Читать книгу Darian Hunter: Duke of Desire - Кэрол Мортимер, Carole Mortimer - Страница 9
ОглавлениеTwo days later—the ballroom of Carlisle House, London
‘Would you care to repeat your remark, Wolfingham, for I fear the music and loud chatter must have prevented me from hearing you correctly the first time?’
Darian did not need to look down, into the face of the woman with whom he was dancing, to know Mariah Beecham, widowed Countess of Carlisle, had heard him correctly the first time; her displeasure was more than obvious, in both the frosty tone of her voice and the stiffness of her elegantly clad body.
‘I doubt that very much, madam,’ he drawled just as icily, as the two of them continued to smile for the benefit of any watching them as they moved about the dance floor, in perfect sequence with the other couples dancing. ‘Nevertheless, I will gladly repeat my statement, in that it is my wish that you immediately cease to encourage my brother in this ridiculous infatuation he seems to have developed for you.’
‘The implication being that you believe me to have been deliberately encouraging those attentions in the first place?’ His hostess for the evening arched one haughty blonde brow over eyes of an exquisite and unusual shade of turquoise blue.
A colour that Darian had previously only associated with the Mediterranean Sea, on a clear summer’s day.
Darian had long been aware of this lady’s presence in society, of course, first as the Earl of Carlisle’s much younger wife and, for these past five years, as that deceased gentleman’s very wealthy and scandalous widow.
But this was the first occasion upon which Darian had spent any length of time in her company. Having done so, he now perfectly understood his younger brother’s infatuation with the countess; she was, without doubt, a woman of unparalleled beauty.
Her hair was the gold of ripened corn, her complexion as pale and smooth as alabaster; a creamy brow, softly curving cheeks, her neck long, with elegantly plump shoulders shown to advantage by the low décolletage of her gown. Those unusual turquoise eyes were surrounded by thick dark lashes, her nose small and pert above generous—and sensual—lips and the ampleness of her breasts revealed above a silk gown of the same deep turquoise colour as her eyes.
No, Darian could not fault his brother’s taste in women, for Mariah Beecham was a veritable diamond, in regard to both her beauty and those voluptuous breasts.
Unfortunately, she was also a widow aged four and thirty to Anthony’s only four and twenty, and mother to a daughter of seventeen. Indeed her daughter, the Lady Christina Beecham, was newly out this Season, and so also present this evening. She also bore a startling physical resemblance to her mother.
The young Lady Christina Beecham did not, however, as yet have the same scandalous reputation as her mother.
It was that reputation that had prompted Darian’s recent concerns in regard to his brother’s future happiness and for him to have uncharacteristically decided to interfere in the association.
He would have understood if Anthony had merely wished to discreetly share the lady’s bed for a few weeks, or possibly even months. He accepted that all young gentlemen indulged in these sexual diversions—indeed, he had done so himself for many years at that age—for their own enjoyment and in order to gain the physical experience considered necessary for the marriage bed.
Unfortunately, this lady could never be called discreet. And Anthony had made it more than plain, in their conversation two days ago, that he did not regard Mariah Beecham as his mere mistress.
As Anthony’s older brother and only relation, Darian could not allow him to entertain such a ruinous marriage. As Anthony’s guardian, for at least another few months and so still in control of Anthony’s considerable fortune, Darian considered it to be nothing more than an unsuitable infatuation.
His efforts so far to dissuade Anthony from continuing in his pursuit of this woman had been to no avail; his brother could be as stubborn as Darian when he had decided on a course of action.
Consequently, Darian had been left with no choice but to approach and speak to the woman herself, and he had attended the countess’s ball this evening for just that purpose. His forays into polite society had been rare these past few years.
He much preferred to spend his evenings at his private club, or gambling establishments, in the company of the four gentlemen who had been his closest friends since their schooldays together. The past ten years had seen the five of them become known collectively in society as The Dangerous Dukes. It was a reputation they had earned for their exploits in the bedchamber, albeit discreetly in recent years, as much as on the battlefield.
