DANGEROUS DUKES

Rakes about town

Carole Mortimer introduces London’s most delectable dukes in her new mini-series.

But don’t be fooled by their charm, because beneath their lazy smiles they’re deliciously sexy—and highly dangerous!

Coming this month

DARIAN HUNTER: DUKE OF DESIRE

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. Responses which 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. A pleasure she’d never imagined she could desire so deeply …

Darian Hunter:

Duke of Desire

Carole Mortimer

www.millsandboon.co.uk

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DEDICATION

My good friend, Susan Stephens.

What fun we have on our travels!

CAROLE MORTIMER was born in England, the youngest of three children. She began writing in 1978, and has now written over one hundred and fifty books for Harlequin Mills & Boon®. Carole has six sons: Matthew, Joshua, Timothy, Michael, David and Peter. She says, ‘I’m happily married to Peter senior; we’re best friends as well as lovers, which is probably the best recipe for a successful relationship. We live in a lovely part of England.’

Contents

Cover

Introduction

Excerpt

Title Page

DEDICATION

About the Author

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Epilogue

Extract

Copyright

Prologue

March 1815—White’s Club, London

‘You wanted to speak to me?’

Having been perusing today’s newspaper, whilst seated in an otherwise deserted private room of his club, Darian Hunter, the Duke of Wolfingham, now continued reading to the end of the article before folding the broadsheet neatly into four and placing it down on the low table beside him. He then glanced up at the fashionably dressed young gentleman who had addressed him so aggressively. ‘And a good afternoon to you, too, Anthony,’ he greeted his younger brother calmly.

Anthony eyed him impatiently. ‘Do not come the haughty duke with me, Darian! Most especially when I know it is you who wished to speak with me rather than the other way about. You have left messages for me all over town,’ he reminded as Darian raised dark brows questioningly. ‘I presumed the matter must be of some urgency?’

‘Is that why it has taken you those same two days to respond to those messages?’ Darian was not fooled for a moment by his brother’s bluster. He knew that his brother always went on the attack when he knew he was in the wrong, but was refusing to admit it.

‘I have better things to do with my time than seek out the more often than not elusive Duke of Wolfingham—even if he does happen to be my big brother as well as my guardian. The latter for only another three months, I thank heavens!’

‘Oh, do sit down, Anthony,’ Darian snapped. ‘You are making the place look untidy.’

Anthony gave a wicked grin at having obviously succeeded in irritating Darian as he threw himself down into the chair opposite. He was dressed in the height of fashion as usual, in his jacket of royal blue, with a bright blue-and-green paisley-patterned waistcoat beneath and buff-coloured pantaloons, his dark hair rakishly overlong and falling across his brow. ‘When did you get back to town?’

‘Two days ago, obviously,’ Darian drawled.

‘And you immediately sought me out?’ Anthony raised mocking brows. ‘I am flattered, brother.’

‘Don’t be,’ he advised pointedly.

His brother now raised his gaze heavenwards. ‘What have I done to annoy you this time? Overspent at my tailor’s? Gambled at the cards a little too heavily?’

‘If only it was your usual irresponsible behaviour then I should not have needed to speak with you at all, but merely dealt with the matter as I always do,’ Darian drawled in a bored voice. ‘I am sure we are both well aware of why it is I wished to speak with you, Anthony,’ he added softly.

‘Not the slightest idea.’ The fact that Anthony shifted uncomfortably, his gaze now avoiding meeting Darian’s as a slight flush coloured his cheeks, instantly gave lie to the claim.

Darian gave a humourless smile. ‘Do not force me to mention the lady by name.’

Anthony narrowed eyes as emerald green as Darian’s own, the two of them very alike in colouring and looks, and so obviously brothers, in spite of the eight years’ difference in their ages; Darian aged two and thirty to his brother’s four and twenty. ‘If you are referring to the actress with whom I had a liaison last month, then I do not even recall her name—’

‘I am not.’

Anthony gave an exaggerated stretch of his shoulders. ‘Then give me a clue, brother, because I have absolutely no idea what—or possibly who?—you might be referring to.’

