Читать книгу The Complete Regency Season Collection - Кэрол Мортимер, Кэрол Мортимер - Страница 47

Chapter Six

‘What have you done with Lady Christina this weekend?’ Darian prompted as he and Mariah travelled into Kent on Friday evening in the warmth of his lamplit coach. His valet and Mariah’s maid, along with their luggage, had already travelled into Kent in a second coach sent on ahead earlier today.

Cool turquoise eyes turned to look at him across the width of the coach. Mariah looked cosily warm in a travelling cloak, bonnet and muff for her hands of that same vibrant turquoise colour. ‘She is staying with friends.’

‘And do you trust that my younger brother will not take advantage of your absence?’ Darian had sent a note informing his brother that he would be away in the country this weekend, but not with whom; he fully expected to hear of his brother’s displeasure if or when Anthony learnt that Darian had spent the weekend in the company of the mother of the young lady about whom he had serious intentions.

‘I trust my daughter not to allow any gentleman to take advantage of my absence.’ Mariah had chosen not to speak to Christina regarding Anthony Hunter in particular, believing that to do so would only cause her independent-minded young daughter’s attention to fixate on the gentleman. But a casual conversation between mother and daughter had confirmed that Christina did not have serious feelings for any of the young gentlemen who flocked to her side on every social occasion.

Wolfingham nodded. ‘And Lady Nichols was receptive to my accompanying you?’

Mariah gave a dismissive snort. ‘What society hostess would not be receptive to counting the elusive Duke of Wolfingham amongst her guests?’

‘The Countess of Carlisle?’ Darian arched a mocking brow.

‘True,’ that countess drawled dismissively before turning away to look out of the window into the dark of the night.

This was the first time that Darian had seen Mariah since they had informed Maystone of their decision to attend the Nicholses’ weekend house party together, their arrangements having then been made through an exchange of terse notes.

A terseness that obviously still existed between the two of them now that they were together again.

Darian straightened on his side of the coach. ‘And how successful do you think we shall be at this ruse of an affair between the two of us, when you cannot even bring yourself to look at me for longer than a few seconds?’

Mariah closed her eyes briefly behind the brim of her bonnet before gathering herself to once again look coolly across the carriage at Wolfingham. ‘We have not arrived at Eton Park yet, your Grace.’

Darian Hunter gave a mocking shake of his head. ‘It is then that I am to expect that the woman who now calls me your Grace so condescendingly will suddenly turn into my adoring lover?’

Mariah firmly repressed the shiver that ran the length of her spine—she did not care to search too deeply as to whether it was a shudder of revulsion or a quiver of anticipation!—at the mere suggestion of herself and this forcefully powerful man ever really becoming lovers.

Wolfingham was just so immediate. So overpoweringly male. Just so—so Wolfingham that he would totally possess any woman brave enough to attempt to match herself against the passions that Mariah now knew, without a doubt, burned so fiercely behind that mask of stern disapproval.

Even seated in the confines of this coach with him Mariah was aware of that fire smouldering, burning, beneath his outwardly relaxed, even bored, countenance.

‘I will never be any man’s adoring lover, Wolfingham,’ she scorned—or any man’s lover at all! ‘And I will only be your pretend lover for this one weekend,’ she assured firmly. ‘I believe that you will also find my acting skills are more than sufficient as to be convincing once we are in the company of others.’ How could they not be, when for years she had managed, in public at least, to look as if she found pleasure in being at her husband’s side?

‘And might I enquire as to where and how you might have attained and honed these acting skills?’ Wolfingham arched a sceptical brow.

‘Perhaps you should turn your attention to your own performance rather than worrying about mine?’ she challenged sharply rather than answer his question.

Darian noted that the asperity, which usually edged Mariah’s tone whenever she spoke to him, had now returned. It was an improvement on her earlier cool uninterest, but only barely!

He settled more comfortably against the plush cushions of the seat. ‘I do not recall ever having received any complaints in the past regarding my performance,’ he drawled mockingly.

A flush now coloured Mariah’s cheeks, of either embarrassment or anger—though Darian would guess at it being the latter; there was no reason for Mariah to feel embarrassment discussing such a subject when she had been a married lady for many years and so familiar with her husband’s performance. And that of the other gentlemen who had shared her bed during and after her marriage!

A thought that did not give Darian any pleasure whatsoever.

