she stayed on the sidelines watching the twirling couples. How graceful and charming they all appeared.
“Lady Maryann,” Lord Stamford greeted, coming to stand before her.
She dipped into a quick curtsy. “Lord Stamford.”
“Business had taken me to Derbyshire for a few days, but now that I am back in town, I feel we should have a private chat that is long overdue. Might I ask you to join me on the terrace?” he said with a mocking smile. “You will go first and then I will follow, discreetly of course.”
She smiled up at him, and he sucked in a sharp breath, looking decidedly startled.
“Denied,” she said sweetly.
“I beg your pardon?”
“You truly did not anticipate my refusal? How arrogant.”
A warning flashed in his eyes, one she chose to ignore.
“Then I will claim your hand in the next waltz.”
“The next set is not a waltz,” she said, not liking the idea of being in his arms.
With another mocking smile, he dipped into a bow and made his way over to the twenty-piece orchestra set. Maryann did not wait to see what he would do. She spun around and waded through the throng toward escape. She was intimately familiar with the town home of Lady Trembly, after visiting so often with her mama.
Once in the hallway, she rushed to the curved stairs and made her way to the second floor and tested the first door she came upon. It was a quaint little sitting area, with a long sash window that opened onto a terrace. The moon provided her with enough light for her to navigate outside to the balcony.
Laughing voices reached her and she peered down into side gardens lit by a few lanterns.
The Marquess of Rothbury.
His back was turned to her, so perhaps she was mistaken, but the wild beat of her heart told her she wasn’t. The man shifted, and a soft breath escaped her. It was indeed the marquess in the gardens, smoking. For a brief, outrageous second, her heart soared.
As she stared at his dark masculine beauty, longing halted her breath, and for the first time, she wished she had kissed him that night he broke into her room. And perhaps every time after that.
She lifted slightly shaky fingers to her mouth. The attraction she felt for the scoundrel was so frightful and improper, but worse was that she had no notion of how to get rid of it. She wondered if she would have seen St. Ives with another woman, would he have been as vulgar as Stamford about it? It would be expected of such a rake, but even the thought of him so carnally with another woman annoyed her. She had no claim on him. No right at all to be jealous. However, she thought somehow that he would not be sordid and indiscreet in his affairs.
What would it taste like to be kissed at last…and by you?
The three gentlemen the marquess stood with spoke low but laughed uproariously at whatever quip they shared. She wondered if they noted that though he smiled, he did not truly take part in their merriment. As she suspected since the night he had climbed into her room, there was more to the man than what he presented to the world.
Tonight, he was dressed in unrelenting black, save for the bright purple waistcoat he wore. If he had been trying to appear a dandy, in her eyes he failed. He was such a unique combination of casual power and refined elegance.
A fourth gentleman joined them, and she stiffened, gripping the end of the iron railing. The man dragged a girl with him, and despite that she seemed frightened and quite unwilling, he prodded her ahead.
“And who is this little morsel?” St. Ives drawled, removing the cheroot from between his lips.
His tone suggested debauchery lingered in his thoughts, and from the guffaws of his friends, they agreed. Maryann frowned, for it did not ring true to what she had come to know of his character.
“This is the governess, Miss Laura! I found her peeking inside the ballroom. Seems she would like a spot of fun,” the Duke of Farringdon drawled.
The man was Lady Sophie’s brother, but Maryann had not thought him so lacking in morals and honor. The girl was clearly frightened out of her wits! Then to Maryann’s shock, the duke drew the girl to him and nuzzled her neck. The young girl pushed him away and lurched back, until she encountered another bounder. This time she recognized Viscount Weychell,