by Stacy Reid
I am sorry.
She peered down at him, and even with the half-moon out, the marquess was nothing but shades of black and gray. Yet at times, she fancied the brilliance of his eyes cut through the shroud. The marquess seemed different tonight, more like how he had appeared the first night he stole into her chamber. A tension lingered around him, something fierce and inexplicable, and she could feel it.
His hand was clenched tightly over a silver-headed cane, and the gaze staring up at her was unwavering. The yearning she felt at the sight of him overwhelmed and infuriated her in equal measure. To long for a man who had insulted her was unpardonable.
“Why did you say it?” After our dance had been so incredible.
“There was someone at the table…I did not want that person to believe you important to me.”
“Even without your boorish tongue, I cannot imagine why anyone would think such a thing.”
Mine enemies are now your enemies…
Her stomach went hollow. The marquess once again hinted of his secrets.
Somewhere downstairs, a servant turned on a gas lamp or perhaps several, and the light beamed out into the garden and tenderly washed against his rigid jawline and flat unsmiling mouth. She watched him with a terrible fascination, unable to take her eyes off his expression of almost cruel insouciance.
“You wear two faces,” she said in wonderment, resting her chin on her palms, never taking her stare from his. “The height of cleverness is to be able to conceal it.” And to Maryann’s mind, the marquess was very clever indeed.
He jolted a bit, a quick frown slashing his brows before his expression once again smoothed.
“It is very interesting to hear a lady quote Rochefoucauld.”
She smiled. “Many would not know that I did.”
He stared at her with a guarded watchfulness and chilling civility. To where had the charming and flirty rake disappeared?
The sky rumbled, and the wild, earthy scent of raindrops assailed her nostrils. “It will rain quite soon.”
“Is that an invitation to come up to your chamber?”
She had to fight down the thrill of anticipation those words gave her, even when said so blandly. “No.”
There it was, the slightest shift in his posture, but that dangerous air blew away like ashes in the wind. How did he do it? And it was most certainly not the trick of the meager light upon his countenance. She suspected then, if he revealed his true nature, his presence and vitality would fill the room, it would intimidate, and it would seduce. Now the ton looked at him as a feckless son, and also a charming rake many maters would still offer up their daughters to wed.
Should he show this other side, how would they greet him? Respect? Fear? Anger that he’d been duplicitous for so long? She wanted to converse with him, but not here in her chambers. Maryann wasn’t so foolish, and she understood he presented a threat to her virtue simply because she wanted his kisses.
Another rumble of thunder, and a slight misty drizzle started. She reached out her palm and caught a few drops in her hands, loving the cool feel of water against her skin. Acting on impulse, she thrust her head out and turned her face up to the sky, laughing as the rain fell tenderly against her forehead and cheeks.
“Fucking hell!”
The raw, crude words shocked her, so she froze. Hurriedly drawing her head inside, she gripped the edges of her windows and looked down. He was no longer standing in the gardens. The scream died in her throat when the marquess suddenly vaulted over the railing and landed on her small balcony.
She stared at him in stupefied amazement. Before she could react, he dropped onto his knees and his hands found her throat in a clasp that was tender yet provocatively intimidating. His eyes were dark and heavy-lidded, his jawline flushed red. This close, she could see the different striations of gold in his eyes, the rain on his brow and the bridge of his nose…
The hunger in his eyes.
Maryann felt beguiled by the unknown expression tightening across his sharply slanted cheekbones. It struck her then with the force of lightning. He wanted her. This was not a game or mild flirtation.
She felt flushed, shivering, light-headed. Silly and empowered in the same breath. A gentleman had never wanted her before. No one had ever shown her that she could even be seen as desirable, and here was a proclaimed rakehell, a reputed connoisseur of beautiful women who indulged in all manner of wantonness, staring at her as if he felt compelled.
As if she were beautiful.
Was it that she presented as a novelty?
“I…I…Nicolas,” she stuttered. “I…I need to think…”
“You are making me lose control,” he hissed. “I must not be here, with you.”
“Do not blame me for your lack of self-restraint,” she gasped. “Just admit it…that you feel the same way I do.” The boldness of her vague confession left her breathless.
He leaned in unexpectedly, took her lower lip between his teeth, and bit down sharply. As if to punish her for making him lose control. She sucked in a harsh breath at the arrow of need that shot through her, striking deep in her belly, and ending in an aching pulse between her legs. “Why did you bite me?”
“Rakes do that,” he said dangerously.
Oh!
He pressed his lips to the corner of her mouth, and asked against her flesh, “Are you frightened?”
Yes. “No.”
“You hold my stare so fiercely, an undeniable fire in your gaze.” His thumb moved in a firm caress across her cheek. “I want to touch that fire, and I can only do that by possessing you.”
“And who are you?” she murmured. “Surely not the rake. That man is a charmer who would seduce me with empty flattery and false promises.”
“I have none of that to give.”
