by Stacy Reid
He did it again and again and again, never releasing her mouth from his drugging kisses. Hot, drowning pleasure gripped her and with each rock of her against him, the pleasure inside grew hotter until sweat dampened her brows.
Her breath came in gasps and pants and whimpers at the friction against that split between her thighs. Each drag back and forth ground her nub of pleasure into his hardness. That nub got harder, more sensitive, more needy. Maryann felt as if a fire had been lit from within her and she burned with reckless passion.
“Oh God, Nicolas!”
His urgings grew even rougher, and with each slide of her core over his hardened bulge, her body jerked under the burn of pleasure, eroding all rational thought until with a wild scream swallowed by his mouth, she unraveled.
The clamoring of her heartbeat seemed to drive the air from her lungs. Maryann distantly became aware of the soft soothing kisses pressed to her forehead, and that she was quaking against him. His hands were no longer at her hips but hugging her to him while he lightly moved his hands up and down her back, gentling her body, which felt languid and unfamiliar as it came down from the stunning pleasures.
His hands seemed to move without deliberate thought and his thumbs were gently massaging her taut nipples through her night rail. Her nipples seemed to grow and harden under his supple thumbs, and she felt a rush deep inside her as her body reacted once more. She was still tight against him and she could feel the pulse within that part of him that any nice girl should not be aware of. She blushed with embarrassment at her own wantonness, but both her desires and body only wanted more—far more.
She sighed gustily against his mouth, still trembling from the pleasure. “I think I might have to marry you after this.”
His lips curved. “Is that a proposal, Lady Maryann?”
She smoothed a wisp of unruly hair from his forehead. “Odd, you do not sound frightened at the prospect.”
He grunted softly and pressed a kiss to her damp temple. “The prospect of spending a lifetime with a woman of your wit, beauty, and passion is not alarming.”
Maryann was astonished. “Nicolas?”
“Yes?”
“So, you believe in love then?”
“I do not deny its existence, nor do I want to.”
“An acceptable answer,” she replied with a quick smile.
He brushed the pad of his thumb over her lower lip, which felt bruised and swollen from his kisses. “Wait on me.”
Her throat closed and she felt dispossessed of all rational thoughts. Maryann was almost afraid to ask what he meant. “Wait on you to court me?”
A fleeting smile touched his mouth. “Yes.”
Oh! “Why not now?”
“There are some words…some actions that can only remain in the dark. Do you understand?”
“Or else?” she whispered, her heart aching.
“If known, they become a weakness.”
She turned his words over in her thoughts, unable to decipher his meaning, fearing she understood. Society must never know that he liked her…or she him.
Her chest went tight. Shock maybe, she dazedly thought. “For how long should I wait?” she whispered.
“I do not know. I’ve already been on this path for a little over five years. I only know with certainty that my enemies must never know about you.” His hands tightened around her. “I am determined to end it soon. But there are certain things that cannot be rushed. It might be a few more months…maybe even a year.”
She could feel her heartbeat on her tongue. “I will wait. Though I confess you might have to come and find me in France or Italy.”
“You plan to run away?”
“I’ll not marry Stamford.”
“Do not worry about him.”
Her heart lurched. “What does that mean?”
“I’ll have a talk with him.”
Maryann blinked. “Do you want to start a scandal?”
He took her hand and turned it over. “Do you think I’ll allow him to get away with this?”
It warmed her how intensely protective he was of her. “No, I suppose not.” She pressed her forehead to his. “I believe I am falling in love with you.”
Maryann swore she felt the thunder of his heart, but he said nothing. “Did I frighten you?” she asked with a small smile.
“No.”
He sounded intrigued, and her heart thrilled. Her marquess was not closed off to the notion of love. “That’s good,” she whispered teasingly, closing her eyes, and hoarding the sensations filling her chest close to her heart. “I do not fancy gentlemen who scare easily.”
His arms tightened around her and he buried his face in her throat for long moments.
“Why were you on the ice lake?”
A fine tension entered his frame before he relaxed. “Chasing fireflies with Arianna. She loved fireflies, and the ethereal glow of their lights in the dark.”
The deep throb in his voice was unfathomable.
Maryann rested her cheek against his head. “Was she the one precious to you?”
“Yes,” he said gruffly.
She combed her fingers through his hair tenderly, sensing that he was not at all as relaxed as he pretended. “I can feel the tension in your body. I am sorry to stir painful memories.”
A long, slow breath released from him. “Next week will mark the anniversary of her death.”
Maryann stilled. She hadn’t thought this person being lost meant to the grave. Sorrow crowded her thoughts. “Did she die young?”
“Sixteen.”
Dear heavens. Knowing he did not want to hear words of sympathy, she merely hugged him to her, and they stayed in their intimate embrace, listening to the pitter of rain against the windows.
His hands slid under her buttocks, and before she could react, he stood with her legs shamelessly wrapped around his hips. Maryann hurriedly released his shoulders and shimmied off him, feeling foolish to be blushing so.
