She turned his words over in her thoughts, unable to decipher his meaning, fearing she understood. Society must never know that he liked her…or she him.
Her chest went tight. Shock maybe, she dazedly thought. “For how long should I wait?” she whispered.
“I do not know. I’ve already been on this path for a little over five years. I only know with certainty that my enemies must never know about you.” His hands tightened around her. “I am determined to end it soon. But there are certain things that cannot be rushed. It might be a few more months…maybe even a year.”
She could feel her heartbeat on her tongue. “I will wait. Though I confess you might have to come and find me in France or Italy.”
“You plan to run away?”
“I’ll not marry Stamford.”
“Do not worry about him.”
Her heart lurched. “What does that mean?”
“I’ll have a talk with him.”
Maryann blinked. “Do you want to start a scandal?”
He took her hand and turned it over. “Do you think I’ll allow him to get away with this?”
It warmed her how intensely protective he was of her. “No, I suppose not.” She pressed her forehead to his. “I believe I am falling in love with you.”
Maryann swore she felt the thunder of his heart, but he said nothing. “Did I frighten you?” she asked with a small smile.
“No.”
He sounded intrigued, and her heart thrilled. Her marquess was not closed off to the notion of love. “That’s good,” she whispered teasingly, closing her eyes, and hoarding the sensations filling her chest close to her heart. “I do not fancy gentlemen who scare easily.”
His arms tightened around her and he buried his face in her throat for long moments.
“Why were you on the ice lake?”
A fine tension entered his frame before he relaxed. “Chasing fireflies with Arianna. She loved fireflies, and the ethereal glow of their lights in the dark.”
The deep throb in his voice was unfathomable.
Maryann rested her cheek against his head. “Was she the one precious to you?”
“Yes,” he said gruffly.
She combed her fingers through his hair tenderly, sensing that he was not at all as relaxed as he pretended. “I can feel the tension in your body. I am sorry to stir painful memories.”
A long, slow breath released from him. “Next week will mark the anniversary of her death.”
Maryann stilled. She hadn’t thought this person being lost meant to the grave. Sorrow crowded her thoughts. “Did she die young?”
“Sixteen.”
Dear heavens. Knowing he did not want to hear words of sympathy, she merely hugged him to her, and they stayed in their intimate embrace, listening to the pitter of rain against the windows.
His hands slid under her buttocks, and before she could react, he stood with her legs shamelessly wrapped around his hips. Maryann hurriedly released his shoulders and shimmied off him, feeling foolish to be blushing so.
Amusement lit in his gaze and he gently pinched her chin. “I must leave before your parents and brother return home.”
“Do you plan to go through my windows?”
“No. The same way I came in. Through the kitchens.”
“You picked the lock,” she said, folding her arms about her breast.
“Hmm. Would you like me to show you how?”
“How to pick a lock?” she asked, astonished.
His teeth flashed, and how beautiful his smile was.
“It is still an age away from Mama and Papa reaching home. And Crispin normally spends the entire night at White’s,” she said excitedly, glancing at the clock on the mantel, astonished to see he had been in her room for over an hour. Maryann hurriedly put on a dressing gown and pushed her feet into soft slippers.
It felt natural to slip her hand between his as they left her chamber for lessons in the dark.
Certainly, it was more than an hour later, Maryann’s hair streamed behind her, her nightgown twisted around her legs as she knelt in front of the library door in the hallway. Nicolas waited behind her patiently, his presence warm, protective, and the sweetest of temptations.
At first, learning to pick a lock hadn’t been exciting. He’d taken her into the library, turned on the gas lamp, and showed her a small leather pouch with various lock-picking tools. He taught her about lock levers, lift levers, throw bolts, warded locks and how to identify the types of lock she would be coaxing open.
It was an art.
On the streets of London and in the underworld, it was referred to as