Her Wicked Marquess

by Stacy Reid

  He regarded her with an air of cynical amusement. “Acquit me from such a capricious intention,” he said, pressing a hand over his heart. “I am always terribly serious about seduction.”

  The very air between them felt altered. Yet there was a vein of self-deprecation in his tone, as if he silently mocked himself. Maryann was alarmed at the ease at which they moved from flirtation to seduction.

  Before she could retort, he said, “And if I should ask you to dance?”

  Everything urged her to say yes, for surely that would feed the gossip mill even more. “Bite your tongue,” she said in mock horror. “That would send those with loose tongues into a tizzy.”

  He placed a finger under her chin and tilted her face toward the soft glow of light, searching her expression. “I am glad it is not an aversion to being in my arms that caused you to recoil so.”

  She smiled and arched a brow. “And weren’t you worried our close association might alert your very mysterious enemies?”

  He lifted a shoulder in a shrug, but something undecipherable flashed in his gaze.

  “Ah, so sneaking into my rooms was really because you missed my company.”

  His eyes darkened. “I am beginning to suspect myself. How astonishing, hmm? The rake and the wallflower.”

  The pitter patter of her heart made her feel decidedly flushed. “So I am safe, then,” she murmured, concentrating on the vague enemies he thought he was protecting her from.

  “Alas, I might have been overzealous. Nary a stub to your pretty toes. Perhaps a rogue might be allowed to climb into a lady’s chamber, ravish her most thoroughly, and no one think it odd.”

  “There was no ravishment,” Maryann said with a scoff. Not yet.

  It was as if his voice caressed against her mind, so implicit were the unspoken words, that unexpectedly, she felt out of her depths and retreated warily. Nicolas lowered his arms. Thankfully, he did not advance, and she needed that space to think, to clear him from her awareness. She stepped back until she whirled around and hurried away. It felt silly but so very necessary.

  “Run. It makes no difference.”

  She stumbled and glanced behind her but could not make out his shape in the shadows where they had lingered.

  Run. It makes no difference. Had he really said those words with such throbbing intent? With a sense of shock, Maryann realized it wasn’t fear she felt at the notion of the marquess chasing her—it was reckless, heady anticipation.

  Chapter Ten

  Maryann was unable to dismiss the ache of longing as she stared at the couples twirling with gaiety about the dance floor. She tapped her feet to the beat of the violins, humming the music beneath her breath.

  Her mother hurried over to her, her cheeks a bit pink from exertion.

  “Well,” she said, unfurling her fan. “I had the most amiable conversation with Lord Stamford just now. He will be coming over to lead you into the quadrille, then he will join you for the supper waltz. I have arranged with the hostess for you to be seated beside him at the supper table.”

  Maryann pressed a hand to her stomach, as if that would soothe the knots of anxiety twisting through her. “Mama. Papa has said—”

  Her mother’s eyes flashed a warning. “Pish! It is not the men who decide these things. Mothers know how important it is for their daughters to make a good match.”

  Maryann’s heart hammered against her breastbone. “Were you forced to marry Papa?”

  “Maryann—”

  “Were you, Mother?” she demanded crisply. “Because I recall growing up that Papa used to tease many smiles from you, dance with you in the hallways, and have long picnics on the lawns. You stared at him with tenderness in your gaze…you still do.”

  Her mother glanced away, staring at the couples dancing silently for a long time. “Your father and I are a different matter, and your rebellious attitude is becoming tiresome.”

  The dance ended, and the orchestra struck up another song right away. The sound of the waltz floated on the air, dancers making their way to the floor. Lord Stamford started walking over to her, and Maryann swallowed down the anger clawing through her throat.

  “Lady Musgrove,” Lord Stamford said, smiling in greeting. “Lady Maryann, thank you for honoring me with this dance.”

  “I do not recall agreeing to it,” she said coolly.

  Her mother stiffened, and the earl’s gaze narrowed in warning.

  “Yet you will allow me to escort you to the floor. Now.”

  She cast a quick glance at her mother, who did not seem inclined to take issue with the arrogant, proprietary way he spoke to her daughter.

  “Ah,” a voice drawled with careless charm. “There you are, Lady Maryann. I got lost in the crush trying to find you to claim my dance! I am most relieved I have found you, my lady.” The marquess placed emphasis on the word “my” as he bent over her hand.

  A garbled sound came from her mother’s throat, as if she swallowed a bug, and Stamford faltered into stillness, his eyes cold and cutting into the marquess.

  Maryann turned to him, and his eyes were alight with devilry, a smile curling his beautiful mouth with his hand held out to her. Surely he knew she could not take his hand in hers. It would create more gossip if she snubbed Lord Stamford and danced with the marquess.

  If she was so bold and publicly danced with this man, the story would make the rounds of the drawing rooms. It would be considered proven that he had taken liberties with her and occupied her bed. For her to be seen in his arms would be a confirmation of every licentious whisper circling about.

  Maryann had wanted mere gossiped speculation, not for the ton to crow about their affair as irrevocable fact. For if they believed they had such proof, her reputation would be so besmirched, she would not be received in any drawing rooms or be invited to any balls. Even though her father was the formidable Lord Musgrove. Even her dear friends would be forced to cut her off for fear of being associated with her wantonness.

