Her Wicked Marquess

by Stacy Reid

  It was then her senses absorbed everything she had ignored earlier in her eager need to execute her revenge. His height…the breadth of his shoulders, the muscles in his thighs and calves. His scent…dark, subtle, fragrantly spiced musk…a hint of rain. He waited like a predator for her reply, which she could not dredge forth, for she was dispossessed of all rational thoughts.

  He is not Crispin. He is not Crispin. He is not my brother. Oh God!

  She scrambled to her feet, her haste making her slip a few times. Light-headed and knees shaking, she finally managed to stand. A deep, provoking chuckle vibrated in the air, and Maryann almost collapsed at the sheer menace and mockery in the sound.

  This was not her imagination.

  A breath-crushing tension wrapped its cruel arms around her. She stared at where he lingered in the shadows for so long, her eyes smarted. The shadows twisted, the feet which had been splayed disappeared, and he slowly uncloaked from the darkness. She took a steady breath, and it was then she observed the lethal stillness to his lean, powerful body, an unfathomable watchfulness in the hooded eyes that caressed over the length of hers.

  “Ah…you are going to faint or descend into hysterics. And here I thought you were brave,” the voice drawled.

  Forgetting her coat, she turned and sprinted away, her heart a pounding drum in her ears.

  …

  Nicolas Charles St. Ives, Marquess of Rothbury, found himself chuckling with genuine amusement for the first time in months, perhaps years. He had never seen a lady move with such speed. But it did the job, taking her away from him as quickly as possible.

  Good.

  As she rounded the corner, the moonlight revealed something had dropped from her. A letter perhaps. Nicolas walked toward the area the girl had dashed off to, as if something monstrous and unholy lingered in the dark. And perhaps he was a monster, for it had been years since his heart had turned black.

  His path for the last few years was revenge driven. He did not fool himself and pretty his actions by saying he was meting out justice to those who deserved it. He was not the law of the land or the country. What he did was purely to satisfy the hatred in his heart. And tonight, his path had led him here, to this house, and to the surprising encounter with his mysterious and incredibly intriguing lady.

  His plan had been to break into the lord of the manor’s study, which was on the third floor, and discreetly search the desks, hidden bookshelf, and floor panels, even the safes, for any evidence that might connect the earl’s son, Viscount Crispin Fitzwilliam, to the black Dahlia.

  A person Nicolas was most interested in finding.

  Nicolas had not been invited to the earl and countess’s house party, which would have made his task a bit easier. His lips twisted in a rueful grimace. His deliberately constructed reputation of a depraved libertine was simply too clever and believable for the countess to have invited the likes of him to her home. Many matrons who dreamed of landing a wealthy, even if disreputable, marquess for their daughter were happy to open their doors to him.

  But the reputedly very proper and exacting countess tended to sniff her nose and lift her chin as high as possible whenever she saw him, showing the lines in her now wrinkly neck and décolletage clearly displayed to all the world. From his foot-taller height, Nicolas still got the sensation she stared down that pointy, oh-so-elegant nose at him.

  Pausing, he stooped and collected the paper that had dropped from the lady’s pocket. It was carefully folded, like a letter to a secret lover. Interest stirred, for he was a procurer of secrets, believing every information necessary when dealing with powerful families who thought themselves untouchable in the empire.

  The gardens were too dark for him to read it now, so he slipped it into his pocket as footsteps crunched over fallen leaves and echoed on the chilly night air. He surged to his feet only to falter as the girl returned, her willowy frame as she strolled toward him graceful and perhaps even a bit dangerous.

  Odd that this slip of a girl gave him momentary pause.

  Sheathed in a light blue ballgown, she appeared at times ethereal in the shadows. Her figure, though slender, had more than a handful in all the right places. Her hips were lush, and from what he’d seen earlier, her derriere was just as sensually rounded. The pale mounds of her breasts at her lace décolletage invited his eyes to linger, then he lowered his gaze, wondering what was in her hands.

