The Regency Season Collection: Part One. Кэрол Мортимер
nor had there ever been any gossip as to his ever having taken a permanent mistress. But that did not mean there had not been other rumours, of his liaisons with several ladies of the ton, and the gaming hells and the houses of the demi-monde he had visited on the evenings he spent with the other Dangerous Dukes.
Dangerous.
Yes, where Mariah was concerned Darian Hunter more than lived up to his reputation as being dangerous. To her independence. To her untutored body. To her untouched heart.
And that she could not, dare not, allow.
‘Goodness, Wolfingham, where on earth has all this politeness and solicitude come from?’ she taunted him mockingly. ‘If it is because of our conversation earlier today, then let me assure you that it is of no consequence.’
‘No consequence?’
‘Absolutely none,’ she dismissed coolly in the face of his vehemence. ‘It was too many years ago to be of any significance to the here and now. Nor, as I assured you earlier, do I have need of anyone’s pity. Least of all your own,’ she added with deliberate scorn.
‘Least of all mine?’ Wolfingham’s eyes were steely now as he looked at her through narrowed lids.
‘But of course.’ Mariah returned that hard gaze with a challenging one of her own. ‘You really are arrogance personified if you believed otherwise. In the circumstances I described to you earlier, a woman can either grow stronger from the experience or allow herself to be beaten down by it. I am certain that by now you know me well enough to have realised which one of those women I have become?’ She arched haughty brows.
Oh, yes, Darian knew full well which one of those women best described Mariah. Her fortitude was only one of the reasons he admired and liked her so much. Desired her so much. A desire she was now at pains to inform him she wanted no part of.
To a degree she would not even give permission for him to so much as kiss or touch her again.
Was that avoidance not telling in itself?
Or was he simply grasping at straws, because he so much wished for Mariah to return his desire?
It was a question Darian intended to explore with all thoroughness once they were well away from Eton Park.
He nodded. ‘As it is almost five o’clock, might I suggest that we join the other guests downstairs for tea?’
A surprised blink of Mariah’s long dark lashes was her only outward sign that she was surprised at his ease in accepting her refusal. ‘But of course.’ She nodded graciously as she collected up her fan before sweeping past him and preceding him out of the bedchamber.
Darian smiled grimly as he followed her out into the hallway before offering her his arm to escort her down the stairs.
Mariah might believe him to have been routed by her set-down, but if she had come to know him half as well as he now knew her, then she would very soon realise that his patience, in achieving his goals, was infinite.
And his most pressing goal, desire, was to make love with Mariah.
‘If one knows where to look, it is almost possible to see the bruises in the shape of fingerprints upon Lord Nichols’s neck,’ Mariah remarked conversationally a short time later before taking a sip of tea from her cup, as she and Wolfingham sat together on a chaise in the Nicholses’ salon. Its placement by one of the windows allowed them to observe the other guests.
‘He’s lucky he still has a neck to bruise,’ Wolfingham muttered, the ice in his gaze the only sign of his displeasure, as he gave every outward appearance of relaxation, lounging on the chaise beside her.
Mariah chuckled softly. ‘I am not sure I ever thanked you properly for your gallantry last night.’
He turned to face her. ‘No, I do not believe you did,’ he drawled drily.
‘Well, I do thank you.’ Mariah was unnerved to once again find herself the focus of those piercing green eyes. ‘These people really are an unpleasant lot, aren’t they?’ Her gaze now swept contemptuously over the other guests.
The men were drinking brandy instead of tea, with most of them already well on their way to being inebriated yet again. Including their host, as he occasionally cast a furtively nervous glance in Wolfingham’s direction.
The women were once again wearing an assortment of gowns that would be more suited to a bordello or brothel. Not that Mariah had ever been in either establishment, but she could well imagine the state of déshabillé of the women who did.
Normally Mariah would have had no difficulty in maintaining a certain distance, from both the gentlemen’s drinking and the ladies’ state of undress, when attending one of these weekend parties. She had no doubt it was the challenge her coolness represented to the gentlemen that caused the ton’s hostesses to continue to include her in these weekend invitations. The gentlemen made no secret that they began each of these weekends with a wager on which one of them might succeed in bedding the Countess of Carlisle.
Yes, normally Mariah would not have the slightest difficulty maintaining that distance.
Wolfingham’s presence, and Mariah’s complete awareness of the lean and muscled length of his body as he lounged on the chaise beside her, had heightened her senses to such a degree, she now seemed to feel and view everything as if through a magnifying glass.
The way in which even the statuary and decor in this house seemed to be attuned to the debauchery that went on under its roof.
The gentlemen’s red and bloated faces, and their avidly glittering eyes as they ogled the ladies’ state of undress.
Those same ladies vying with each other, with more and more outrageous behaviour, in order to attract and hold the attention of the gentleman, or gentlemen, they had decided to bed.
The way in which Wolfingham’s austere handsomeness, in the formal black of his clothing and snowy white linen, succeeded in putting him above any and all of the other gentlemen present.
Knowing that, aware of that, this weekend, and Mariah’s forced association with Wolfingham, could not come to an end soon enough for her.
‘Very,’ Wolfingham now drawled disdainfully. ‘I feel soiled just by being in the same room with them.’
Mariah arched a mocking brow. ‘And yet you and the other Dangerous Dukes are rumoured to frequent brothels and the houses of the demi-monde.’
His eyes narrowed. ‘I draw the line at brothels. And the ladies of the demi-monde do not pretend to be upstanding members of society.’
Mariah’s curiosity was piqued by the fact that he had not denied frequenting those houses. ‘Do you—’
‘And what are you two whispering about together so secretly?’
Without either of them having been aware of it—Darian was sure that Mariah’s attention had been as focused on him as his was on her—their hostess had crossed the room to join them and now stood looking down at them with coquettish curiosity. A lapse in concentration on their part, which Darian knew could have been very costly indeed, if they had chanced to be talking of their real reason for being here this weekend.
He stood up politely and instantly regretted doing so as his superior height gave him a clear view down the front of Clara Nichols’s loose gown, as far as her navel—decidedly not an arousing sight. ‘We were discussing the...merits of the temple in your garden, madam.’
Lady Nichols’s rouged lips gave a knowing smile. ‘So that’s where the two of you have been all day.’
‘This morning, at least.’ Darian gave an acknowledging nod. ‘Your butler was most