one had ever shown her that she could even be seen as desirable, and here was a proclaimed rakehell, a reputed connoisseur of beautiful women who indulged in all manner of wantonness, staring at her as if he felt compelled.
As if she were beautiful.
Was it that she presented as a novelty?
“I…I…Nicolas,” she stuttered. “I…I need to think…”
“You are making me lose control,” he hissed. “I must not be here, with you.”
“Do not blame me for your lack of self-restraint,” she gasped. “Just admit it…that you feel the same way I do.” The boldness of her vague confession left her breathless.
He leaned in unexpectedly, took her lower lip between his teeth, and bit down sharply. As if to punish her for making him lose control. She sucked in a harsh breath at the arrow of need that shot through her, striking deep in her belly, and ending in an aching pulse between her legs. “Why did you bite me?”
“Rakes do that,” he said dangerously.
Oh!
He pressed his lips to the corner of her mouth, and asked against her flesh, “Are you frightened?”
Yes. “No.”
“You hold my stare so fiercely, an undeniable fire in your gaze.” His thumb moved in a firm caress across her cheek. “I want to touch that fire, and I can only do that by possessing you.”
“And who are you?” she murmured. “Surely not the rake. That man is a charmer who would seduce me with empty flattery and false promises.”
“I have none of that to give.”
That tormenting thumb swiped over her lip, almost bruising and then gently. Ripples of warmth ghosted over her skin, chilled from the pattering rain.
“Have you ever had a man?” he asked.
Her heart almost exploded from her chest. She couldn’t be sure she had grasped his meaning correctly. “Have I ever had a man do what?”
Regret flared in his eyes before his expression shuttered.
“You want me,” she whispered, “to be wicked with you.” And he had been trying to ascertain her experience with wantonness. “Oh!” she said softly.
A half groan issued from him before he swallowed it down.
“I do not dally with innocents, even if they have the temperaments of racoons.”
He stirred something inside her that was wanton, unrecognizable. “Ah, so that is what you want from me, a mere dalliance, you cad.” Her voice was whisper soft, flirty, with no sting at all behind her words.
His eyes were no longer inscrutable, but intense and hungry.
Kiss me, she silently implored.
When he made no move, it was her turn to lean in and bite his lower lip. The raindrops on his mouth settled onto her tongue, and with it a taste of dark fire and whiskey.
His hands slipped from her throat as if he had been burned. Breathlessly, her heart slamming against her chest, she used her finger to trail a raindrop along the bridge of his nose. “Racoons do that,” she whispered.
His chest lifted on a deep breath. Unexpectedly he leaned in and pressed a kiss to her temple. “Close your windows.”
Then he released her, slowly stood, turned, and launched over the balustrade. With a gasp, she thrust forward, wondering if the damn bacon-brained man had leaped to his death. But then she sensed him and looked up to see him walking along the path that would lead him to the streets.
She leaned away from the window and closed it gently. The Marquess of Rothbury wanted her.
And, from the struggle she saw in his eyes, quite desperately.
“You are no rake,” she said into the night, a smile on her lips.
He had shown admirable restraint. The marquess had acted like a gentleman.
Then she recalled the hot brand of his possessive touch encircling her throat, the bite on her lips, which still throbbed.
In his own unique way, he had been a gentleman.
“I want you, too,” she whispered, testing the words aloud.
Maryann rested her forehead against the cool window, silently listening to the pitter patter of rain outside.
“We must be daring and take what we need instead of waiting.”
The words she had used to enflame her other friends teased her, nay tormented Maryann, prodding her to take what she wanted.
“And damn it all to hell,” she cursed, satisfied she had done so.
And what she wanted was Nicolas St. Ives, Marquess of Rothbury—the charming rake and the unfathomable man she sensed lurking within.
“I want you,” she said, closing her eyes, pressing trembling fingers to her lips, “and I am going to have you.”
…
Almost a week after he lost his senses in Berkeley Square kneeled atop a particular balcony, Nicolas