  There was a flash of silver, and his heart jolted.

  What in God’s name?

  Chapter Two

  Nicolas blinked, but the apparition of his mysterious lady gripping a shovel with its glinting sharpened edge did not disappear. The gardener was overzealous to possess such a damn sharp shovel. And the lady, she was no longer scared but filled with determined anger. It delineated every inch of her body, and that small pointed chin lifted high to give the appearance that she stared him down.

  Suddenly he knew this to be the countess’s daughter—surely no one else in the country could imitate that arrogant and disdainful mien.

  “Intend to bash me over the head for frightening you?” he asked.

  The shovel was lifted higher with surprising ease and steady arms. The waif was stronger than he would have imagined.

  “I will impale you if you do not reveal to me the whereabouts of my brother.”

  Her brother was clearly the man Nicolas had come upon with the bucket in his hand. “Ah, so it wasn’t your sensibilities I offended?”

  Her stance shifted, and he expected to hear her feminine cry of en-garde any moment. How unusual—she possessed some skill and was not afraid to wield her knowledge.

  “You are wearing my brother’s mask, so what have you done with him?”

  The slight tremble in her voice had an odd sensation twisting through Nicolas’s gut. “How brave you are,” he murmured, taking a step closer. “You are clearly frightened but ran for the nearest weapon and returned to save him. Brave but foolhardy. What if I am the dastardliest villain?”

  The eyes behind the face mask narrowed. She did not back away from him but thrust her weapon forward, holding it steady despite its evident weight. He waved carelessly to encompass the privacy of the gardens. “We are alone, and I can easily disarm you.”

  Her wide lips curved, and for a precious moment he forgot even his own name.

  Nicolas knew then he would never forget that smile, even if he had only been treated to a mere glimpse of its full ravishing potential.

  “You can try,” she invited darkly. “But I promise you shall lose a limb in the process. Now I demand—”

  “Maryann?” a voice creased with astonishment asked.

  She whirled around. “Crispin! Upon my word, you are safe!” The shovel was dropped, and she rushed toward the man tumbling from the hedges, rubbing the back of his neck.

  The threat of Nicolas’s presence had been dismissed with astonishing speed. How insulting. Nicolas melted into the darkest pocket of shadow in the garden and waited, all his senses attuned to the night and its possible dangers. Yet a part of him remain fixated on her, and he held himself still at that awareness.

  “Who was that gentleman you were talking to?” her brother muttered, glancing behind her. “Where did he go?”

  Both turned to stare at the spot he had been, looking around the gardens warily.

  “I do not know who that man was, but Crispin, he was wearing your mask!”

  Her brother clasped her shoulder. “Did he hurt you?”

  “No.”

  “Then why did you have that shovel warding him off if he did not act the bounder?”

  “It was meant to be a threat for him to reveal what he did with your body,” she said with a light huff. “I was certain he had done you in!”

  Nicolas found himself smiling at her dire imaginings. He hadn’t planned on knocking out anyone; the young man had come upon
him by surprise, and Nicolas had reacted swiftly, gently pinching that nerve that would put him to sleep for a few minutes. That Lord Crispin had been wearing a mask was a stroke of luck for Nicolas, and it was a good thing he had donned it himself.

  “Of course I was not dead,” her brother muttered crossly, and with a heavy dollop of reproach. “You really do need to stop reading those gothic books.”

  “What happened to you, Crispin?”

  He frowned and glanced toward the hedgerows where Nicolas had left his body after gently knocking him out.

  “I was coming to meet you with the critters from the pond and I…I believe I startled something that lingered in the dark. I think…it was a man and not an apparition.”

  She lightly punched his shoulder. “Now who is the one reading all those books! Of course it was a man. He clearly did something to you and took your mask. That is rather frightening, for he could have truly done you in!”

  She took a deep breath and looked around. “Crispin, he…he actually acted in your stead. Isn’t that simply astonishing? Whyever would he do that?”

