Darian Hunter: Duke of Desire. Carole Mortimer
His gaze turned frosty at her tone. ‘That reputation apart, you were married to a man at least twenty-five years your senior and now you are dallying with a man at least ten years younger than yourself.’ Darian gave a shrug. ‘Perhaps it is that you are afraid of entertaining the attentions of a man of your own age?’
Mariah knew that this man could have absolutely no idea of the unhappiness she had suffered during her years of marriage to the much older Martin Beecham; they had both taken great care, for their daughter, Christina’s, sake, to ensure that society did not learn of their deep-felt dislike of each other.
As for her dallying with this man’s younger brother? It was pure nonsense. The young Lord Anthony had certainly received no encouragement from her, in what Wolfingham now claimed was his brother’s infatuation with her.
Truth be told, Mariah did not have a serious interest in any gentleman, her marriage to Martin having soured her towards spending too much time in the company of any man, let alone trusting her emotions, her heart, to one of them. In her opinion, all men were selfish and controlling. And she had no intentions of being controlled by anyone ever again.
Certainly not Wolfingham!
‘A man such as yourself, you mean?’ she taunted drily.
‘I would appear to fit that criteria, yes,’ he bit out harshly.
She gave a scornful smile. ‘I believe you are still a year or two younger than I, Wolfingham. Nor, after this conversation, would I be foolish enough to ever believe any interest you showed in me, now or in the future, to be in the least sincere.’
Then she would be wrong, Darian acknowledged reluctantly. Because these past few minutes in her company had shown him he was very interested in Mariah Beecham. Intellectually as well as physically.
Not only was it an unwise interest on his part, but it was also a forbidden one, in light of Anthony’s feelings for the woman. Darian could not be so disloyal to his brother as to try to win, and bed, the woman Anthony believed himself to be in love with.
‘You would be perfectly correct to mistrust any such interest,’ he conceded drily.
‘Then if we have quite finished this conversation?’ She arched haughty brows. ‘It is rather chilly out here and I have other guests to attend to.’
‘First I wish to know if it is your intention to continue seeing Anthony.’
‘As it would appear he attends most, if not all, of the same entertainments as myself, I do not see how I can do otherwise.’
So much for his being a voice of reason, Darian derided himself impatiently. He seemed, in fact, to have only succeeded in making the situation worse, rather than better. By approaching Mariah Beecham and talking to her of his concern for Anthony, he appeared to have angered the lady into doing the opposite of what he asked.
Not only that, but he now seemed to have developed a physical desire for the woman himself!
She looked especially lovely in the moonlight, her hair having turned palest gold, her flawless skin pure ivory against the darker silk of her gown. As for her perfume! It was a mixture of flowers and some heady and exotic scent Darian could not quite place, but that seeped insidiously into his very pores, heightening his senses, so that he was aware only of the woman standing so proudly beautiful before him.
‘Must we continue to argue about this, Mariah?’ His voice lowered huskily even as he took a step forward.
Her gaze became guarded as she tilted her head further back in order to be able to look up at him. ‘I have not given you permission to use my first name,’ she bit out frostily. ‘Nor am I aware of any argument between the two of us. You have made a request and I have discounted the very idea of there ever being any sort of alliance between your brother and myself. As far as I am concerned, that is an end to the subject.’
Darian drew in a deep breath. ‘I do not see how it can be, when Anthony seems so set upon his pursuit of you.’
Mariah was not at all happy at the way Darian Hunter had moved so much closer to her. So close, in fact, that she felt as if her personal space had been invaded. And not in an altogether unpleasant way.
Her years of marriage to Martin had been extremely difficult ones, so much so that in the early years of their marriage she had preferred to remain secluded in the country. Maturity had brought with it a certain confidence, a knowledge, if you will, of her own powers as a woman, if not in regard to her husband, then at least towards the attentions shown to her by other gentlemen. With that confidence had come the art, the safety, of social flirtation, without the promise of there ever being anything more.
It was a veneer of sophistication that had stood her in good stead since Martin’s death five years ago, when so many other gentlemen had decided that the now widowed and very wealthy Countess of Carlisle would make them an admirable wife.
As if Mariah would willingly forgo the newfound freedom and wealth that widowhood had given her, in order to become another man’s wife and possession!
Oh, she knew well the reputation she had in society, of a woman who took as her lover any man she chose. Knew of it, because it was a reputation she had deliberately fostered; if Mariah Beecham was known only to take lovers, rather than having any intention of ever contemplating remarrying, then the fortune hunters, at least, were kept at bay.
Occasionally—as now!—a gentlemen would attempt to breach those walls she had placed about herself and her private life, but to date she had managed to thwart that interest without offence being taken on either side.
Even on such brief closer acquaintance, she knew that Darian Hunter, the powerful Duke of Wolfingham, was not a man to be gainsaid by flirtatious cajolery or, failing that, the cut direct.
And he was currently standing far too close to Mariah for her comfort.
‘I have already told you that you must speak with your brother further on that subject, Wolfingham.’ Mariah tilted her chin challengingly. ‘Now if you would kindly step aside? As I have said, it is now my wish to return to my other guests.’
Instead of stepping away Darian took another step forward, at once assailed by the warmth of Mariah Beecham’s closer proximity and the aroma of that exotic and unique perfume. ‘And do you always get what you wish for, Mariah?’ he prompted huskily.
The nerve fluttered, pulsed, in the slender length of her neck, as the only outward sign of her disquiet at his persistence. ‘Rarely what I wish for,’ she bit out tersely, ‘but invariably what I want!’
‘And what is it that you want now, I wonder?’ Darian mused as he continued to breathe in, and be affected by, her heady perfume. ‘Can it be that your air of uninterest and detachment is but a ruse? And that secretly, inwardly, you long for a man who will take the initiative, take control of the situation? To take control of you?’
‘No!’ the countess gasped, her face having paled in the moonlight.
His brow rose. ‘Perhaps you protest too much?’
‘I protest because it is how I genuinely feel,’ she assured vehemently. ‘I am no gentleman’s plaything, to be controlled.’
‘No?’ One of Darian’s hands moved up of its own volition, with the intention of cupping the smooth curve of her cheek.
‘Do not touch me!’ She flinched back, her eyes huge turquoise pools now in the pallor of her face.
Darian frowned at her vehemence. ‘But I should very much like to touch you, Mariah.’
‘I said, do not touch me!’ Her expression was one of grim determination as she reached up and attempted to physically push Darian away from her.
It was now Darian’s turn to gasp, to lose his breath completely, as one of her tiny hands connected with his recently injured and painfully aching shoulder, causing pain such as he had never known before to burst, to course hotly, piercingly, through the