the trellis to your left,” St. Ives commanded, walking closer to the balcony.
She did and gripped it, feeling with her foot for the vines that would give her purchase. Maryann found it and started to climb down, grateful for all the misadventures she’d had over the years with Crispin. The overflowing vines seemed to come alive, scratching at her arms and pulling at her clothes and hair.
Holding on for dear life, she made to step down again and slipped. She closed her eyes tightly, swallowing the rising scream as she plummeted to the ground, placing her trust in the scoundrel beneath her. The very one who might ignore her, since he did not want to be flattened.
With a soft grunt, she landed in his arms and against his chest.
“I’ve got you,” he said, his mouth a dark murmur at her temple.
Maryann was terribly aware that she was held perfectly in the marquess’s arms. Though his touch was through layers of gown and petticoats, she felt him like a searing brand. “You may put me down.”
“Must I? I like the weight of you in my arms. It rouses certain fantasies to life. Shall I tell you of them?”
She pinched his shoulder with great force through his jacket. “You are unpardonable!”
The cynicism left his countenance, but in his half-closed eyes lingered a gleam far more alarming. “I’ll take pleasure in taming you, Lady Maryann.”
“You are odiously provoking,” she gasped in a suffocated voice.
He caught her about the waist and swung her lightly down to her feet.
“You still like me—I can tell.”
Maryann hurriedly stepped back a few paces. Her hands were no longer quite steady as she smoothed the front of her gown. She remained where she was, carefully eyeing him, attempting to swallow down the impulse to retreat inside. It affected Maryann that he rattled her nerves so easily.
An awfully intense sensation twisted low in her stomach when he rested a strong, powerful arm about her waist, and stepped in a pocket of shadow.
“My lord—” she started to protest at the intimate way he held her body against his.
He lightly pinched her chin. “Shh.”
She was unequivocally flustered. And it was then she heard the footsteps above. The earl had come out onto the balcony. A quick peek upward revealed a dark shadow, the clear outline of a man, leaning against the iron railing and looking down. Reflexively she gripped the lapels of St. Ives’s jacket, her heart pounding.
Wariness rolled down her spine in a chilly wave. “Why is he so persistent?” she whispered. “I cannot understand it.”
“Sometimes racoons are highly coveted.”
Maryann glared at him, barely able to discern the flash of teeth in the darkness. With each inhalation, his masculine scent seemed to trap in her lungs. A strange, darting heat pooled low in her stomach, and to Maryann’s annoyance, she very much liked the feel of his body pressed against hers. They fit. The top of her head brushed against his chin, and she swore the man smelled her hair.
She made to lift up her head, and his hands tightened on her hips, arresting her movement. She slowly became aware that his heart was pounding, and she could feel its thud in the space between them. Uncertainty rippled through her at the provocative embrace…at the closeness…at the tripping of her heart…
At the butterflies in her stomach.
The heat of his body surrounded her. “Don’t move,” he whispered. “We are now one with the shadows; any sudden movement might give away our presence.”
A tremor traveled through her and vibrated against his chest. A lengthy, tension-filled silence stretched between them. A minute or two perhaps passed with no words between them, just a dizzying awareness of his closeness and how improper their entire encounter was.
“Is he still there?” she asked huskily.
“Hmm.”
“What is he doing?”
“I don’t know.”
“Aren’t you looking?”
“No.”
She let out an exasperated huff. “Why not?”
“I am too busy staring at you.”
The diabolical fiend. “If you are minded to be wicked, I implore you to try your wiles on someone else.” The marquess was notorious for his womanizing exploits, and she was not about to become one of his amusements. It even astonished her that she would be, not when he had so many eager girls for his salacious attentions.
He smiled, and suddenly it was unbearably tempting to press her mouth to his. Annoyed with herself for having the desire, Maryann twisted and glanced up. “You fiend! Lord Stamford is no longer there!”
Before Lord Rothbury could reply, she balled her fist and punched him in