by Stacy Reid
“Now that you have intruded, state what it is that you want.”
“You will remove the offer you made to a certain lady’s parents tomorrow. Whatever monies were paid over I will see returned to you. And this meeting will be kept in the strictest of confidence, of course.”
“I see,” the earl said, arching a brow.
“Do you?” Nicolas murmured.
“You have intentions in regard to my fiancée,” the earl said flatly.
He pondered that cold murmur and decided the man was right. “Yes.” And it settled deep inside him, Maryann was his friend, his woman, and one day she would be his countess. “It is best you understand them fully.”
“I am all ears,” the earl said with a mocking twist to his lips.
“You placed your hands on her and deliberately and cruelly hurt her. It shall never happen again.”
The man smiled as if amused. “And she ran to you and blabbered, did she? How charming that you should sneak in here like a thief to defend her honor. Am I to name my seconds and you name our dueling location, Rothbury?”
Nicolas stepped into the light. “Turn your covetous eyes elsewhere, Stamford. She is too good for your predilections. Let this be your only warning. Should you lay your hands on her again, you will suffer more than just a broken arm.”
“A broken arm? What are you blathering—”
Nicolas moved faster than the earl could anticipate, grasping his right arm and twisting with harsh strength. The snap echoed in the room, and to the earl’s credit, save for a pained scream that ended abruptly, he made no other sound. Nicolas met his eyes, and whatever the man saw in his face, he blanched. Sweat beaded on his forehead and upper lip.
“This broken arm,” he said with soft menace. “You are a bullying brute who would dare to try and break her spirit. How can you see something so precious and want to hurt it?”
Stamford shook his head sharply. Nicolas released him and melted away in the dark, leaving the house the way he entered. Once outside, he pinched the bridge of his nose. He had made himself another enemy tonight, one who was immensely powerful and possessed well-connected friends. The memory of Maryann soaking her wrist in warm water, the paleness of her features, and her courage in the face of another bully had stayed with him. If anything, the most she should be was another pawn in his game, but somehow, he made her to be more. And that awareness was his most profound truth.
Wait for me.
She had become so much more, something he could not stop just as he could not make water flow uphill. It was inexplicable, this need to protect her, when she had shown she was a lady of indomitable wit and strength who could walk by his side and not falter.
The day felt long, and the night promised to be longer…torturous, for he did not want to go home to his empty bed. Nor did he want to go to a gambling hell or a damn ball.
Maryann.
The thought of her whispered through his soul, and he knew exactly where he had to be.
…
Almost half an hour later, Nicolas stood in the dark gardens below Maryann’s windows. The house appeared dark, as if everyone had gone to bed. The man he had watching her still, reported the earl and countess were home along with their daughter, but the son had gone out to a ball.
Go home, the rational side of him urged. His resistance to her allure was damnably weak, and he knew he should not put her underneath him and ravish her throughout the long night. Something he feared might happen should he climb the trellis leading to her balcony.
When he’d asked her to wait for him, there had been a throb of warning in his gut, but he had pushed it aside in his need to hold and kiss her. In his long investigation, only Crispin had matched the description of the fifth party whom Farringdon had traveled with that fateful day ten years ago. Except the viscount was not friends with the entire group and Nicolas could not find out why.
What had caused the break in friendship…if there had been a friendship?
Nicolas had probed and even asked directly if they were familiar with him, and they had denied the connection. Yet, Crispin had attended Oxford with the sorry lot, and he had been in Wiltshire at the time.
What if…just what if her brother really turned out to be the black Dahlia, and Nicolas was here asking her for promises?
Only last night, his investigators presented another gentleman who might be the black Dahlia. Nicolas had thought it unlikely, but for Maryann’s sake and his, ordered his men to do a thorough investigation.
He scrubbed a hand over his face. The tug to climb those vines and trellises beat relentlessly at him. He once again reminded himself, “He who conquers others is strong, but he who conquers himself is mighty.”
He was about to walk away when her windows were gently opened, and her silhouette framed the space. She did not linger but walked away. It was an invitation. Fuck!
I’ll not kiss her, he vowed. If I do not kiss her, all will be well.
After a careful look to ensure no one else was about, Nicolas grabbed the trellis leading to her window and efficiently climbed up to her balcony, thankful the trellis had creepers and not climbing roses riddled with thorns.
When he slipped through the windows and stood, it was to see her in the center of her room. She appeared delightfully rosy sheathed in a pale pink gown with a ribbon tied around her waist, the simple cut displaying her generously lush figure to its best advantage. Her feet were bare, and her delicate toes curled into the carpet. Her hair was loosely pinned in a topknot with several strands tumbling over her shoulders in beautiful waves, and she nervously pushed the spectacles up her nose.
Immediately, all the tension which had invaded his body since he learned Weychell had been shipped abroad left Nicolas. He was simply powerless to control his reaction to her. “You are so very lovely.”
Her cheeks pinkened and delight leaped into her eyes. “Eye of the beholder and whatnot,” she said with an irrepressible grin and then a light chortle. “I am glad you came.”
