The countess giggled, and Maryann rolled her eyes.
“Is it true?” she demanded breathlessly.
“What?”
“Am I really your heart?” Lady Trentham sweetly purred.
His rich chuckle held a careless charm. “So that’s what it means,” he said a bit drily. “My French is terrible. I had no idea.”
Maryann slapped a hand over her mouth to stifle her laugh, but something slipped out, for there was a sharp rustling.
“Oh, Nicolas! Someone is out here,” the countess squeaked, sounding genuinely alarmed. “I cannot be found with you.”
“But you knew the risk…”
Another rustling sound and them a soft oomph!
“I do not think throwing yourself into my arms would help the matter.” Now he sounded tolerably amused and very unconcerned by the idea of discovery. “Off you go and return inside.”
“But Nicolas, we haven’t—”
“Go,” he said firmly, all traces of the careless libertine vanishing from his tone.
And the sound of delicate footsteps hurried away. Maryann slowly shrank back on the bench, knowing she was perfectly hidden in the dark. The scent of a cheroot perfumed the air, and his presence grew closer. It was more of an awareness than a sound. It was as if she felt him.
She gripped the edges of the stone bench, her heart quickening.
“Do you not plan to come out?” he drawled with lazy amusement.
Maryann froze, glancing down. The alcove was dark enough that she could not make out her gown. The marquess could not see her; he was hazarding a deduction. She remained quiet, and the scent of his cheroot drifted closer.
He chuckled, and she stiffened, for it sounded so familiar. Very much like the laugh the man in the gardens had given only a couple hours earlier. Was the marquess and the masked man one and the same?
The idea was outlandish. The masked man had been dangerous. She’d sensed it. Several minutes ago, Crispin admitted he wasn’t sure if he had fainted or if someone had acted in a dastardly fashion. Maryann wasn’t certain if it was possible to make someone pass out without them sensing it, but either way, the man had taken Crispin’s mask and left him unconscious on the ground. Not the act of an honorable gentleman. And despite her mask, he had ascertained her identity. She’d seen him in the shadows of the ballroom doorway, and that mocking bow had made her heart pound with a strange secret thrill and alarm.
She only knew St. Ives by reputation, but there was nothing serious or dastardly about the man. Maryann was so very tempted to ask, her mouth parted, but she bit down on her bottom lip.
“I thought a lady of your daring would like a taste of ruin,” he murmured provokingly.
Her heart jolted at his words, and Maryann scarcely dared to breathe. Suddenly the very air in the gardens felt perilous. Had he been aware of her when she slipped from the ballroom? Impossible. They hadn’t met before, and a man like Nicolas St. Ives had no reason to notice Maryann.
And if he knew beyond a doubt she was there, and her identity, why did he not reveal his hand? They were playing cat and mouse…no…he was playing. Who was the cat? I am most certainly not the mouse, she thought and tossed her head.
Somehow his air of expectancy tempted her to be spontaneous, insolent…scandalous. Every prudent instinct hungered to be tossed to the winds, but she disciplined her reckless heart. Rakes were still dangerous to ladies like her who were declared wallflowers and soon-to-be spinsters. Even if she had once wished to dance and risk being burned by his fire, that would have been done from a safe distance, not this close—where she could be fully consumed.
A few weeks ago, she had declared to her dearest friend, Kitty Danvers, that Nicolas St. Ives was the wicked path that she, Maryann, needed to encroach on to achieve her measure of happiness. The plan had been to deliberately walk into his path and try to proposition him to a mutual bargain. The idea was outrageous, but she had been desperate to make the attempt. Maryann had spent days wondering what she could offer him to partake in her ruination and had discarded dozens of ideas.
When she’d heard of Lady Peregrine’s house party, Maryann had thought to sneak into the marquess’s room, just the very edge of it, and allow for the man her parents were forcing her to marry to see or hear she was there. St. Ives would not have been in that chamber, of course; the