That tormenting thumb swiped over her lip, almost bruising and then gently. Ripples of warmth ghosted over her skin, chilled from the pattering rain.
“Have you ever had a man?” he asked.
Her heart almost exploded from her chest. She couldn’t be sure she had grasped his meaning correctly. “Have I ever had a man do what?”
Regret flared in his eyes before his expression shuttered.
“You want me,” she whispered, “to be wicked with you.” And he had been trying to ascertain her experience with wantonness. “Oh!” she said softly.
A half groan issued from him before he swallowed it down.
“I do not dally with innocents, even if they have the temperaments of racoons.”
He stirred something inside her that was wanton, unrecognizable. “Ah, so that is what you want from me, a mere dalliance, you cad.” Her voice was whisper soft, flirty, with no sting at all behind her words.
His eyes were no longer inscrutable, but intense and hungry.
Kiss me, she silently implored.
When he made no move, it was her turn to lean in and bite his lower lip. The raindrops on his mouth settled onto her tongue, and with it a taste of dark fire and whiskey.
His hands slipped from her throat as if he had been burned. Breathlessly, her heart slamming against her chest, she used her finger to trail a raindrop along the bridge of his nose. “Racoons do that,” she whispered.
His chest lifted on a deep breath. Unexpectedly he leaned in and pressed a kiss to her temple. “Close your windows.”
Then he released her, slowly stood, turned, and launched over the balustrade. With a gasp, she thrust forward, wondering if the damn bacon-brained man had leaped to his death. But then she sensed him and looked up to see him walking along the path that would lead him to the streets.
She leaned away from the window and closed it gently. The Marquess of Rothbury wanted her.
And, from the struggle she saw in his eyes, quite desperately.
“You are no rake,” she said into the night,
a smile on her lips.
He had shown admirable restraint. The marquess had acted like a gentleman.
Then she recalled the hot brand of his possessive touch encircling her throat, the bite on her lips, which still throbbed.
In his own unique way, he had been a gentleman.
“I want you, too,” she whispered, testing the words aloud.
Maryann rested her forehead against the cool window, silently listening to the pitter patter of rain outside.
“We must be daring and take what we need instead of waiting.”
The words she had used to enflame her other friends teased her, nay tormented Maryann, prodding her to take what she wanted.
“And damn it all to hell,” she cursed, satisfied she had done so.
And what she wanted was Nicolas St. Ives, Marquess of Rothbury—the charming rake and the unfathomable man she sensed lurking within.
“I want you,” she said, closing her eyes, pressing trembling fingers to her lips, “and I am going to have you.”
…
Almost a week after he lost his senses in Berkeley Square kneeled atop a particular balcony, Nicolas slipped inside the Duke of Farringdon’s lavish home in Grosvenor Square, a little past midnight. The house was silent. The duke and his sister should be on their way in a carriage to the Duchess Hardcastle’s midnight ball. A ball given by the young duchess was rare, and invitations were selective and highly coveted. Nicolas had known Farringdon wouldn’t let the opportunity pass by to rub shoulders socially with the young duchess or her husband, for an hour or two, even if his usual appointment at a house in Soho Square was planned for tonight.
Nicolas padded down the prodigious hallway, careful to move with stealth and not alert any of the servants below stairs. Knowing his dire straits and that it would embarrass him, Farringdon hardly entertained. Nicolas had only been over to the duke’s town house once for drinking and a private game of cards, but he cut through the dark without any mishap.
At the end of the hallway, he came upon the duke’s study and entered carefully. The room was dark, save for a low fire burning in the grate and a single taper on the mantel. Nicolas searched the room thoroughly, and it was not long before he found the papers he sought in the third drawer in the man’s large oak desk. It was the report O’Malley had traded to Farringdon.
How arrogant. The duke did not even imagine someone would dare to break into his home. Nicolas padded to the mantel, held the papers under the candlelight, and read.
There was not much there. Weychell had two bastards, age two and five, with a mistress hidden away in Cornwall. Uncommon knowledge, but one Nicolas would not use. Children should not suffer for the misguided deeds of their parents. And once he took the viscount off the board, Nicolas would have to make a generous provision for them.
He read the second sheet, which detailed his creditors and gambling debts to the tune of twenty thousand pounds. And then the final page hinted that during the war, Weychell had been a close friend with a man who had been a general in Emperor Napoleon’s army. And from the detailed outline—houses that were let, a chateau, and monies and jewelry sent abroad, this general was more than a close friend. There was a speculation that Weychell might have acted as a spy for the general.
Treason.
A dark hum of pleasure blasted through him. Nicolas filed the information away and returned the papers exactly as he found them. Then he made his way from the library, only to duck inside another room as a strident female voice came down the hallway with the sound of rapid feet.
Peeking through the space he left by not closing the door fully, he watched the duke’s ravishing sister, Lady Sophie, make her way up the stairs while a gentleman lingered, waiting for her. She came back down a few minutes later and handed him a case, which he opened.
