Her Wicked Marquess

by Stacy Reid

  The thought of Lady Maryann hurt, humiliated, and forced to marry a man of such despicable honor had the strangest, gut-wrenching effect on him. “They plan to irrevocably ruin her,” Nicolas said coldly.

  “Is it ruination?” David asked pragmatically.

  “You’re right, such a pretty word for what they intend. Rape is what it is.”

  David flinched. “The man is reputed to be a skilled lover. I am more than certain he will be very persuasive, and she will succumb to his seductive wiles. I urge you to recall the lady will be married to a respectable title. And she will be safe from those who might be wondering if she is important to you.”

  Nicolas walked away, lightly jumping over the wrought-iron fence, his great cloak swirling around his boots. David silently kept pace and cursed under his breath when Nicolas turned right onto Russell Street instead of left.

  “Have you lost your senses? You are going to the duchess’s?”

  He did not slow his strides. “What of it?”

  “I cannot conceive that you should attend,” David said tightly. “You are not dressed for the occasion and as such, your presence will stir unnecessary attention and speculation.”

  “Your company is not required,” Nicolas said, coolly dismissive.

  “What is it about her?” David ground out, grabbing on to Nicolas’s arm. “We have a plan tonight to reel in Weychell on our hook. One of the men who hurt our Arianna. And yet you are running to save this girl…this girl who is nothing?”

  “You are comfortable with an innocent being shredded?”

  David grimaced. “She’ll be respectably married to Talbot after.”

  The ice in Nicolas’s gut grew cold enough to encompass his entire being.

  “Do not look at me like that,” David snapped, appearing wary.

  “And how is that?” Nicolas murmured icily, doing nothing to temper the dangerous feeling clawing up inside him.

  “You are spending too much time watching her, protecting her from a force that might not be there,” David hissed, scrubbing a hand over his face.

  “How do you know how much time I spend watching her?”

  David scoffed. “I noticed!”

  Something lethal trembled through Nicolas. “Only if you’ve been watching her.”

  The wolf betrays…

  “Bloody hell, man, do you see how you are looking at me? For a bit of skirt, you—”

  “For a bit of what?”

  David faltered, then looked away from him before meeting his eyes once more. “I hate to see your distraction when now is the time you should be more determined. We are almost at the end, Nicolas. The end…after ten long years. I know how calculating you are…how shrewd and ruthless, so she must serve a purpose for you, I can tell, but she is just one piece on your board. A pawn. Do not lose sight of everything for a bloody insignificant pawn.”

  The silence that fell between them felt brittle.

  “I will meet you at the Asylum in a couple of hours,” Nicolas said flatly, whirled around, and headed to the duchess’s ball.

  Is that what you are to me, Lady Maryann…a pawn?

  There was merit in David’s argument. Her marriage would make her safe if the danger he perceived truly lingered in the shadows. Yet acute distaste filled him for the duke’s sister and her cohort. The very idea that they would be so underhanded urged him to teach them a lesson they would not forget anytime soon—or ever.

  Lady Maryann deserved a choice, always. It was that simple for him.

  Except it is more.

  He could feel it, simmering low and brutal in his gut, waiting to burst free should he let it. A sharp hiss escaped him, and he ruthlessly disciplined all the fire of lust and strange emotions twisting inside him. This was simply a good deed he would do for any lady in trouble.

  As if to mock his will, her light brown and green-flecked eyes swam into his thoughts. That remarkably ravishing smile she owned, and her clever tongue and defiant will. That sharp, retaliatory bite on his mouth.

  Racoons do that.

  He wanted her, more than he’d ever wanted another soul. Perhaps if he should kiss her, even once, he would find there was nothing remarkable there and she would simply disappear from his thoughts and waking dreams. Yet he did not want to risk kissing her or being too close, not when her brother might be his enemy.

  The best way to let her disappear is to let her marry, his conscience taunted. Let Talbot seduce her to his bed.

  The feelings that scythed through Nicolas’s heart were so unfamiliar and ridiculous that they took several befuddling moments to register to his senses—raw, primal possessiveness and protectiveness. If he were an uncivilized creature, he would have been screaming “she’s mine”.

  Nicolas felt…unnerved.

  He took a slow, deep breath, steadying himself against the unfamiliar emotions, and moved through the night, silent and set on his current goal—to save Lady Maryann from a spoiled debutante’s merciless plot.

  He rubbed the back of his neck, admitting with a silent snarl that it served his purpose to think he was running to rescue her. The truth of the matter was it would be more likely that he would be saving them from her wrath and rapier.

  God, he hoped so, for if Talbot touched her, the man would lose the hand with which he created the offense.

  Chapter Twelve

  Another day of endless rounds of social calls, another night of attending a ball where Maryann stood on the sidelines with her mother indulgently looking on, content in her delusion that her daughter’s reputation had not suffered a blow. Maryann had refused to attend, but Crispin had begged her to cease aggravating their mother’s nerves, and Maryann had relented. Attending a ball did not mean acceptance of a marriage offer.

