Page 10 of Marquess of Stone (Braving the Elements #2)

CHAPTER 10

“ I was beginning to think you would not come.” Nicholas’s voice drifted through the shadows of the corridor that led to his bedchamber — rich, dark, and slightly dangerous. Marian stood in the doorway, her heart thundering against her ribs as she stepped inside, and her eyes adjusted to the dimly lit room. A single candelabra cast dancing shadows across the walls, transforming familiar shapes into mysterious silhouettes that seemed to watch her every move with quiet judgement.

“Then you clearly do not know me very well,” she replied, proud of how steady her voice remained despite the tremor in her hands. She was acutely aware of the impropriety of her position — standing in a gentleman’s private chambers, unchaperoned and well past the acceptable hours of visitation. The knowledge sent a delicious shiver of rebellion down her spine.

“Oh, I rather think I know you better than either of us would care to admit, Marian.” He emerged from the shadows, his cravat loosened, and his evening jacket discarded. The sight of him in such casual disarray should have shocked her sensibilities, but instead, it made her mouth go dry.

“Have you summoned me here to explain yourself then?” she asked, lifting her chin. “To give me some sort of weak excuse as to why you have spent the day treating me like a stranger?”

A flicker of something — guilt? regret? — crossed his features before his usual mask of casual amusement slipped back into place. “Actually,” he said, moving toward a door she hadn’t noticed before, “I asked you to come for something far more… interesting.”

“More interesting than watching you perfect the art of avoidance?” The words emerged sharper than she had intended, weighted with hurt she had not meant to reveal.

He paused, his hand on the door handle, and for a moment, she thought he might actually address the distance he had placed between them. Instead, his lips curved into that maddeningly dangerous half-smile that never failed to make her pulse quicken. “Much more, I promise.”

The door swung open to reveal a sitting room that seemed to exist in a world entirely of its own. The air there was heavy with the scent of tobacco and leather, and moonlight streamed in, painting silver patterns across a perfectly arranged tableau — a card table set for two, a decanter of amber liquid and the unmistakable shape of a cigar box sitting in quiet promise on a side table.

“You cannot be serious,” she breathed, even as excitement began to bubble beneath her proper exterior.

“I am rarely serious about anything, Marian,” he replied, gesturing for her to enter. “I find it makes life far more entertaining. But am I serious about this?” He cocked his head, shooting a disarming smile in her direction. “Very much so.”

The room felt intimate in a way that had nothing to do with its size. Perhaps it was the lateness of the hour, or the way the moonlight seemed to soften all the edges around her, but Marian found herself stepping inside before she could second-guess her decision.

“If this is your attempt to distract me from demanding answers about your behavior today,” she said, settling into one of the leather armchairs with more confidence than she felt, “I should warn you that I am not so easily diverted.”

“Aren’t you?” he moved toward the decanter, and she watched the elegant line of his back intently as he poured two glasses. “Then, perhaps you’d care to explain precisely why you are sitting in my private chambers, just before midnight, about to indulge in several activities that would give your mother heart palpitations?”

“Because I am curious,” she admitted, accepting the glass he offered. Their fingers brushed in the exchange, sending a jolt of awareness through her that had nothing to do with the brandy she hadn’t yet tasted.

“Curiosity…” he mused, settling into the chair opposite her, “can be quite a dangerous thing.”

“So, I have been told. Repeatedly.” She lifted the glass in toast and then brought it to her nose, inhaling the sharp, sweet scent of the liquor. “Though I notice it hasn’t stopped you from indulging yours, Nicholas.”

“Ah, but I am a man. We are expected to have… appetites.”

The word hung in the air between them, loaded with implications that made her cheeks warm. She took a big sip of brandy to hide her reaction and immediately regretted it as the liquid burned as it slid down her throat. Her eyes watered as she fervently fought the urge to cough.

Nicholas’s laugh was low and rich. “Perhaps the lady should have started with something milder?”

“Perhaps you should stop looking so damnably amused,” she managed though the warmth spreading though her chest wasn’t entirely unpleasant.

“Tut-tut,” he clicked his tongue. “Such language from a lady. What would your etiquette instructor say?” he teased.

“Probably the same thing she said when she caught me reading scientific treaties hidden inside my prayer book — that I am incorrigible and destined for social ruin.”

“And are you?” His voice dropped lower, something dark and promising laced through the deep baritone melody. “Destined for ruin?”

Marian took another sip of brandy, finding it easier this time. “I suppose I might be,” she said, meeting his gaze head on. “But that entirely depends on your definition of ruin.”

