by Stacy Reid
The viscount stiffened, his features creasing in a black scowl. “What do you mean by that, Rothbury?”
He wore a carefully cultivated expression of restless boredom. “A young governess? If you want women of varied expertise, there is a place I can take you to in Soho.”
“And if it is her we want?” the viscount demanded belligerently, while the other two silently watched.
“It would be remiss of me to allow my friends to act foolhardy and not tell them. She is an employee in the earl’s household. He would not look favorably on your actions tonight.”
“She wouldn’t dare tell,” the man who had brought her outside said. “Who would want to admit to dallying with their lord’s guests?”
The girl started crying, and St. Ives snorted in affected disgust.
“I am not attracted to her mousiness. Are you?” he asked with such exaggerated astonishment, the viscount tugged uncomfortably at his cravat.
Maryann realized he wanted the girl safely away from the degenerate lot but had gone about it in this fashion. Why? Why not rebuke them for their improper conduct and whisk her away? Was it because he was outnumbered?
What are your reasons, St. Ives?
After much muttering, they released the girl, St. Ives passing her a handkerchief plucked from his pocket. Maryann strained to hear what he said to the young girl but missed it. She, however, bobbed her head, skirted around the men, and hurried inside.
“Do we head to Soho, then?” one of the men asked, smacking his lips.
“After supper, I cannot swive on an empty belly.”
They laughed and made their way in, all except the marquess. The tip of the cheroot flared orange as he dragged the taste and scent into his lungs. She should make haste and return to the ball, but she found herself resting her gloved elbows on the railing and studying him.
“Did you enjoy the show?” he asked, taking another drag.
She leaned over to see who had come outside and frowned when she saw no one. To her surprise, he turned around and looked right at her. She sucked in an audible breath and gripped the railing. “I was not aware my presence was felt.”
The very faintest of smiles creased his mouth. “I might be going mad, because it was as if I tasted you on the air—apples and peaches with a hint of cinnamon.”
She ignored that provocative drawl and said, “As to the show you referred, I was singularly unimpressed. You keep ghastly company.”
He pressed a hand over his chest. “Even with my heroics?”
“They were more the acts of a bounder. If you had raised a fist and given them a facer each, then I could salute you, my lord.”
“How violent you are,” he mused, that smile again teasing his mouth. “I like your fierceness.”
“You silver-tongued devil,” she murmured with mock gratitude. “It is what we racoons are known for.”
He smiled and sauntered in her direction.
The door behind her rattled, and she whirled around.
“Lady Maryann?”
The solid oak muffled the voice, yet still an undeniable foreboding filled her body. Maryann contained her gasp when the door opened.
“Lady Maryann,” the voice called with that mocking lilt.
It was Stamford! How had he found her here? She turned around, rapidly thinking. It would not do for him to find her in such a secluded place.
“What is it?” the marquess demanded, his expression hardening.
She shook her head wordlessly.
His gaze narrowed, and it alarmed her how lethal he suddenly appeared. “I can see the panic on your face. Stay there. I will make my way to you.”
“No,” she whispered furiously. That would be an even worse scandal, the possibility of being caught with two men in a secluded room. And yet…instinctive knowledge filled her. Stamford meant to compromise her.
“Catch me!” And without overthinking the matter, she slung one of her legs over the railing, then another.
“And allow you to flatten me to the ground?” he asked drily.
“A disagreeable prospect, I agree, but what am I to do?”
“Reach for the trellis to your left,” St. Ives commanded, walking closer to the balcony.
She did and gripped it, feeling with her foot for the vines that would give her purchase. Maryann found it and started to climb down, grateful for all the misadventures she’d had over the years with Crispin. The overflowing vines seemed to come alive, scratching at her arms and pulling at her clothes and hair.
Holding on for dear life, she made to step down again and slipped. She closed her eyes tightly, swallowing the rising scream as she plummeted to the ground, placing her trust in the scoundrel beneath her. The very one who might ignore her, since he did not want to be flattened.
With a soft grunt, she landed in his arms and against his chest.
“I’ve got you,” he said, his mouth a dark murmur at her temple.
Maryann was terribly aware that she was held perfectly in the marquess’s arms. Though his touch was through layers of gown and petticoats, she felt him like a searing brand. “You may put me down.”
“Must I? I like the weight of you in my arms. It rouses certain fantasies to life. Shall I tell you of them?”
She pinched his shoulder with great force through his jacket. “You are unpardonable!”
The cynicism left his countenance, but in his half-closed eyes lingered a gleam far more alarming. “I’ll take pleasure in taming you, Lady Maryann.”
“You are odiously provoking,” she gasped in a suffocated voice.
He caught her about the waist and swung her lightly down to her feet.
“You still like me—I can tell.”
Maryann hurriedly stepped back a few paces. Her hands were no longer quite steady as she smoothed the front of her gown. She remained where she was, carefully eyeing him, attempting to swallow down the impulse to retreat inside. It affected Maryann that he rattled her nerves so easily.
An awfully intense sensation twisted low in her stomach when he rested a strong, powerful arm about her waist, and stepped in a pocket of shadow.
