mask, had her every thought shown in her eyes? In the cast of her mouth? “I—I…” Now was the time to race away. To push down her skirts and run for survival. Another moment longer, he might…guess. Not who she was but what she was. And once he’d guessed that, she feared her mask would have to come off.
He kissed her cheek. Gave a smile, but it only curved his lips and left his eyes unfocused and strangely blank.
“I have to go, love.”
“You can’t!” Her outcry shocked even her. It was the best solution to let him go. But she was afraid to be alone here. She wanted—
What? For him to escort her to safety? For him to take her home—foolishness, that. She could make him call her a hackney—payment for the tupping on a chaise.
She struggled to sit up, and she stared at his back. He’d gone over to his clothes, had pulled on his shirt and was now straightening it.
Without turning, he said, “Sorry, love. But I have to pursue this hunt. I can’t stay.”
Her brain was a mess of exhaustion and pleasure, champagne and raw fear. “I’m not safe here.”
That made him turn. “Are you a professional or not?”
“New. I’m new at this. It wasn’t…wasn’t what I thought. I came only to find Georgiana.”
Shrugging on his waistcoat, Swansborough paced back over to her. With his raven hair, midnight eyes, bronzed skin, and black whorls of hair, he was so dark, like a moving shadow. Firelight danced across his face, painting the sharp planes of cheekbone, jaw, and nose with gold. “What do you want with her?”
He could intimidate even while foxed. She guessed it was second nature to a viscount. He expected her obedience.
She took a steadying breath. “How could you know she’s gone after an earl? That can’t be true.”
As he sat down on the chaise beside her, he didn’t answer. He wore only a shirt. Glancing down, Maryanne could see his now slumbering cock—so adorable she wanted to touch it. Why shouldn’t she touch it? Desperately, fearing what she might start again, she looked up. Into his face. Best to look there, not at his cock, which she felt, foolishly, belonged to her.
His lashes lowered, brushing his cheeks—heavens, she saw the hint of freckles on his cheeks, across his nose, and her heart lurched in her chest.
Slowly he tilted his head, met her gaze. His eyes were so black they shocked her. She couldn’t tell where the pupils stopped and irises began.
“How could you know?” she repeated. Could he give her a sensible answer? He looked unsteady, as though the drink was affecting him more now.
He cupped her cheek, nuzzled her neck. His hair brushed her earlobe.
She fought the urge to squeal in shock and laughter—it tickled! “Tell me.”
He lifted. He had no scruples about touching her. He pinched her right nipple through her gown. Casually ran his thumb in a circle around the nipple poking hopefully at her dress.
“It’s the on dit , love.”
She drew back. She could barely find her voice with his hand making erotic magic on her breast. “What do you mean?”
He splayed his legs. Reach down and scratched his ballocks.
Good heavens—one fuck and they’d reached the intimate level of her sister’s marriage. She knew Marcus did such things thoughtlessly in front of Venetia, her sister laughed about it with other married women. Maryanne hadn’t expected the sight of Swansborough scratching an itch to make her heart somersault in her chest.
“I was looking for Craven,” he said, as he rearranged his ballocks to his satisfaction. “The story is that Georgiana pursued him to the country, and he left her there while he returned here.”
“Georgiana would never have stayed if Lord Craven returned.” Her hair. She really should try to fix her hair. “She sent me a letter. She said she was in great danger.”
“Indeed. And you came here to rescue her?”
Her hair was a snarl. Exhausted now, she felt on the edge of tears, but
He kissed her cheek. Gave a smile, but it only curved his lips and left his eyes unfocused and strangely blank.
“I have to go, love.”
“You can’t!” Her outcry shocked even her. It was the best solution to let him go. But she was afraid to be alone here. She wanted—
What? For him to escort her to safety? For him to take her home—foolishness, that. She could make him call her a hackney—payment for the tupping on a chaise.
She struggled to sit up, and she stared at his back. He’d gone over to his clothes, had pulled on his shirt and was now straightening it.
Without turning, he said, “Sorry, love. But I have to pursue this hunt. I can’t stay.”
Her brain was a mess of exhaustion and pleasure, champagne and raw fear. “I’m not safe here.”
That made him turn. “Are you a professional or not?”
“New. I’m new at this. It wasn’t…wasn’t what I thought. I came only to find Georgiana.”
Shrugging on his waistcoat, Swansborough paced back over to her. With his raven hair, midnight eyes, bronzed skin, and black whorls of hair, he was so dark, like a moving shadow. Firelight danced across his face, painting the sharp planes of cheekbone, jaw, and nose with gold. “What do you want with her?”
He could intimidate even while foxed. She guessed it was second nature to a viscount. He expected her obedience.
She took a steadying breath. “How could you know she’s gone after an earl? That can’t be true.”
As he sat down on the chaise beside her, he didn’t answer. He wore only a shirt. Glancing down, Maryanne could see his now slumbering cock—so adorable she wanted to touch it. Why shouldn’t she touch it? Desperately, fearing what she might start again, she looked up. Into his face. Best to look there, not at his cock, which she felt, foolishly, belonged to her.
His lashes lowered, brushing his cheeks—heavens, she saw the hint of freckles on his cheeks, across his nose, and her heart lurched in her chest.
Slowly he tilted his head, met her gaze. His eyes were so black they shocked her. She couldn’t tell where the pupils stopped and irises began.
“How could you know?” she repeated. Could he give her a sensible answer? He looked unsteady, as though the drink was affecting him more now.
He cupped her cheek, nuzzled her neck. His hair brushed her earlobe.
She fought the urge to squeal in shock and laughter—it tickled! “Tell me.”
He lifted. He had no scruples about touching her. He pinched her right nipple through her gown. Casually ran his thumb in a circle around the nipple poking hopefully at her dress.
“It’s the on dit , love.”
She drew back. She could barely find her voice with his hand making erotic magic on her breast. “What do you mean?”
He splayed his legs. Reach down and scratched his ballocks.
Good heavens—one fuck and they’d reached the intimate level of her sister’s marriage. She knew Marcus did such things thoughtlessly in front of Venetia, her sister laughed about it with other married women. Maryanne hadn’t expected the sight of Swansborough scratching an itch to make her heart somersault in her chest.
“I was looking for Craven,” he said, as he rearranged his ballocks to his satisfaction. “The story is that Georgiana pursued him to the country, and he left her there while he returned here.”
“Georgiana would never have stayed if Lord Craven returned.” Her hair. She really should try to fix her hair. “She sent me a letter. She said she was in great danger.”
“Indeed. And you came here to rescue her?”
Her hair was a snarl. Exhausted now, she felt on the edge of tears, but
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