The look he gave her in response made her glad that she was already sitting down. “Shall we find out?” he asked, reaching for the deck of cards. “I believe gambling was one of your forbidden experiences.”

“Hmmm. Plying me with spirits, suggesting gambling… Are you planning to take advantage of me, Lord Stone?”

His smile was pure wickedness. “In cards? Absolutely. In other matters…” He let the sentence trail off suggestively, taking a long pause as his eyes burned into hers. “That would depend entirely on you, Marian.”

Marian blinked at him, entirely dumbfounded as she accepted the shuffled cards.

“You do realize,” Marian said, studying her cards with exaggerated concentration, “that teaching a lady to gamble is hardly considered proper behavior for a gentleman.”

“Fortunately for us both,” Nicholas replied as he dealt another hand of cards, “I have never claimed to be proper.” The cards whispered against the green baize like secrets being traded, each one adding to the delicious sense of impropriety that hung between them. They started playing the game, with Nicholas carefully instructing her. She caught on quicker than he thought she would, and within no time, they had already played three games.

Her second glass of brandy sat half-empty at her elbow, and she was now finding that the burning sensation had mellowed into something altogether more pleasant — a warmth that seemed to make everything slightly more amusing.

“I believe that is another loss for you, Marian,” Nicholas announced, his voice rich with satisfaction as he reveled in his winning hand.

“You are cheating!” she accused though her smile betrayed her lack of genuine outrage. “I simply have not discovered how yet.”

“Such accusations!” He pressed a hand to his chest in mock offense. “And here I thought we were developing a relationship built on trust.”

“Trust?” She arched a single eyebrow at him. “This coming from the man who spent the entire day pretending that we are nothing but mere acquaintances?”

He reached for the decanter, topping off her glass before she could protest. “Perhaps I was simply gathering my strength for tonight’s corruption of virtues.”

“Is that what this is?” She watched as he shuffled the cards once more, his fingers moving with a dexterity that was somehow fascinating. “A carefully planned corruption?”

“One thing I know for certain, Marian Brandon, is that nothing about you could ever be planned.” The admission carried more weight than his light tone suggested. “You seem to defy all attempts at… management.”

“How fortunate then,” she replied, picking up her new hand with growing confidence, “that I have no desire whatsoever to be managed .”

Another three hands later, she laid down her cards with triumphant flourish. “Ha! I believe that is what they call a ‘winning hand’, is it not?”

Nicholas’s expression of genuine surprise was worth every loss she had suffered. “Well, well,” he murmured, leaning back into his chair to study her with newfound appreciation. “It seems you have a natural vice!”

“Perhaps,” she said, gathering her modest winnings with exaggerated ceremony, “or perhaps you are simply not as clever as you think you are.”

“Oh, I am exactly as clever as I think I am.” His smile turned wicked. “Would you care to test that theory with another game? Double stakes, perhaps?”

“I think not,” she laughed, the brandy making her feel delightfully bold. “I prefer to retire undefeated. Though…” Her eyes strayed to the cigar box that had been tempting her curiosity all evening. “I might be persuaded to try another form of corruption.”

Nicholas followed her gaze, and something in his expression darkened. “Are you sure that is wise?”

“When has wisdom ever been a consideration between us, Nicholas?” She uncurled herself from her chair, noting with distant amusement that she’d somehow lost both her shoes during their card game. The carpet was sinfully soft beneath her stockinged feet as she approached the side table.

“Besides,” she continued, running a finger along the polished wood of the cigar box, “I believe sampling forbidden pleasures was rather the point of this evening, was it not?”

He moved with that same fluid grace she had come to admire about him, and suddenly, he was beside her — close enough that she could smell the complex scents of sandalwood and leather and tobacco and something else that was uniquely him . “Very well.” His voice had dropped into that dangerous register that seemed to bypass her ears entirely and settle somewhere around her navel. “But don’t say I did not warn you.”

She watched, fascinated, as he selected a cigar with the same care a general might choose his weapons before battle. The ritual of preparation was oddly compelling — the precise cut, the careful way he warmed it, the first testing draw that made his lips purse in a way that was entirely too distracting…

“Here,” he said finally, holding it out to her. “Though, I should warn you, it is an acquired taste.”

“Much like yourself, you mean?” The words slipped out before she could catch them, and she immediately blamed the brandy for the way her cheeks heated and flared at his answering laugh.

She took the cigar, acutely aware that her lips were touching the very same spot where his had been just moments before. The intimacy of it sent a shiver down her spine.

