by Stacy Reid
“I believe I shall keep my saber,” she said, her voice low but still possessing a breathless quality.
“Very well…” Then his lips curved. “I shall be back at once.”
But he knew that irrepressible inquisitiveness would lure her further into his domain. The blast of pleasure that rocked through him from that wicked idea should have given him pause, but Michael silently hummed with satisfaction, unable to wipe the smile from his lips.
Your move…Miss Ashbrook.
* * *
Marianne was on the verge of doing something remarkably wicked. The sound of ribald laughter and the joyful refrain of a popular waltz tugged at her. She had always been drawn to beautiful music, like the piper with the pipe, luring her curiosity to fully appreciate the sweet sounds. What was hidden behind that dark red drape? What if she could take just a little peek, and truly see what the inside of a gambling den looked like? She snorted, quite irritated at her inquisitiveness. Yet, with a sense of alarm she realized she had moved closer, without consciously doing so. Marianne glanced over her shoulder to see the majordomo assessing her with something akin to amusement. She scowled at the man and looked back at the curtains the viscount had parted and disappeared through.
“Perhaps just a quick peek,” she murmured. “Yes, I believe I shall! This is just another bit of adventure I will one day write in my memoirs.”
Yes, because surely after living under the roof of Viscount Wicked, there would be something to record. She rolled her eyes at her own silliness, lifted her chin, squared her shoulders, gripped the saber, and walked forward. The thrill of something so positively improper tingled along her spine.
Taking a deep breath, she slipped her finger through the drapes, parted them, and stepped inside. The décor consisted of dark, rich paneled woods, green and silver velvet drapes lined the walls, and the luxurious oriental carpet that covered the floors and the staircase was a rich, vibrant red. Raucous joviality and conversation swirled around her, smoke wafted on the air, and there was an orchestra set now playing lively reels to the dancing couples. Toward the right of the large ballroom, fashionable men and women surrounded several tables, gambling, smoking cigars, and drinking. The games they played were unknown to her but seemed highly exotic as men dressed sharply in black trousers and jackets, white shirts and cravats shuffled cards with expert grace and rolled dice to the excitement of the gathered ladies in their lavish glittering evening dresses. Everyone and everything looked so fine and glamorous.
Dozens of glittering chandeliers hung suspended from the ceiling, their lights dancing off the hundreds of men and women in their finery. The ladies wore sparkling and exotic masks, while the men were unadorned. Couples embraced publicly on chaises longues, and those who danced were certainly closer than what was appropriate. Marianne’s senses felt delightfully assaulted and she admitted she was painfully out of place.
“Ah, Miss Ashbrook…how I wish you had resisted,” a dark murmur came from behind her.
She whirled around and peered into the provoking amusement shining in the viscount's eyes. Annoyed that he thought her a frightened ninny, she said, “I see nothing overly alarming.”
His brow arched. “Ah…so these shocking display of intimacy and vulgarity do not appall you in the slightest? How interesting.”
She could feel herself getting red.
“How prettily you blush.”
That only made her face hotter. “How is Evelyn doing?”
“It will take a few minutes for me to check on her,” he said with some gravity. “She was really scared and nastily banged up.”
“Then go and reassure her that you’ll help her, so that man, whoever he is, will never find her and that you’ll also find her respectable employment.”
He stared at her for a long moment. “I will.” Then he melted away.
Her curiosity driving her, she sauntered forward, looking at the different tables, staring for a few minutes here and there. A scream had her looking at another table where a young lady held a gloved hand over her mouth.
“Oh, Dear Lord, I won?” she glanced around dazedly.
“Yes,” a portly fellow said. “Two thousand pounds!”
“My family might be saved?” she gasped and then burst into tears.
Everyone stared at her for a few seconds, then went back to their game, dismissing the woman. The young lady was, however, shaking like a leaf.
Marianne went over to her. “Are you well?”
“I think I’ve won a fortune, but he won't allow me to keep it, will he?” she said in a pained whisper.