Amusement lit in his gaze and he gently pinched her chin. “I must leave before your parents and brother return home.”
“Do you plan to go through my windows?”
“No. The same way I came in. Through the kitchens.”
“You picked the lock,” she said, folding her arms about her breast.
“Hmm. Would you like me to show you how?”
“How to pick a lock?” she asked, astonished.
His teeth flashed, and how beautiful his smile was.
“It is still an age away from Mama and Papa reaching home. And Crispin normally spends the entire night at White’s,” she said excitedly, glancing at the clock on the mantel, astonished to see he had been in her room for over an hour. Maryann hurriedly put on a dressing gown and pushed her feet into soft slippers.
It felt natural to slip her hand between his as they left her chamber for lessons in the dark.
Certainly, it was more than an hour later, Maryann’s hair streamed behind her, her nightgown twisted around her legs as she knelt in front of the library door in the hallway. Nicolas waited behind her patiently, his presence warm, protective, and the sweetest of temptations.
At first, learning to pick a lock hadn’t been exciting. He’d taken her into the library, turned on the gas lamp, and showed her a small leather pouch with various lock-picking tools. He taught her about lock levers, lift levers, throw bolts, warded locks and how to identify the types of lock she would be coaxing open.
It was an art.
On the streets of London and in the underworld, it was referred to as the Black Art.
It required patience.
It also required a swift and sharp-witted mind… and a steady hand.
“All the things you have,” he’d whispered in her ear, as if anyone could hear them.
How her heart had soared, for i
n Nicolas she found a man who would make her fly and soar above expectations and restrictions. “The household sleeps,” she’d whispered right back.
“We cannot be too careful.”
That was said temptingly near her mouth, but he hadn’t kissed her.
Maryann smiled when the lock on the door to the library snicked and opened. She stood and faced him, holding up her hairpin. “I did it,” she whispered. “And with this.”
Because he’d taught her that one of the most necessary skills was to be inventive.
“You’ve still a long way to go, but you did well, my lady.”
“And you’ll teach it all to me?”
“Yes. When you have learned much more, I’ll introduce you to the Chubb Detector Lock. They say it cannot be picked by anyone. What a grand time we’ll have trying. I can see it now, an afternoon by the lake, on blankets with wine, and a Chubb Detector Lock before us and our nefarious and most brilliant minds trying to pick it.”
She grinned. “And you’ll still respect me in the morning?”
“I’ll respect you even more.”
And in his tone she heard the rich admiration and pleasure. Maryann’s breath hitched. It is you, she silently whispered.
The man who had been hovering in the shadows of her dreams, the one whom she hungered for, but he had always seemed like an impossible craving. Nicolas would catch her if she overreached in her recklessness, and do more, protect her while allowing her to live. He would not see her desires as unladylike.
“And if I want to discuss politics?” she murmured, leaning against the door that had swung back closed.
He stepped in closer, so he was right there, his body brushing the front of her nightgown.
He feathered his thumb across her bottom lip. “Then we’ll discuss it—and I’ll fervently pray we are on the same side.”
Maryann laughed, the sound tinkling in the empty hallway. This was the man who would let her be herself, appreciate the things she was good at, talk about difficult subjects with her, and hopefully love her.
The need for that burned inside her with the ferocity of a storm.
“What if I wanted to travel?”
“Then you…we will do so in grand style. I am very wealthy. We might have to take the hellions, though.”
Pleasure burst inside Maryann’s chest. “I am happy you would not constrain your sisters.”
“Why would I? I would like for them to also be racoons.”
Maryann scowled, and before she could say “lioness,” he caught her mouth with his in a burning kiss. With a soft moan, she wrapped her hands around his nape, reveling in the pleasure in his embrace. Still kissing her, he lifted her in his arms, and with a gasp she wrapped her legs around his waist, hooking her ankles at his back.
Without releasing her mouth from his intoxicating kisses, Nicolas mounted the stairs with effortless ease to her chamber. It took some fumbling to get the door open, and she lifted her lips from his, panting. He all but stumbled with her over to the bed, where he dropped her into the center. Maryann came onto her knees, staring at him, waiting with her heart pounding. His gaze dropped from her eyes, to her shoulders, and then to her breast straining through her nightgown. Her body ached for his touch.
He whirled around, and without saying a word, departed her chamber. Maryann stared at her closed door in astonishment.
So much for being a rake!
Grabbing the pillow, she threw it at the door, only for Nicolas to come back inside at the same time. The thick pillow smacked him firmly in the face. Maryann’s mouth fell opened and she stared at Nicolas, whose eyebrows had shot up in surprise. He glanced at the pillow on the ground and back at her.
“Racoons do that,” she said, dissolving into laughter.
The beginning of a smile lifted the corner of his mouth, and in a few strides he was there, dragging her up against him to kiss her. His touch hinted at restrained hunger, but the press of his mouth to hers was tender…beckoning, a whisper of desire. With a soft sigh, she parted her lips and slid her tongue against his. Before she could respond properly, he murmured against her lips, “Have a good sleep, Maryann.”