  When the marquess did not lower his hand but patiently waited, a wave of murmurs swept through nearby onlookers.

  “Maryann—” her mother began furiously, before unfurling her fan and waving it vigorously.

  “Oh my,” someone affected in a deliberately loud whisper. “There might be some truth to the rumors after all!”

  Her mother’s face mottled, and a flash of fury lit in Lord Stamford’s eyes.

  The marquess’s expression was faintly amused, a dare evident in his golden eyes.

  “The waltz has already started,” she murmured.

  From the mocking glint in his eyes, he knew exactly how outrageous his actions were. A startled laugh escaped before she choked back the sound. Her mother looked ready to collapse, and Crispin had abandoned his post by a potted plant and was walking over.

  Cut him, Crispin mouthed.

  The refusal hovered on her lips, but she straightened her back and smiled. Then Maryann held out her hand to Lord Rothbury and allowed a notorious libertine to sweep her into the waltz. She stared at no one but him and worked to keep the smile off her face even though her heart pounded so.

  His lips curved ever so slightly. “Ah, my little rebel, how does it feel?”

  “To shock the ton, distress my mother, and possibly unalterably ruin myself?”

  “You think all that will happen from this one dance?”

  “Your reputation precedes you.”

  “Hopefully, you’ll be free of Stamford. I saw the distaste on your face when he approached you.”

  He swung her into a wide arc with stunning grace before drawing her too close for the sticklers.

  “And is that why you did it?” she murmured. “To help me escape him?”

  “Isn’t that what you wanted?”

  They twirled across the ballroom, and Maryann could feel the eyes of the crowd direct
ed at them. “This is my first dance in over three years not with my family,” she said, sliding her elbow against his, then spun to meet him back again in this very intricate and very sensual dance.

  “I’ve never danced at a society ball before.”

  Her breath hitched. “Is that true?”

  “Yes.”

  “Oh my, this scandal will be heard even in the country.” Everyone would ceaselessly speculate why the marquess chose to dance with her of all the other ladies and debutantes. “Thank you,” she whispered.

  “My pleasure.”

  Maryann was unable to take her eyes from his. “Are we friends, my lord?”

  Their gazed locked, as if they were unaware of their audience.

  “Of course not.”

  Her heart jolted and skipped a beat. “Then why—”

  His lashes lowered, hiding his expression for a moment. “It suits my reputation to be seen as indifferent to their narrow-mindedness…”

  And they said nothing more as they twirled to the rousing strains of the orchestra until the dance ended. The marquess escorted her to her mother in silence, and he bowed to the countess, who only stared at him frostily.

  Stamford was nowhere to be found, and for the first time in months, Maryann’s heart felt a bit lighter.

  …

  “Ah, a woman’s view on politics—it is to be expected that it would have little to no form with any true understanding,” Nicolas murmured, wanting to stab himself for even saying such bloody nonsense.

  Lady Maryann flushed, and the gaze that looked at him was wounded, before her incredibly long lashes lowered, shuttering her emotions. Her delicate fingers climbed and pushed the spectacles up her pert nose before she took up her fork and resumed eating the succulently prepared lamb.

  That’s right, my little racoon, he silently encouraged, treat us like the ants we are.

  A few of the men who had overheard laughed, and one even said, “Hear, hear, the place of ladies is in the home, and if not to give opinions on balls or the nursery, a lady’s mouth should be closed at all times.”

  A general murmur of assent swept their end of the splendidly lavish dining table and Lord Crispin’s face darkened with his ire. Lady Musgrove had given her excuses earlier and departed the ball, no doubt overwhelmed by the chattering which erupted once he had returned her daughter to her side.

  Whispers of how nefarious he was for stealing a kiss from Lady Maryann had flown from many lips. Some had been titillated at his audacity for dancing so publicly with her, and someone had dared to remark how terrible it must have been for him to kiss such a plain wallflower.

  She’d handled herself admirably and ignored those determined to gossip. Her chin had been lifted high, a mocking smile on her sweet lips, as if to say, I dared, come what may. Lord Stamford had watched her, his face inscrutable, but in his eyes there had been a promise of punishment. Nicolas prayed he had been mistaken.

  Lady Maryann had also received many envious stares from ladies who had set their caps for him over the seasons. Of course, she had seemed oblivious. Nicolas hoped he hadn’t been reckless in his need to feel her in his arms, and to help her escape the attachment her parents pushed against her wishes. While chatting with her in the gardens, he’d silently acknowledged how careful he had become, seeing the possibility of danger in everything. Not even his sisters Nicolas allowed to visit him in London, and he had men who discreetly kept a careful watch on his family, despite the fact that no threat had ever presented itself. Nicolas preferred to be overly cautious than regretful with loss.

  Then when his walk with vengeance was over…then and only then would he live without restraint.

  He glanced at her, and from the stiffness of her shoulders he could tell that she was upset and bravely masking her hurt. Lady Maryann had offered her opinion on a bill that had passed in the commons and would be debated by the lords at the next sitting of parliament. Her insight had impressed him and rendered those within earshot silent. He hoped he masked his admiration and so had delivered his cutting remark.