  Maryann would give it an hour before pleading a headache and making her way home. Several dancing couples glided the intricate steps of a minuet, others reposed on chaise longues, while others stood drinking champagne and laughing. She watched Crispin’s graceful form as he moved with his current partner, Miss Lydia Moncrieff, who peered up at him with her heart on her sleeves.

  That tender look of longing brought a hot lump to Maryann’s throat. Merely existing these days was proving itself a tiresome business, a notion which filled her with guilt. She had many blessings to be thankful for, but Maryann couldn’t escape anymore that she lived a life she found unbearable.

  “I am not content with my lot. I cannot believe any of you are happy with your situation. We must be daring and take what we need instead of waiting, wasting away on the shelves our family and society have placed us on.”

  The very impassioned words she had flung at her group of friends now haunted her, taunting her earlier confidence that she could direct the outcome of her happiness. Her one daring moment had been to claim a ruination that did not belong to her, and these last few weeks she had witnessed the power of her mother and father working to squash those rumors. That ball where Nicolas danced with her should have been the icing on the cake. And the scandal sheet that thought it worth a mention would have been adding ice cream to the decadent bowl.

  Instead, despite every provocation, her parents wielded their influence with notable lords and ladies in the ton, to show the world all of Maryann’s missteps were simply charming eccentricities. But whereas before she had faded into the background, tonight when she entered Lady Vidal’s brightly lit ballroom, many had stared, fans had lifted to mouths, and the whispers were rabid.

  Those in the ballroom seemed to be unsure how to interact with her. Surprisingly, a few sighs of envy from ladies had been aimed at Maryann, but there had also been cutting speculations. Even a few ladies who usually ignored her presence engaged her in brief conversation. Maryann wasn’t certain if that was due to her parents’ influence, or if dancing with the marquess had done the opposite: given her a stamp of approval that
she was sought after…perhaps elusive.

  Her society was so changeable, it was ridiculous.

  What else must I do?

  She opened her fan, waving it gently to and fro, wishing she were anywhere but here. None of her friends seemed to be in attendance, and she wondered why Charlotte had not come tonight after promising it.

  I must remember to call upon her tomorrow.

  A nameless agitation was upon Maryann, and it had nothing to do with the very direct and ungentlemanly stare from Lord Stamford. How surprising that he was at almost every ball she attended, when he had been conspicuously absent the last few seasons.

  Maryann vowed to refuse him should he approach her for any dances.

  To the earl’s credit, he did not approach her, and she wondered at his restraint. Perhaps after his failure to compromise her, he had moved on to another lady. Quite wishful thinking on her part, for though he must have heard the wicked rumors, he did not break the alliance.

  “Excuse me, my lady,” someone at her elbow said.

  She turned to see a hovering footman. He held out a folded note to her. “Your friend bid me to deliver this to you.”

  With a frown, she took it from him, unfolding the paper.

  Maryann, the most dreadful thing has happened. I need you to come to me discreetly in the glass house. Please hurry. Ophelia.

  Maryann’s heart jerked with dread. The inelegant scrawl did not look like it belonged to Ophelia, unless she had written it in haste. Maryann hesitated, and glanced around. No one watched her. Somehow the note felt grave. She hadn’t seen her friend earlier, but Ophelia always attended balls notoriously late.

  Snapping the fan closed, Maryann hurried from the ballroom and down the long hallway that led to the conservatory from inside. She wouldn’t hurtle recklessly inside but try and see that it was indeed Ophelia waiting before she entered. Maryann increased her pace, terribly worried something dastardly might have happened to her friend.

  Suddenly, someone reached out from in the shadows and grabbed her hand. With a gasp of alarm, she whirled, lifting her fan.

  “Call for your carriage and leave the ball immediately.”

  Rothbury!

  She had not seen him since that night on her balcony, and her heart sang with a peculiar thrill. Maryann tried to tug her hand from his, but his clasp was unyielding. “Why do you make such a demand without an explanation? What has happened?”

  Instead of answering, he tugged her to keep pace with him as they moved toward the glass house. And more shadows. At that awareness she pulled her hands from his with a sharp tug, and he reacted by putting his hand around her waist fully and whirling with her, so she was pressed against the wall and in complete darkness.

  “What are you doing?” she gasped.

  Maryann stared up at him, trying to decipher his expression, confounded with the unexpected sensations coursing through her body. “Why must we always meet in the shadows?”

  “The note you got just now was not from your friend.”

  Maryann froze, her heart jerking an uneven beat. “How…how did you know she asked me to meet her in the conservatory?”

  He touched her cheek with a finger, surprisingly bare of a glove. Then he lowered that tormenting finger to touch the fullness of her mouth before dropping his hand and stepping back. His caress had been so fleeting…so careless, as if he often stroked the tip of his fingers along the curve of a lady’s cheek and then brushed it against the fullness of her mouth.

  The sheer agony of wanting this man was…exquisite. “Do you act in such a wicked manner with all the ladies of your acquaintance?”

  She had to know. Not that she wanted to be special in any way, but to be forearmed with an understanding of his behavior was to be forewarned. And would perhaps stop the foolish dreams she had taken around with her for the past few days.

  “Wicked?” A rough, low chuckle that was as fleeting as that touch echoed between them. “You are truly an innocent bit, aren’t you?”

