A few gentlemen of the ton were vain about their appearance to the point of being rather excessive. And it seemed Nicolas St. Ives was one of them, dressed in black trousers and jacket, with a bright golden waistcoat and a matching cravat. A cravat pin studded with a large diamond winked at his throat, and his hair seemed carelessly styled, yet curled at his nape and on his forehead perfectly.
The rakehell! How dare he crash her mother’s ball?
The twitter of excitement that went through the throng echoed in Maryann’s veins, and she scowled. Mama would curse his name tomorrow, but the scandal sheets would celebrate his wicked daring, the debutantes would excitedly trade stories about how close their gowns had brushed against the lord the scandal sheets referred to as “the daring and the wicked.” And perhaps a few married ladies and widows would share among themselves some delightful and naughty things they suggested having done with him.
Maryann silently snorted, thinking it all ridiculous. Yet she couldn’t help staring at him, couldn’t help the manner in how her heart ached, yet she didn’t know what she longed for. Certainly anything in regard to a notorious rake could only lead to inevitable disgrace.
Lady Porter, a young widow with a racy reputation, sashayed over to him, and he did nothing to mask the admiration in his gaze as he perused her. A few ladies gasped, and several fans unfurled. The marquess’s smile drew Maryann’s eyes to his mouth and made her think of matters a respectable lady should not wonder about, like kisses from his beautiful lips and whether he would use his tongue.
Fanning herself vigorously, she looked away from him and strolled through the opened French doors leading to the gardens to cool her suddenly heated face. Then she made her way to a small private alcove that was empty and dark enough to hide her should anyone follow.
With a gusty sigh, she kicked off her dancing shoes and wriggled her toes in her silken stockings, then lifted her face to the sky. The soft footfalls crunching on leaves alerted her that someone approached, so she stiffened, clutching her fan.
“Nicolas,” a soft voice called. “Where are you going?”
Maryann stood, her heart jerking. The marquess had come outside…and someone had followed him? A spurt of intrigued amusement shook her.
“Lady Trentman,” his voice said chidingly. “I wasn’t aware you followed me.”
A sweet, affected giggle lifted in the air. “I am astonished you came to Lady Musgrove’s ball. No one expected you.”
“That, my sweet, was the idea,” he replied teasingly.
“I’ve heard whispers that you are a man devoted to sensual pleasures. I have been wanting you in my bed for some time now.”
Maryann was shocked—and keen to hear his reply.
The marquess made a soft purring noise that set Maryann’s heart to racing. It felt like a stroke against her skin. How odd that the sound of St. Ives’s voice could produce such feelings.
“And you wish to affirm the rumors for yourself, Lady Trentman?”
Maryann stifled a gasp. The countess was a married lady!
“Perhaps,” she murmured in a husky, intimate tone.
“Ah, if you are not sure, then I urge you to return inside.”
The lady’s laugh sounded breathless. “I am certain. I sent you three letters of invitations, which you’ve ignored. It is my fortune you showed up here tonight.”
“Half the pleasure lies in the anticipation,” he said charmingly.
“I do not want to wait anymore!”
“As a gentleman, I can only oblige.” His voice was warm, heavy with teasing and sensuality.
The scoundrel! Was this all he did?
“It astonishes me that you would dare to compare yourself to a gentleman,” the countess said flirtatiously.
“And are those hard because you are cold…or are you aroused?”
Shocked, Maryann glided soundlessly toward their voices, peering around the fountain. The marquess’s back was to her, and he still stood some distance away from the woman, but the countess— Good heavens! The front of her dress was lowered, and the pale globes of her breasts were on wanton display, her voluptuous figure arched toward him in scandalous invitation.
“I am not cold,” she replied in an intimate murmur.
Clutching her fan, Maryann took a few steps back, blotting out the provocative sight of the countess offering her breasts to the marquess.
“I heard your prowess between the sheets…or in other places is neither gentlemanly nor genteel.”
Maryann felt a shameful pulse of primal curiosity. What kind of behavior did the countess imply, exactly?
“Ah, mon coeur, you have listened to such gossip and offer yourself up