Darian Hunter: Duke of Desire. Carole Mortimer
was, in fact, everything that Mariah, while acknowledging his male splendour, recoiled from and disliked in a man.
‘I was not implying anything, madam.’ Those sculptured lips now turned back contemptuously. ‘Merely stating a fact.’
Mariah eyed him coldly. ‘Indeed?’
Wolfingham nodded tersely. ‘I know, for example, that my brother has attended every one of the same excessive amount of entertainments as you have these past three weeks or more. That he then rarely leaves your side for longer than a few minutes. That he calls at your home at least three, sometimes four, times a week and that he stays well beyond the time of any of your other callers. And that, in turn, you—’
‘You are having me watched?’ Mariah gasped, so disturbed at the thought she had almost stumbled in the dance.
‘I am having my brother watched,’ Wolfingham corrected grimly, his tightened grip upon her gloved hand having prevented her stumble. ‘It is an unfortunate...coincidence that you have always happened to be wherever Anthony is and so your own movements have been afforded that same interest.’
It was truly insupportable that the haughtily contemptuous Duke of Wolfingham dared to so blatantly admit to having monitored those innocent meetings. Totally unacceptable on any level Mariah cared to consider and regardless of Wolfingham’s reasons for having done so.
Lord Anthony Hunter was young, yes, but surely old enough to live his own life as he chose, without this excessive interference from his arrogant and disapproving older brother?
As for Mariah, she did not care in the least for having her personal life placed under such close scrutiny.
‘Well, madam, what is your answer to be to my request?’ Darian prompted impatiently, aware that the dance would soon come to an end and having no desire to waste any more of his evening than was absolutely necessary at the countess’s ball. His shoulder, still healing from the recent bullet wound, was currently giving him an excessive amount of pain, following his exertions on the dance floor.
Mariah Beecham pulled her hand from his and stepped back and away from him as the dance came to an end. ‘My answer is to make a request of my own, which is that you should leave my home forthwith!’
Darian’s eyes widened in surprise before he was able to hide it; he had been the Marquis of Durham for all of his life, and the Duke of Wolfingham these past seven years, and as such no one talked to him in such a condescending manner as Mariah Beecham had just done.
He did not know whether to be irritated or amused that she should have done so now. ‘And if I should choose not to?’
Her smile was again obviously for the benefit of anyone observing them, rather than genuinely meant, her gaze remaining icily cold as she took the arm he offered to lead her from the dance floor. ‘In that case I will have no choice but to ask two of my footmen to forcibly remove you,’ she answered with insincere sweetness as she removed her hand and turned to face him.
In contrast, Darian’s own smile was perfectly sincere. Indeed, he could not remember being this amused and entertained, by anyone or anything, in a very long time. If ever! ‘Are you certain two footmen would be sufficient to the task?’ he drawled derisively.
An angry flush coloured those alabaster cheeks at his obvious mockery. ‘I do not care how many footmen it takes, your Grace, as long as they are successful in removing you, and your insulting presence, from my home.’ Her voluptuous breasts quickly rose and fell in her agitation.
‘I believe I have only been stating the obvious, madam.’ Darian arched a challenging brow.
‘Which is that you consider me entirely unsuitable as a focus for your brother’s infatuation?’
‘I would go further, madam, and say that I find you entirely unsuitable to occupy any situation in my brother’s life.’ Darian’s mouth thinned disapprovingly at the realisation that he now found himself in the position of being attracted to this bewitching woman. A woman, he had discovered during the course of the past few minutes, totally unlike any other he had ever met.
Mariah Beecham was undoubtedly a dazzling beauty and it was impossible for a man’s gaze not to admire the rise and fall of those voluptuous and creamy breasts. But he had discovered, as they danced together, that she was far more than just a beautiful face and a desirable body.
Her forthright manner, and her obvious contempt for him, was a refreshing change after the years of women simpering and flirting in his company, in a bid to secure his attention and in the hopes they might one day become his duchess.
Mariah Beecham was obviously a mature and sophisticated woman. A wealthy and independent woman more than capable of making her own decisions as well as bringing up her young daughter alone. Moreover, the countess was a woman who made it perfectly clear that she would do it in exactly the way that she pleased.
That sophistication and independence of will was having the strangest effect upon Darian’s libido. Indeed, he found himself becoming aroused by her to a degree that he acknowledged his shaft had risen, and was now painfully engorged, in response to the desire he was currently feeling towards her.
Which had not been his intention when he came here this evening. Darian’s only desire had been to protect Anthony from the woman.
His jaw tightened. ‘I will leave willingly, and gladly, madam, if you will first consent to cut my brother loose from your enthralment.’
Mariah’s breath caught in her throat at this man’s temerity in continuing to insult her after having come to her home for the sole purpose of upbraiding her, in regard to what he considered her encouragement of his brother’s attentions to her. ‘I believe you must address any such remarks to your brother, rather than to myself, Wolfingham.’
‘Anthony is too besotted with you to listen to reason.’
‘That would seem to imply that you have tried?’ she taunted.
Wolfingham’s mouth thinned at her mockery. ‘I do not appreciate your humour on the subject, madam.’
Her eyes flashed. ‘And I, sir, do not in the least appreciate the insulting manner in which you have chosen to address me this evening.’
‘Then it would appear we are at an impasse,’ he drawled coldly.
Mariah’s eyes narrowed. ‘If you will excuse me— Let go of my arm, Wolfingham.’ Her warning was dangerously soft as she looked first at those long and elegant fingers currently wrapped about the top of her arm, before raising the coldness of her gaze to stare challengingly into the duke’s grimly arrogant face.
Darian had not meant to so much as lay another finger upon Mariah Beecham, not when he was already far too physically aware of her. His action, of reaching out to clasp her arm, had been purely instinctive, a reaction to the fact that she obviously intended to walk away from him.
Something he found he did not like in the slightest.
‘I believe we would be better continuing this conversation outside on the terrace,’ he bit out grimly as he maintained his hold upon her arm long enough to cross the ballroom and step outside on to the deserted terrace.
He released her arm as abruptly as he had earlier grasped it, before placing both of his hands behind his back and clasping them together as he looked down the length of his nose at her.
‘How dare you manhandle me in that way?’ Mariah Beecham gasped her outrage at finding herself alone outside on the terrace with him.
‘I believe you will find that I dare much in the protection of my impressionable younger brother, madam.’ Darian looked down at her coldly. ‘Most especially so when I have good reason to believe a woman such as yourself could never have any serious intentions with regard to a man as young and inexperienced as Anthony.’
‘A woman such as me?’ she repeated softly.
Darian nodded tersely.