She lifted her chin and graced them with a small, mocking, yet indifferent smile.
A slight ripple through the crowd stole her attention from her former friends. It was Nicolas St. Ives, Marquess Rothbury. Maryann’s heart fluttered uncomfortably; her cheeks grew warm. Logically she knew it was a reaction to his raw, physical appeal, but it distressed her senses to be so attracted to a libertine. Oftentimes she wondered if she was drawn to the dratted man simply because he appeared so improper.
It was the freedom he found in his reputation and scandalous pursuits she found compelling…nothing else.
Irritated that once again she joined the masses in ogling the man, she turned her back to him in time to see Lord Stamford leaving the ballroom.
Maryann sighed. So much for him asking her to dance. Perhaps what they needed to have between them was an honest, heartfelt conversation.
Taking a steady breath, she made after him, careful not to hurry and incite undue attention. Once in the hallway, she hesitated, uncertain as to the direction the earl had taken or even if she should follow the man.
It took her several minutes of entering different rooms before she came upon a small, intimate parlor nestled at the end of the prodigious hallway. She rapped her knuckles on the door, and once again no answer came forth. With a heavy sigh, she twisted the knob and stepped inside, only to falter.
A man and woman were entangled on the sofa by the fire. Loud, almost frightful noises came from the woman, who bounced with shocking vigor in the man’s lap. Maryann was about to step back when the man lifted his head and stared right at her.
It was the earl, her supposed intended.
The shock of it was like an icy blast to her chest. Maryann struggled to take a breath and to move. The couple’s actions were shocking. To her distress, the man cupped the woman’s buttocks between his large hands and urged her to move even faster atop him, and she was moaning and begging him for something.
Anger and humiliation crawled through Maryann.
The shock of it had frozen her, but she lifted her eyes beyond their shoulders to the ormolu clock. The ticking sounded inordinately loud.
It felt like interminable minutes passed before she heard the girl’s horrified gasp. And Maryann wondered if he had even removed his gaze from her. It was a matter of pride that she had not run away despite her revulsion. Finally, she lowered her gaze. The lady was young…perhaps even younger than Maryann, and she wasn’t a guest at the ball but a worker in the household. The young maid was frantically trying to dress herself, while the earl remained reposed on the sofa, his mien uncaring and amused.
It galled her unspeakably that he was amused.
He gave the young girl some coin, which she tucked between her breasts before bobbing a quick curtsy. She rushed past Maryann, uncaring that she jostled a lady in her bid to escape. Maryann felt like such a child standing there still, gripping the knob.
“You’ve interrupted my pleasure,” he said coolly, his gaze flickering over her dispassionately.
She stared at him, noting that he did not appear rumpled or undressed. He was even lazily drawing on a cheroot. This was the man who had offered for her. This was a man old enough to be her father…except he wasn’t anything like her papa.
“Do you often dally with those who might be too afraid to lose their position if they resist your charms?” she asked with chilling acerbity.
His brow arched, and he took a deep draw of his cheroot before saying, “I take my pleasure wherever I want, whenever I desire it.”
“Even if the lady is unwilling?”
His lips curved, and she was astonished at the sensuality in them and how much more handsome it made him. The earl did not look like a man to be two and fifty, with his lean, athletic physique and hair barely dotted with gray. “Oh, she was willing…they all are.” And you will be, too, remained unspoken but somehow filled the air between them.
Such raw emotions filled Maryann that it left her shaky and breathless.
Over the last four years, she had formed incredible friendships with several other ladies who had inappropriately been given the sobriquet of wallflowers as well, and all of whom had been cruelly informed either by society or their families that they weren’t “pretty, witty, wealthy, or well-connected enough” to take part in deciding their own fates. They must