decidedly startled.

  “Denied,” she said sweetly.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “You truly did not anticipate my refusal? How arrogant.”

  A warning flashed in his eyes, one she chose to ignore.

  “Then I will claim your hand in the next waltz.”

  “The next set is not a waltz,” she said, not liking the idea of being in his arms.

  With another mocking smile, he dipped into a bow and made his way over to the twenty-piece orchestra set. Maryann did not wait to see what he would do. She spun around and waded through the throng toward escape. She was intimately familiar with the town home of Lady Trembly, after visiting so often with her mama.

  Once in the hallway, she rushed to the curved stairs and made her way to the second floor and tested the first door she came upon. It was a quaint little sitting area, with a long sash window that opened onto a terrace. The moon provided her with enough light for her to navigate outside to the balcony.

  Laughing voices reached her and she peered down into side gardens lit by a few lanterns.

  The Marquess of Rothbury.

  His back was turned to her, so perhaps she was mistaken, but the wild beat of her heart told her she wasn’t. The man shifted, and a soft breath escaped her. It was indeed the marquess in the gardens, smoking. For a brief, outrageous second, her heart soared.

  As she stared at his dark masculine beauty, longing halted her breath, and for the first time, she wished she had kissed him that night he broke into her room. And perhaps every time after that.

  She lifted slightly shaky fingers to her mouth. The attraction she felt for the scoundrel was so frightful and improper, but worse was that she had no notion of how to get rid of it. She wondered if she would have seen St. Ives with another woman, would he have been as vulgar as Stamford about it? It would be expected of such a rake, but even the thought of him so carnally with another woman annoyed her. She had no claim on him. No right at all to be jealous. However, she thought somehow that he would not be sordid and indiscreet in his affairs.

  What would it taste like to be kissed at last…and
by you?

  The three gentlemen the marquess stood with spoke low but laughed uproariously at whatever quip they shared. She wondered if they noted that though he smiled, he did not truly take part in their merriment. As she suspected since the night he had climbed into her room, there was more to the man than what he presented to the world.

  Tonight, he was dressed in unrelenting black, save for the bright purple waistcoat he wore. If he had been trying to appear a dandy, in her eyes he failed. He was such a unique combination of casual power and refined elegance.

  A fourth gentleman joined them, and she stiffened, gripping the end of the iron railing. The man dragged a girl with him, and despite that she seemed frightened and quite unwilling, he prodded her ahead.

  “And who is this little morsel?” St. Ives drawled, removing the cheroot from between his lips.

  His tone suggested debauchery lingered in his thoughts, and from the guffaws of his friends, they agreed. Maryann frowned, for it did not ring true to what she had come to know of his character.

  “This is the governess, Miss Laura! I found her peeking inside the ballroom. Seems she would like a spot of fun,” the Duke of Farringdon drawled.

  The man was Lady Sophie’s brother, but Maryann had not thought him so lacking in morals and honor. The girl was clearly frightened out of her wits! Then to Maryann’s shock, the duke drew the girl to him and nuzzled her neck. The young girl pushed him away and lurched back, until she encountered another bounder. This time she recognized Viscount Weychell, the son of Lord Tremelle. How dare they?

  “Governesses are particularly tasty, but she’s not pretty enough to tempt me; I daresay you should let her back inside,” Lord Rothbury said blandly.

  The young girl threw the marquess a grateful look before her face crumpled.

  “Are you mad?” the man currently holding her, Viscount Weychell, demanded. “She is a lovely piece of flesh. We should be able to have some fun in that secluded spot over there.”

  “Ah, I thought you had a more discriminating palate,” Rothbury said with a measure of arrogance and disgust. “But what can one expect?”