“Gently, now,” he instructed, his voice impossibly soft. “Draw the smoke into your mouth first, do not try to inhale it.”

She followed his instructions, or tried to, but something went terribly wrong. The smoke seemed to catch in her throat, and suddenly she was coughing — violent, greatly unladylike coughs that made her eyes water and her dignity disappear.

“That,” she managed hoarsely, thrusting the cigar back at him, “is absolutely vile. How do you manage to make it look so… so…”

“Sophisticated?” he supplied, accepting the cigar with poorly concealed amusement.

“Effortless,” she corrected, dropping back into her chair and pulling her feet under her. “You stand there looking like some sort of Greek god with your perfect smoke rings while I sound rather like a consumptive street urchin.”

His laugh was warm and rich. “A Greek god? My, my, the liquor has certainly made you generous with your compliments.”

“Oh, do be quiet,” Marian laughed, watching as Nicholas took another effortless draw from the cigar. “I simply meant to say that you have a way of making everything look so… natural.” She waved a hand vaguely in his direction, aware that the brandy had loosened her tongue more than might be wise. “Even your vices have an elegance to them.”

“Years of practice will do that,” he replied though something in his expression suggested that her words had affected him more than he cared to admit. “Though, I must say, watching you attempt to maintain your dignity while choking on smoke was rather… endearing.”

“Endearing?” She straightened in her chair, affronted. “I’ll have you know that nothing about me is endearing. I am formidable and thoroughly disagreeable — just ask my mother’s entire circle of acquaintances.”

“Thoroughly disagreeable women rarely blush quite so becomingly when they’ve had too much brandy.”

“I am not…” she began then caught her reflection in the mirror — her cheeks were indeed flushed a deep shade of cherry, and her carefully arranged hair was coming loose in wayward curls that spoke of an evening’s steady descent into disorder. “Well, perhaps I might be a little… warm.”

“Would you like to try again?” He held up the cigar. Marian eyed him carefully, and her heart sped up at the sight of the smoke circling the elegant lines of his face and the way that his shirt sleeves were rolled up to reveal strong forearms.

“Absolutely not,” she declared, even as she rose from her chair. “Though I do think you are enjoying my failures rather too much, Lord Stone.”

“On the contrary,” he murmured, watching her approach with an intensity that made her breath hitch, “I find your willingness to fail rather… inspiring.”

“Inspiring?” she reached for the cigar, but he held it just out of reach. “How so?”

“Most ladies of your caliber would never dare to fail at anything. They are far too concerned with maintaining their perfect facade of accomplishment.”

“Perhaps I simply have less to lose,” she said, making another grab for the cigar. He stepped back, amusement dancing in his eyes.

“Or maybe,” he countered, raising the cigar higher as she advanced, “you have simply decided that the possibility of success is worth the risk of failure.”

“How philosophical of you…” She stood on her toes, reaching up. Her fingers grazed his wrist but missed their target entirely. “… for a man who spent all day avoiding conversation.”

Something flickered in his expression — regret perhaps? — but before she could analyze it, she made another attempt for the cigar. He caught her wrist with his free hand, the touch sending sparks of awareness racing across her skin.

“Careful,” he warned though his voice had dropped even lower, reaching a register that seemed to vibrate through her very bones. “You are playing with fire.”

“Am I?” She was suddenly aware of how close they were standing and of the way his thumb was tracing absent patterns on the sensitive skin of her inner writs. “I rather thought myself playing with smoke.”

She made one last attempt to reach the cigar, rising on her tiptoes and jumping slightly, but the movement threw her off balance. His arm went around her waist instinctively, steadying her, and suddenly, Marian found herself pressed up against him, one hand braced against his chest, their faces mere inches apart.

Time seemed to suspend itself, slowing down dangerously. She could feel the steady thud of his heartbeat beneath her palm and smell the complex blend of tobacco and brandy on his breath. This close, she could see the faint shadow of stubble along his strong jaw, and even the tiny flecks of blue in his dark eyes.

“Marian,” he said, her name emerging like either a prayer or a warning — she was not quite sure which.

She became aware of a hundred small details at once: the way his hand had spread across her lower back, warm and steady. How her stockinged feet were bracketed by his boots. The slight tremor in his breathing that suggested she was not the only one affected by their proximity.

Her eyes dropped to his lips of their own accord, and she found herself wondering if they would taste of brandy or tobacco — or of danger and promise. The thought made her tongue dart out to wet her suddenly dry lips, and she heard his sharp intake of breath.

“Don’t,” he said though his gaze had also found her mouth with an intensity that made her entire body flush with heat.

