by Stacy Reid
Soon they were in the carriage which rumbled toward the duchess’s home in Grosvenor Square. He made no effort to introduce conversation, and Marianne realized that she felt incredibly nervous. “I suspect I will be the brunt of many curious stares, and probing questions.”
“Perhaps. Simply ignore them. You’ll be admired for your beauty and elusive quality.”
Humor lit inside. “I quite like the sound of that.” And she idly wondered when all of this would disappear, and she returned to her normal life. Tonight is what I shall make it.
A short while later, they arrived behind a long queue of carriages. She swiped aside the curtain on the carriage and peered outside. Several people were alighting from their equipages and walking the short distance to the townhouse. They were so splendidly garbed she gasped, admiring the elegance of the ladies and the aristocratic handsomeness of the gentlemen.
The viscount knocked on the roof of the carriage, and the steps to their coach were knocked down. He went out before her, held up his hand, and assisted her down.
“Miss Ashbrook,” a feminine voice called.
She glanced up and spied Lady Maschelly. “Verity,” she cried, truly delighted to see her. “How beautiful you are.” The countess was indeed ravishing in a light blue tightly-waist gown with a delightful revealing décolletage. White satin elbow-length gloves encased her slender arms, and her golden dancing slippers gleamed. Her earl was equally dressed in the first stare of fashion in dark trousers and matching jacket, and a peach striped waistcoat. They made a handsome couple.
“Lord Maschelly,” she greeted with a quick curtsy. “Lady—”
“None of that,” the countess said. “We insist you call us James and Verity.”
They went inside as a quartet, Marianne and Verity walking a bit forward with the gentlemen at the rear. Marianne could feel the viscount’s eyes on her, the touch of his gaze as physical as a caress. She felt acutely aware of her own body and the way he made her heart ache. She equally resented and welcomed that fevered, desperate longing she had inside for him to touch her.
No good could ever come from longing for a rake!
They spent a few minutes in the receiving line, and she laughed and chatted with Verity with an ease that surprised Marianne. She was terribly excited to be at her first ton ball and tried her very best to mask her reactions. Laughter and chatter drifted around her, music floated all around them, and the scent of flowers—roses, jasmine, and lilacs were redolent on the air.
They were announced, and soon she was in the glittering world of an overflowing crush of a ballroom. Dozens of chandeliers created a dazzling display of light. The duchess approached in an exquisite golden gown, her dark brown hair with its golden highlights was piled high in a riot of curls. She greeted them gaily, a becoming pink blushing her face, her eyes alight with her own excitement. Every public space of the townhouse seemed to be overflowing with guests, and even beyond the wide-open windows, Marianne spied guests strolling in a garden festooned with hanging lanterns.
Her senses felt assaulted with such sweet mixtures of perfumed scents, the gay laughter, the clinking of champagne glasses, and the lovely music from the orchestra’s bows.
The duchess introduced her to several people, and her family, one Aunt Imogen who was really the countess Cadenham, her cousins Lady Lydia, and Viscount Portman who quickly charmed her with artful flattery and requested a few dances.
Marianne happily nodded and danced a few sets, determined to enjoy an experience she doubted she would ever have again. Marianne was not in the habit of indulging ridiculous fancies, but tonight she would enjoy herself gloriously.
Almost two hours later, she finally found herself on the sidelines, drinking a very refreshing punch.
“Miss Ashbrook.”
The bands she hadn’t known were around her chest loosened. “My Lord Worsley,” she murmured, as he made his way to stand beside her.
“I have it on the highest authority a waltz will be announced.”
The dratted man said nothing else but stared at her with keen anticipation.
“Is that an invitation to dance, your lordship? Because it sadly lacks in charm.”
The viscount moved to stand in front of her and bowed. “I would be forever delighted if you should honor me with this next dance.”
“Why, after asking so prettily I must oblige.”
A smile crept up into his eyes and lurked at the corners of his mouth. He was so beautiful, in a uniquely male way. He led her to the dance floor, and as the viscount swept her in his arms, she could feel the weighted speculation of everyone in the ballroom buzzing across her skin like insects. Especially the very naked lady she had spied that first day in the viscount’s drawing-room.
“Everyone is staring,” she whispered, unable to prevent her wide smile.
“Mostly, the gentlemen,” he murmured. “They are all wondering who is this beautiful creature in my arms and how they might get to know you.”
“I suppose it would take another rake to know.”
His lips curved as he turned her into an exciting glide. She didn’t like his smile. It drew her eyes instantly to his mouth and made her think of debauchery and things a respectable woman should not wonder about.
What would your lips upon mine taste like? Though she had never been kissed, every feminine instinct warned her there would be a taste, an evocative one that would enrapture her senses. Marianne was unwillingly captivated, and she feared he saw it in her eyes.
They danced and chatted about inane things she would unlikely recall in the morning. The man was just as abreast with all the rumors of the ton as the most notorious gossip would ever be. He had thrilled her curious senses by informing her of the latest scandals, even ones he swore only he knew. How he had gleaned such information he hadn’t revealed.
“And that is Lord Huxley standing by the potted plant, brooding into his glass of champagne. It is said he is in love with his valet.”