He eyed her with frustration from behind lowered lids. Indeed, it had been long days—and nights—of frustrations since the morning he had called at her home and they had been joined by Aubrey Maystone.

Not least because Mariah had proved so elusive on the occasions Darian had asked for the two of them to meet in person since that time, so that they might discuss how they were to proceed this weekend. Requests Mariah had consistently refused, on the excuse of having far too many other engagements, and the arrangements to be made for their weekend away in Kent, to be able to fit a visit from him into that busy schedule.

Darian’s suggestion that, as her lover, he was supposed to be visiting her had been met with a wall of silence on Mariah’s part. A silence that had not been broken until he had called at her home to collect her earlier this evening.

Another frustration had been Maystone’s inability to persuade any of the three men, now being held and questioned, into giving them more information regarding one or both of the Nicholses’ involvement in this plot against the Prince.

Thankfully, Maystone and other members of the government had succeeded in continuing to convince the Prince Regent that it was for the best that he not attend even the Nicholses’ masked ball on Saturday evening.

Instead, Aubrey Maystone and several of his agents would take up residence at Winterton Manor for the weekend, just five miles away from Eton Park, and await word from Darian and Mariah as to the Nicholses’ reaction to the note the Prince Regent would have delivered to them at Eton Park at precisely five o’clock on Saturday afternoon, explaining his absence. Five o’clock had been chosen deliberately, when all would be gathered for tea, so that Mariah and Darian might observe Lord and Lady Nicholses’ reaction to the news, and also what followed. If anything.

It was the thought of being thrust into the midst of this weekend of licentiousness that had become yet another thorn in Darian’s side, when he would normally avoid such events like the plague. Not because, as Mariah was so fond of telling him, he was too proper and austere to attend, but simply because he preferred to perform acts of intimacy without an audience. All acts of intimacy.

Such as the numerous acts of intimacy he had imagined engaging in with Mariah, the moment he had retired to his bed these past three nights.

Resulting in him rising early each morning following a restless night’s sleep, in order to take a cold bath, before joining one or other of his friends at the boxing saloon and so allowing him to dispel some of his frustration in the boxing ring.

All of which Darian doubted would be a possible outlet for all of his restless energy during this weekend spent in Kent at Mariah’s side.

No, he fully expected to be put through even worse torture whilst in the Nicholses’ home. Especially since, as was usual at these types of unrestrained weekends of entertainment, his bedchamber would no doubt tactfully adjoin Mariah’s own.

Having already spent several hours in the coach with Mariah, that exotic and erotic perfume once again invading his senses, Darian was unsure whether or not he would be able to withstand the nightly temptation of opening the door that connected his bedchamber to hers.

‘Do you always wear the same perfume?’

Mariah looked sharply across at Wolfingham, surprised by the sudden, and harshly spoken, change of subject, but also searching for some sign of criticism. As usual his expression proved too enigmatic for her to decipher.

Her chin rose. ‘You do not like it?’

‘It is unusual,’ he answered noncommittally.

Mariah laughed softly. ‘That does not answer my question, Wolfingham.’

‘Darian.’

She blinked. ‘I beg your pardon?’

‘So far we have progressed from having you address me as your Grace to the more familiar Wolfingham. I thought now might be as good a time as any for you to begin calling me Darian.’

‘Did you?’ Mariah returned with the coolness that had become her only defence against the fire of emotions she now knew burned behind those cold green eyes. Emotions that surprisingly sparked something similar within her own fast-beating heart.

Wolfingham now shrugged those exceptionally wide shoulders, shown to such advantage in the black fitted superfine, as was the flatness of his stomach beneath a grey waistcoat and snowy white linen, his pantaloons also black, his legs long and sprawling as he relaxed back against his side of the carriage. ‘I believe most couples, in a situation such as ours is supposed to be, address each other by their given names rather than their titles.’

‘You believe?’ Mariah gave a taunting smile. ‘Do you not know for certain?’

Darian’s mouth thinned at what he knew to be her deliberate mockery. ‘The ladies I have bedded in the past have not usually had the privilege of a title,’ he drawled dismissively and had the satisfaction of seeing that blush once again colour Mariah’s cheeks. ‘But I have no particular aversion to addressing you at all times as Countess, if that is the game you like to play?’ His brief moment of satisfaction quickly faded as he saw the smile instantly waver and then disappear from those beautiful red lips, her gaze equally as uncertain. He rose abruptly to his feet. ‘Mariah—’

‘Stay on your own side of the carriage, Wolfingham.’ She held up a hand to ward him off from his obvious intention of crossing the carriage to sit on the seat beside her.

