“This is the governess, Miss Laura! I found her peeking inside the ballroom. Seems she would like a spot of fun,” the Duke of Farringdon drawled.
The man was Lady Sophie’s brother, but Maryann had not thought him so lacking in morals and honor. The girl was clearly frightened out of her wits! Then to Maryann’s shock, the duke drew the girl to him and nuzzled her neck. The young girl pushed him away and lurched back, until she encountered another bounder. This time she recognized Viscount Weychell, the son of Lord Tremelle. How dare they?
“Governesses are particularly tasty, but she’s not pretty enough to tempt me; I daresay you should let her back inside,” Lord Rothbury said blandly.
The young girl threw the marquess a grateful look before her face crumpled.
“Are you mad?” the man currently holding her, Viscount Weychell, demanded. “She is a lovely piece of flesh. We should be able to have some fun in that secluded spot over there.”
“Ah, I thought you had a more discriminating palate,” Rothbury said with a measure of arrogance and disgust. “But what can one expect?”
The viscount stiffened, his features creasing in a black scowl. “What do you mean by that, Rothbury?”
He wore a carefully cultivated expression of restless boredom. “A young governess? If you want women of varied expertise, there is a place I can take you to in Soho.”
“And if it is her we want?” the viscount demanded belligerently, while the other two silently watched.
“It would be remiss of me to allow my friends to act foolhardy and not tell them. She is an employee in the earl’s household. He would not look favorably on your actions tonight.”
“She wouldn’t dare tell,” the man who had brought her outside said. “Who would want to admit to dallying with their lord’s guests?”
The girl started crying, and St. Ives snorted in affected disgust.
“I am not attracted to her mousiness. Are you?” he asked with such exaggerated astonishment, the viscount tugged uncomfortably at his cravat.
Maryann realized he wanted the girl safely away from the degenerate lot but had gone about it in this fashion. Why? Why not rebuke them for their improper conduct and whisk her away? Was it because he was outnumbered?
What are your reasons, St. Ives?
After much muttering, they released the girl, St. Ives passing her a handkerchief plucked from his pocket. Maryann strained to hear what he said to the young girl but missed it. She, however, bobbed her head, skirted around the men, and hurried inside.
“Do we head to Soho, then?” one of the men asked, smacking his lips.
“After supper, I cannot swive on an empty belly.”
They laughed and made their way in, all except the marquess. The tip of the cheroot flared orange as he dragged the taste and scent into his lungs. She should make haste and return to the ball, but she found herself resting her gloved elbows on the railing and studying him.
“Did you enjoy the show?” he asked, taking another drag.
She leaned over to see who had come outside and frowned when she saw no one. To her surprise, he turned around and looked right at her. She sucked in an audible breath and gripped the railing. “I was not aware my presence was felt.”
The very faintest of smiles creased his mouth. “I might be going mad, because it was as if I tasted you on the air—apples and peaches with a hint of cinnamon.”
She ignored that provocative drawl and said, “As to the show you referred, I was singularly unimpressed. You keep ghastly company.”
He pressed a hand over his chest. “Even with my heroics?”
“They were more the acts of a bounder. If you had raised a fist and given them a facer each, then I could salute you, my lord.”
“How violent you are,” he mused, that smile again teasing his mouth. “I like your fierceness.”
“You silver-tongued devil,” she murmured with mock gratitude. “It is what we racoons are known for.”
He smiled and sauntered in her direction.
The door behind her rattled, and she whirled around.
“Lady Maryann?”
The solid oak muffled the voice, yet still an undeniable foreboding filled her body. Maryann contained her gasp when the door opened.
“Lady Maryann,” the voice called with that mocking lilt.
It was Stamford! How had he found her here? She turned around, rapidly thinking. It would not do for him to find her in such a secluded place.
“What is it?” the marquess demanded, his expression hardening.
She shook her head wordlessly.
His gaze narrowed, and it alarmed her how lethal he suddenly appeared. “I can see the panic on your face. Stay there. I will make my way to you.”
“No,” she whispered furiously. That would be an even worse scandal, the possibility of being caught with two men in a secluded room. And yet…instinctive knowledge filled her. Stamford meant to compromise her.
“Catch me!” And without overthinking the matter, she slung one of her legs over the railing, then another.
“And allow you to flatten me to the ground?” he asked drily.
“A disagreeable prospect, I agree, but what am I to do?”
“Reach for the trellis to your left,” St. Ives commanded, walking closer to the balcony.
She did and gripped it, feeling with her foot for the vines that would give her purchase. Maryann found it and started to climb down, grateful for all the misadventures she’d had over the years with Crispin. The overflowing vines seemed to come alive, scratching at her arms and pulling at her clothes and hair.
Holding on for dear life, she made to step down again and slipped. She closed her eyes tightly, swallowing the rising scream as she plummeted to the ground, placing her trust in the scoundrel beneath her. The very one who might ignore her, since he did not want to be flattened.
With a soft grunt, she landed in his arms and against his chest.
“I’ve got you,” he said, his mouth a dark murmur at her temple.
Maryann was terribly aware that she was held perfectly in the marquess’s arms. Though his touch was through layers of gown and petticoats, she felt him like a searing brand. “You may put me down.”
“Must I? I like the weight of you in my arms. It rouses certain fantasies to life. Shall I tell you of them?”
She pinched his shoulder with great force through his jacket. “You are unpardonable!”
The cynicism left his countenance, but in his half-closed eyes lingered a gleam far more alarming. “I’ll take pleasure in taming you, Lady Maryann.”