“How outrageous,” she gasped, laughing as he twirled with her. “I am certain you made that up.”
He winked. “Ah…but only a few know that his valet is actually an American heiress in hiding from her dastardly step-father. And he knows it.”
He smiled down at her, and in his eyes, she spied a desire which mirrored her own. And her greatest fear and wonderment was…what would Viscount Wicked do about it?
Chapter 11
Almost an hour after dancing with his lordship, Marianne escaped through the open terrace doors into the gardens. The crowd was a frightful crush, and her very bones ached from all the dancing, laughing, and chatting.
It amazed her that ladies of the haut monde attended such lavish balls almost nightly. She passed a few couples who seemed as if they had slipped outside for illicit liaisons. She could hear the strains of music spilling through the doors from the ballroom, beckoning her to return, but her feet ached dreadfully. Moving in the opposite direction of a darkened section of the lantern-lit gardens, she tipped her face to the sky and laughed. “Tonight has been wonderful.”
And if her Papa knew he would be sorely disappointed that she had been caught admiring such a lush and decadent lifestyle. I must forge my own wants and opinions, Papa. The sweetest ache stirred in her heart, and her throat ached from the memory of how she danced with Lord Worsley. How perfectly they had fitted together.
Oh, I must stop thinking of him!
The viscount was not likely to ever marry her, a young miss with no connections or fortune, and her silly heart would not stop yearning for the dratted man. She rounded a corner and almost collided with the duchess’s cousin. Lady Lydia’s face was flushed red, and her eyes glittered with some unknown emotions.
“Is all well, Lady Lydia?” Marianne inquired tentatively.
“Oh yes, but I would urge you to not visit that section of the gardens if you understand my meaning.”
Marianne frown. “I do not…oh!” Lydia had caught someone in flagrante delicto. “Ho
w mortifying, I hope you were not seen.”
Lady Lydia giggled. “It seems Viscount Wicked will be libertine wherever he goes, even if it is a duchess’s ball.”
“Viscount Worsley?”
She nodded, her soft golden curls bouncing against her rounded cheeks. “Why, yes, the very same! He has the most notorious reputation, you know.”
“I see,” she said, pressing a hand over her suddenly aching heart. The hot sting of tears burned her eyes.
“Despite his wicked reputation, he is very wealthy and one of the most elusive catches of the season. Just now he set the gossipmongers’ tongues wagging by only dancing with—”
Lady Lydia gasped as recognition dawned in her eyes. “Oh, it was you he danced with!” she said, her voice soft with sympathy.
Marianne turned with as much dignity as she could muster not understanding why the evidence of his licentious manner should hurt in such an awful manner. He is my employer, she hardly berated herself. Yet her feet, as if they had a mind of their own, tugged her to that secluded section of the beautiful gardens.
“I do not think it wise for you—”
She scarcely heeded this, for her attention was claimed by the lady in the Viscount’s arm. They appeared as if caught in a passionate embrace. The picture of him with another woman brought a twisting pain that filled her with too much confusion.
“Unhand me,” the young lady cried. “I have exerted myself in every imaginable way to win your regard, and you continually ignore me!”
It was then Marianne noted he was actually trying to do up the lady’s gown, not undress her. The relief which darted through her was so profound, she lifted trembling fingers to her lips.
The viscount had cloaked himself in a mask of civility. “If you ever throw yourself in my arms in such a manner again, you will feel my wrath,” he snapped, pushing her away from him.
She stumbled, but he hardly seemed to care.
The lady’s lips were pinched, fire spat from her eyes, and fury tautened her frame. “I will inform my father of this! Honor will demand that you marry me.”
His soft, mocking laugh disconcerted Marianne.
“I am not interested in that state, Miss Benedict. If I were, I would have married years’ ago.”
Marianne flinched, the twinges in her heart shifting to a pounding ache.
Miss Benedict began tearfully, “After I tell my father how you’ve compromised me, he will insist—”
“How bloody naïve. Nothing could induce me to marry a spoiled, grasping brat such as yourself.”
The lady lifted her hand to slap him, and he caught it in a punishing vice.
Marianne must have made some noise, for his head snapped toward her, and his expression shuttered. The lady tugged her hand from his and whirled around to see what had arrested his attention.
“I have a witness,” she gasped dramatically. “Lord Worsley has compromised me!”
The viscount stepped around the lady and stared at Marianne.
“I thought it was you,” he said softly.
A soft breath shuddered from her when he plucked a piece of paper from his top pocket and held it up.
“I thought the note to meet here was from you.”
The lady’s face mottled with anger. “How dare you think that creature better than me! She is a crass bore who does not belong in our world. I cannot imagine what the duchess thought by inviting her! I heard the whispers in the retiring room that she is posing in your home as a governess after birthing your bastard—”
“Do not dare?” Lord Worsley snapped low and dangerous. “I marvel that you should have the effrontery to call Miss Ashbrook’s honor into question after your behavior. Another word…or breath in Miss Ashbrook’s presence and I will ruin your father completely. I will call in his fifty thousand-pound debt to my club and have him blackballed. Every club he is a part of will cut him out, and I will ensure you are never invited to another ball or soirée. Such viperous spite deserves no less.”