Darian froze even as he studied her face intently, noting the shadows beneath those beautiful eyes and the way the colour had now deserted her cheeks, leaving her pale and delicate. At thoughts of his moving closer to her? ‘Are you sure you wish to go ahead with this charade, Mariah?’ he finally prompted gently.

She smiled tightly. ‘Who else will do it if we do not?’

He had no answer to that argument, knowing as he did, as Mariah did, that time was not their friend. That Napoleon, having been joined by the defector Marshal Ney, and his army ever increasing, was now fast approaching Paris. There were already riots in the capitol in support of their emperor’s return and King Louis was preparing to flee. If something were to now happen to England’s Prince Regent, it was guaranteed to throw the allies into total disarray, so allowing Napoleon’s return to the capitol to be a double-edged triumph.

Darian sank back down on to his seat, but remained sitting forward so that he might reach out and take both Mariah’s hands from inside her muff, frowning as he felt the way that her fingers trembled as he held them in his own. ‘There is nothing for you to be frightened of, Mariah,’ he assured gruffly. ‘I promise I will do my utmost to ensure that no harm shall come to you this weekend.’

Mariah held back the hysterical laugh that threatened to burst forth at the obvious sincerity of Darian’s promise of allowing no harm to come to her—when the person she now feared the most was him.

Oh, not him exactly, but her responses to him certainly. Responses, of heat and desire, that did not seem to have dissipated or lessened in these past three days of not seeing him, as she had hoped that they might.

Responses that she had believed herself to be incapable of feeling towards any man.

Until Wolfingham.

Just a few minutes of being back in his company and Mariah had known that she was still aware of everything about him. The dark and glossy thickness of his hair. Those beautiful emerald-green eyes. The stark and chiselled handsomeness of his features. The strength of his muscled body.

The gentleness of the long and sensitive hands that now held her hands so lightly, but securely, within his own.

Hands that Mariah could only too easily imagine moving, exploring her body, lighting a fire wherever they touched, giving pleasure wherever they caressed. And what did she know of the pleasure of her body at any man’s hands?

Nothing, came the blunt and unequivocal answer.

If she really were a normal widow, the woman of experience Wolfingham believed her to be, then she would know. Just as she would take every advantage of their weekend together to explore this attraction she felt for him.

Except Mariah was not normal, as a widow or a woman.

Christina had been conceived on the one and only occasion Martin had— No, Mariah could never think of what he had done to her that night as making love! It had been force and pain, and humiliation for her, nothing more and nothing less.

Their marriage had been nothing but a sham from the beginning, Martin spending most of his nights in the bed of his mistress, the same woman who acted as housekeeper in their London home, and had done so for twenty years or more before Mariah and Martin were married.

Many wives might have resented having her husband’s mistress actually living in one of their homes, but Mariah had felt only gratitude; whilst Martin’s nights were occupied with Mrs Smith then he would not think of coming to her bed. She had dismissed Mrs Smith after Martin’s death, of course, for Christina’s sake as well as her own, but Mariah’s gratitude to that lady had been such that she had provided the other woman with a large enough pension for her to live comfortably for the rest of her life.

What would Wolfingham—a man who believed her to have been an adulteress in her marriage and to have had a multitude of lovers during her five years of widowhood—what would such a man think if he were to learn that Mariah had had but a single night of carnal knowledge in her life and that one occasion had been the most horrible, degrading, painful—

‘Where have you gone, Mariah?’ Darian had not liked the way in which her expression had grown distant, turned inwards, her thoughts giving a shadow to the depths of those beautiful eyes. He liked it even less when she had given an obvious shudder just now of what seemed like revulsion...

Because she did genuinely fear the coming events at the Nicholses’ home?

Or because she felt revulsion for the idea of even that pretence of an intimate relationship with him?

Unfortunately, Darian had no answer to that question.

She roused herself with effort, purposefully pulling her hands from his as she straightened, a bright and meaningless smile now curving those ruby-red lips, a smile that did nothing to take away the shadows in her eyes. ‘Why, I am right here in the carriage with you, Wolfingham,’ she assured him with unmistakable brittleness. ‘And I do believe we are now on the driveway approaching Eton Park,’ she added with obvious relief.