Darian’s mouth firmed at his brother’s determination not to make this an easy conversation. For either of them. ‘It has been brought to my attention that you have been seen in the company of a certain lady, more often than is socially acceptable.’

Anthony stilled. ‘Indeed?’

Darian nodded. ‘And while it is perfectly acceptable for you to discreetly indulge in a gentleman’s diversions, this particular lady could never be considered as being in the least discreet. Indeed, she is—’

‘Have a care, Darian,’ Anthony warned softly.

‘Her associations, past and present, mean she is not a woman with whom it is acceptable for a gentleman of your standing to indulge in these diversions,’ Darian maintained determinedly. ‘You—’ He broke off as Anthony sprang lightly to his feet, hands clenched into fists at his sides as he glared down at Darian. ‘I have not finished—’

‘In regard to this particular lady, I assure you that you have indeed finished,’ Anthony said fiercely. ‘And might I say that you have a damned nerve, daring to lecture me about my behaviour, when you have only just returned from spending almost two weeks in the company of whatever doxy it was who had so taken your fancy you might have disappeared off the edge of the earth! Or perhaps it is that you consider a duke is allowed to live by different standards than us mere mortals?’

Darian lowered heavy lids as he flicked an imaginary speck of lint from the sleeve of his jacket, at the same time avoiding meeting his brother’s accusing gaze.

Not because he had just spent almost two weeks with his latest doxy. ‘Latest doxy’? Darian could not even remember the last time he had spent any length of time in a woman’s company, let alone her bed.

No, the reason for his avoidance of Anthony’s probing gaze was because he had not been in a woman’s company at all, but had spent almost two weeks across the sea in France, acting secretly as an agent for the Crown.

Almost two weeks when he and his good friend Zachary Black, the Duke of Hawksmere, had roamed the French countryside, and then Paris itself, as they endeavoured to gauge how the French people themselves felt about Napoleon’s return, the emperor having recently escaped from Elba and currently on his way to the French capital.

Not even Darian’s own brother was aware of the work he had undertaken for the Crown these past five years. Anthony certainly had no idea that Darian had suffered a bullet wound to the shoulder just days ago, a souvenir of this last foray into France. And that he was suffering with the pain and discomfort of that wound even now.

Something that had not improved his temper in the slightest. ‘Perhaps you would care to lower your voice?’

‘Why should I, when there is no one else here to hear us?’ Anthony challenged as he looked about the otherwise empty room.

Darian sighed. ‘I am well aware that this lady has certain attributes that you—most gentlemen!—might find diverting. But she is not a discreet woman. Far from it, if gossip is to be believed. People in society are starting to comment upon your marked attentions to her.’

‘Then let them,’ Anthony dismissed with bravado.

He sighed. ‘It simply will not do, Anthony.’

‘Says who? You?’ his brother challenged, aggressive once again. ‘I am almost five and twenty, Darian, not five. Nor,’ he added darkly, ‘do I appreciate your interference in this matter.’

‘Even when I have your best interests at heart?’

‘Not when I am in love with the lady, no.’

Darian held on to his temper with difficulty, having had no idea that his brother’s affections had become engaged to such a degree. A physical diversion, if discreetly handled, was acceptable; a love affair most certainly was not. ‘I am sure the lady has certain charms and experience, which you obviously find attractive. But it would be a mistake on your part to confuse lust with love.’

‘How dare you?’ Anthony challenged fiercely, his face having become a mottled and angry red. ‘My intentions towards the lady are completely honourable!’

Then it was worse even than Darian had feared. ‘By all means continue to bed her then, Anthony, if that is your wish. All I am asking is that you at least try to make less of the association when the two of you are in public.’

‘Continue to—’ Anthony looked as if he might now explode with the depth of his fury. ‘I have not laid so much as an indelicate finger upon the lady. Nor do I intend to do so until after I have made her my wife.’

Now it was Darian’s turn to stand up, his shock at this announcement too great to be contained. ‘You cannot even think of making such a woman your wife!’

