by Stacy Reid
He was unjustly, unfairly handsome, his classical profile turned saturnine only by the cold in his eyes. She did not doubt that he could or would inflict damage of death to the viscount. Unusually, he was dressed in clothes far too casual for a ball. He had been somewhere else when he learned of the ruse. And he rushed here to warn me…to protect me. The shattering realization had one of her hands fluttering to rest above her heart.
“Rothbury! What in God’s name are you doing?” the Viscount’s voice trembled something fierce. “Do you mean to murder me?”
A harsh silence fell. The longer the marquess stared, the more the mask of affable geniality and charming rake slipped to reveal someone unquestionably dangerous.
“I am considering it, Talbot; I am considering it.” The shade cast about him rendered him in a light she had never seen before—a dark protective force with wings of shadows and cunning golden eyes.
And with a flash of insight, she realized the charming rake and amusing libertine was truly not Nicolas St. Ives. He was also the hard, dangerous man in front of the viscount.
“Please, Rothbury, I heard the rumors that you fancied her, but since you made no offer, I did not think—”
Talbot’s words became a gurgle of fear when the pruning shears shifted.
“I will only say this once. Lady Maryann is under my protection.”
For a wild moment, she could not breathe, and it was as if her feet had a will of their own as they tugged her closer. She hugged the shadows, watching him as he kept his piercing…and most certainly frightening…regard on Viscount Talbot.
“In simple terms, that means I will absolutely kill you should harm befall her by your hands or those of Lady Sophie.”
Talbot believed him, for the man’s entire body shook. Maryann was caught between revulsion and admiration. That no one foresaw the danger that was Nicolas St. Ives amazed and alarmed her in equal measure. He was something that lingered in the dark, waiting for the right opportunity to strike.
Who are you?
As if he heard her silent whisper in the darkness, his head turned, and those brilliant eyes pinned her in place. Certainly, he could not see her…could he? Maryann swallowed, walking backward ever so silently, toward the deeper shadows.
He lowered the shears from around the man’s neck. “Get out.”
The viscount hurried in her direction, and she pressed up against the plant.
“Not that way,” St. Ives said.
Talbot spun around and went through the doors that led him on the outside path into the rain. Maryann silently hoped the marquess would go that way, too, but he remained still, staring in the direction of her potted plant.
She turned around and attempted to stealthily walk back the way she had come. The echoes of his steps behind her felt deliberate. Hating how harshly she breathed, she paused, and leaned her back into the wall, hoping the shadows were impenetrable, and he would not make out the color of her icy-blue ballgown.
She did not want him to know that she had seen the ruthless man beneath the careless facade he presented to the world. She did not fully understand the desire, only knowing that she must act upon it.
Oh God. He did not walk past her and depart the conservatory. He stopped. The face that stared toward her held a hint of merciless mockery, his lips flat and unsmiling, and his eyes…she had never seen them so unfathomable. He shifted, and then he, too, was cloaked in darkness. Very slowly, the dancing shadows reached across the space between them and cupped her face.
Maryann trembled.
His thumb traced her cheekbone. That hand disappeared, and a harsh breath sawed from her throat. Yet she did not move, nor did she speak. Maryann couldn’t imagine leaving now. She didn’t want to leave.
A warm touch to her bottom lip. Her lips parted and her chest lifted on a deep breath. Shock bloomed through her when he slid a finger into her mouth.
“We will have to be wicked, improper, and terribly scandalous.”
The words she had said to her friends echoed in her thoughts and settled low and hot in her belly. Wicked…improper…scandalous. Maryann could not say why she did it, but she stroked her tongue over his intruding finger, and the first sound rode the air and settled between them. A groan. Low and hungry.
But it also sounded like a warning.
His finger slipped from her mouth, and she strained to see him in the dark. His figure was just a vague outline of power and strength. The presence surrounding her at once intimidated her, for he was ruthless enough to kill a man without hesitation, but she was also reassured, for he was undeniably protective of her.
Why? A question she wanted answered, but also feared knowing. His attentions and the feelings he elicited in her might once again rouse dreams she had long buried and no longer wanted as a part of her future. And it was also nonsensical to entangle any dreams and wants she might have with this man. He was a stranger…a complex one, whom she might never understand. Maryann must never delude herself as to his reasons for warning her.
And despite knowing that…inside she felt warmed…
Cherished.
A sob at her foolishness hitched in her throat. Her heart would not listen. The shadow shifted, and with a sense of shock, she realized he had knelt. His gloveless hand encircled her ankles and started to slide her gown up her shins, exposing her stocking-clad legs.
“Rothbury!” she gasped, her entire body trembling. “Yes!”
“Nicolas,” came his dark murmur. “Let me hear it on your lips.”
“Nicholas,” she said on a husky whisper, aware that her dress was now above her knees.
She felt when he leaned in, and his lips unerringly found the soft spot of her inner thigh not covered by her stockings and garters.
A shameful, wanton curiosity burned hot and frightful in her veins.
This is not what I meant when I said to be wicked and take what we want. Because Maryann did not desire a lover…
Did she?