“My lord—” she started to protest at the intimate way he held her body against his.
He lightly pinched her chin. “Shh.”
She was unequivocally flustered. And it was then she heard the footsteps above. The earl had come out onto the balcony. A quick peek upward revealed a dark shadow, the clear outline of a man, leaning against the iron railing and looking down. Reflexively she gripped the lapels of St. Ives’s jacket, her heart pounding.
Wariness rolled down her spine in a chilly wave. “Why is he so persistent?” she whispered. “I cannot understand it.”
“Sometimes racoons are highly coveted.”
Maryann glared at him, barely able to discern the flash of teeth in the darkness. With each inhalation, his masculine scent seemed to trap in her lungs. A strange, darting heat pooled low in her stomach, and to Maryann’s annoyance, she very much liked the feel of his body pressed against hers. They fit. The top of her head brushed against his chin, and she swore the man smelled her hair.
She made to lift up her head, and his hands tightened on her hips, arresting her movement. She slowly became aware that his heart was pounding, and she could feel its thud in the space between them. Uncertainty rippled through her at the provocative embrace…at the closeness…at the tripping of her heart…
At the butterflies in her stomach.
The heat of his body surrounded her. “Don’t move,” he whispered. “We are now one with the shadows; any sudden movement might give away our presence.”
A tremor traveled through her and vibrated against his chest. A lengthy, tension-filled silence stretched between them. A minute or two perhaps passed with no words between them, just a dizzying awareness of his closene
ss and how improper their entire encounter was.
“Is he still there?” she asked huskily.
“Hmm.”
“What is he doing?”
“I don’t know.”
“Aren’t you looking?”
“No.”
She let out an exasperated huff. “Why not?”
“I am too busy staring at you.”
The diabolical fiend. “If you are minded to be wicked, I implore you to try your wiles on someone else.” The marquess was notorious for his womanizing exploits, and she was not about to become one of his amusements. It even astonished her that she would be, not when he had so many eager girls for his salacious attentions.
He smiled, and suddenly it was unbearably tempting to press her mouth to his. Annoyed with herself for having the desire, Maryann twisted and glanced up. “You fiend! Lord Stamford is no longer there!”
Before Lord Rothbury could reply, she balled her fist and punched him in the gut. It was as if she’d slapped a rock, and it was her hand that throbbed. With a huff, she sidestepped him with the intent to rush back inside before she was discovered.
Gentle hands clasped her waist, lifted her, and placed her back in the pocket of the shadows. Maryann was so astonished at his audacity, she spluttered.
“Sheathe your claws, little racoon; your hair is a mess, and you have twigs and leaves all over your clothes.”
Oh! A warm, melting sensation flowed through her. “Thank you.”
“Hmm.”
He unerringly found the few twigs and removed them in silence. His gloved finger brushed her nape and that warm feeling muted to pure heat. She did not understand her reaction to the man, and she wondered if he felt anything at all.
A lone finger caressed her spine up to the exposed part of her neck. When had he taken off his gloves?
“You have the most delightful skin. So unbelievably soft.”
“I gather this is a marriage proposal, since you want the privilege to touch what is not yours?” she asked with some amusement, unable to be annoyed with his impertinence, not when he made her heart race in such a recklessly curious way. There was an inexplicable part of her unbearably tempted by the marquess.
He made a rough choking sound.
“A feverish aversion to matrimony, I see,” she said lightly. “Yet here we are, alone and enshrouded in darkness.”
“Mothers do warn their daughters from slipping away with me to dark corners, a message that seemed to miss you.”
When she stiffened, he chuckled.
“And in the same breath, they tirelessly plot how to trap you into marriage,” she drawled. “I cannot fathom what is the charm.”
“It seems the title and my wealth are enough to overlook the dastardliness.”
A curious hunger rushed through her. “It is rumored ladies fall into your bed with just a smile from you, and you’ve left countless broken hearts behind.”
“It is a lovely smile,” he said drolly. “Very hard to resist.”
“Oh, it is more than lovely. Beautiful I would say, devilishly unfair.”
A hitch in his breath sounded, and it gladdened her that she had rattled a man so self-assured.
“I’ve never had a lady flatter my vanity so shamelessly,” he murmured.
Maryann snorted indelicately. “I am not one of those women silly enough to fall rapturously in love with you because you bared your teeth.”
“You exaggerate my abilities.”
Laughter and something unfathomably dark lurked in his tone. A warning that she played in a league she did not belong in slithered down her spine. “I was more in despair of those ladies’ mettle.”
Provocative silence fell between them, and Maryann peered up in the dark, trying to discern his expression.
“Did Stamford cancel the marriage offer?” he asked abruptly.
There was an undecipherable emotion in his voice.
“No.”
“It has been several days since you started the rumors.”
“Perhaps he only heard them tonight and chased me to offer his reprimand,” she replied lightly, though she felt uncertain about the earl’s reasoning.
“If he meant to act with honor, he would meet with your parents.”
