and lazy assessment of each other, swords held ready, felt remarkably intimate and yet perilous.
“What is one of London’s most notorious rogues doing in my chamber?”
“Surely you meant to summon me,” he said with lazy amusement and a far too carnal smile.
The rake!
“Did you not, Lady Maryann? With your clever little mouth?”
This could prove disastrous.
He must have heard the rumors, but even if he did, that truly did not explain his presence. Before she could recover from the astonishing alarm of that, he lunged. His moves were light, more testing her guard than rushing her with the strength evident in his frame. Somehow, she could sense the raw power and grittiness simmering beneath the facade of ease the marquess presented.
With a gasp, she nimbly defended against his terribly impressive and fast attacks, and to her utter shock, with a deft move she had never encountered before, he somehow managed to put his sword under the hilt of her rapier and tug so that it propelled from her grip and sailed in the air. And then he caught it! He did not stop there, and she gasped, stumbling back when he slashed toward her.
The man was mad!
Riiiip!
Then he stopped, backed away, and canted his head.
In a daze, Maryann lowered her eyes to the front of her nightgown. The marquess had slashed it open from the top of her thighs to her ankle. Her bare skin glowed creamy and pale in the room.
Her chest went so tight, she could scarcely breathe.
A hand fluttered to her mouth as she stared at him with ill-concealed shock. Lowering her hand, she asked tremulously, “Should I fear for my virtue?”
The room suddenly seemed to be without air. His eyes darkened and his chest lifted on a deep yet silent breath as his gaze seemed frozen on her tumbled tresses.
This time, he smiled with his entire mouth. “Rakes are known to steal them.”
She felt a primal and unfamiliar rush of physical awareness. Maryann glanced at the door behind her.
“Run,” he murmured. “I have no problem chasing you.”
Every wicked rumor she’d ever heard concerning this scoundrel rushed through her thoughts. She held still when he extended his rapier and used it to lift her hair from her shoulder. It rested against the silver blade like a curtain of burnished copper.
“Is your intention ruin?”
He flicked the blade, allowing her hair to slither off. “You’ve already done that on your own. Or did you think in the morning you would have some reputation left?”
She cleared her throat and gripped the front of her nightgown. “So…it’s ravishment, then? Is that…is that why you’re here?”
How it annoyed her that her voice came as a squeak and not with unruffled confidence.
He dealt her an arresting stare. “Ravishment?” The look in his eyes was curious and amused.
The amusement stung.
“No, Lady Maryann, I’ve no intention of ravishing you.”
As if she would merely take the word of a celebrated libertine! Maryann spun and sprinted toward her door, uncaring that once she screamed, a man would truly be found in her chambers. And not just any man—St. Ives. Again!
Not that it mattered that the first instance had been fabricated. Her fingers brushed the doorknob, but then a fistful of her nightgown was grabbed, and she was yanked back.
To be so manhandled filled her with outrage. “How dare you! Release me at once!”
He whirled her around, then released her. Maryann peered up at him, her heart jerking too fast. Each breath sawed from her throat felt so painful. St. Ives placed a finger below her chin and yanked up her face. She bit back the whimper rising in her throat. How mortifying if he should hear it.
A clean, masculine scent assailed her senses. “What do you want?” she asked.
He leaned forward, his voice a purr of something lethal but also carnal. “You invited me, and I accepted.”
The cat and the mouse.
That amused, provoking drawl lingered within her, and she cast another helpless glance at the door behind her, then faced him once more. “I…most certainly did not.”
“Oh yes,” he murmured, his eyes glinting with humor. “I recall distinctly that I desperately wanted to ravish these lips and simply couldn’t help my wicked heart.”
She cleared her throat, unnerved. “How…how could you possibly know what I said?”
Had they repeated her words exactly as she pronounced them? Maryann had hoped their sensibilities were too mortified by her lack of propriety to repeat her scandal verbatim.
“Is that truly your concern?”
She stepped back, and his finger slipped from her chin. Thank heavens. His