“Who shall not allow it?”
“My uncle!”
She gasped as if she had said too much. “Please forget I said it.”
Marianne gripped her gloved hand. “You were very brave to have come here and try…try your chance at lady luck.”
The girl nodded as if she desperately needed the assurance that she had done the right thing.
“I risked my reputation and my safety…I risked everything to save my family.”
She placed a hand around the girl’s shoulders and led her to a quieter section of the gambling den. It took bypassing several tables and going behind a green velvet curtain, but thankfully a few chaise longues, tables, and chairs were there and unoccupied.
They sat on the chaise closest to the fire. Feeling overly warm, Marianne removed her coat and placed it on a chair. Then she turned to the girl, very perturbed to see she was still crying and twisting her fingers together.
“I gather you fear your uncle will chastise you for coming here?”
The girl’s face crumpled, and more tears came. “More likely, he will steal this money as he stole my small inheritance from me! My sisters and I live off his goodwill and we are all of age but with little choice. I have risked coming here…hoping for a chance, but I never dreamed…oh I never truly imagined I might win!”
Marianne patted her arm and offered the girl a gentle smile. “There is no need for you to worry. Lord Worsley will see that you receive your winnings and even protect them for you. Why I even believe should you ask him to invest a portion of it for you so you could secure your sisters’ future.”
“He would?” the girl asked with considerable surprise. “The Viscount Wicked would do that…for me?”
Marianne nodded firmly. “He is most kind and thoughtful.”
A choked sound came from behind her, and she turned to see the man who had gone away with Miss Evelyn.
“Good evening, ladies, I am Mr. Dorian Martin. Might I escort you to the private dining hall on the second floor?”
They stood, the curtains parted once more, and Michael appeared. Her heart leaped, and a quiver of something hot went through her belly.
The girl dipped into a curtsy, “My lord!”
Mr. Martin cast the viscount a sidelong stare. “Miss…this young miss here was advising our most recent winner that you would do whatever it takes to ensure her uncle does not try to take her winnings away because you are the kindest and most thoughtful of men,” Mr. Martin said with such incredulity, Marianne scowled at him.
“His lordship is most kind and—”
“Thank you, Miss Ashbrook,” the viscount murmured softly, his face carefully composed. “Dorian if you will take this young miss to Thomas. He’ll draft her banknotes, and please let her appraise you of the situation.” Then he stared at the girl who was no longer crying but staring at him with grateful awe. “And of course, if Miss Ashbrook has promised, I will see that this uncle does not see a shilling of your money.”
The girl clasped her hand around her middle. “And that I might get away with my sisters safely? Somewhere he might not find out?”
Michael sent her an unfathomable look, but then said to the girl, “Yes.”
“Truly?” the girl gasped.
“Truly,” he replied softly.
Mr. Martin blinked several times, then looked at Marianne as if she had snakes writhing from her hat.
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And at that moment, Marianne felt her heart tumble over in a way it never had before. The feelings shivering through her… they rose in a sweet, gentle swell, sensations she hardly knew what to do with until they encompassed her entire being.
I love you…she cried silently.
She was hardly aware when the girl profusely thanked her and melted away with Mr. Martin, leaving her alone with Michael.
“If you would grab your coat. I will escort you home.”
Yet his eyes spoke a challenge for her to stay here…even if but for a moment, to bask in another kind of adventure.
“No,” she said, “Perhaps I might stay…perhaps this ordinary country girl might see and experience something wonderful tonight.”
Her madness was complete.
Instead of the triumph she expected to see, his gaze softened, and something impossibly possessive yet tender glowed in the dark silver of his eyes. He cupped her cheek and lifted her face to his. “My dear Miss Ashbrook…Marianne…there is nothing ordinary about you.”
Then he claimed her mouth in a kiss of marauding passion.
