Page 34 of Marquess of Stone

“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 façade 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.”

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