His tongue as it stroked over her skin was a searing lash of heat. The feel of his mouth on such a vulnerable place set her heart into a frenetic gallop, her awareness of him heightening to a physically painful degree. How remarkable her skin could be this sensitized! His tongue lashed against that spot once more, and she made a small helpless sound of need…of desire.
Was that what this was—this flushed sensation stealing over her entire body and settling low in her belly? Her nipples ached, and each breath made the fabric of her gown rasp against them, further agitating the sensation.
She tried to deny the hunger sweeping through her body, fearing the reckless need it inspired, but then he gently sank his teeth into that spot on her thigh, and she whimpered, “Nicolas,” as he sucked at her flesh at first harshly and then tenderly.
When he released her skin, he stroked that spot with his tongue, a glide meant to soothe. All thoughts scattered when he kissed a spot higher on her thighs. It was such a soft caress, yet her lashes fluttered closed, and she savored the hot brand of his lips to her skin.
He kept going up with his kisses.
“Nicolas?” she cried softly.
His mouth left her body, but she could feel him staring at a part of her no one had ever seen. The darkness of the conservatory pressed in on them, cocooning them in intimacy and secrecy to just be. Maryann swore he could see every bit of her in the dark and through her drawers.
He pressed his nose against her and inhaled her womanly scent. Her cheeks burned with alarm and aroused mortification and she was grateful for the dark. The feeling of his teeth against her mons was shockingly, overwhelmingly intense. It was also more. The feeling was evocative, and delicious tremors went down her back.
There was a sharp tug and her drawers parted, exposing her sex to the air. “You’re the devil,” she gasped, her fingers twisting tight in his hair.
�
�I know,” he murmured. Then he licked against her sex.
She slapped a hand over her mouth to stifled her scream. This…this was indecent. And so, so pleasurable.
He nudged her legs apart wider, then wider still, forcing her legs to accommodate the width of his shoulders. With a sense of aroused alarm, Maryann realized he was lifting one of her legs and draping it over one of his shoulders, the edge of her dancing shoe resting against his back.
Then he licked her again. This time slower. As if he savored her. This time his tongue dragged against her nub, striking it with raw pleasure. Hot flames curled through her and the jolting sensations were so powerful, she quaked.
Maryann sobbed, collapsing against the wall.
“I have you,” he murmured, his voice vibrating against her mons. Then he went back to that nub and licked it again and again and again.
Something awful tightened low in her belly, a sensation Maryann never dreamed a body could be capable of withholding. It did not expand out but contracted, coiling into a tight ball of heat low in her belly and at that bundle of nerves he tormented.
Her thighs started to shake, and one of his large hands grabbed her hips and tugged her to his mouth. As if she could escape. To her back was the unyielding wall and at her front, his strength and devastating tongue.
“Nicolas, please!” she cried, not knowing what she demanded.
She gripped his hair, thrusting her fingers through his strands. Maryann couldn’t tell if she did this to hold him to her or to yank his head back to get an ease from the unrelenting pleasure he assaulted her senses with, and he made a guttural noise in his throat, low and approving. Then he closed his lips over her nub and sucked.
She screamed. A thin, high wail that echoed in the conservatory. A surge of agonizing pleasure tightened low in her belly, so hot and uncomfortable, desperate and straining. Her thighs trembled fiercely as that tight coil within her snapped and blossomed through her body in shuddering waves of delight.
Oh God, she was mortifyingly wet. She could feel it along the folds of her sex and thighs. Maryann thought with the release of that agonizing pleasure, his tormenting tongue would have eased. But it did not, and her throat felt raw with the effort to not scream when he once again changed the dance of his tongue.
“Nicolas! Oh God, please, Nicolas,” she gasped huskily, arching involuntary, pushing against his mouth until the devastating pleasure became a raging tempest, stripping her of shyness and uncertainty. She could feel her heart racing, the heat surging in her veins.
Maryann sobbed. She gripped his hair so tight he might own to a bald spot later on. Her head fell back against the wall as she gasped for breath with each flick of his tongue, each nibble of his teeth pushing her closer to devastation. And then it was there, and Maryann swore she went flying from her body as pleasure took her apart. She raised trembling fingers to her cheeks, shocked to find them wet with tears. The pleasure had been that excruciating.
Her leg was gently lowered, her dress, too. Then he rose in the dark, hitching that leg that had been over his shoulder at his hips, cradling his weight between her legs. Maryann wondered at the hard bulge she felt at the front of his trousers.
“I am so damn tempted,” he said roughly. “You are so soft and hot against me. So wet.”
Her face heated.
He reached between them with a hand, his knuckles brushing butterfly soft over the folds of her sex.
“Even with this wetness, I can tell that you would grip me tight,” he murmured.
To her chagrin, she felt another blush steal up her cheeks. Maryann was ever so grateful of the darkness in the conservatory.
“I am holding on by a damn thread,” he hissed, removing his hand from his obvious source of temptation. He buried his face in her throat, and she dazedly realized his body shook.
