Her Wicked Marquess by Stacy Reid

Author:Stacy Reid
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Entangled Publishing, LLC
Published: 2020-11-02T16:00:00+00:00

Chapter Thirteen

A soft noise in her chamber urged Maryann to stir lazily among the pillows, rolling over with an indelicate yawn. Her maid tugged the heavy drapes open, pouring sunshine into the chamber. With a low moan, she lifted an elbow across her eyes.

“Mornin’, milady, the countess wishes you below stairs right away.”

Still feeling exhausted, Maryann rubbed the sleep from her eyes and turned over in the bed. A peek at the clock on the mantel revealed it to be afternoon. With a gasp she lurched upright. “Have Lady Ophelia and Miss Fanny called?”

“Yes, milady, they are waiting for you in the smaller sitting area.”

Thank heavens they had not left at her tardiness. It had been over two weeks since she had seen her friends last and she missed them dreadfully. They had agreed to meet at eleven this morning and then traverse High Holborn together and buy the latest hats printed in the fashion magazine. Stifling a groan, Maryann sat in the center of her bed, and the memory of the night slammed into her like a fist. She faltered, gripping the sheets and closing her eyes.

Oh God. That had really happened.

Last night after reaching home, she hadn’t slipped into a blissful slumber. She had tossed restlessly atop her coverlets, unable to dismiss from her awareness the marquess and what he had done to her. She hadn’t been able to simply think about the impropriety and folly of her reckless conduct. It was a blessing that when sleep finally claimed her, she slept undisturbed.

“Susie?” she said to her maid, who was going through the armoire selecting dresses and unmentionables.

The maid glanced over her shoulder. “Yes, milady?”

“I would like a few minutes alone.”

Susie dipped in a small bob and hurried from the chamber, closing the door behind her. Maryann bit her lip and slowly tugged her nightgown to her hips and stared at the scandalous bright red mark on her inner thigh. She gingerly pressed her skin, alarmed to find that the spot ached. A dark purplish bruise made by the Marquess of Rothbury’s mouth...sucking and nibbling at her tender flesh.

He was entirely too wicked.

Then the memory of his mouth against her sex and the awful pleasure which had quaked through her had her entire body blushing. To have done something so intimate and improper and shocking, and never even having kissed her mouth? And what excuse had Maryann? A fleeting encounter in the dark and she had surrendered all sense of propriety and allowed him such wanton liberties!

Unexpectedly, she laughed and dropped back into the mound of pillows and cushion, releasing a gusty breath. “I must be going mad,” she breathed.

Something wicked this way comes. Be with ruin or banishment once it knocks on my door, dare I answer?

“What am I to do about the truth of liking you?” And she did like him very much. Who are you, Nicolas St. Ives, and why do I so desperately want to see you…to kiss you, to just hold you to

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