The Regency Season Collection: Part One. Кэрол Мортимер
behind those walls earlier this evening?’ she gasped, eyes wide as she twisted her gloved fingers together.
Darian shrugged. ‘I doubt, with the responsibility of his other guests, that Nichols would have found the time to come up the stairs and observe you dressing.’
‘I was referring to our conversation, Darian! Did we say anything in this room earlier that might have— Do you seriously think that weasel Nichols might have watched me bathing and dressing earlier this evening?’ Mariah’s face had taken on a sickly green hue at the thought of it.
‘As I recall, our conversation was perfectly innocuous earlier,’ he reassured. ‘I also think it more likely that Lady Nichols, after escorting us to our bedchambers, would have lingered upstairs to observe me!’ Darian’s mouth twisted with distaste for the very idea of having that pale blue gaze moving lasciviously over his naked body whilst he’d bathed and dressed earlier.
Mariah stilled. ‘You believe there to be similar peepholes in your own bedchamber? In all the bedchambers?’ she added aghast.
‘After tonight I believe the master and mistress of this house to be capable of anything! After all, this is not the Nicholses’ main country residence.’ He shrugged. ‘They do not bring their children here, for example, but leave them at their Norfolk estate with their nurse. Thank heavens for small mercies!’
Mariah thought of the other occasions when she had stayed in this house, totally unaware of the eyes that might have been secretly watching her. As she bathed. As she went about her toilette. As she stood completely naked before dressing.
She felt ill.
Unclean.
Violated!
As violated as she had been that night eighteen years ago when Martin had lured her into one of the private rooms at a ball they were both attending, locked the door behind them and then coldly and calculatedly assaulted her. Warning her after the event that no one would believe the word of the daughter of a minor landowner and merchant against an earl’s, if she were to accuse him of the deed.
Mariah had been but sixteen years old and was too frightened, too devastated, felt too unclean, to dare take the risk of telling anyone what Martin Beecham, the Earl of Carlisle, had done to her.
Most especially so as he had also warned her that he would repeat the violation, again, and then again, until such time as she was with child. Not because he particularly wished for an heir, but so that she was forced into marrying him, thus bringing a good portion of her father’s fortune into the marriage.
And it had all worked out perfectly for Martin, of course, because Mariah had become pregnant with that very first attempt. She had tried to tell her parents the truth then, but as promised, Martin had denied her accusation of his having forced her, claiming that she had been as eager as he for the coupling. He also insisted that she was merely frightened of the repercussions after the event, now that she found herself with child. Repercussions that would cease to exist when she accepted his offer of marriage.
Whether or not her parents had believed Mariah’s version of events had not mattered at this point, although she liked to think that they had; she was an only child and their relationship had always been a close one.
But whether they believed her or not, her mother and father had been left with no more choice in the matter than Mariah. She would have to accept the earl’s offer of marriage. A babe born seven months after the wedding could be overlooked by society and very often was! But if Mariah refused to marry the father of her child—the more-than-willing father!—then she would be ruined and both she and her parents ostracised from society.
Faced with those choices there had been only one decision that Mariah could make.
Marriage to the very man who had raped her.
Her body might not have been violated tonight, but her privacy, her very person, had.
She was no longer a girl of sixteen, of course, too frightened to accuse the person responsible for that violation. But the reputation she had nurtured in society, as the sophisticated and flirtatious Countess of Carlisle, would most certainly be in danger if she were to now voice her complaints to her host and hostess.
As her obvious shock now had already placed that reputation in danger in regard to Darian Hunter, the astute and intelligent Duke of Wolfingham.
Mariah drew in a deep breath before straightening her shoulders and unclasping her fingers, her chin high as she turned to give Wolfingham a derisive smile. ‘How unfortunate, for the Nichols, that you grew wise to their little scheme!’
Darian was relieved to see that some of the colour had now returned to Mariah’s cheeks. Although he did not believe for a moment that she was as composed as she now wished to appear; her obvious shock a few minutes ago had most certainly been genuine.
A shock he might not have expected from one as promiscuous as Mariah Beecham was reputed to be.
He also wondered what thoughts had been going through her head just a few minutes ago. Whatever they were, they had brought a grey tinge to her already pale cheeks and haunted shadows to those beautiful eyes.
‘Very unfortunate,’ he echoed drily, prepared, for the moment, to accept that Mariah was determined to place those walls back about her emotions. This was not the time, and certainly not the place, to question her further on the subject.
But the very fact that she had not as yet upbraided him for their lovemaking earlier was surely evidence of her inner unease?
A lovemaking, and Mariah’s response, that Darian knew was going to haunt and disturb his own rest tonight—again!
‘Do you have any shawls or handkerchiefs with you? I could place them over the pictures and the head of the bed to ensure your privacy,’ he explained at her questioning frown.
‘Oh. Oh, yes, of course,’ she breathed in obvious relief as she moved to open the wardrobe and look through the things on the shelves in there. ‘Here.’ She handed Darian several handkerchiefs and two shawls. ‘Will they be enough to prevent anyone from at least seeing into this room?’
‘Oh, yes.’ Darian tied the two shawls securely to the paintings before moving on to do the same to the bed with the handkerchiefs. ‘There.’ He nodded his satisfaction as he stepped back.
‘What of your own bedchamber?’
‘I have some handkerchiefs of my own,’ he dismissed.
‘I— Then I will wish you a good night.’
He frowned. ‘Mariah—’
‘I believe we have provided enough of a display for our audience for one night, Wolfingham. Besides which, it is late and I am very tired.’ She arched one pointed brow.
Darian knew himself well and truly dismissed, without either of them having made direct reference to their heated lovemaking earlier.
If Nichols had not interrupted them then Darian might not have left this bedchamber at all tonight.
But equally, if Nichols had not interrupted the two of them, allowing Darian the time to think of what the other man was doing there at all, then they might even now be providing entertainment for the other guests.
Not that Darian was the prude Mariah had once thought him. Far from it. He had spent his share of time in gaming hells and the houses of the demi-monde, and knew full well the games played in such establishments. But that play was at the consent of both parties, not the intrusion, the violation, tonight’s game would have been to the privacy of their lovemaking. He did not perform for the entertainment of strangers.
‘Very well, Mariah.’ He nodded as he strode across the room to bend down and kiss her lightly upon her brow. ‘I wish you a good night,’ he added huskily as he looked down at her intently.
Mariah felt flustered by Darian’s close proximity, coming so soon after this shocking discovery