by Stacy Reid
Maryann’s entire body hurt at the awareness that she was just a pawn to be used and pulled in whichever direction her parents desired with no regard for the dreams and hopes she held in her heart. “Even if I were to be bound and carted before a bishop, I would not marry that man,” she said quietly, pushing her spectacles up her nose. It was then she noted her fingers trembled badly.
Her mother blanched. “Maryann! To be so willful and—”
She could not bear to hear her mother’s remonstrances. “Did Lord Stamford loan Papa money? Is that why Papa is so adamant I accept the earl’s offer?”
Acute distaste crossed her mother’s face. “We will not be so vulgar as to discuss money,” she said in repressive accents. “And it was an investment.” The countess whirled about, flung open the door, and marched away, quite indifferent to her daughter’s distress.
Through eyes blurred with tears, Maryann glanced down at the red swelling already forming on her hands. This did not augur well.
…
After her frightening and frustrating encounter with Lord Stamford, Maryann needed to be away from the house. Her mother had gone to call upon her dear friend the Marchioness Metcalf. Maryann normally accompanied her, genuinely enjoying the marchioness’s dry wit and her love for needlework, a pastime Maryann enjoyed immensely. The marchioness’s talent was incredible, though she praised Maryann’s artwork, the last being a massive golden eagle intricately stitched to where he appeared lifelike. She’d pled a headache but now found it unbearable to remain inside. Needlework did not serve as a distraction, and she only had a few sore and bloody fingertips for her efforts.
She rang the bell for her lady maid and was soon dressed in a vibrant yellow carriage gown with its long-puffed sleeves and cinched waist, a matching bonnet, and her parasol in her grip. Crispin was thankfully at home and she only needed his agreement to accompany her and they would be on their way.
“You wish to go shopping?” he asked, carefully closing the ledger he’d been going over.
“Yes. I mean to purchase a few hats,” she said.
His lips twitched. “Hats.”
“I saw Ophelia with the most delightful hat covered with taffeta and trimmed with delicate ribbons and flowers. I thought it charming and mean to procure one for myself. And I also saw a few bonnets in the Lady’s Monthly Museum that I might purchase.”
Crispin sighed, placing the stopper over the inkwell. “And this must be done now?”
“Of course.”
He slowly came to his feet, a frown on his handsome face. “You seem out of sorts. Is everything well?”
The truth of what occurred earlier hovered on her tongue, but some hot and unfamiliar emotion rose in her throat, threating to suffocate her. With a painful jolt, she recognized it to be fear and mortification that she’d not been able to defend herself. Maryann gripped her parasol to steady herself against shaking. It felt more frightening the more time passed. She did not understand why it was all so unnerving.
Lord Stamford was known as a crack shot and some months ago rumors had swirled that he was in a duel, though the entire matter was hushed. If she should confide in her brother, he would possibly challenge the man. Though she stood a better chance facing the earl with her own superior fencing skills. “I find the house very suffocating today.”
Crispin said no more, and a few minutes later they were in the carriage on their way to High Holborn. The pain in her heart felt unrelenting. With money in play, no matter what she did, her parents would push to see Maryann married off to Lord Stamford. Leaning her head against the squabs, she thought on her next steps.
Inciting more scandalous encounters with Nicolas felt almost nonsensical. What more was there to do if a public dance with a supposedly notorious rake had not done it? Public carriage rides, and more dances? She softly scoffed and glanced out the windows.
Even if they tie and drag me to the bishop, my answer will be no. Even if I am dragged to the country and locked in my rooms, I will say no. And with a smile, Maryann suspected should her parents act so underhanded, her marquess would come to her rescue if she did not escape them. She resolved to slowly start selling her jewelry and prepare for the moment she might leave England.
Their equipage rumbled to a stop. The day seemed busy, and they exited the carriage early to stroll along the sidewalks so she could peer into the various shops. Even though her brother accompanied her, a footman traveled discreetly behind them.
“I thought you knew your destination,” Crispin said a bit crossly. “Why did we not alight there? Instead here we are, almost fifteen minutes of walking past shops and you peering inside a few without going in.”
“This is part of the art of shopping, my dear brother,” she said with a light laugh. “And your gallantry in escorting me will surely be repaid!”
He groused a bit more, but she could tell he did it with fond affection.
Her fingers tightened reflexively on his lower arm. “I would…I would like to ask you a question.”
Crispin cast her a curious glance. “This must be dire. You look like you swallowed a fish that is stuck in your throat. Spit it out.”
Maryann frowned, gathering her thoughts. “I am wondering about pleasure…the kind I believe is supposed to exist between a man and a woman.”
Her brother made a terrible choking, gurgling sound, and even stumbled in his steps. “Why are you asking about this, Maryann?” he demanded with a thunderous expression.
“Because there is no one else I can ask,” she said primly, aghast at her furious blushing.
“The only person you should be addressing such questions to is your husband,” her brother muttered, a red stain on his jaw.
