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“Is that such a bad thing?” he asked softly. “Tell me, My Lady, why do we care so deeply about rules and propriety? What do they gain us?”
Marcella didn’t flinch away, either from him or his questions. She’d never met a man who was so bold, and the presence of this man stirred butterflies in her belly. Her breath quickened.
“I think that propriety has its place, like all things.”
“Do you enjoy it?” he asked.
Marcella pursed her lips together, considering the question, but she’d noticed that the gentleman had loosened his cravat. It seemed that her eyes could scarcely resist fixating upon that elegant, tantalizing throat.
“Sometimes,” she said. “Propriety can have its thrills if it is, for example, being employed in a witty conversation. Other times, it can be suffocating, I suppose. It feels somehow…I’m not sure how I’d describe it.”
“As if you’re an imposter?” the man asked. “As if you’re being forced to hide everything you are and everything you feel?”
He reached out with a trembling hand. His movements were slow and cautious, allowing her time to stop him. She should’ve, but the man before her was interesting. Intriguing.
His fingertips brushed her cheek. “I think propriety is just a shield,” he said softly, his thumb brushing a curl back from her eyes. “We use it because if we do not, we’ll be forced to accept how terrible the world truly is and howmuchwe all feel.”
“Have you seen much of the world?” Marcella asked softly.
“So much,” he replied. “So many people and places, so much suffering. And I return here to find thetonpartying in the midwinter, as if the streets of London aren’t filled with the destitute and the vulnerable. It’s sickening.”
“I’ve never…” Marcella trailed off. “I’ve never seen those parts of London, I’ll confess.”
The gentleman lowered his hand, but he didn’t step further away. Marcella’s heart skipped a beat that he still remained so near. Her eyes traced over his fine jacket and waistcoat; she wished to preserve every memory for her writings.
“I’ve never met a man quite like you,” she added, “who cares about such things. I’m quite sure that more men like you exist, but they do not run in my family’s circles.”
“Even if they exist, you can’t really understand an experience you haven’t lived,” the man countered.
“Is that why you’re really out here?” Marcella asked. “You feel as though you do not belong with thetonbecause you care about matters which the rest of thetondoes not?”
“I suppose. Among other things,” he replied, waving a vague hand.
Marcella hummed, accepting the answer. It struck her as evasive, but already, she felt as though she and the stranger had been too forward with one another. She’d let the gentleman keep his secret for the night.
“Let’s suppose I asked you to do something wicked,” the man said softly. “Would you?”
Marcella’s toes curled in her slippers. She became suddenly aware of the night’s chill seeping through her gown. “No, I couldn’t,” she replied. “The world is far less kind to wicked women than it is to wicked men.”
A low chuckle rumbled from his chest. “So it is. I’ve made the same observation myself. It’s a pity that the world is so horrible to women.”
“And others,” Marcella said, “like those poor souls you mention.”
He nodded and glanced towards the manor. “Well. I’d best be going back before I’m missed. Might I have your name before I go?”
Marcella’s lips curled into a small, sad smile. “No, I don’t think so,” she replied. “I’d never give my name to a man who asked me to do wicked things and behaved so inappropriately. I’ve my virtue to think of.”
“Is that how virtue works? It seems as though it’s too easily lost.”
“It is, indeed.”
The gentleman offered her a deep, mocking bow. “If that is, indeed, the case, I apologize. I’d not meant to compromise your virtue. I’ll take my leave, and if we ever cross paths again, I’ll pretend that I’ve no idea who you are.”
“Excellent,” Marcella said, brushing past him. “And I will return to the manor before you, so we can keep the appearance of having not met one another alone.”
Behind her, he laughed. Heat rose to Marcella’s face, and although she hardly felt the cold anymore, she quickened her pace. For a moment, she really did feel like the heroine of some novel. She shook her head. Hadn’t she always disliked the heroines in ladies’ novels? Hadn’t she decried them for being so superficial and obsessed with love?
