He slowly lowered himself to sit on the grass, his back pressed against the architectural base of a moss-covered statue showing Venus carrying a vase. Once again, he had picked a spot that perfectly ensconced him in shadows. One long leg was stretched out, while the other was drawn up, his sole flat against the grass. His feet seemed unusually larger.
Maryann frowned. “Perhaps I should have met with her and given her a severe tongue lashing, instead of acting in such a childish manner.” She sighed. “Now I’ve gotten that out of the way, I must contrive of a brilliant plan that will allow me to escape marriage to Lord Stanhope. Mama is being frightfully persistent, Crispin, and I am on the brink of doing something most scandalous.”
Another long silence. Maryann peered at her brother. She had expected him to splutter his outrage at the mere mention of scandal and their family. And her plan involved convincing him to help her deter their mother from her infuriating machination. Had her brother always been this…still? There was something about him she could not quite put her finger on. “Crispin? What do you think?”
Maryann did not like how timid her question came out.
He took an audible breath. Deep. And released it lazily. “I think you are terribly fascinating,” a resonant baritone voice—which was definitely not Crispin’s—drawled.
Visceral shock tore through Maryann’s heart, leaving it to beat weakly. She froze, her fingers curling into thick tufts of grass, as if that were enough to anchor her in the suddenly spinning world. The slow drum of her heart against her chest was painful in its uncertainty. The man before her, perfectly hidden in the private alcove of her parents’ gardens, was not her brother.
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.