“Ah,” a voice drawled with careless charm. “There you are, Lady Maryann. I got lost in the crush trying to find you to claim my dance! I am most relieved I have found you, my lady.” The marquess placed emphasis on the word “my” as he bent over her hand.
A garbled sound came from her mother’s throat, as if she swallowed a bug, and Stamford faltered into stillness, his eyes cold and cutting into the marquess.
Maryann turned to him, and his eyes were alight with devilry, a smile curling his beautiful mouth with his hand held out to her. Surely he knew she could not take his hand in hers. It would create more gossip if she snubbed Lord Stamford and danced with the marquess.
If she was so bold and publicly danced with this man, the story would make the rounds of the drawing rooms. It would be considered proven that he had taken liberties with her and occupied her bed. For her to be seen in his arms would be a confirmation of every licentious whisper circling about.
Maryann had wanted mere gossiped speculation, not for the ton to crow about their affair as irrevocable fact. For if they believed they had such proof, her reputation would be so besmirched, she would not be received in any drawing rooms or be invited to any balls. Even though her father was the formidable Lord Musgrove. Even her dear friends would be forced to cut her off for fear of being associated with her wantonness.
When the marquess did not lower his hand but patiently waited, a wave of murmurs swept through nearby onlookers.
“Maryann—” her mother began furiously, before unfurling her fan and waving it vigorously.
“Oh my,” someone affected in a deliberately loud whisper. “There might be some truth to the rumors after all!”
Her mother’s face mottled, and a flash of fury lit in Lord Stamford’s eyes.
The marquess’s expression was faintly amused, a dare evident in his golden eyes.
“The waltz has already started,” she murmured.
From the mocking glint in his eyes, he knew exactly how outrageous his actions were. A startled laugh escaped before she choked back the sound. Her mother looked ready to collapse, and Crispin had abandoned his post by a potted plant and was walking over.
Cut him, Crispin mouthed.
The refusal hovered on her lips, but she straightened her back and smiled. Then Maryann held out her hand to Lord Rothbury and allowed a notorious libertine to sweep her into the waltz. She stared at no one but him and worked to keep the smile off her face even though her heart pounded so.
His lips curved ever so slightly. “Ah, my little rebel, how does it feel?”
“To shock the ton, distress my mother, and possibly unalterably ruin myself?”
“You think all that will happen from this one dance?”
“Your reputation precedes you.”
“Hopefully, you’ll be free of Stamford. I saw the distaste on your face when he approached you.”
He swung her into a wide arc with stunning grace before drawing her too close for the sticklers.
“And is that why you did it?” she murmured. “To help me escape him?”
“Isn’t that what you wanted?”
They twirled across the ballroom, and Maryann could feel the eyes of the crowd directed at them. “This is my first dance in over three years not with my family,” she said, sliding her elbow against his, then spun to meet him back again in this very intricate and very sensual dance.
“I’ve never danced at a society ball before.”
Her breath hitched. “Is that true?”
“Yes.”
“Oh my, this scandal will be heard even in the country.” Everyone would ceaselessly speculate why the marquess chose to dance with her of all the other ladies and debutantes. “Thank you,” she whispered.
“My pleasure.”
Maryann was unable to take her eyes from his. “Are we friends, my lord?”
Their gazed locked, as if they were unaware of their audience.
“Of course not.”
Her heart jolted and skipped a beat. “Then why—”
His lashes lowered, hiding his expression for a moment. “It suits my reputation to be seen as indifferent to their narrow-mindedness…”
And they said nothing more as they twirled to the rousing strains of the orchestra until the dance ended. The marquess escorted her to her mother in silence, and he bowed to the countess, who only stared at him frostily.
Stamford was nowhere to be found, and for the first time in months, Maryann’s heart felt a bit lighter.
…
“Ah, a woman’s view on politics—it is to be expected that it would have little to no form with any true understanding,” Nicolas