Page 10 of Marquess of Stone

“Perhaps I do,” he replied, his expression unreadable. “Dreams unfulfilled often weigh heavier than the burdens imposed.”

Marian stared at him, her anger momentarily eclipsed by confusion. Was he mocking her? Or was there something genuine to his words?

Before she could respond, he folded the parchment neatly and extended it to her. This time, he didn’t pull back when she reached for it, her fingers brushing against his for a brief moment.

“I shall keep your secret, Lady Marian; you have my word,” he said, his voice low, but steady. “But I truly hope you will consider taking a few risks. And if you will, think on this: should you find yourself in need of assistance to cross more things off your precious list… you know where to find me.”

Marian stared at him blankly for a moment. She clutched the list tightly, her heart pounding as she stepped back. “Goodnight, My Lord,” she said, her voice sharper than she intended.

Lord Stone inclined his head, his gaze lingering on her as she turned and walked away.

Marian reached her room a few moments later and closed the door behind herself, leaning against it as her chest heaved with unsteady breaths. She unfolded the list again and stared down at her own words, the ink blurred slightly. She was grateful to have it back, but she hated him for finding it. She hated him for reading it. But most of all, she hated the way his words lingered in her mind, a quiet echo she couldn’t ignore:a list like this deserves to be lived.

Marian sat on the edge of her bed, still clutching the folded list tightly in her hands. Then she remembered his parting words to her, a most enticing offer that she was not sure she could refuse:should you find yourself in need of assistance to cross a few things off your precious list… you know where to find me.

CHAPTER 4

“Lord Stone!” A whisper of words came from the corridor, barely audible above the gentle crackle of the dying fire within Lord Stone’s chambers. He cocked his head, thinking for a moment that he had imagined it.

“Yes?” It had almost sounded like Lady Marian, but it could not be. Ladies of noble breeding did not venture through darkened corridors at night, did not seek private audiences with unmarried gentlemen, and most certainly did not knock upon their bedchamber doors.

“Please open up, My Lord.” Lord Stone had been lounging in his chair, a volume of poetry forgotten in his lap as he contemplated the amber depths of his brandy. Like the first drink of a particularly good vintage, the unexpected sound of her voice pleasantly surprised him.

He could hear her clearly now, her trembling tone awakening something deep inside his chest. “Has Lady Marian come to haunt me already?” His low, silky voice filled the silence. Rising with calculated slowness, he headed for the door. His evening shirt hung free and untucked, his cravat long since thrown aside, his dark hair rakishly messy. He glanced at himself as he passed the mirror that captured his reflection. He cracked the door open, a smirk playing at the edges of his mouth as a sliver of firelight poured down the shadowy corridor.

The scent of her reached him first — honeysuckle and night-blooming jasmine mixed with something uniquely Marian. He opened the door wider, drinking in the sight of her. She stood in the shadows, her midnight blue shawl pulled tight around her slender frame, her hair falling loose in tantalizing waves about her shoulders. Her breath came in uneven bursts, and for a fleeting moment, she looked as though she might either faint or bolt.

The vulnerability in her expression sent a surge of protective instinct through him that he almost did not recognize, but it was quickly tempered by the mischievous urge to tease.

“I… I should not be here,” she whispered.

“And yet,” Lord Stone replied, “here we both are. Strange is it not, how lines we would not dare cross in the light of day seem to vanish in the dark of night?”

Marian’s eyes widened, and whatever she was planning on saying died in her throat as she took in his state of undress. The exposed column of his throat, the glimpse of chest hair visible where his shirt lay open — her eyes stared blankly for a moment before she quickly averted them, a becoming flush spreading across her cheeks. Whatever boldness had carried her to his door seemed to evaporate like morning mist before the sun.

“Lady Marian,” he drawled, letting his voice drop to a low, intimate register, “to what do I owe the pleasure of such a late-night visit?” The words carried subtle challenge, reminding them both of the impropriety of the moment.

Lord Stone watched with undisguised satisfaction as her gaze flickered down to his exposed chest before snapping back to his face. The way she fought against her own reaction to his undressed state was endlessly entertaining to him. The moonlight filtering in through the tall window caught the pulse fluttering at her throat betraying her composure.

“I… I could not sleep,” Marian stammered, her fingers twisting the fabric of her shawl. The fine silk whispered with each movement, a sound that seemed deafening in the midnightly quiet. Her confidence, so carefully gathered just a moment before, crumbled beneath his knowing gaze.

“Could not sleep, or could not stop thinking about me?” He couldn’t resist the urge to provoke her, leaning casually against the doorframe and folding his arms across his chest. The movement drew her eyes once more, and he suppressed a grin of triumph. The game between them was as delicate as a chess match, each move calculated to draw out the other’s true intentions.

Marian’s spine stiffened, pride warring with embarrassment. “Do not flatter yourself, My Lord. I merely needed to speak with you.” The steel in her voice would have done credit to a general marshaling his troops though the effect was somewhat undermined by the way her fingers continued to worry at her shawl’s ties.

“By all means, come in.” Lord Stone stepped aside with an exaggerated bow, one that would have earned him a sharp rebuke from his etiquette master. “Let us not keep the ghosts of the hallways entertained with our conversation.” The jest carried an edge of truth — servants’ gossip could destroy a reputation faster than any scandal sheet.

“This is… inappropriate,” Marian muttered though she took one step closer to the threshold.

“Very much so,” Lord Stone agreed. Marian hesitated for a heartbeat before slipping past him into his chamber, bringing with her that intoxicating blend of floral sweetness and nervous energy. He closed the door with a soft click, savoring the intimacy of the moment — Marian Brandon, the most proper young lady in London society — with a reputation that spoke of defiance to boot — standing in his bedchamber in the dead of night. The mere fact of her presence here could ruin her, and they both knew it. The knowledge hung between them like incense, heavy and intoxicating.

The firelight played across her features, casting dancing shadows that softened her usual sharp edges. She looked lost, uncertain where to place herself in this unfamiliar territory. Every social convention they’d been raised with screamed against this moment, yet here they stood, treading the dangerous ground between propriety and desire. There was something unguarded about her tonight — something real.

“You did not expect me to come, did you?” she asked, her voice carrying a forced note of confidence that reminded him of debutantes at their first ball, trying desperately to appear worldly.

Lord Stone moved to the sideboard where his brandy decanter waited, using the familiar ritual of pouring a drink to give her time to collect herself. “Truthfully? No.” he admitted, taking a measured sip. “But I am glad you did.” He lifted a second glass in silent offer, unsurprised when she shook her head — accepting spirits in a gentleman’s private chamber would be beyond comprehension, even given their current situation.

“I really shouldn’t be here,” she said suddenly, turning back toward the door.

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