back against her pillows in a cloud of euphoria, grabbed her pillow, and screamed her happiness in it. Yes!
“I am still here,” he said, sounding perfectly bemused.
Maryann froze, realizing then she hadn’t heard the door close. Oh! He’d just witnessed her madness. She turned her head on the sheet, staring at him, the pillow still gripped to her chest. An irresistibly devastating grin curved his mouth before he slipped through the door and it closed.
“Good night, Nicolas,” she whispered, rolling over and drawing the covers to her chin.
…
The first thing Maryann did upon waking was to seek out her brother in the dining area. There he sat, polishing off a hearty breakfast. Thankfully, her parents were not present. They would still be sleeping, after arriving home only a few hours ago from the ball.
“You look well rested,” he said, his gaze running over her critically. “Why are you blushing?”
“I was not aware that I was,” she said slightly, walking over to sit in the chair opposite him.
She was such a poor enchantress, blushing like a silly miss in the light of day. It was difficult to not squirm in her chair at the memory of having him take her into his arms. She remembered his hard, sinewy body pressing against her. The wicked, luscious way he had rocked her against his throbbing manhood, and the pleasure that had torn through her.
“Well, you look frightfully pink. Are you fevered?”
“I am quite fine, Crispin!” she said, considerably disconcerted. Her purpose this morning was simple. Her brother was innocent, and she would prove it to Nicolas. Without even knowing the full of the situation, she knew Crispin deserved her belief and loyalty. And with this nonsense of them being enemies out of the way, they could get around to chatting about why he should be courting her.
She studied her brother, wondering how Nicolas could ever think he had done something so awful as to warrant revenge. He looked so boyishly charming opening the sheets of a freshly pressed newspaper, a steaming cup of coffee awaiting his attention. In this moment, he reminded her so much of their papa. Except he did not have that stern set to his mouth or the frown lines on his face.
Buttering a slice of toast, she said, “Crispin?”
“Hmm,” he said distractedly, a frown on his face.
“Have you ever done anything so grievous it would make someone think of you as an enemy?”
His head snapped up. “I beg your pardon?”
She calmly repeated the question.
For a long moment, there was no reply. He slowly folded the paper and set it aside on the table. “Why would you ask such a question? Are you thinking the carriage mishap was aimed at me?”
“No, of course not,” she hurriedly reassured him. “Nor do I think it was aimed at me. Odd accidents do happen.”
He scowled. “It is a decidedly strange question, but that answer is no.”
Maryann had been wondering if it was whatever happened to Arianna that Nicolas thought her brother might be a part of. Now she wished she had asked him more, instead of spending a rousing hour learning how to pick locks. And then those parting kisses…
“By God!” Crispin exclaimed. “You are blushing again. Whatever is the matter with you today?”
She mumbled something, biting into a treacle tart to prevent the necessity of answering.
“This bounder is completely lacking in decency!” Crispin snapped, gripping the newspaper in a tight grip. “God’s blood, it is laughable the papers have declared him one of the most eligible catches of the season.”
“Who are you speaking of?” she asked, lowering her fork.
“The Marquess of Rothbury.”
Maryann inhaled audibly. “Nicolas?”
Her brother flinched. “I beg your pardon. Are you on an intimate name basis with this bounder?”
“What does the newspaper say?”
He carelessly tossed it atop the table. “Last evening at about eight, the marquess barged into the duke’s home and had a duel with the man in his hallway!”
“A duel?” she demanded faintly. “Why, that cannot be true.”
He jabbed a finger at the paper. “The servants were the witnesses and by their accounts it was a duel!” Crispin’s visage grew dim. “I cannot imagine a gentleman conducting himself so totally without any regard for their reputation or position in society.”
“I suppose he should have done it outside at one of those famous dueling fields?” she asked drily.
Her brother huffed. “There is a proper way to do something. And that is not the worst of it.”
“What?”
“It seems Farringdon was shot. The papers are not sure how it happened, but