  Because you caught me by surprise…and I was too captivated to not participate, Nicolas thought, a bit amused with her earnestness.

  “Good God, are you smitten?” he asked with a measure of alarm.

  No, my good fool, she went back for a weapon. She was a brave spitfire.

  Her brother glanced around warily. “Clearly he was up to no good—the bounder knocked me out and stole my mask! Perhaps he is a thief.”

  “Do not be a buffoon. Why would I become smitten with a stranger?” she said, whirling around. “Let’s hurry and rejoin the ballroom. Remember you are to act considerably alarmed and appalled when you hear of what happened to Lady Sophie.”

  “Never say you went ahead with your mad plan and this man truly helped you.”

  “I say!”

  She bent to retrieve her discarded coat and then headed back to the house. Her brother muttered something under his breath and obediently trailed behind her. Nicolas waited in the shadows for several more moments before he stealthily made his way around the side of the house, away from the ballroom and revelry. Once there, he peered at the trellis covering the side walls and the balconies. He went around to the back, noting the steps along the walls, the ones the sweepers would use to climb to the roof to unclog the chimneys, tend to any slipped slates on the roofs and the downpipes in winter.

  Using the steps, vines, and trellis, he silently climbed to the second floor and hauled himself over the nearest balcony. He tested the window, not surprised to find it had not been latched from the inside. Out here on the edges of Town, a family like the Fitzwilliams would never give a second thought to safety or security. Even if they were in the city, where crimes were rampant due to the poverty and the aftereffects of the war, they would still sleep unafraid and undisturbed, protected by their vaunted wealth and privilege.

  Slipping through the window, he entered a darkened room. The pale wash of moonlight revealed it to be a small study. He expected their mansion to be furnished with all the latest modern conveniences and ostentatiously displaying their wealth. He was not disappointed in his assumptions. The room he had entered, though shadowy, was lavish in the extreme.

  The sound of laughter, the orchestra, and clinking of glasses echoed through the thick walls and opened windows below, and the music reverberated enough to assault his ears. Despite the advantage of the gathering to cover his steps, Nicolas moved with care as he circled the room, feeling as he went along until he located the tapers and lit them.

  He removed the mask and lowered it to the large oak desk flushed against the wall. It took him several minutes to search the room. There he only found a few ledgers, unpaid bills from a society milliner and a notable dressmaker in town, and some letters from one of the Musgroves’ stewards in Hertfordshire. They only discussed some land drainage that the steward considered necessary. There was no hidden panel in the walls or secret compartment in the desk or bookshelves.

  Slipping through the door, he made his way to the library. The door was ajar and low, intimate murmuring wafted out to the hall. He waited for several minutes before moving on, listening as the noises became more frenetic and passionate in nature. Whoever occupied that space had no intention of leaving anytime soon. He knew from careful research that there was a larger study a few doors down, and he entered that room after ascertaining no one lingered inside.

  Nicolas ensured he clicked the door handle shut so no one could surprise him. A pile of ledgers rested on the surface of a desk and were strewn upon a sofa by the hearth. Those he ignored. People like the Musgroves did not leave their dirty and ruinous secrets in the open. They buried those festering cankers deep where men with purpose like him had to ruthlessly unearth them.

  He searched in the blind, not sure what he looked for, only knowing that should he see it, the instincts he had relied on for the last several years would surge to life and guide him. A thorough search of the room—under the Aubusson carpet, bookshelves, wall panels—yielded nothing suspicious.

  An irritated hiss slipped from Nicolas, and he reined in the anger stirring to life within. It had taken him almost a year of investigating the pasts of a few noblemen to lead him here. He’d had his investigators study their past travels, their interests, and their secrets.

  Crispin Fitzwilliam fit the description of the man Nicolas searched for, however there was nothing here to indicate Lord Crispin could have been involved in the matter of which Nicolas believed him guilty. The ghost of Arianna whispered to Nicolas then as a line from the letter she had left behind, which was seared onto his memory, rose to the forefront.