Then he turned around and left once more.
She dropped back against her pillows in a cloud of euphoria, grabbed her pillow, and screamed her happiness in it. Yes!
“I am still here,” he said, sounding perfectly bemused.
Maryann froze, realizing then she hadn’t heard the door close. Oh! He’d just witnessed her madness. She turned her head on the sheet, staring at him, the pillow still gripped to her chest. An irresistibly devastating grin curved his mouth before he slipped through the door and it closed.
“Good night, Nicolas,” she whispered, rolling over and drawing the covers to her chin.
…
The first thing Maryann did upon waking was to seek out her brother in the dining area. There he sat, polishing off a hearty breakfast. Thankfully, her parents were not present. They would still be sleeping, after arriving home only a few hours ago from the ball.
“You look well rested,” he said, his gaze running over her critically. “Why are you blushing?”
“I was not aware that I was,” she said slightly, walking over to sit in the chair opposite him.
She was such a poor enchantress, blushing like a silly miss in the light of day. It was difficult to not squirm in her chair at the memory of having him take her into his arms. She remembered his hard, sinewy body pressing against her. The wicked, luscious way he had rocked her against his throbbing manhood, and the pleasure that had torn through her.
“Well, you look frightfully pink. Are you fevered?”
“I am quite fine, Crispin!” she said, considerably disconcerted. Her purpose this morning was simple. Her brother was innocent, and she would prove it to Nicolas. Without even knowing the full of the situation, she knew Crispin deserved her belief and loyalty. And with this nonsense of them being enemies out of the way, they could get around to chatting about why he should be courting her.
She studied her brother, wondering how Nicolas could ever think he had done something so awful as to warrant revenge. He looked so boyishly charming opening the sheets of a freshly pressed newspaper, a steaming cup of coffee awaiting his attention. In this moment, he reminded her so much of their papa. Except he did not have that stern set to his mouth or the frown lines on his face.
Buttering a slice of toast, she said, “Crispin?”
“Hmm,” he said distractedly, a frown on his face.
“Have you ever done anything so grievous it would make someone think of you as an enemy?”
His head snapped up. “I beg your pardon?”
She calmly repeated the question.
For a long moment, there was no reply. He slowly folded the paper and set it aside on the table. “Why would you ask such a question? Are you thinking the carriage mishap was aimed at me?”
“No, of course not,” she hurriedly reassured him. “Nor do I think it was aimed at me. Odd accidents do happen.”
He scowled. “It is a decidedly strange question, but that answer is no.”
Maryann had been wondering if it was whatever happened to Arianna that Nicolas thought her brother might be a part of. Now she wished she had asked him more, instead of spending a rousing hour learning how to pick locks. And then those parting kisses…
“By God!” Crispin exclaimed. “You are blushing again. Whatever is the matter with you today?”
She mumbled something, biting into a treacle tart to prevent the necessity of answering.
“This bounder is completely lacking in decency!” Crispin snapped, gripping the newspaper in a tight grip. “God’s blood, it is laughable the papers have declared him one of the most eligible catches of the season.”
“Who are you speaking of?” she asked, lowering her fork.<
br />
“The Marquess of Rothbury.”
Maryann inhaled audibly. “Nicolas?”
Her brother flinched. “I beg your pardon. Are you on an intimate name basis with this bounder?”
“What does the newspaper say?”
He carelessly tossed it atop the table. “Last evening at about eight, the marquess barged into the duke’s home and had a duel with the man in his hallway!”
“A duel?” she demanded faintly. “Why, that cannot be true.”
He jabbed a finger at the paper. “The servants were the witnesses and by their accounts it was a duel!” Crispin’s visage grew dim. “I cannot imagine a gentleman conducting himself so totally without any regard for their reputation or position in society.”
“I suppose he should have done it outside at one of those famous dueling fields?” she asked drily.
Her brother huffed. “There is a proper way to do something. And that is not the worst of it.”
“What?”
“It seems Farringdon was shot. The papers are not sure how it happened, but there is speculation it might have been at Rothbury’s hand, considering they were dueling.”
Her belly knotted, and Maryann could only imagine how dramatic the scandal would become. Why hadn’t he mentioned he fought with the duke when he saw her?
“Is…is Farringdon alive?”
“At the last report. I still cannot understand it. I thought the duke and the marquess were the chummiest of friends.”
They stole something precious from me.
She pressed a palm over her heart, as if that would slow its sudden pounding. Further reflection convinced Maryann that the duke must have had something to do with the girl Nicolas lost. But then, why had they been friends? It struck her then that the facade of a dangerous rake had been adopted to inveigle himself with their set. Revenge was an art that took patience and cunning, and it seemed the marquess had that in spades. “Crispin, please do not lie to me!”
“What are you about? Lie about what?”
“Please trust me and answer me truthfully.”
His eyes crinkled. “We do not lie to each other, poppet. Now what is the matter?”
“Did you…did you know someone called Arianna?”