“Don’t what?” she whispered, aware they were stepping over some invisible line, crossing a boundary that could not be uncrossed.

His free hand came up to graze her cheek, his thumb brushing against her bottom lip in a touch so light, she might have imagined it. “Don’t look at me like that unless you mean it.”

“Like what?”

“Like you want me to kiss you.”

“And what if I do?” The words emerged raw, barely above a whisper, but in the charged silence of the room, they seemed to echo like the crack of thunder.

Nicholas’s expression shifted, something dark and hungry replacing his usual careful control. For a heartbeat, neither of them moved, suspended in that dangerous moment between propriety and desire. Then his hand slid from her cheek to tangle in her hair, and the cigar fell to the ground, bouncing once off his foot before rolling into the fireplace as if guided by an unseen force as he brough his mouth down to meet hers.

The first touch of his lips was surprisingly gentle, a question rather than a demand. Marian found herself melting into him, her hands curling into the fine linen of his shirt as though seeking anchor within a storm. He tasted just as she had imagined.

The kiss deepened, and Marian felt as though every novel she had ever read about passion had somehow been inadequate. They hadn’t prepared her for the way her knees were weakening or how her heart beat so furiously it felt like it might stop entirely. And they certainly hadn’t warned her about the small sound of need that would escape her throat or how it made Nicholas’s hand tighten around her possessively.

Then, as suddenly as it began, he pulled away. His breathing was uneven, and his usually perfect hair was tousled. She frowned. Had she run her fingers through it? When had that happened? His eyes, when they met hers, held a complexity of emotions she could not quite decipher.

“Well,” he said, his voice rougher than she’d ever heard it before, “I believe that completes your list.”

The words hit her like a splash of cold water, shattering the warm haze of desire that had just a second ago enveloped her. “I… my list?”

“Indeed,” he said coldly, stepping back. The loss of warmth felt like a physical blow. “A kiss was one of the items, was it not? That and the brandy, the gambling, and the cigar… though perhaps this went beyond the bounds of propriety slightly.”

Marian felt reality crash back with brutal force. Of course. The damned list. This wasn’t… it had never been… the room suddenly felt too warm, too tiny, and the air too thick to breathe properly.

“How… efficient of you, Lord Stone,” she managed, proud of how steady her voice remained despite the way her world was tilting on its axis. “To assist me in completing multiple items in one single evening.” She took a step backward then another, needing to put as much distance between them as possible. Then she realized she had to get out. Out of this room and away from her own foolishness.

“Marian, I…” Something like regret colored his tone, but she could not bear to hear whatever justification he was about to offer.

“No. Please.” She held up a hand, backing toward the door. “Don’t spoil such a… productive evening with unnecessary explanations. I should go — it is late, and we would not want to add actual scandal to my list of accomplishments, would we?”

She turned before he could respond, grateful that her legs remained steady as she made her way to the door. Her shoes — where were her shoes? Her head was spinning though if from the brandy or from shock, she was not sure. No matter, she didn’t need the shoes anyway. She could not stay here another moment longer — could not bear to see the pity or regret or whatever emotion might be crossing his features.

“Marian, please… wait!”

But she was already gone, fleeing down the darkened corridor like Cinderella at midnight though in this story, she’d left behind not a glass slipper but something much more precious — her heart and possibly, her dignity.

She didn’t stop running until she had reached her own room, closing the door and pressing her back against it so as to physically hold back the enormous tide of emotions threatening to overwhelm her.

Her lips still tingled from his kiss, and she could smell tobacco and brandy on her clothes — evidence of an evening that had started as a girl’s naivety and ended in mortification.

What an utter fool she had been, thinking… but no, it did not matter what she had thought. Nicholas had made it perfectly clear that this had been nothing more than another item to cross off her list, another small rebellion to add to her collection of improper behaviors.

Tomorrow, she would have to face him across the breakfast table, would have to pretend that nothing happened, that her world hadn’t crumbled into a million pieces in the space of a few seconds. She would have to maintain that careful distance he had chosen to establish. But there was just one problem: now, she would know exactly what she was missing.

But tonight… tonight she would allow herself a moment of weakness, this acknowledgement of what might have been. Her fingers came up to touch her lips, and she closed her eyes against the tears stinging them.

In the morning, she would be strong again — the properly composed lady, the dutiful daughter, the woman who didn’t dream of forbidden kisses and what-ifs. But for now, in the darkness of her room, she could admit the truth she had been trying so very hard to deny.

She was in love with Nicholas Grant, and it was going to break her heart.