His calm ruthlessness shocked Marianne. The young lady burst into tears, her shoulders shaking, her bare breast quivering. Marianne stepped forward to help her. His lordship came toward her, grabbed her hand and tugged her from the alcove.
“She needs help to redress,” Marianne said, trying to tug her hand from his.
“Leave her!”
She winced at the hard implacability in his tone.
Marianne tried again to reclaim her arm, his clasp tightened, and she abandoned the attempt, coloring faintly. “Your lordship…my lord…Michael!”
He stopped and dropped her hand. “The first time you say my name will not be to plead for that undeserving wretch!”
“Then when should I say it?” she snapped, quite irritated with his high-handed manner.
It flashed in his eyes so fast she almost missed it. Desire—potent and scalding. In his gaze, she saw kisses and tangled limbs atop twisted sheets. He wanted to make love to her, and that was when he wanted her to cry his name. Marianne trembled and his eyes sharpened. “You…you said you would never marry,” she whispered, and then closed her eyes in abject mortification. “Please, do not answer. This conversation is highly improper and unnecessary.” Marianne would die if he believed she was desperately hoping for marriage from him.
He nodded once and turned away. They exited the side gardens and made their way to the front of the bustling townhouse.
“We are not to say our farewells?”
“I will send a note of apology.”
The carriage was called around, and she waited as he went inside and collected her coat. His lordship did not speak as he slipped it on. She valiantly fought her reaction when his fingers brushed along her nape.
It was impossible to think she could stay under the viscount’s roof for long unless she learned to govern the reactions he evoked within her. Marianne didn’t want to lose being with Lizzie, but it might be better for her heart and virtue if she took a post elsewhere and visited her niece on her off days.
The carriage came around, and he assisted her inside. Tonight, she had met the ruthless part of him that had allowed him to own and operate a gambling den and fight pits. To think that he could threaten to ruin Miss Benedict’s father in such a cruel manner. And it scared her that perhaps he would in fact do so.
Her skin felt too tight, and she was painfully aware of how close he sat in the carriage. “Miss Benedict,” she began haltingly. “She is very young and misguided.”
“You are younger than her.”
How cold and dismissive he sounded.
“I would still like you to forgive her rash and very stupid actions.”
“No.”
“My lord—”
“You did not deserve her attack, nor does she warrant your consideration.”
“It is our Christian duty—”
A bark of harsh laughter cut her off. “You forget that I am wicked and unprincipled? Such arguments will not sway me.”
“I would still like it if you would forgive her,” she said quietly, folding her hands in her lap.
He stared at her for a long time. “I will forget about it this one time. Miss Benedict will not be let off lightly should she ever approach you again.”
“Thank you. We are not of the same society. I doubt we will ever cross paths in the future. And I daresay after the scare you gave her, her willful ways might be improved.”
His lips curled in a sardonic smile, but he made no reply, simply shifting into the pockets of shadow in the carriage.
The rest of the journey was spent in silence, and Marianne did nothing to break the odd tension now between them. For she was distracted by a shattering awareness. If he had been making love with Miss Benedict, it would have hurt her most deeply. And he had no interest in marriage. That meant the wicked desire he stared at her with…if she should ever surrender, would mean her ruination. The knowledge settled like heavy stones against her chest, crushing and frightening.
Chapter 12
Michael closed the play he had been reading, a beautifully bound edition of Othello, and stood. Tonight, he had not gone to his club, finding that the deepening dissatisfaction in his heart had spread to encompass a distaste for his own gambling den. He laughed to himself over how he had tried to wipe out his feeling of ennui for his usual pastimes. Even the punishing bloody fights of the last few nights had filled him with no satisfaction. He had emerged the victor mostly unscathed, but he felt no pride at his achievements. It had not blotted out the ever-present mind-destroying lust that he acknowledged was driving through his blood. It disconcerted him to know his greatest source of pleasure now was Miss Ashbrook’s smile.
How utterly ridiculous, bewildering, yet so fascinating. Something about her made him think about a family of his own. A daughter…a son…a wife. Marriage was something he would eventually do, even though he had never felt a pressing urge to contemplate the state. A few years’ ago, tupping one woman for the rest of his life had seemed like the gravest of sins, a folly that he could resist.
But now…he hadn’t a lover in so long, he wondered if he would know what to do with a lady should she lie before him and split her legs open.
His cock jerked when that image revealed Miss Ashbrook. With a savage curse, he shut it away from his thoughts. Since the night of the duchess’s ball, they had been tiptoeing around each other. It amused and perplexed him in equal measures. Oftentimes he could feel her watching him, but whenever he looked her way, she would glance away quickly and study something else. For God’s sake, earlier he had caught her studying the hothouse flowers in the hallway as if they would unlock the mysteries of the world.
Her reaction had filled him with humor, and something far more tender and elusive. Michael left his study and climbed the stairs. As he passed by the nursery, he heard crying. He frowned, for it was after eight and Lizzie would usually be sound asleep by this time.