Her laugh was a warm, husky sound which brought pleasure to his ears.
“It is astonishing to me how often you occupied my thoughts today. I do believe I missed you.”
Her words kicked him in the chest. He liked that she expressed herself so honestly. Nicolas got the sense he would always understand where he stood with her. If she were angry, or sad, or just feeling out of sorts, he would know it. She wasn’t coy at all, and he had never met a lady who stared at him so directly when they spoke, as if she peered beyond the facade and stripped him down to his essence.
He liked that at a first glance she appeared the perfect picture of demure gentility, but one only had to look in her eyes to see how they sparkled with something wild and defiant.
“When I left you yesterday…I was unable to sleep upon returning home,” he admitted.
“From your tone, I gather you are blaming me for that?”
This she said with a wrinkle of her nose, as if she was amused by her own assessment. She actually rolled her eyes, then that lush beautiful mouth curved in a pleased smile.
“I like you,” he said, his heart pounding. Nicolas felt another surge of shock, as if something unknown inside was coming awake. “I really like you.”
She clasped her hands before her tightly, and her toes curled into the carpet. Her eyes glittered, and he realized she withheld herself from…from what he did not know. Then he recalled her the other night screaming into the pillows. Perhaps that had been from excitement? He cleared his throat. “You can scream into the pillow should you wish it. I’ll not be perturbed.”
Her eyes widened and then she laughed, held out her hands and spun into a perfect twirl. It felt as if time slowed, and he was given the rare pleasure of seeing all the smallest details that had previously eluded his senses.
He was fascinated by the small curl of hair right behind her
ear.
His eyes took in how deep the dimples in her cheeks sank, reflecting the velvety softness of her skin, which was a revelation to him when she laughed with such delectable delight.
He treasured how joyously free and natural she appeared in this moment.
Her skin, and her eyes, how they glowed.
There was something about her…something almost dainty, yet he knew of her strength and fierceness.
“I like you, too,” she declared, staring at him from below incredibly long lashes.
It was a look that said, “finally you are seeing me, you buffoon,” and it endlessly charmed him. With an inward jolt to his heart, he realized that while he was just noticing her, Maryann had been aware of him for much longer. It went through him then, a jerk of fear, at the thought that he might have missed her.
“You seem anxious,” she tossed in the air.
He scowled. “I am not the sort of man to feel anxiety.” The thought that he might never have met her was too appalling to consider, and that was something that he knew required introspection.
She sauntered over to him. “You know that even those who are dangerous and devastatingly handsome are allowed the more delicate emotions as well. It is not a bad thing and not only unique to my sex, as some would have you believe.”
“You think me dangerous?”
“Hmm, and do not forget the very handsome bit,” she said huskily.
“I can be a brutal man,” he said, almost uncomfortable with that assessment against her soft loveliness.
“I suppose you can be if the situation calls for it, but it does not define you, does it? I daresay you are also gentle, kind, and honorable.”
Gentle. He liked that she thought a man of violence such as himself was gentle. Nicolas hoped she would believe this was true of him always. He never wanted to look in those perfect eyes and see hate or despair. He hoped only for the most tender of emotions from her.
His heart started to pound, and Nicolas wondered what the hell was wrong with him. It was probably the fear that Maryann would fall in love with him, the very anticipation she might truly do so sending a shock of hunger through his entire body.
Do I want your love, Maryann? he silently asked, drawing her into his arms, needing to just hold her for a moment.
With a sigh, she relaxed into him, as if that were where she had wanted to be all along. In his embrace, her head pillowed against his chest, her arms around his waist, and his around her shoulders. “How is your arm?”
“I got the ointment you sent to me. It hurts less and the bruises are fading.”
“Good.” He rested his chin against her forehead. “Stamford will no longer be a bother to you.”
He felt the jerk of her heart through the layers of their clothes. She drew back and lifted her gaze to his. “How did you convince him?”
He hesitated and her eyes widened.
“Nicolas?”
At his silence, she arched a brow. “I am not a delicate creature given to hysteria or swooning, so you can tell me whatever it is.”
“We had some words.”
“And?”
“He listened to them.”
“Nicolas!”
“I broke his arm.”
Her lips parted but no words came forth, and he watched her eyes carefully. The admiration had not changed, nor did he see any fear. She lowered one of her hands from around his back and lifted it to his face. Her touch against his jaw was like the delicate brush of the wings of a butterfly.
“Thank you for defending my honor,” she said, smiling tremulously. “And for alleviating my fears. I…thank you.”
A slow, deep breath, he hadn’t realized he’d held, released.
“Would you like to play chess with me?”
He glanced in the direction she waved, and it was then he noted the small table and the two well-padded chairs perfectly positioned by the fireplace. “You are a powerful distraction,” he murmured.
Nicolas had never entered a room and not assessed every detail, calculating the threats and advantages he must be aware of. But tonight…he had only seen her.
