just overcome with a feeling of dread. I froze for several minutes until I pushed myself to get off the lake. Only a few seconds later, the ice collapsed in several places. That fear…whatever induced it warned me of the danger I had not yet perceived. Fear is not an indication of weakness, but that we are highly perceptive enough to sense the latent danger which surrounds us. I am certain you felt anxious before this person even acted in a vile manner.”
He tugged at one of her loose curls. “You have nothing to be ashamed of, Maryann.”
A quick frown chased her face, and her eyes searched his. “It is very silly, because I am not a wilting flower, and I only had to scream, and the servants would have come running. I didn’t kick at him or even struggle. I…I just froze. And whenever I think of it, my heart races and I feel such anxiety.”
Those softly spoken words had lodged themselves deep in Nicolas’s heart and stirred something wicked and ugly inside him.
“Lord Stamford,” he said, watching every nuance of her face. “It was he.”
She nodded. “He is frightfully persistent. It is quite inconceivable. There are so many beautiful and well-connected ladies in society who would happily marry him.”
“And because you are a wallflower, you do not think the earl could want you?”
She exuded a fire and strength he had never seen in another woman; it did not seem to occur to her how a man might crave her in his life.
“The unflattering sobriquet is meant to be such an insult, a reminder to me and my friends that we are overlooked and relegated to adorn the background of ballrooms, much like the wallpaper in this room. I choose not to be embittered at their ridiculousness or accept the role. Even with that knowledge of myself, it is astonishing the earl would pursue me in such a manner. There are far more beautiful women in society, who are also intelligent, who possess large dowries, who would be thrilled with the connection.”
“It is because those other ladies are like roses…some red, yellow, white, all beautiful, but still roses.”
“Roses are very beautiful,” she murmured huskily. “Everyone loves roses. I love roses.”
He touched the corner of her mouth, where the dimple came when she smiled, with the tip of his fingers. It was gentle enough for her to doubt the existence of the caress. Yet she closed her eyes, savoring the feel of him against her skin. Or was it he who relished the delicate softness beneath the tip of his finger?
He dragged the tip of his finger down to her lips, and gently swiped it across the fullness of her mouth. Those lips parted…and he ran his finger along the open seam of her lips. There were so many things he wanted to do with her lush mouth. Kiss it thoroughly until it bruised, and flushed the brightness of red. He also wanted to fuck that pouting mouth, coax her to take his thick length, savor the feel of her mouth as she sucked him in hot, tight pulls.
The crudity of his lust shocked him and allowed him to drop his hand to her hips. He gentled his touch, as if he held something precious in his clasp, and gave her the revealing truth. “You are the night-blooming cereus that graces us only once a year, for a single night. And on the night which you opened so beautifully, he saw you…a brewing tempest formed in his gut, and he craved you, for he knew the secret behind your unique beauty.”
“And what is that?” she asked huskily, her eyes dark with indefinable emotions.
“That it wasn’t just only for one night. That blooming fire that he saw is always there, underneath the facade of indifference you show to the world, waiting for you to show it to those you deem worthy. For one brief moment he saw your wit that skewered, the poignant beauty of your smile that endlessly captivated, the sensual way you saunter, the elegance of your throat as you tilt back your head and laugh, the charming way you constantly fix your spectacles, the shrewdness and sweetness of your tongue…and he saw that the mouse wasn’t a mouse at all…but a rac—”
Her fingers, three of them, pushed against his mouth perfectly, stemming his words.
Maryann made a small, helpless sound of need. “Surely, you’ll say a lioness…or a tigress,” she whispered achingly. “Racoons are ugly.”