  The black Dahlia is the cruelest. He offered hope then silently watched as they shredded my soul.

  Nicolas threw himself into the large wing-back chair by the fire, leaned back, and stared at the ceiling. If the information he sought was not here, perhaps he needed to be inside the ballroom, subtly prying information from those close to the young lord. Nicolas wanted to understand who the young viscount was as seen through the lens of others.

  A curl of amusement went through him at the thought of crashing the countess’s ball. He couldn’t show up dressed as he was now in unrelenting black. The ton believed him a feckless dandy concerned with wickedness and fashion. He had taken lodgings only a couple miles away, so Nicolas could slip away and be back in as little as an hour. This was a golden opportunity to observe the young lord in his domain.

  He shifted, and something crinkled in his pockets. The ashes of his torment wafted away, and dipping his hand inside, he withdrew the paper that had fallen from the girl in the gardens. Nicolas stood, turned up the wick on the lamp, and unfolded the paper.

  The first line read,

  How wicked does one need to be to achieve the illusion of ruination?

  The script was flowing, elegant, and quite feminine. He lowered his gaze to the next line.

  Steps on how to lose one’s reputation without truly compromising one’s virtue, freedom, and independence.

  -Persuade Mama to invite London’s most debauched lord, Nicholas St. Ives, to one of her balls or entertainments. (I doubt that will be possible. Mama strongly disapproves of him, but I must try.)

  -Discover which events the marquess will attend. He is not friends with Crispin, who would not tell me even if I asked, but if I eavesdrop on some of the faster set, perhaps they will mention where the marquess will be.

  -If I can get him alone, even briefly, perhaps that will be enough for a rumor to spread about me leading him on.

  -Kiss him or allow him to kiss me, but I must make certain someone will witness it, someone who is known to gossip disgracefully.

  -Persuade Nicolas St. Ives to be wicked with me! Even one stolen kiss will mortify my mother. I have no idea how to arrange that? Would he do such a favor if I simply asked?


  -Declare myself ruined.

  -Prepare for the scandal and the whispers.

  -Prepare for an extended stay in the country.

  “How silly you are,” Nicolas murmured, surprised at the measure of amusement he felt. She wanted him to kiss her. Flicking his eyes over the ridiculous list once more, he amended that: she wanted him to ruin her.

  Ah yes, he recalled that the next plan she’d been about to discuss with her brother was how to escape a marriage. With a low chuckle, Nicolas replaced the note in his pocket and left the study.

  He took his time walking down the hallway, hugging to the shadows so that he remained unidentified to the few guests he passed in the hallway. At the wide-open doors that led to the ballroom, he paused, keeping to the edge and scanning the room. There. It did not take long at all for him to find her.

  She stood with a group of young ladies on the sidelines, speaking with animation. It was clearly a habit of hers to push her spectacles up the bridge of her nose, but such a charming one. She must have been out in society for some time now, yet he had never seen her before.

  If not for her returning to the garden with that shovel, perhaps she would not have attracted his attention beyond their unusual encounter. A nameless face in the crush of a ball, or someone he might walk past in the shopping district. And he wouldn’t have taken a second glance.

  Now that something about her had captured his regard, Nicolas had an odd sense that he might never unsee her, that she would be a prickly thorn in his side he might never be able to dislodge.

  She lifted her chin and with uncanny perception stared right back at him. It was impossible for her to see him in the darkness of the doorway, yet she stared as if she could. For a brief moment, he stepped into the light and her eyes widened, her hands fluttering to her throat. A delicate and protective gesture.

  Even with the distance, it felt as if something shifted in the air between them.

  They stared at each other across the expanse of the ballroom. Her gaze seemed to linger on his mask, and from where he stood, he discerned the curiosity of her mien. She wanted to know his identity. He offered her a short, mocking bow, not understanding what possessed him.