It was Maryann who was bloody dangerous.
Chapter Eighteen
Shortly after nine o’clock a few evenings later, Maryann stood before a particular town house on Grosvenor Square. If anyone should pass by while she went about the business of breaking into this town house, she presented as a fashionably attired woman dressed in a fully black serviceable gown and a hat with a dark veil obscuring her face. A rapier was clutched in one hand but obscured by a black cloak, and a basket rested by her feet. Her friends, when they heard of tonight’s unprecedented escapade, would be green with envy at her daring.
Maryann exhaled triumphantly as the lock beneath her coaxing thumb gave way and the door opened with a snick. She hovered on the threshold at the Marquess of Rothbury’s home, her heart pounding terribly. She had expected to encounter the butler, or a footman at least, and already had her words prepared. But the hallway was empty, with only a few wall sconces lit.
She padded down the hallway with her basket and rapier clutched in her hand to a light which spilled from a slightly ajar door. Once there, she saw that the room was a large library with floor-to-ceiling bookshelves of dark oak.
A fire roared in the hearth, and the gas lamps were lit, leaving the place pleasantly warm. Her gaze sought out the marquess.
He was sprawled in a high wing-back chair by the fire, his legs stretched out before him, his mien inscrutable. Maryann wondered that even in the privacy of his home, he hid the expressions of his musings so no one could fathom his plots and scheming. Unwatched by the masses, he was unguarded, his mien remote, a man who was inherently alone.
The fire flickered, and with it also came a shift in his expression. It was infinitesimal but Maryann saw it, a grimace of pain as if he were ravaged by some private agony.
She hovered in the doorway, staring at him as he tossed back his drink, gazing into the flickering flames. Her antics, which had been meant to impress him, now felt silly. She wanted to give him what she had gathered in the basket, but now it seemed as if she intruded on something private and haunting, something she should not be a part of. Regret coated the back of her throat and she carefully stepped away.
“You’ve come this far—surely you are not leaving.”
Maryann blinked in uneasy surprise and then went utterly still. “I…” She closed her mouth over the rambling mess that would have bound to come out.
At her lack of response, he stood, lifted the glass to his mouth and finished his drink in a long swallow. He set it on the mantel over the fireplace, then shifted to meet her gaze.
How had he known she was there?
“I smelled you,” he replied as if she had spoken. “Sweet and sultry.”
Her face flamed.
“How did you get here?”
She hated the feeling that had suddenly come over her, a deep sense of uncertainty. “I walked.”
He flinched, then seemed to catch the reaction. “How unconventional of you. So, my intrepid Lady Maryann does not fear footpads and undesirables.”
“In Grosvenor Square?”
His expression grew even more unfathomable and nerves fluttered in her belly. She lifted the silver-handled cane which hid her rapier. “It was more sensible than an elaborate ruse to go out in the carriage alone, and I walked armed. Plus, I know you have someone watching me.”
He did not deny it, but something flared in his eyes before it was quickly replaced by a shuttered mien. Maryann’s awareness of Nicolas prickled against her skin like fire. He radiated such palpable sensuality with a hint of menace that it made her uncomfortable.
“Why did you come here tonight?”
“For many reasons, which seem silly now.”
“Tell me,” he i
nvited smoothly, pouring amber liquid into two glasses.
“I wanted to thank you. Stamford visited my parents and, to their great shock, he withdrew his offer. My heart is relieved.”
“You could have sent a note.”
She flushed. “Do you wish me to leave?”
A tense silence blanketed the room.
“No.”
“Then why are you berating me?”
“My heart cannot bear the thought of you hurt. The walk from your home to here might only be several minutes, but it was a dangerous deed. You act as if there is nothing to be afraid of. Reckless!”
It was her turn to flinch at the icy bite in his tone.
“There are many things I am afraid of, but traveling alone is not one…not when I know you are hovering in the shadows like a dragon,” she whispered with a small smile. “One with dark wings unfolded over my shoulders, a force of safety I trust in. I know you are fiercely protective of me.”
He simply stared at her, and she did nothing but return that unflinching regard.
“What is in the basket?”
“Something for you…and for Arianna. I recalled from one of our conversations that today is the anniversary of her death…and…and I thought I…”
He gave her a long, measuring stare. “You came to keep me company.”
“Yes,” she whispered. “I admit I had not thought it out fully, and I am terribly sorry to have intruded.”
“I am not sorry; do not be. I am glad you came.”
He radiated with visible satisfaction, and warm flutters went off in her body.
She clutched the basket to her side. “It’s best I show you what is in the basket outside. Will you come with me to the garden?”
Once again, as if he could not understand her, Nicolas stared at her for long, silent moments, and she fought not to squirm under that hawkish stare. She almost blurted what she held in the basket when he prowled toward her, his long strides undeniably confident and graceful. He took the basket, and Maryann followed him silently into the drawing room which seemed as if it might also serve as a ballroom with its large folding doors. He opened one of the terrace doors, and they slipped outside into the cool night air.