“I might not get married until I am thirty,” she said archly. “Stop being silly. I shan’t do anything with the information.”
“Then why do you want to know?”
“Curiosity.”
He sent her a dubious glare.
“Many ladies have willingly run into ruin. I am wondering if there is an art to seduction.”
“Well, you will not hear it from me.”
She pinched his arm. “I suppose I could ask the Marquess of Rothbury.”
The look her brother gave her was filled with such shocked incredulity, Maryann felt sorry for him.
“You have agitated my nerves most abominably,” he hissed, angered. “This is my fault. I indulged you too much over the years, and I—”
She leaned in and pressed a quick kiss to his cheek. “And I love you for it. You do not stifle me but allow me my wings, Crispin.”
He deflated and raked his fingers through his hair. “You are shameless and provoking, that is what you are. It does you no benefit to be incorrigible.”
She gave him an unrepentant grin. “I thought it a part of my charm and—”
Maryann cried out as someone shoved into her from behind and sent her into the path of a carriage, which suddenly seemed to increase its speed. To Maryann’s mortification, it was difficult to find her balance, causing her to tumble for the world to see. Her spectacles fell from her face, and she reached for them before trying to right herself.
“Maryann!”
The earth shook beneath her, and she whipped her head up at Crispin’s frantic and fear-filled scream to see two horses bearing down at her, the coachman cracking a whip to urge them to greater speed.
For one petrifying moment, her limbs remained paralyzed and her heart roared, drowning out sounds and the words shaping her brother’s lips. She struggled to her feet with haste, as harsh hands grabbed her and yanked her forcefully out of harm’s way. The carriage roared past her, crushing her parasol with a sharp crack.
“Goodness,” she cried, terribly shaken. “That coachman has lost his senses.”
Crispin stared after the carriage and then back at her. “They tried to
run you over,” he said, his voice heavy with shock. “My God, if I had not seen it I would have disbelieved the tale!”
The hands that ran over her arms shook fiercely.
“I am certain it was an accident,” she tried to reassure him over her pounding heart.
“My Lady,” a gentleman bystander exclaimed, holding on to her elbow and guiding her away from the curb. “You could have been seriously injured or crushed. It is a wonder you are alive. If this man”—he pointed at Crispin—“had not reacted so quickly, I shudder to think of the horror.”
Her brother paled even further, and Maryann worried he might faint. He would never forgive himself for the shame of reacting so in public. “I am sure it wasn’t anything as dire as that. I do thank you for your timely assistance. If you will excuse us, we must be on our way.”
He removed his hat to reveal brown hair streaked with gold and bowed his head. “Sir Robert Whittingham at your service.”
“Thank you, Sir Robert, I shall not forget your kindness.”
All polite sallies extended, Crispin insisted on bundling her back home without procuring the hats, and soon they were back in the carriage headed to Berkeley Square. Her brother was unable to sit still, looking outside the carriage windows and muttering she had not seen how close she came to dying.
Close to dying.
The fear and pain that scythed through her heart then was so visceral, she lurched upright on the carriage seat.
“What is it?” Crispin demanded with a frown.
Dark emotions reared their heads and clogged her throat. “Nothing,” she said hoarsely. “It was a silly awareness.” But shattering, reshaping everything she thought she knew of herself and what she genuinely wanted.
“Tell me,” he urged. “I am your brother; please know you can confide anything to me.”
She tried to smile, but her mouth trembled too fiercely. “It was just a small brush with mortality.”
“More than a small brush,” he rejoined. “Damn scared ten years off my life.”
A peculiar grief sat heavy against her heart. “I felt the keenest of regrets…the pain almost agonizing that I’ve never known what it is like to be kissed,” she said softly, her color much heightened, “to be seen and cherished for who I am… I would have died without tasting the pulse of life.” And her heart broke at the very thought of it. “Life offers no certainties, Crispin, and I must be willing to live on the dangerous edge and bear all consequences.”
“You are out of sorts,” he said. “You must not speak like this.”
“I must have the freedom to love.”
“Maryann—” he began warningly.
“Crispin, have you ever felt this certainty that more awaits you, somewhere? That there is another life for you, one perhaps filled with hope and happiness and you only need to search for it? There is a restlessness upon my heart. I have been so unsatisfied with my life. I want more. I never want to look back on my life and feel the ache of regret. To wish I had been brave enough.”
“You are the most courageous lady I know,” he said gruffly.
“Am I?” She was through with living according to society, her parents who did not give a fig about her happiness, and for her supposed future husband’s expectations. It was just not simply enough to wish or pretend to be wicked and improper.
Maryann was decided—it was time she acted the rakess.
Chapter Fourteen
Nicolas entered his town house in Grosvenor Square from a very late night at his clubs. His gaze lit on several letters waiting for his perusal. One particularly caught his attention, and a dark satisfaction flowered through his gut. The wafer suggested the Duke of Farringdon had sent it.