Chapter 15
Marianne's heart pounded, and desire swirled through her veins. A soft nip at her lower lip, then she parted her lips in a soft moan of complete surrender, and his tongue slipped into the depths of her mouth. A sharp bite of pleasure gripped her as his tongue mated with hers. With a muffled moan, she clasped his shoulders, tipped on her toes to meld her lips to his more passionately.
He released her, quite reluctantly, and she stepped back. His sharp cheekbones were flushed, and the look in his eyes had her glancing away. Inside, she felt weak with need and reckless desires. Gripping the edges of her skirt, she said the first thing that popped into her mind, “I cannot imagine why Mr. Martin acted so astonished to learn of your kindness. I know it…and he has been in your employ long enough, I presume, so why shouldn’t he know of it?”
It occurred to her moments later that she was babbling.
“Here…I am a different man.”
“In what manner?” she dared to ask, though she could feel the difference in his intensity.
“At home…” His throat worked on a swallow.
Her breath caught. Home. Such yearning rose to choke her like thick smoke. How that word filled her with such acute longing. And for the first time, she admitted one of the things she hungered for was a love that defied the odds for herself. And that it was with this man she imagined and dreamed for so much. Silly little heart.
“At home, I am different. Here I am the purveyor of sin. I climb in the ring, and I bare-knuckle fight with the best and toughest of men. Here I am the Viscount Wicked, and I do not hide from the reputation which gave me that name but embrace it.”
“And I am not afraid of it,” she said with aching honesty. She had never imagined she could be so bold.
He caught her hand, and pressed a hot kiss to her palm. “Dance with me.”
She feared they would never meet again, for she knew he would never marry her. She would dream forever of him, and Marianne knew she would live with regret her whole life if she never experienced all that she could with this man. “Yes,” she breathed and followed as he drew her onto the ballroom floor.
He tugged her scandalously close, and she gave a quick glance to ascertain no-one else was observing the formal respectable conventions. For the space of a heartbeat she could not speak. A startling rush of need arrowed to her aching heart. Heat curled low in the pit of her stomach, jolting her. She was so tempted to tip up on her toes and lick his lips. Right here in front of everyone!
A blistering need to feel his arms around her surged through her. “Hold me closer,” she murmured, thinking she might never have the chance to indulge so wickedly ever again.
His eyes became impenetrable, but his fingers clenched, and he tugged her in so much closer. Marianne felt the slight trembling in his frame, and a sense of awe gripped her. He struggled with wanting her, and sensing it, she did not withdraw or have mercy on him but lifted a hand to his face so she could swipe her thumb across his bottom lip.
His lips were so soft. How bold she was. He groaned, and the sound whispered through her.
“Mis…Mari…Ashbro….” he broke off, a deeper flush staining his cheekbones.
“I made you stammer,” she said with gentle amusement. “Am I the first?”
“Everything I am feeling now…you are the very first to inspire them, and I suspect the only woman who will ever do so.”
He seemed almost bewildered to have admitted that. But inside…inside Marianne’s long-denied needs swirled to the surface with hot, and debilitating hunger. She felt enslaved by the desire in his eyes, and the gentle tremble of his fingers. Her heart clamored harder, sending dizzying rushes of desire coursing through her veins.
“Do I take you to my rooms upstairs?” he asked gruffly. “Or do we dance?”
An odd emotion erupted through her heart. “We dance,” she whispered as he twirled her into an elegant spin before catching her closely to his body once again. She twirled gracefully, the rousing strains of the violins igniting delight in her. It was even more glorious than when she had waltzed with him at the duchess’s midnight ball. She felt free to clasp his shoulders, to peer into his eyes without wondering if those watching would think her too forward. Around her, other couples whirled laughing and twirling, soaking up the decadence of the ballroom.
Marianne danced at least four sets with the viscount until her feet ached, and sweat beaded her brows, and even her lips trembled from too much laughter. Then…and only then, she stared up into his eyes and said, “Now take me to your rooms, and perhaps I shall taste brandy.”