  She frowned. “I…”

  “There is no time for chatter. Go, call for your carriage.”

  “Call for my carriage?” she repeated, considerably astonished. “Why are you ordering me about in this fashion? I am to meet my friend.”

  “She is not awaiting you,” he said tersely.

  “Why should I take your words it is not so?”

  Maryann felt when he stiffened.

  “If you wish to continue against my better advice, I will not stop you.”

  She did not like how chilling and dismissive he sounded. Not that she expected anything from this man.

  Did you miss me? she wanted to ask him against her better judgment. He had shown no marked attention that was positive. That she should wonder at his intentions at this point sparked her temper—more at herself than anything else. Maryann skirted around him.

  “There is a man waiting for you there. Since your dowry is fifty thousand pounds, the plan is to see that you are well and truly compromised, to see you divested of your virtue if necessary…and then be discovered.”

  The arrow that pierced her heart then had her pressing a hand to her chest. Her entire body felt cold. “To steal my virtue?” she asked faintly.

  “To rape you,” he hissed, as if angered by the slow comprehension of the plot against her.

  The words were like a rope around her throat, and she struggled to get her thoughts out. “Ophelia would never—”

  “The design is not that of your friend. Her name was simply used to assure your participation.”

  Maryann stared at him wordlessly, painfully aware that someone who had planned to…to compromise her most foully waited for her. Still, the very notion of what he claimed bordered on ridiculous and the mischief of some silly person who surely did not know Maryann’s strength or her papa’s consequences. Such a dishonor would never net them a marriage. “I…I have no enemies.”

  He sent her a look of such incredulity, she blushed.

  “Naive,” he murmured low, but she caught it.

  There was something different about him in this moment that scared her a bit, though what it was she could not say. It was just present.

  “Leave. I will take care of this matter.”

  That promise jolted her.

  “I will come with you,” she said. “I must…I must know the identity of the man who would do me harm, at least.”

  He stared at her, his expression becoming chilled. She took an instinctive step back, made uncomfortable by the iciness of his mien.

  “Viscount Talbot waits for you.”

  The last man she had expected him to name. “I…”

  “Do not let me tell you again to leave this ball, Lady Maryann.”

  She did not like him at all like this. Hating that she felt uncertain, she walked away. Once at the end of the corridor, she glanced over her shoulder to note he watched her with the stillness of a hawk.

  Why did you come to warn me, and how did you know of their scheme?

  Breaking the stare, she rounded the corner and stopped. Biting at her lower lip, she flushed against the wall, then carefully peeked toward where she had left him. His shadow disappeared toward the steps leading to the conservatory, and grabbing the edges of her gown, she ran after him. Surely he really did not believe she would meekly obey him. And it was not that she doubted his shocking call of villainy waiting for her, but she wanted to see the evidence of it for herself, in the hopes that she was not being deceived by some forces she did not understand.

  He had left the conservatory door unlocked, and she slipped in, grateful the room was in more darkness than light. Her heart pounding, she stopped, tucking herself away in the slim shadows made by the potted plants and begonias.

  “Who the blazes are you?” a voice she recognized as Viscount Talbot demanded.

 
Her heart sank, and a heavy weight pressed against her belly. The man was a friend of Crispin and he was known to her. Why would he partake in a scheme so ugly?

  “The lady you are expecting will not be coming,” the marquess said. “I suggest you find another lady to fix the problem of your empty coffers.”

  “I do not know what you are babbling about, Rothbury. I suggest you—”

  “I know the full of it, the plans you made with Lady Sophie.”

  A shocked wheezing sound came from the viscount’s throat.

  “It is useless to feign ignorance with me,” St. Ives said mildly.

  They could have been discussing the light patter of rain against the glass of the conservatory.

  She frowned at the import of St. Ives’s words. Lady Sophie. Maryann should have guessed it was that bully ruffian.

  By the large potted plant in the corner, she peeked to see what was happening. The viscount waited, his posture one of stiff tension, with a note clutched in his fist. He tugged at his cravat, and even with the low light from the burner and the fireplace, Maryann detected the sheen of sweat above his brow.

  St. Ives leaned casually against a table which held a pair of pruning shears and a clay pot.

  “Are you here to issue a private challenge?” Talbot demanded tightly.

  Maryann gasped. A duel? What was it with these gentlemen solving problems over the brace of pistols or a clash of swords? They were ridiculous in the extreme!

  “Do not be foolish,” St. Ives said bitingly. “I leave such things to the purview of the lady’s family. And since they are very much in the dark about this matter, it is unlikely you will be facing a pistol at the crack of dawn.”

  “What business is it of yours, then?”

  “Indeed, I have asked myself the same question.” He sounded bemused. “But then how could I ignore the dastardly act you have planned for her? Planned for any young lady?”

  “You will mind your own—”

  With a swiftness she could barely track, the marquess grabbed the pruning shears, opened them, and fitted the vee perfectly at the front of Viscount Talbot’s neck. Maryann instinctively stepped forward, the violence of the marquess’s action shocking her into almost fainting. The move placed him in the light, every nuance of his face evident for her to observe.