Maryann did not like how timid her question came out.
He took an audible breath. Deep. And released it lazily. “I think you are terribly fascinating,” a resonant baritone voice—which was definitely not Crispin’s—drawled.
Visceral shock tore through Maryann’s heart, leaving it to beat weakly. She froze, her fingers curling into thick tufts of grass, as if that were enough to anchor her in the suddenly spinning world. The slow drum of her heart against her chest was painful in its uncertainty. The man before her, perfectly hidden in the private alcove of her parents’ gardens, was not her brother.
It was then her senses absorbed everything she had ignored earlier in her eager need to execute her revenge. His height…the breadth of his shoulders, the muscles in his thighs and calves. His scent…dark, subtle, fragrantly spiced musk…a hint of rain. He waited like a predator for her reply, which she could not dredge forth, for she was dispossessed of all rational thoughts.
He is not Crispin. He is not Crispin. He is not my brother. Oh God!
She scrambled to her feet, her haste making her slip a few times. Light-headed and knees shaking, she finally managed to stand. A deep, provoking chuckle vibrated in the air, and Maryann almost collapsed at the sheer menace and mockery in the sound.
This was not her imagination.
A breath-crushing tension wrapped its cruel arms around her. She stared at where he lingered in the shadows for so long, her eyes smarted. The shadows twisted, the feet which had been splayed disappeared, and he slowly uncloaked from the darkness. She took a steady breath, and it was then she observed the lethal stillness to his lean, powerful body, an unfathomable watchfulness in the hooded eyes that caressed over the length of hers.
“Ah…you are going to faint or descend into hysterics. And here I thought you were brave,” the voice drawled.
Forgetting her coat, she turned and sprinted away, her heart a pounding drum in her ears.
…
Nicolas Charles St. Ives, Marquess of Rothbury, found himself chuckling with genuine amusement for the first time in months, perhaps years. He had never seen a lady move with such speed. But it did the job, taking her away from him as quickly as possible.
Good.
As she rounded the corner, the moonlight revealed something had dropped from her. A letter perhaps. Nicolas walked toward the area the girl had dashed off to, as if something monstrous and unholy lingered in the dark. And perhaps he was a monster, for it had been years since his heart had turned black.
His path for the last few years was revenge driven. He did not fool himself and pretty his actions by saying he was meting out justice to those who deserved it. He was not the law of the land or the country. What he did was purely to satisfy the hatred in his heart. And tonight, his path had led him here, to this house, and to the surprising encounter with his mysterious and incredibly intriguing lady.
His plan had been to break into the lord of the manor’s study, which was on the third floor, and discreetly search the desks, hidden bookshelf, and floor panels, even the safes, for any evidence that might connect the earl’s son, Viscount Crispin Fitzwilliam, to the black Dahlia.
A person Nicolas was most interested in finding.
Nicolas had not been invited to the earl and countess’s house party, which would have made his task a bit easier. His lips twisted in a rueful grimace. His deliberately constructed reputation of a depraved libertine was simply too clever and believable for the countess to have invited the likes of him to her home. Many matrons who dreamed of landing a wealthy, even if disreputable, marquess for their daughter were happy to open their doors to him.
But the reputedly very proper and exacting countess tended to sniff her nose and lift her chin as high as possible whenever she saw him, showing the lines in her now wrinkly neck and décolletage clearly displayed to all the world. From his foot-taller height, Nicolas still got the sensation she stared down that pointy, oh-so-elegant nose at him.
Pausing, he stooped and collected the paper that had dropped from the lady’s pocket. It was carefully folded, like a letter to a secret lover. Interest stirred, for he was a procurer of secrets, believing every information necessary when dealing with powerful families who thought themselves untouchable in the empire.
The gardens were too dark for him to read it now, so he slipped it into his pocket as footsteps crunched over fallen leaves and echoed on the chilly night air. He surged to his feet only to falter as the girl returned, her willowy frame as she strolled toward him graceful and perhaps even a bit dangerous.
Odd that this slip of a girl gave him momentary pause.
Sheathed in a light blue ballgown, she appeared at times ethereal in the shadows. Her figure, though slender, had more than a handful in all the right places. Her hips were lush, and from what he’d seen earlier, her derriere was just as sensually rounded. The pale mounds of her breasts at her lace décolletage invited his eyes to linger, then he lowered his gaze, wondering what was in her hands.
There was a flash of silver, and his heart jolted.
What in God’s name?
Chapter Two
Nicolas blinked, but the apparition of his mysterious lady gripping a shovel with its glinting sharpened edge did not disappear. The gardener was overzealous to possess such a damn sharp shovel. And the lady, she was no longer scared but filled with determined anger. It delineated every inch of her body, and that small pointed chin lifted high to give the appearance that she stared him down.
Suddenly he knew this to be the countess’s daughter—surely no one else in the country could imitate that arrogant and disdainful mien.
“Intend to bash me over the head for frightening you?” he asked.
The shovel was lifted higher with surprising ease and steady arms. The waif was stronger than he would have imagined.
“I will impale you if you do not reveal to me the whereabouts of my brother.”
Her brother was clearly the man Nicolas had come upon with the bucket in his hand. “Ah, so it wasn’t your sensibilities I offended?”
Her stance shifted, and he expected to hear her feminine cry of en-garde any moment. How unusual—she possessed some skill and was not afraid to wield her knowledge.
“You are wearing my brother’s mask, so what have you done with him?”
The slight tremble in her voice had an odd sensation twisting through Nicolas’s gut. “How brave you are,” he murmured, taking a step closer. “You are clearly frightened but ran for the nearest weapon and returned to save him. Brave but foolhardy. What if I am the dastardliest villain?”
The eyes behind the face mask narrowed. She did not back away from him but thrust her weapon forward, holding it steady despite its evident weight. He waved carelessly to encompass the privacy of the gardens. “We are alone, and I can easily disarm you.”