“Nicolas,” she whispered, a feeling of awe sweeping through her. “You tremble.” I made you tremble.
“So do you.”
And it was then she realized her body also quaked and her breath puffed from her fast and unsteady. She twined her hand around his neck, holding him close.
His head lifted from her throat.
“Breathe, Maryann,” he whispered at the corner of her mouth.
The air left Maryann’s lungs in a harsh rush.
“I frightened you.”
No…yes. She could not speak. I frightened myself.
The soft folds between her thighs were tender, sensitive…achy and needy. Except she had no notion what more her body could possibly be wanting. At her lingering silence, he pressed a kiss to her brow, down her nose, and then lightly across her lips.
It wasn’t a kiss, but it shattered her. His head dipped even lower, and the marquess once again buried his nose in her neck, inhaling her scent, and her heart tripped inside her chest and then squeezed.
“It is not safe to be here with me.”
“I have never felt safer,” she whispered, unerringly kissing the top of his head. “You do not kiss my mouth.” That she had not intended to say.
“No.”
“Why not?”
“If I should taste you…I won’t stop.”
“Didn’t you already just taste me?”
His raw curse had her blushing.
“Your mouth is a particular weakness of mine. If I should kiss you…feel your lips against mine, I will sheathe you on my cock right here and I will not tup you with the gentleness and consideration you deserve.”
Maryann assumed that meant ravishment. Her chest rose and fell on an unsteady breath. “And is that a bad thing?”
They both stilled, for he clearly understood she was asking after his intentions.
His voice throbbed with a dark undertone of carnal warning. “That is a most dangerous thing.”
She closed her eyes against the ache his words roused. Should he kiss her, he would not stop, and he was not likely to offer marriage after. And even knowing that, Maryann had the most appalling and maddeningly tempting urge to grip his hair, lift his head, and kiss him without any thoughts to the consequences.
“Then let me go,” she whispered.
He jerked back as if something burned him.
“Go home,” he breathed roughly.
She smoothed the front of her gown with still-shaking fingers. “I will go back to the ballroom and let Lady Sophie see that she failed in her disgusting plans.”
He pulled her roughly, almost violently, into his embrace. “Maryann?”
“Yes,” she gasped, so very aware of their bodies pressed together.
“Do not test me. Go home.”
In this moment, Maryann found him terribly frightening and compelling. Her lips parted, but no words would come. “I…”
“I do not wish to kill Talbot. And if you return to that ball and that spoilt rotten little witch sees that you escaped her machinations, she will blackmail Talbot into acting foolishly.”
He cupped the back of her head with one of his hands and pressed his cheek against her temple. “And if he even breathes in your direction, I will kill him. Do you understand? I have a veritable passion for retribution.”
“Yes,” she said faintly.
“Now go.”
And Maryann did, very conscious of the empty ache low in her belly and the silly, ridiculous smile on her face.
Chapter Thirteen
A soft noise in her chamber urged Maryann to stir lazily among the pillows, rolling over with an indelicate yawn. Her maid tugged the heavy drapes open, pouring sunshine into the chamber. With a low moan, she lifted an elbow across her eyes.
“Mornin’, milady, the countess wishes you below stairs right away.”
Still feeling exhausted, Maryann rubbed the sleep from her eyes and turned over in the bed. A peek at the clock on the mantel revealed it to be afternoon. With a gasp
she lurched upright. “Have Lady Ophelia and Miss Fanny called?”
“Yes, milady, they are waiting for you in the smaller sitting area.”
Thank heavens they had not left at her tardiness. It had been over two weeks since she had seen her friends last and she missed them dreadfully. They had agreed to meet at eleven this morning and then traverse High Holborn together and buy the latest hats printed in the fashion magazine. Stifling a groan, Maryann sat in the center of her bed, and the memory of the night slammed into her like a fist. She faltered, gripping the sheets and closing her eyes.
Oh God. That had really happened.
Last night after reaching home, she hadn’t slipped into a blissful slumber. She had tossed restlessly atop her coverlets, unable to dismiss from her awareness the marquess and what he had done to her. She hadn’t been able to simply think about the impropriety and folly of her reckless conduct. It was a blessing that when sleep finally claimed her, she slept undisturbed.
“Susie?” she said to her maid, who was going through the armoire selecting dresses and unmentionables.
The maid glanced over her shoulder. “Yes, milady?”
“I would like a few minutes alone.”
Susie dipped in a small bob and hurried from the chamber, closing the door behind her. Maryann bit her lip and slowly tugged her nightgown to her hips and stared at the scandalous bright red mark on her inner thigh. She gingerly pressed her skin, alarmed to find that the spot ached. A dark purplish bruise made by the Marquess of Rothbury’s mouth...sucking and nibbling at her tender flesh.
He was entirely too wicked.
Then the memory of his mouth against her sex and the awful pleasure which had quaked through her had her entire body blushing. To have done something so intimate and improper and shocking, and never even having kissed her mouth? And what excuse had Maryann? A fleeting encounter in the dark and she had surrendered all sense of propriety and allowed him such wanton liberties!
