Darian Hunter: Duke of Desire. Carole Mortimer
Mariah Beecham, it would be unwise for Darian to allow his own attraction to her to develop into anything deeper than the physical discomfort it already was. Even if Mariah Beecham was herself agreeable to taking it any further, which he already knew that she was not.
On a logical level, Darian knew and accepted all of those things.
Unfortunately, his aroused and hardened body had a completely different opinion on the matter!
‘If you please?’ His gaze was intent upon her face now as he held out his shirt to her, allowing him to note the deepening of the blush that coloured her cheeks and the pulse throbbing at the base of her slender throat.
A surprising physical reaction, surely, coming from an experienced woman reputed to have indulged in many affairs, both during her marriage and since?
Darian’s gaze narrowed searchingly as she stubbornly lifted her chin to meet his challenging gaze. She still made no effort to relieve him of his shirt. ‘Unless, of course, you find the idea, and me, too repulsive...?’
It took every effort of Mariah’s will to hold back the choked, slightly hysterical, laugh that threatened to burst from her throat, at the mere suggestion that any woman, that she, might find anything about Wolfingham in the least repulsive.
For the first time, in more years than she cared to remember, Mariah found herself wholly and completely physically aware of a man.
Of Darian Hunter, the arrogant and contemptuous Duke of Wolfingham, of all men.
Nevertheless, Mariah was aware. Of his reassuring height. His rakishly handsome good looks. And the lean and muscled strength of his body.
And she did not welcome the sensation.
She placed a disdainful curl on her lips. ‘It is certainly true that I have always been...particular...as to which men I choose to be intimate with.’
‘All evidence to the contrary, madam!’
Mariah drew her breath in sharply at the unexpected and contemptuously delivered insult, before just as quickly masking that response; the sophisticated and experienced Mariah Beecham—a public persona she had deliberately nurtured these past seven years—would laugh derisively in the face of such an insult.
Which was exactly what Mariah did now. ‘I am flattered that you should have even taken the time to notice such things in regard to myself, Wolfingham.’
His nostrils flared. ‘You take delight in your reputation?’
Did she?
Oh, yes!
It was Mariah’s own personal joke on society, that they should all perceive her as being one thing and she knew herself to be something else entirely. Only her darling Christina, now seventeen, and currently enjoying her very first Season, had necessarily been informed of the true reason for Mariah’s flirtatious behaviour in public. It was a risk to share that confidence with anyone, of course, but Mariah simply could not have borne for her darling daughter, the person she loved most in all the world, to ever believe the nonsense society gossiped about her.
‘No doubt as much as you do your own,’ Mariah now dismissed enigmatically.
Darian scowled as he recalled what this woman had described as being his reputation. ‘Then that would be not at all.’
She smiled. ‘Unfortunately, even you cannot dictate what society thinks of you.’
‘Even I?’
‘Why, yes, for you are the omnipotent Duke of Wolfingham, are you not?’ she dismissed airily. ‘Your shirt, if you please,’ she instructed briskly, reaching out to take the item of clothing from him. Wolfingham continued to hold on to it, standing far too close to her while he did so.
Darian looked down at her intently, wishing he knew at least some of the thoughts going on inside that surprisingly intelligent head of hers. Before speaking with Mariah Beecham yesterday evening, Darian would have described her, had considered her, as nothing more than an empty-headed flirt, with little in her beautiful head but the pursuit of her own pleasure.
He still had no idea of what or who Mariah Beecham truly was, but an empty-headed flirt she certainly was not.
Rendering her flirtation with Anthony, a man fully ten years her junior, all the more puzzling.
‘Mariah—’ Darian broke off his husky query as there was the briefest of knocks on the door to the bedchamber before it was opened.
‘Mama, I—’ Lady Christina Beecham stopped what she had been about to say as she stood in the open doorway, eyes wide as she took in the apparent cameo of intimacy between her mother and their half-dressed guest.
Darian had certainly never been discovered in quite such a scene of apparent intimacy by the daughter of any woman, and he now found himself momentarily nonplussed as he searched his mind for something appropriate to say or do. He frowned down at Mariah Beecham as she looked up at him. She began to chuckle huskily, before that chuckle became a full-throated laugh of pure enjoyment.
At Darian’s obvious expense...
‘I trust, Lady Christina, that you do not think too badly of me for the circumstances under which we last met?’ Darian murmured politely as the two of them danced together at Lady Stockton’s ball, fully a week after their first momentous meeting in a guest bedchamber at Carlisle House.
A week in which Darian had necessarily to spend most of his time in his own bed, recovering from the setback from his bullet wound. For much of that time he’d found his thoughts returning to that morning in Mariah Beecham’s guest bedchamber.
Not that there had been a great deal for him to remember and think about once Christina Beecham had appeared in the bedchamber so unexpectedly.
Mariah’s amusement at the interruption had been short-lived, her movements having then become brisk and businesslike as she had helped Darian on with his shirt before excusing herself to go downstairs and see to the ordering of his carriage. The two ladies had left the bedchamber arm in arm together.
Darian had felt surprisingly weak after having completed dressing himself as best he could, sitting on the side of the bed to recover as he awaited the arrival of his carriage. Once arrived, his groom had then helped him down the stairs and into that carriage, necessitating that Darian’s words of gratitude for the countess’s assistance be brief.
Once returned to Wolfingham House, he had sent for his own physician, who’d agreed with his colleague’s diagnosis, as he confined Darian to bed for the next three days at least, and rest thereafter for several more days, unless Darian wished to shuffle off his mortal coil completely.
Darian despised any form of weakness, in himself more than others, and that enforced time abed had not sat easily upon his shoulders, despite receiving several visits from his closest friends to help relieve the boredom. Anthony had also called upon him several times and been told that Darian was indisposed and not receiving visitors, which allowed Darian to at least avoid that particular confrontation until he was feeling more himself.
He had to trust that the countess would keep her promise in regard to discussing with others the bullet wound to his shoulder and the night he had necessarily spent in her home. But he had no doubt Mariah would have taken great delight in regaling Anthony with the details of Darian’s efforts to persuade her to end their friendship.
Once he felt well enough, Darian had dictated a letter of gratitude to his secretary, to be delivered to the countess, carefully worded so as not to reveal the full extent of his indebtedness to her. He had received no acknowledgement or reply to that missive. As if Mariah Beecham, like himself, would prefer to continue as if that night had not taken place at all.
Consequently, this was the first occasion upon which Darian had been able to offer his apologies in person,