  He’d wounded her pride grievously, but he would not apologize for it, since it was in keeping with the person he wanted to be before these people—the careless rake who had no true attachment. If before they thought the rumors and dance had meaning, now they would be forced to reassess their perception. If to Lady Maryann’s detriment, Nicolas had dismissed a lurking threat too soon, now that hidden danger would think it had been a mere dance, nothing more.

  Forgive me, but I must always be a step ahead.

  One of the men responsible for breaking Arianna sat at the supper table with them: Viscount Weychell, heir to a most prestigious earldom. The duke had left earlier with his cronies and had invited Nicolas to join them at some new haunt they had discovered. He had declined, a surprise even to himself. He did not normally allow the opportunity to be close enough to the duke to pass him by, it was a chance to observe and patiently watch so Nicolas could learn all the duke’s picadilloes.

  The Duke of Farringdon had become more careful and paranoid of late, mumbling to all who would listen that he was being watched and followed, and that someone was out to ruin his investments and reputation. Both Viscount Weychell and the duke had reasons to be more careful. They had the proof of one of their chummiest cronies fleeing England to Italy to escape his debts and crumbling reputation.

  That man, Viscount Barton, had been the first to fall to Nicolas’s scheme. In the letter Arianna left behind, she had detailed clues about each of her villains, for she had not known their identities. How could she? They moved in elevated circles she had only entered in her dreams and hopes. She had mentioned Barton’s coat of arms—a stag with a flower between its teeth—and that was how Nicolas had found the man and assuaged a bit of the rage in his heart.

  The stag with the lily in its mouth was the most brutal, for it was that one who taught me that fear and pain lie in a touch.

  Closing his eyes against the broken whisper in which he heard the tone of her letters, he lifted the glass of wine and emptied it, wishing they had served something stronger.

  It was surprising that Farringdon had been savvy enough to start suspecting Nicolas of not being what he presented to the world. His scheme possessed a crack in its design, and he must find it and fix it posthaste.

  While they had smoked earlier in the gardens, Farringdon made several tasteless and ribald jokes in regard to the rumors circulating about the ballroom.

  “Is the cunny of a wallflower any different than a lady of varied experience? I imagine Lady Maryann has been grateful for your attention. Perhaps I might take a turn when you are through amusing yourself.”

  It had taken acute willpower not to smash the duke’s teeth in.

  “You speak of a lady who could be your sister. Show some discretion,” Nicolas had coolly warned.

  “You defend her so readily, Rothbury. Do you plan to court her then? How prettily she smiled up at you when dancing. I cannot recall you ever dancing with a bit of quality before. Do you recall it, Weychell?”

  The viscount had looked between them anxiously, a frown splitting his brow, his blue eyes worried and silently questioning.

  “Court her? Don’t be stupid,” Nicolas had said with a mock shudder, pulling on his cheroot. “With my reputation, dancing with her wasn’t a good thing. I had my reasons.”

  “Which are?” the duke had demanded.

  “My own,” Nicolas had replied with a deliberately carnal smile.

  Though Farringdon had laughed and slapped Nicolas’s shoulders, his gaze had been shrewd and assessing as he watched Nicolas’s expression.

  Judging to see if Lady Maryann mattered.

  Judging to see if she could become a pawn.

  Judging to see if Nicolas’s coveted weakness had been uncovered.

  Very reckless of the duke, as if Nicolas
would ever allow a woman to become so important she was a weakness. Laughable really. They did not truly know him.

  Except…he rubbed the spot above his heart, which damn well ached with hunger.

  His cutting tone just now might serve to distract the duke from whatever nonsense he’d been thinking. Nicolas closed his eyes, battling the raw feelings stirring inside. He couldn’t explain it, but this he did not want. He did not want to use Lady Maryann for any purpose. He did not want her ruined even if it might help her plans. He did not want her cut from her society and friends. Bloody hell.

  Lady Vivienne, a widowed viscountess for a number of years, briefly touched his arm to garner his attention. She pursed her lips and graced him with a sexually charged smile. “Many of us ladies would never do something so gauche as to attempt to tread in a man’s world and give an opinion on politics. It is just not done and so very unflattering to a lady.”

  She leaned in intimately close and suggestively purred, “I do not fully agree with Lord Prendergast; there are some wicked reasons a lady might open her mouth. It’s been an age since I’ve indulged, and I’ve heard you are excessively naughty.”

  Nicolas examined the anticipation in her eyes, suppressed his ire, and replied with a modicum of civility.

  “Not tonight, I’m afraid,” he murmured, once again surprised at himself, for the widow was an exceptionally beautiful woman many had tried to woo to be their mistress.

  She had rejected everyone, including David, and here she was offering Nicolas a night of debauchery. And he was decidedly uninterested. The woman he wanted splayed wide underneath him, legs high around his waist while that lush mouth begged him for relief from the agonizing pleasure he would give her had not looked at him since his cutting remark. The awareness of his singular lascivious and inappropriate thought had him stiffening. Hell.