He faltered in stillness, as if he were afraid she would take back the words. Then he gripped her hand and led her through the crowd, up three flights of the winding staircase without breathing a word. Her tongue would not loosen, and her heart hammered more with each step. For Marianne knew…once in that room he would kiss her and do delicious, wicked things to her.
And she wanted to experience every decadent thing he would do. Her common sense tried to reassert itself, but the very knowledge that she might never be with him again tore through it. All her reserve crumpled to her feet. He opened the door to his apartments, and she gained a quick impression of dark furniture, rich brocade drapes, and a roaring fire. He closed the door, cupped her cheek, and pressed his mouth to hers, so gently her heart fluttered.
A rough, low, and hungry sound spilled from him. “I cannot…I have not the willpower to stay away from you.”
How tortured he sounded.
A sweet, sharp pain throbbed in her chest. “Then don’t,” she whispered breathlessly. “I cannot have you forever, so I will take this moment in time.” Her stomach fluttered with nerves, but her heart ached with passionate desire.
He drew her into his arms, pressed a kiss to her forehead, and they stayed like that for a breathless moment. Then he cupped her chin and lifted her face to his. The raw force of his mouth possessed her, the strength of his hunger catching her unawares, yet she eagerly responded with burgeoning passion. She couldn’t think, she didn’t want to think, only to feel. Michael lifted her into his arms; she gripped his shoulders as he walked with her a few paces and then slowly lowered her. The back of her knees brushed against something, and a quick glance revealed it to be a bed.
She almost fainted when he started to shrug from his clothes, his gaze never leaving hers. His jacket, then his waistcoat, his cravat was tugged at with such impatience! Then his shirt.
Marianne sucked in an audible breath. “You are beautiful, Michael.”
Sharp and svelte muscles delineated his chest down to his waist. Although she knew he would be considered a man of leisure, the body he was revealing was lithe and beautifully muscled, showing not an ounce of fat. He dropped to his knees before her, his dark blond head bent, as he lifted her feet, one after the other and removed her slippers. She shuddered, her body throbbi
ng under the sensual onslaught his fingers evoked as they trailed up her legs to her shin, and higher to unpin her garters. Then he rolled down her stockings, slow and sensual, and tugged them from her feet. He stood and turned her around, where he undid the buttons of her dress. In silence, he removed all of her garments, never fumbling as if he had done this so very often before.
The reminder that she stood in a room with a rake of the first order reared its head, but she closed her eyes, admitting painfully that she was not here because of his seduction, but because of how much she wanted to feel this with him…if only once. The notion of being so wicked and improper had a strange heat beating in her blood. As her stays, chemise, drawers, and crinoline fell away, shyness gripped her.
“Let me see you,” he breathed.
Marianne bit her lower lip and turned to him, painfully aware she was naked!
His chest rose on a deep inhalation, pleasure and admiration lighting his silver gaze. “I’ve never seen another equal to you…and I daresay I never will. You are beautiful, Marianne.”
A sense of vulnerability and empowerment slid through her veins in equal measure. She lifted her hand and removed the pins holding her hair until her tresses tumbled over her shoulders, breasts, and back.
This time, when he drew her closer, Michael took her lips in a kiss of violent tenderness. They kissed endlessly, his fingers tangling in her hair as he held her close for his ravishing. He released her lips and kissed along the jaw down her neck and over her collar bone. He arched her, dipped his head, and licked her nipple. How naughty it felt…that slow, hot, glide of his tongue across that throbbing peak.
His fingertips brushed lightly and gently along her exposed sex. Then he was there, and Marianne’s thoughts splintered under a painful rush of arousal as he rubbed at her nub of pleasure. Her body responded violently on a shudder of delight. His fingers never stopped moving, never stopped touching her. His fingers slipped over her aching nub with even more firmness, and then he pinched down. Her nub got harder, more sensitive, yet his questing fingers never stopped their slippery caresses as she trembled with powerful quakes and her breathing became fast and urgent.
