“And do you not have those dreams anymore, poppet?”
“I see something hovering beyond those earlier hopes. I close my eyes to sleep and I feel it…a presence at the edges of the shadows…waiting for me….to maybe leap.”
“That’s it, I am taking those bloody books away,” Crispin muttered.
Maryann laughed lightly, masking the tumultuous feelings rioting inside. “I will dance with Stamford tonight.”
At that moment, the man lingering in the shadows of her dreams rose in her thoughts, and she inhaled sharply.
Nicolas St. Ives, the Marquess of Rothbury. Her heart fluttered like wild birds were in her stomach as some undefinable sensation hooked inside her chest. The marquess had only to be in the same room with Maryann, or she only had to think of the wretched man, and the response came unbidden.
I must not think of him, she reminded herself fiercely. The marquess had no notion of her existence, and he was nothing but a speck that crossed her path occasionally, even if he had always done so with such enigmatic allure. She would not recall the night in the gardens, either, for after finishing his cheroot, he had merely returned to the ballroom.
A heavy sigh of relief left her brother, and she knew then that their mother had asked him to convince Maryann of the suitability of the match. Swallowing down the discomfort rising inside, she rested her head on Crispin’s shoulder, hoping she had made the right decision.
…
Several hours later, Maryann stood on the sidelines of the Countess of Metcalf’s impressive ballroom, tapping her feet to the lively music leaping from the orchestra’s bows. Stamford had appeared a few minutes previously and made the rounds with a few of his cronies. He stood by one of the impressive Corinthian columns which was swathed in swirls of golden silk, then the man had engaged in deep conversation with the Prime Minister, Lord Liverpool. Stamford did not stay long with their prime minister and soon moved on to speak with Lord Metcalf. Maryann discreetly assessed him, reluctantly admitting that the earl was very handsome for a man over fifty. Nor did he carry obvious excess weight that so many an older man was prone to gather.
On the opposite side of the ballroom stood the popular set of the last few seasons, led by the incomparable Lady Sophie. Since the screaming incident in the ballroom a couple weeks prior, she had been licking her wounds in private. They existed in a society where a favored belle of the season could become a pariah with nothing more than a whisper in the right ear, and it was normally Lady Sophie’s devilled tongue doing the whispering. But it would take more than one embarrassing incident to teach her a lesson and see her toppled from the lofty pedestal on which she’d placed herself.
Her coterie had been silent and not up to their usual mean-spiritedness since their unelected leader had withdrawn from several events. And that was enough for Maryann to celebrate as a victory. Those they normally tormented would get a reprieve from their cutting snide remarks and cruel pranks and might even be allowed to shine a little.
Lady Sophie’s bully-ruffian set consisted of James Foundry—a young lord who had been declared the most eligible viscount in all of England, Sir Thomas Belfry—an impoverished young man only made popular because he was reputed to be the cicisbeo of the Marchioness of Deerwood. There was also the ravishing Lady Minerva and Lady Justine, both daughters of distinguished earls and celebrated beauties, and Lady Henriette, daughter of the Marquess of Gilmanton. The six reigning young lords and ladies were inseparable, and for a very brief moment in time Maryann had been a part of their crowd.
She hadn’t been as fashionable or declared an unrivaled beauty, but her wit and her family’s connections had made her acceptable. Until that day when she had been required by Lady Sophie to publicly cut and humiliate Miss Anna Fielding.
Maryann had been unable to act in such an unkind and ruinous manner to the young girl, whose only misfortune had been for several gentlemen and society sheets to refer to her as the reigning beauty of the season. It hadn’t mattered that those same people lifting her up had bemoaned the fact her family was merely genteel, her father only a captain in the royal navy with little connections.
Lady Sophie had been greatly insulted, and Miss Fielding was to bear the brunt of her displeasure. With a sigh, Maryann recalled the terrible distress she had felt when it was her, instead, whom they had publicly cut the following day in Hyde Park as they strolled down Rotten Row. Then the cruel whispers had started, calling her “a dowdy wallflower,” or those referring to her as “plain,” and then those calling her a “shrew with a viperish tongue.”
They had all been orchestrated by Lady Sophie because Maryann had dared to act independently of their awful orders, and those in society keen to have the support of a duke’s daughter had gladly wagged their tongues to make Maryann’s life miserable.
She had wept at the loss of their supposed friendship, especially the bond she had believed she shared with Lady Justine. It was astonishing that they had once spent hours sharing dreams and confidences. Now Justine glared at her, and it was clear they suspected Maryann of playing a role in what had happened to Lady Sophie.
Why, she could not fathom, not when they had made so many enemies with their thoughtless, banal cruelty. She lifted her chin and graced them with a small, mocking, yet indifferent smile.
A slight ripple through the crowd stole her attention from her former friends. It was Nicolas St. Ives, Marquess Rothbury. Maryann’s heart fluttered uncomfortably; her cheeks grew warm. Logically she knew it was a reaction to his raw, physical appeal, but it distressed her senses to be so attracted to a libertine. Oftentimes she wondered if she was drawn to the dratted man simply because he appeared so improper.
It was the freedom he found in his reputation and scandalous pursuits she found compelling…nothing else.
Irritated that once again she joined the masses in ogling the man, she turned her back to him in time to see Lord Stamford leaving the ballroom.
Maryann sighed. So much for him asking her to dance. Perhaps what they needed to have between them was an honest, heartfelt conversation.
Taking a steady breath, she made after him, careful not to hurry and incite undue attention. Once in the hallway, she hesitated, uncertain as to the direction the earl had taken or even if she should follow the man.
It took her several minutes of entering different rooms before she came upon a small, intimate parlor nestled at the end of the prodigious hallway. She rapped her knuckles on the door, and once again no answer came forth. With a heavy sigh, she twisted the knob and stepped inside, only to falter.
A man and woman were entangled on the sofa by the fire. Loud, almost frightful noises came from the woman, who bounced with shocking vigor in the man’s lap. Maryann was about to step back when the man lifted his head and stared right at her.
It was the earl, her supposed intended.
The shock of it was like an icy blast to her chest. Maryann struggled to take a breath and to move. The couple’s actions were shocking. To her distress, the man cupped the woman’s buttocks between his large hands and urged her to move even faster atop him, and she was moaning and begging him for something.