Darian leant back abruptly against the cushions, knowing that their brief moment of tenderness was over. If it had ever really begun on Mariah’s part.

His expression was grim as he turned to look out of the window to view the brightly lit house in the distance. He inwardly cursed himself for being a fool. He might have spent the past days and nights thinking of, desiring, Mariah, might even have anticipated being with her again, but she had shown him time and time again that she did not feel that same desire towards him.

He gave a shake of his head as he once again turned his own thoughts to the business of the weekend ahead. ‘What sort of entertainments might I expect to endure this evening?’

Mariah shrugged. ‘The full entertainments will not begin until tomorrow, obviously, but after dinner this evening I expect there will be cards and dancing.’

Darian grimaced. ‘Sounds boringly normal to me.’

She chuckled huskily. ‘I assure you there is nothing “normal” about cards and dancing in the Nicholses’ home!’

Darian eyed her speculatively. ‘Meaning?’

A small, secretive smile hovered at the corners of her mouth. ‘You will see soon enough!’

Darian disliked the sound of that. As he disliked feeling as if he were at a disadvantage, as he surely was where such weekends as this were concerned.

And meaning that he would have to look to Mariah for guidance as to the correct way for him to behave.

But first, it seemed, he had to endure the simpering and coquettish Lady Clara Nichols as she gushingly welcomed him to her home, whilst her husband showed Mariah similar attentions. Attentions, he noted with satisfaction, that she laughed off quite easily.

Darian was not so successful where Lady Clara was concerned, as she proudly introduced them to the rest of the company still assembled in the drawing room after tea: several lords, an earl, half a dozen Members of Parliament, some with their wives, but most not. There were also a dozen or so other female members of the ton, a titled lady or two, several Honourables, three well-known actresses and an opera singer, and all without the escort of their husbands.

Lady Clara then insisted, her arm firmly linked with Darian’s, on personally accompanying them up the stairs to show them to their bedchambers.

Darian felt quite sickened by her attentions by the time that lady finally took herself off to rejoin her other guests and no doubt indulge in gossip about the duke and the countess.

His top lip curled with distaste the moment the door of the bedchamber had closed behind his simpering hostess. ‘There is something particularly sickening about a lady of possibly forty years giggling like a schoolgirl.’

Mariah chuckled, no doubt at the look of disgust on his face, as she untied her bonnet and threw it down on to her bed. ‘How very ungrateful of you, Darian, when I do believe, from their situation of being at the front of the house and the opulence of these bedchambers, that Clara and Richard must have moved out of their own bedchambers in order to accommodate the two of us.’

As expected, the two of them had been given adjoining bedchambers, the door between those rooms having been left pointedly open, and no doubt the reason Darian had been subjected to Clara Nichols’s girlishly suggestive giggles when she reminded them that dinner would be served in a little over two hours. No doubt she expected the two of them to indulge in some love play before that time.

Darian’s room was acceptable, but Mariah’s—Clara Nichols’s own bedchamber?—was a ghastly nightmare of pink and cream lace and flounces. ‘How will you ever be able to sleep in such an explosion of pink?’ He grimaced as he stood in the doorway between their two rooms.

Mariah gave a dismissive shrug. ‘I shall simply blow out the candles and then I shall not be able to see it.’

Darian admired the picture of grace and beauty Mariah made in the candle and firelight as she stood in the middle of that ghastly pink room. A veritable vision in turquoise and cream, her hair appearing like spun gold, colour now warming her cheeks.

His blood stirred and he felt that tingling at the base of his spine and between his thighs, the rising and thickening of his erection, as he imagined how much more lovely Mariah would look without any clothes on at all.

Would the curls between her thighs be that same gold or possibly a shade darker?

Would her nipples be the same ruby red as her lips?

And would the folds between her thighs—

‘If you would not mind, Darian?’ Mariah’s voice softly interrupted his erotic musings. ‘My maid will be here shortly to help me bathe and dress for dinner, as no doubt will your own valet. Oh, and, Darian...?’ she added as he gave a terse bow of acceptance before turning to leave, waiting until he had slowly turned back to her before speaking again. ‘Close the door on your way out, please.’

