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 refused to give in to them. “You needn’t sound so amused. Of course I came to help.”
“In a place like this, a novice comes to rescue Mother Superior?”
A novice nun? Had he guessed she was a virgin?
She waited, as taut as a wound-up clock, but he said nothing more. He flopped back, the devil, onto the chaise.
To think she’d feared his first instinct on deflowering her would be to offer marriage. What a romantic fool she’d been. Of course, all who knew her expressed that sentiment behind their hands. Maryanne always has her nose in a book—and not the improving sort. Really, Maryanne has no practical sense at all. Maryanne must learn that romance is all very well in the pages of a book, but…
The champagne was making her thoughts a jumble. Could sex do that, too? She felt so boneless still, and her quim ached and throbbed in the most wonderful way. “She must be here. She sent the letter. I’ll have to go back out there. I have to find her.”
Doubt crept in at the edges of her conviction. Several times Georgiana had offered the chance of naughty adventure. A man to make love to her or to do everything but! She’d refused—more out of the fear of giving great leverage to Georgiana. If Georgiana knew she’d made love, she would be a slave to her partner, willing to do anything to protect her secret.
Though, really, one hint from Georgiana that a Miss Maryanne Hamilton edited erotic books and her entire life would be devastated. It was only the certainty that Georgiana needed her that kept her feeling safe. She’d grown up learning not to trust. Not anyone.
Rodesson, her father, had made so many promises and had never kept a one. They were never suitable for him, never convenient, and she’d learned, of course, that one rushed to keep promises for someone one was determined to keep.
“I had to assume her letter was the truth. I couldn’t turn my back on Georgiana’s plea.”
Swansborough got up from the chaise and patted her head. Even gave her a scratch behind her ear like a favored pup. “You aren’t going back out there, sweetheart. I promise you that Georgiana was not here when I arrived.”
She heard the hesitation and pounced. “But she could have been here. They find clues, don’t they? And go from one scandalous place to another. What if Georgiana went to the next place?”
A thought struck. What if Georgiana had planned such a thing all along? Instead of revealing where she really was, she went to the next place in the hunt and directed Maryanne here. All Maryanne needed to know was where to go next.
She needed one of the clues.
Swansborough gave her a lazy smile, the sort a lion would to a gazelle trapped beneath its paw.
“You have the most dangerous look in your eyes.” He had his trousers in his hands. “And considering I can see it even though you are masked, it definitely strikes fear in my heart.”
Determined, fighting nerves, she got up. Smoothed her skirts—as hopeless as that was. “I need the clue,” she said and gave her explanation.
His dark brows lifted. “Georgiana is that clever?” At her nod, he shook his head. “Astounding. You do realize you have to be whipped to get that clue.”
“What?”
“The lady of each couple is to be tied up and whipped. The gentleman is to receive some anal play from willing wenches while the whipping takes place.”
Georgiana had sent her here to be whipped?
“Do you still want a clue, sweetheart?”
“I don’t want to be whipped!”
“At the hands of an expert, it can be quite a sensual experience.”
“You’re mad! No!”
“I’ve never had a jade be quite so blunt, love.”
A mistake. Perhaps women readily agreed to be whipped if the suggestion was made by a man like Lord Swansborough. What if Georgiana’s life depended on her submitting to a lash?
“Not to worry, love.” That generous smile again, this one lighting up his eyes.
Easy for him to say that.
“I will get you a clue.”
“How—”
“Lock the door behind me, lass,” he continued without pause. “Barricade it if you wish. When I return I’ll knock three times and serenade you.” He fumbled with the buttons on his trousers.
“You’re drunk.”
“Not enough to stopping thinking, alas.” He picked up a wing chair and carried it to the door. He wore shirt, trousers, shoes, and an open waistcoat. “Shove the back under the knob,” he instructed.
She certainly knew how to barricade a door. She had both an older sister and a younger one.
The instant he closed the door behind him, and she was alone, Maryanne sprinted over, turned the key in the lock, and jammed the chair in place.
Now all she could do was wait.
And think about how exquisite it