She had often heard the tale that as a babe she cried often, a misery not even her nursemaid could soothe. Only when Crispin took her into his arms was she soothed. A young boy of only four years at her birth, he had taken to his role as her protective older brother rather fastidiously. It had been mutual love, and never had he been angry with her as he had been this morning.
Growing up, she’d wanted to be a part of her brother’s life simply because she loved him. For every rambunctious adventure he went on—the riding, the hunting, the fencing—she had pleaded to go with him. And because Crispin loved her in return, he had made room for her in his life. So many days, weeks, months he had snuck her from the school room and from under the noses of strict governesses to partake in his misadventures.
She had learned to change her own clothes, to dress in breeches and shirts without their parents getting wind of what they had been up to. She had learned to ride astride, how to perfectly handle a bow and arrow, and how to fence. Crispin had finally balked when she asked him to travel with her to a gambling hell, and she hadn’t the heart to press the matter after seeing his distress. Maryann had decided in some matter, it was best to retain her ladylike demeanor.
It was a few minutes before nine p.m. that she placed the cambric in her embroidery box and made her way to her chamber. He wouldn’t dare, would he? was the thought that rolled through Maryann’s awareness as she choked on her gasp, whirling around to ensure her lady maid did not enter the room.
“I won’t be needing you tonight, Susie,” Maryann said, annoyed with how breathless and nervous she sounded. Her heart thrummed in both panic and pleasure. The former, she understood. The latter, utter madness.
“Milady?”
“Yes,” she said with a firm smile. “I believe I shall manage on my own tonight. You should continue reading that book I loaned you.”
Susie flushed. “I am still fumbling over some of the words, milady,” she said, her voice rich with pride.
“Then write them down, and in the morning we shall discuss them.”
Susie bobbed, turned around, and hurried down the hallway, a jaunt in her step. Maryann closed the door, resting her forehead on it briefly. She was shocked to realize she was trembling.
Taking a steadying breath, Maryann whirled to face the marquess, who seemed to have dragged an armchair to the window, and now reposed in it, one of his knees crossed atop the other.
“Am I to play your maid tonight, Lady Maryann?” A deliberate pause, which felt fraught. “It would delight me, of course.”
She choked on air. “What are you doing here, Lord Rothbury? My maid almost discovered you.”
A lazy smile curved his mouth, and she flushed for even noting its sensuality.
“I am certain you would have some reasonable explanation.”
“Of having a man in my bedroom at…” She glanced at the ormolu clock on the mantel. “At nine in…at any hour in the day?”
“I miscalculated your routine. If you are not at some social event, you would normally come into your bedroom at about eight and prepare for bed. Since I arrived only fifteen minutes ago, I assumed that routine was already done.”
“You know my routine?” she asked faintly.
“How else might I ensure your safety?”
She rolled her eyes. “There is no threat to my safety; you are using it as an excuse to be a libertine.”
“Oh!” he said with mock affront, pressing a hand over his heart. “I am too wounded to find a witty remark. This round to you, my little racoon.”
Maryann refused to dignify his outrageousness with an answer.
“Did anything out of the ordinary happen to you today?”
“No, why would it?” she asked. “Your invisible enemies?”
“Not even on your walk this afternoon with Miss Nelson? She seemed out of sorts.”
“Were you there?”
He closed the book with a snap. “No.”
Yet he knew of her stroll with another friend, and that dear Charlotte had been upset. There was a rumor the Marquess of Sands had eloped, and the news distressed her friend, who was secretly in love with Lord Sands. That story and Maryann’s scandal seemed to vie for equal attention in the fickle hearts of the gossipmonger. “Nothing happened that would concern you, my lord.”
“And what made you curse upon leaving the lending library?”
Maryann glared at him. She suspected the man before her might be aware of everything she did since waking, and Maryann was decidedly unsure what to think about that. Clearly he had bribed a servant in her household for information. “There is a great possibility you are the danger, my lord.”
His teeth flashed, and her heart lurched at the beauty of his smile.
“I assure you, my lady, you are always safe with me.”
Did she imagine the emphasis on “my lady”? Maryann leaned against her door, feeling that, should she step closer, the very air between them would be altered.
His stunning golden eyes entrapped her attention. “So, you’ve been teaching your lady maid to read.”
“I…” She blew out a sharp breath, rattled by the quick change in conversation. “Yes.”
“Not many people care about their servants enough to use their time to educate them.”
She returned his regard, and when he arched a brow, Maryann pertly said, “Was there a question?”
“I am merely curious…about you.”
This he said with a frown, as if he was baffled by his own admission.
Maryann found it most difficult to break the potent hold of his very direct regard. He stared at her as if unraveling a mystery. A tight, hungry feeling was trapped somewhere inside her, and being secreted in her chamber with the marquess made her yearn to just be.
“Susie always sees me reading, and she was very curious as to how I found such enjoyment in the written word,” Maryann said softly. “She is very uncomplaining with my determined efforts to see her reading a book on her own by the end of the year.”
Maryann did not say that she had moved from having one student to now having four, the youngest being a sweet girl of twelve who served as a scullery maid.
“And I am also very different from these other ladies you seem so intimately acquainted with.”
“That I can tell.”
Her mouth curved a bit, but she bit inside her lips to stop the smile. Perhaps he did not mean it as a compliment.
“What is your most rousing read?” He turned over a small volume in his hand. “I dearly hope it is not this.”