They both stilled, for he clearly understood she was asking after his intentions.
His voice throbbed with a dark undertone of carnal warning. “That is a most dangerous thing.”
She closed her eyes against the ache his words roused. Should he kiss her, he would not stop, and he was not likely to offer marriage after. And even knowing that, Maryann had the most appalling and maddeningly tempting urge to grip his hair, lift his head, and kiss him without any thoughts to the consequences.
“Then let me go,” she whispered.
He jerked back as if something burned him.
“Go home,” he breathed roughly.
She smoothed the front of her gown with still-shaking fingers. “I will go back to the ballroom and let Lady Sophie see that she failed in her disgusting plans.”
He pulled her roughly, almost violently, into his embrace. “Maryann?”
“Yes,” she gasped, so very aware of their bodies pressed together.
“Do not test me. Go home.”
In this moment, Maryann found him terribly frightening and compelling. Her lips parted, but no words would come. “I…”
“I do not wish to kill Talbot. And if you return to that ball and that spoilt rotten little witch sees that you escaped her machinations, she will blackmail Talbot into acting foolishly.”
He cupped the back of her head with one of his hands and pressed his cheek against her temple. “And if he even breathes in your direction, I will kill him. Do you understand? I have a veritable passion for retribution.”
“Yes,” she said faintly.
“Now go.”
And Maryann did, very conscious of the empty ache low in her belly and the silly, ridiculous smile on her face.
Chapter Thirteen
A soft noise in her chamber urged Maryann to stir lazily among the pillows, rolling over with an indelicate yawn. Her maid tugged the heavy drapes open, pouring sunshine into the chamber. With a low moan, she lifted an elbow across her eyes.
“Mornin’, milady, the countess wishes you below stairs right away.”
Still feeling exhausted, Maryann rubbed the sleep from her eyes and turned over in the bed. A peek at the clock on the mantel revealed it to be afternoon. With a gasp she lurched upright. “Have Lady Ophelia and Miss Fanny called?”
“Yes, milady, they are waiting for you in the smaller sitting area.”
Thank heavens they had not left at her tardiness. It had been over two weeks since she had seen her friends last and she missed them dreadfully. They had agreed to meet at eleven this morning and then traverse High Holborn together and buy the latest hats printed in the fashion magazine. Stifling a groan, Maryann sat in the center of her bed, and the memory of the night slammed into her like a fist. She faltered, gripping the sheets and closing her eyes.
Oh God. That had really happened.
Last night after reaching home, she hadn’t slipped into a blissful slumber. She had tossed restlessly atop her coverlets, unable to dismiss from her awareness the marquess and what he had done to her. She hadn’t been able to simply think about the impropriety and folly of her reckless conduct. It was a blessing that when sleep finally claimed her, she slept undisturbed.
“Susie?” she said to her maid, who was going through the armoire selecting dresses and unmentionables.
The maid glanced over her shoulder. “Yes, milady?”
“I would like a few minutes alone.”
Susie dipped in a small bob and hurried from the chamber, closing the door behind her. Maryann bit her lip and slowly tugged her nightgown to her hips and stared at the scandalous bright red mark on her inner thigh. She gingerly pressed her skin, alarmed to find that the spot ached. A dark purplish bruise made by the Marquess of Rothbury’s mouth...sucking and nibbling at her tender flesh.
He was entirely too wicked.
Then the memory of his mouth against her sex and the awful pleasure which had quaked through her had her entire body blushing. To have done something so intimate and improper and shocking, and never even having kissed her mouth? And what excuse had Maryann? A fleeting encounter in the dark and she had surrendered all sense of propriety and allowed him such wanton liberties!
Unexpectedly, she laughed and dropped back into the mound of pillows and cushion, releasing a gusty breath. “I must be going mad,” she breathed.
Something wicked this way comes. Be with ruin or banishment once it knocks on my door, dare I answer?
“What am I to do about the truth of liking you?” And she did like him very much. Who are you, Nicolas St. Ives, and why do