“I…” The earl had somehow known she had escaped to the small parlor and had attempted to enter knowing she was alone without a chaperone. “I cannot fathom his intentions.”
The shadows made it hard to decipher his expression fully, but she suspected he stared at her with maddening deliberation. “A liberal experience with debauchery lets me know when another is set upon it. Be incredibly careful in his presence—take care to never be alone with him.”
“Thank you,” she said softly, perplexed by the warmth streaking through her veins.
“Were your parents successful in squashing our scandal?”
Our scandal. “They are trying rather fiercely.”
“Your reckless ploy failed.”
“I fear my father means to marry me to the earl at all cost. Papa gave me a few weeks more of freedom, but after that I am certain it is expected I will fall in line like a biddable daughter.”
“Will you?”
“I do not wish to hurt my parents, for I love them, but if Papa still insists I marry Stamford, I cannot do as he commands.”
“Ah, so you need to be wickeder?”
“You sound as if you approve.”
“Wholeheartedly.”
Her belly did a frightening flip. The devil!
“Perhaps you should start another scandal,” he murmured.
Maryann smiled. “I should, though I would most certainly be banished to the country immediately. That would make it harder for you to sneak into my rooms.”
“Ah, is that censure I hear for not visiting you for the past week, Lady Maryann? Why, I do believe you missed me.”
Before she could make a witty retort, he walked away without bidding her adieu. She stared wistfully after him, heart jerking when he stopped. Maryann waited in the shadows until he turned around. She should hurry away in the opposite direction—common sense had to prevail, and being here with him was inarguably reckless. Yet her feet remained rooted as if they had a will of their own.
He took a step closer to her but remained in the light cast from the lantern strung above him. “History shows us that real change is accepted after a rebellion. You have a bit of rebel in you; do not let others’ expectations stifle you. While it is expected a daughter should always obey her father, if you wish for that perception to change…”
“I suppose I must rebel,” she said, her tone rich with amusement.
Another step. “Your ferocity can be charming; I am sure you’ve been told.”
He so shocked Maryann, she laughed before covering her mouth. He thought her rebellious…and that was charming.
“Perhaps I might ask you to reserve a dance for me before going in to supper?”
A dance. “With you?” she asked, genuinely shocked…and thrilled.
His head dipped slightly, as if to hide the intensity of his expression. “Imagine the wicked scandal of that. Lord Stamford might call me out then and there.” His eyes were a piercing gold shadowed by rich, dark eyebrows, and this near, she could see the devilishness that lurked within. He touched the tip of her nose with a finger. “More biting discourse with you would also be a welcome diversion from the tedium of the evening.”
Maryann stared at him, trying to gather her scattered wits. To dance with this marquess would be inviting ruin in a manner that was most profound. And why would he even help her?
A welcome diversion. “Are you by chance amusing yourself with a flirtation, with me?”
Another step closer. “I see you find humor in the notion.”
Maryann had reached the age of
practicality, and she no longer indulged in silly dreams. Yet peering up at him, barely able to discern his expression, she felt a surge of hunger so painful, she felt mortified. “I’ve never flirted with a gentleman before,” she said musingly, “but then you are no gentleman, are you?”
“No, I suppose not.”
A rake, a libertine, and a dangerous hellraiser—all the names she’d heard whispered about him. “I am not the sort of lady men of the ton flirt with, that I am certain you know.”
“I don’t,” he said a bit abruptly, before once more stepping into the shadows of the trees which hid them from any prying eyes. The marquess leaned into her—uncomfortably, yet thrillingly close. “I thought you were a blazing star that no gentleman has any notion what to do with.”
“Yes, the buffoons,” she murmured, startled at how provocative she sounded.
That finger gently trailed from her nose down to rest against her lips. “I know what to do with every inch of you, Lady Maryann.”
She was scandalized and a little bit frightened by the primal sensations stirring violently to life.
Violent delights have violent ends…
Maryann felt quite unequal to crossing wits with the marquess. She breathed in deeply, slowly, and exhaled on a long sigh. “You are very tempting,” she said huskily.
Their conversation had become remarkably intimate, and the air felt fraught with peril. She wondered at the madness of still being this close to him. Maryann understood right at that moment, being here with a man like Nicolas St. Ives, was her own choice of rebellion—against her parents, society, and even the cage of proper conduct she had placed herself. She was here because she liked him, more than she should ever allow. “I think it is best if I never dance with you, your lordship.”
But I am so very tempted.
A finger came up and lightly brushed at the curls of her temple. “I am wounded.”
A desperate flutter wormed its way through her heart. “You are dangerous.” This man was a threat to her virtue, her sensibilities, and her heart.
“Never to you,” he reassured, sounding earnest and bemused in the same breath. “Everyone else but you.”
Maryann couldn’t suppress the inexplicable yearning for impossible dreams that surged through her heart. She averted her eyes before saying, “As if I should be swayed by nonsensical flattery that was learned by rote by a man such as yourself.” But her silly heart shook at the fervent and impossible promise. “I daresay there are many other ladies who will be thrilled to be your amusement.”