Handing over his coat, gloves, and hat to the butler, he collected the letters and made his way to his library. He selected an armchair closest to the fire, and plucked the letter most important to him, the one from his thirteen-year-old twin sisters who currently resided with their mother at his main estate which was down in Wiltshire.
It was close to five a.m., and though he was desperate for sleep, he would read their letter first. Nicolas had promised them he would tie up his loose ends in town in a few months and return home to them. His mother had been considerably put out that he would return to town so soon and not honor the proper grieving period for his father. He had not been able to explain that he was on the cusp of completing his retribution, and the grief he felt at his father’s death was not to be displayed for the world to see. Nicolas had mourned his father long before he had passed, and he had found it in himself to forgive the man’s indifference to Arianna’s demise.
Dearest brother,
Louisa and I miss you dreadfully, too, and we wish you would come home soon. Mama also misses you, and always tasks us to read to her the letters you send. She even consumed some of the parcel of sweets you gifted us. I implore you next time to send three packets of sweets. We are growing girls.
The ponies were delivered from the Humphries’ stud farm and we love them. It was so kind of you to send such pretty dapple grays, they are gorgeous, but we are still arguing over how to name them. We also got the beautiful dolls. I believe you’ve forgotten that we turned thirteen and are no longer children.
It has been over four months since Papa died and we still hear Mama crying when she believes no one is about to witness her pain. Louisa and myself fare better, and we feel a bit guilty that we are not filled with sorrow as is Mama. Papa was on his sick bed for quite some months and we had expected that he would be gone on to his reward soon. Papa also bid us not to cry and honor him by only remembering the pleasant memories. When we told Mama of this, she only cried more. I believe if you were here, this sting of pain would feel less to her.
Mama also frets incessantly about what people will say if you are cavorting about town and not honoring the period of mourning. We heard her say it to Grandmother. But Louisa and I know you must have something terribly important to do, or you should not have left us.
We miss our lessons with you most terribly. Today Lydia shot her arrow at a target at fifty feet dead in the center. I was terribly impressed. I am aiming to reach her level by the time we see you next. We are looking forward to your extended visit during Michaelmas.
We love you,
Your sisters, Lydia and Louisa.
He released a slow breath, folded the letter, opened the exquisitely carved wooden box, and placed the missive amongst the other twenty or so letters. All from Lydia and Louisa.
They had been born to his parents later in life to the marchioness’s joy, for he had been an only child. Fifteen years separated him from his sisters, and though they had been small, he had missed them dreadfully during his sojourn in Paris.
Upon his return to England, he had made every effort to ensure they did not get lost in his need for retribution. He made time for them, returning to their country estate often. Despite his mother and father’s shock at the time, he taught them archery and how to fence. His mother had even discovered that he was now teaching them the art of boxing.
She had scolded him most severely, but he had calmly told her he would not leave his sisters unable to defend themselves from the wolves of this world. His mother had stared at him for a long time, for she had known of the dreadful rift between father and son, and the ugly cause of it. She had simply nodded before lifting her chin and walking away.
Last year when he had gotten word of his father’s illness, he had quit the season and headed home to Delacree Park, an affluent, lavish estate which held many fond memories of his childhood. For almost one year, the men he had been so close to taking down had been given a reprieve, for he had directed more of his thoughts then to his family.
Nicolas had remained in the country for several months by his father’s sick bed, slowly mending the hurt that had been like a canker between them. His journey to town had been i
ntermittent and then he would only stay for a week at most, all in the vainglory of continuing to stroke the fires under his roguish reputation. After burying his father in the family crypt, he had only stayed with the girls and his mother for three weeks before returning to town.
Dipping the ink into the well, he wrote,
Dearest Louisa and Lydia,
A day does not go by I do not think of you both and miss you. I shall be home for Michaelmas and will be there for a few weeks before I return to town. Business in town has kept me here a little longer than I had hoped. Remember to be good helpmates to our mother and give her my love. My thoughts are with you all at Delacree Park. I am sending you some lengths of material for the seamstress to make up since you are growing girls and will need new gowns.
I am glad you like the ponies and look forward to hearing how you have named them.
Your loving brother, Nicolas
The butler was summoned, and the letter given for immediate delivery to Delacree Park. Then after taking a deep breath, he plucked the duke’s letter from the pile and opened it. It was an urgent request to come to his town house in Grosvenor Square for an intimate card party.
Knowledge settled low in Nicolas’s gut—the moment had come for the duke to be removed from the board. Nicolas made his way to his chambers, stripped naked, and tumbled onto the well-padded mattress. The chamber was slightly chilled, just how he liked it. His valet, much used to his late-night activities and sleeping for hours in the day, had already ensured a low fire burned in the hearth and the heavy drapes had been drawn to blot out the sunlight. The night had been long, and he was tired. His lashes lowered and he breathed deeply and evenly.
The lush, sensual scent that seemed to be imprinted into Maryann’s soft skin invaded his nostrils, and his mouth damn well watered at the memory of her taste on his tongue. “Not now,” he murmured. “I cannot dream of you. I am bloody well tired, and I want my rest.”