His jaw tightened at the dismissal as he stepped through the doorway and closed the door behind him, knowing he needed the privacy in order to take care of the need throbbing through his body, before he dared to rejoin Mariah!

* * *

‘You are not intending to appear in that gown in public!’

Mariah turned from where she had been gazing at her reflection in the mirror as she put the last of the pearl clips into her hair, to now look at Wolfingham as he once again stood in the open doorway between their two bedchambers. His appearance was as resplendent as usual in black evening clothes and snowy white linen, an ebony sheen to his hair, his features once again as hard as granite.

It was the look of horror on those hard features, as he gazed back at her unblinkingly, that now brought a wry smile to her lips. ‘You do not like it?’

Like it? Darian had never seen a gown like it before! Well, not outside the walls of a brothel, at least.

The gown left Mariah’s shoulders bare except for two tiny ribbon straps and was made of some diaphanous cream material, lined with the sheerest of lace. It clearly revealed the bare outline of the curvaceous body beneath and darkening at the apex between Mariah’s thighs—revealing the nakedness of the darker curls covering her mound.

As for the bodice of the gown! It was almost non-existent, just that cream diaphanous material covering the fullness of Mariah’s breasts, the nipples plump berries and clearly showing through as being as ruby red as her lips—that ruby colour aided by rouge, if he was not mistaken.

His traitorous body had surged back into full attention the moment he looked at the reflection of those plump nipples in the mirror, and imagined Mariah applying that rouge to those succulent berries. ‘I see that a certain part of you does, at least.’ Mariah looked pointedly at the unmistakable evidence of his arousal.

Darian did not in the least enjoy feeling like a callow youth taking his first look at a naked woman.

Except Mariah was not naked.

Perhaps he would not have reacted so strongly if she had been!

Of course he would, Darian instantly chastised himself. It was only that there was something so provocative about the tantalising glimpses of those slender and obviously naked curves as Mariah moved across the room to collect her gloves from the bed, giving just the hint of those golden curls nestling between her thighs. And her breasts were magnificent; creamy, full and plump, with those red and succulent rouged nipples just begging to be tasted and suckled.

Darian wanted nothing more at that moment than to lay Mariah down upon the bed before taking those berries into his mouth and sucking and tasting their plumpness until he was sated.

If he ever was!

As for the shadow of those darker golden curls and the promise of what lay hidden between her thighs—

Darian imagined lowering her gently down on to the bed and pushing her gown up her thighs so that he might explore every silken inch of that hidden treasure. To caress the plumpness of her folds. Taste and suck the tiny nubbin above—

Beads of perspiration broke out on Darian’s forehead as he fought an inward battle not to give in to the urge to cross the room and take Mariah in his arms, to fulfil every single one of the fantasies that had been slowly driving him insane and that he now found impossible to stop.

‘I am ready to go downstairs and join the other guests, if you are?’

It took every effort of his indomitable will to pull Darian back from the brink of giving in to his desires, his voice harsh as he answered her. ‘Do you have a shawl or something you can wear about your shoulders?’ The thought of other men ogling Mariah’s almost naked breasts, and that tantalising outline of her naked curves beneath her gown, was enough to make him clench his fists violently.

Mariah gave a bell-like laugh as she collected up a fan from her dressing table rather than a shawl. ‘You will see, Darian, my gown is quite modest in comparison with the gowns some of the other ladies will be wearing this evening.’

He had no interest in what the other ladies were wearing this evening; they could all walk around stark naked for all Darian cared. But if he caught one single gentleman in the act of ogling Mariah— He was behaving more than ridiculously, Darian recognised self-disgustedly, when he had no more right to approve or disapprove of other gentlemen ogling Mariah, tonight or any other night, than—than the Prince Regent did!

Although he had no doubt that the Prince Regent, if he had been one of the guests this evening, would have taken great delight in enjoying Mariah’s appearance. The man might be plumper and more dissipated than he had been in his youth, but he still had charm enough to seduce the ladies.

Whereas Darian’s charm, what little he did possess—and no doubt Mariah would say he possessed none!—seemed to have completely deserted him for the moment.

‘Darian?’ Mariah prompted again lightly.

He gathered himself to straighten determinedly before crossing the room to hold out his arm to her, feeling much as he had when he had necessarily to prepare himself before a battle.

And unsure whether that battle this evening would be with his own wayward emotions, or with the other gentlemen present.