Confirmed bachelors all, Darian had recently watched as two of his close friends had succumbed to falling in love—one of them had already married, the second was well on his way to being so.
Much as he might deplore the distance a wife would necessarily put between himself and two of his closest friends, Darian considered the two ladies in question to be more than suitable as his friends’ consorts, and had no doubt that both ladies were equally as smitten as his two friends and that the marriages would flourish.
Also, Worthing and Hawksmere were both gentlemen aged two and thirty, the same age as Darian himself, and so both old enough, he considered, to know their own minds, and hearts. His brother, Anthony, was so much younger, and as such Darian did not consider him old enough as yet to know enough of life, let alone the true meaning of love for any woman.
Most especially, he knew Anthony could have no previous experience with a woman of Mariah Beecham’s age and reputation. Nor had it helped to quell Darian’s disquiet over the association that, when he had arrived here earlier this evening, his first sighting of his younger brother had been as he danced with the countess, a besotted smile upon his youthfully handsome face!
That she now felt just as strongly opposed as Anthony did to Darian’s interference in the friendship was in no doubt as he looked down into those cold and challenging turquoise eyes.
* * *
It was a long time since Mariah had allowed anyone to anger her to the degree Darian Hunter had just succeeded in doing. Not since her husband, Martin, had been alive, in fact. But Darian Hunter, the arrogantly superior Duke of Wolfingham, had undoubtedly succeeded in annoying her intensely.
How dared this man come into her home and chastise her in this way? As if she were no more than a rebellious and impressionable young girl for him to reprove and reproach for her actions?
Actions of which she was, in this particular instance, completely innocent.
Mariah had, of course, been aware of Anthony Hunter’s youthful attentions to her during these past few weeks. Attentions that she had neither encouraged nor discouraged. The former, because Anthony could never be any more to her than an entertaining boy, and the latter, because she had not wanted to hurt those youthful feelings.
All of which she would happily have assured his arrogant duke of a brother, if Wolfingham had not been so determined to be unpleasant to her from the moment they began dancing together.
She should have known that Darian Hunter, a gentleman known for his contempt of all polite social occasions, would have an ulterior motive when he had accepted the invitation to her ball. That he had also claimed a dance with her was unheard of; the duke’s usual preference was to stand on the edge of society, looking coldly down his haughty nose at them all.
So much for that particular social feather in her cap! For Mariah now knew that Darian Hunter’s only reason for attending her ball, for asking her to dance, had been with the intention of being unpleasant to her.
If only he was not so devilishly handsome, Mariah might have found it in her heart to forgive him. After all, his concern for the welfare of his younger brother and ward was commendable; Mariah also felt that same protectiveness in regard to her daughter, Christina.
And Wolfingham’s arrogant handsomeness was of a kind that no woman could remain completely immune to it. Not even a woman as jaded as herself.
That she knew she was not immune rankled and irritated Mariah more than any of the insulting things Wolfingham had just said to her.
The duke was excessively tall, at least a foot taller than her own five feet, his overlong hair as black as night and inclined to curl slightly on his brow and about his ears. His face—emerald-green eyes fringed by thick dark lashes, a long patrician nose, sharp blades for cheekbones, with sculptured lips that might have graced a Michelangelo statue, along with a strong and determined jaw—possessed a masculine beauty that was undeniably arresting.
The width of his shoulders, and broad and powerfully muscled chest, were all also shown to advantage in his perfectly tailored, black evening clothes. As were his lean and muscled thighs, and the long length of his legs and calves.
Wolfingham 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. ‘We must both be aware of your reputation, madam.’
She eyed him coldly. ‘Must we?’
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 whole length and breadth of his body.
He clasped his shoulder as he staggered back, his knees in danger of buckling beneath him at the depth of that pain, black spots appearing in front of his eyes even as his vision began to blur and darken.
‘Wolfingham? Tell me what is wrong.’
Mariah Beecham’s voice seemed to come from a long distance away as the darkness about Darian first thickened, then became absolute.