“You are a study in recklessness, aren’t you?” the man murmured, taking out a necklace of glittering rubies to clasp around her throat.
“I had to come back for them when my brother left the ball.”
“Perhaps you should tell him that you have them and stop this mad dash home whenever he leaves a ball for them.”
“Darling, I cannot let him know. He will pawn them.”
“Is it that bad?”
“I fear it is, and he tried to keep it from me. He is furious the match fell through with that heiress. But he is a duke, you know. Another is bound to come along soon.”
They headed outside, and he padded behind them at a careful distance, listening to their conversation, storing whatever he deemed to be valuable information. A warble sounded on the night air, a signal by David. Nicolas hurried down the servants’ stairs and through the kitchens to meet him by the hedge of small trees and shrubs. They were perfectly hidden in the dark.
“Did you find anything?” David asked.
“Nothing incriminating.” Nicolas always played his cards close to his chest, and he did not regret it. It always paid to be cautious.
“A waste,” David said with a sigh. “When I saw the return of the lady and her companion, I started warbling like a madman. What are you doing?”
“I want to hear what they are saying.”
They were still standing by the steps instead of making their way to the parked carriage, and it seemed as if they argued. Nicolas bent low and walked along the path leading up to the couple, staying stooped so they had no chance of spying him.
“Isn’t that taking it a bit too far?” her companion said in a low voice, casting a careful glance at the waiting coach. “Sophie, my darling, perhaps we should—”
“No!” a strident, and a bit shrill tone rejoined.
“Be careful,” he snapped. “We do not want anyone hearing this conversation, even if they are just servants. We know they spread gossip quicker than fire to dry grass!”
She grabbed his arm and took him around to the side of the house toward the private garden area.
Nicolas deftly followed, conscious of David close on his heels. Stopping in the shadows of the alcove, he watched the female pacing back and forth by the fountain of Neptune.
The lady took a deep breath. “I want Lady Maryann ruined. And I want it done tonight.”
It seemed she had discovered the author of her misfortune. Everything inside Nicolas went quiet.
David cast him a dark, amused glance. “I thought her nothing?”
He made no reply but held up his hand for silence. It was important to hear every word exchanged between the pair.
“How can you be so certain it was Lady Maryann who set those critters loose?”
The man with her was unfamiliar to Nicolas, which possibly meant he did not haunt the seedier and darker hells of London, nor was he a frequent guest in ballrooms. Yet the man seemed familiar.
The lady scoffed. “Who else would dare?”
“Lady Maryann is so quiet. She does not seem the sort—”
She rounded on her companion. “Are you defending her?”
“No, my darling, I am trying to be practical.”
“It must have been her. It was her mother’s ball.”
“That does not mean—”
“It was her. And if you mean to be a part of my brother’s business venture in the future, you will avail yourself to do what needs to be done. And this is also to your benefit. Did you not say you needed to marry an heiress?”
“I do need an heiress.”
“Then take her. I’ve outlined a plan—keep to it and we shall both get what we want. After the scandal of being caught half naked in your arms, her father surely will insist you marry her to render her respectable.” Lady Sophie smiled, her satisfaction at her plan evident. “I will relish her humiliation. And you must ensure she is in a state of déshabille when you are discovered.”
“She might not be persuasive to my seduction.”
Nicolas woul
d take pleasure in killing this stranger.
Sophia smiled, and even from where he stood, Nicolas saw the malice in it.
“I am certain there are methods to ensure her compliance. Must I think of everything for you? I want her humiliation to be profound. I would urge you to treat her in a manner as you did that governess.”
“How did you know about that?” he demanded tightly, clenching his fists at his sides. “And it is not what you think.”
She wagged her finger. “You know the reason your father sent you to France. Don’t be facetious.”
Ice congealed inside Nicolas’s chest. How did they dare? The lady seemed to be aware that her brother collected others’ dirty secrets and availed herself to them without shame. Though the gentleman seemed discomfited, he took a deep breath. “Are you certain her dowry is fifty thousand pounds?”
“Everyone knows it,” she said smugly. “And there is no need to look as if you lost anything. You’ll be doing her a favor at the end of the day. She’ll be married finally. Her father would never dare turn you down afterward.”
Then she whirled away and hurried toward the front of the town house to the waiting carriage. The man took a deep breath and trailed behind her. Nicolas watched as they climbed into the conveyance and rattled away.
“Do you know the identity of that man?”
David hesitated. “He is recently back from abroad, about four months now to claim his inheritance. He is Viscount Talbot. A good sport and decent sort.”
“Our notion of decent differs. How disappointing.”
David cast him a fierce scowl. “Bloody hell, man! I am sure you’ve heard the rumor calling Lady Maryann a wallflower. Not a flattering moniker at all. At least his intentions are not all dastardly, and the plan is to marry her. Letting the chips land where they fall would be doing a chit with her unfavorable offerings a good deed.”