‘Such a woman? You damned hypocritical prig!’ Anthony glared at him, eyes glittering darkly. ‘You return from who knows where, after spending days, almost two weeks, in some woman’s bed, and you have the nerve to tell me how I might conduct my own life. Whom I may or may not marry! Well, I shall have none of it, Darian,’ he dismissed heatedly. ‘In just a few more weeks I shall have control of my own life and my own fortune, and when I do I shall marry whom, and when, I damn well please.’

Darian gave an impatient shake of his head. ‘This particular woman is—’

‘A darling. An angel.’ His brother’s voice rose angrily. ‘And it is as well you have chosen not to so much as say her name, because your conversation today shows you are not fit to do so.’

Darian winced. From all that he had heard of the lady, she was neither a darling nor an angel. Far from it.

Nor did he have any intentions of allowing his brother to marry such a woman.

And if Anthony could not be made to see sense, then the lady must...

Chapter One

Two 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.

Chapter Two

Darian felt totally disorientated as the waves of darkness began to lift and he slowly awakened.

Quite where it was he had awakened to, he had no idea, as he turned from where he lay on the bed to look about the unfamiliar bedchamber.

It was most certainly a feminine room, decorated in pale lavenders and creams, with delicate white furnishings and lavender brocade curtains at the windows and about the four-poster bed on which he currently reclined, the pillows and bedclothes beneath him of pale lilac satin and lace.

It was Darian’s idea of a feminine hell!

Certainly he felt ridiculous lying amongst such frills and fancies. Nor did he remember how he came to be here in the first place.

He recalled attending the Countess of Carlisle’s ball, dancing with her, and then that heated conversation with her on the terrace. Followed by the excruciating pain, and then—nothing. He remembered absolutely nothing of what had happened beyond that.

Either he was still at Mariah Beecham’s home, which, considering their argument, he doubted very much, or he had gone on to a club or gaming hell, where he had drunk too much, before spending the night with some woman. Both would be uncharacteristic; Darian never drank too much when he was out and about in the evening, nor did he bed random women.

As such, neither of those explanations seemed likely for his current disorientation.

He struggled to sit up, with the intention of removing himself from his hellish surroundings. All to no avail, as he found it impossible to move his left arm.

Glancing down at the source of the problem, Darian realised that he was wearing only his pantaloons. His jacket, waistcoat, his shirt and his boots had all been removed and his left shoulder was now tightly strapped up in a white bandage, his arm immobilised in a sling across the bareness of his chest.

‘And just what do you think you are doing?’

Darian, having finally managed to manoeuvre himself into a sitting position on the side of the bed, now turned sharply at the sound of that imperious voice, his eyes widening and then narrowing as Mariah Beecham stepped into the bedchamber and closed the door quietly behind her.

She was no longer dressed in the turquoise silk gown, but now wore a day-dress of sky blue, the style simpler, with just a touch of lace at the cap sleeves. Her hair was also less elaborately styled than at the ball, the blonde curls merely gathered up and secured at her crown and completely unadorned.

The reason for those changes in her appearance became apparent as she lightly crossed the room on slippered feet in order to pull back the lavender brocade curtains from across the windows, allowing the full light of day to shine into the bedchamber.

She turned to look across at him critically. ‘You are looking a little better this morning, Wolfingham. The doctor advised last night that you are not to attempt to get out of bed for several days,’ she continued firmly as Darian would have stood up. ‘You had burst several of the stitches on the wound on your shoulder and it was also in need of cleansing before new stitches and a bandage could be applied,’ she added reprovingly.

Darian knew his wounded shoulder had been paining him for several days now, but at this moment it throbbed and ached like the very devil!

‘Something, the doctor assured me yesterday evening as he reapplied those stitches, that you must have been aware of for some time before last night?’ the countess added sternly.

Of course Darian had been aware of it, but his brother’s future, and this unsuitable alliance, had been of more importance to him than his own painful shoulder. Nor was it the state of his own health that was now his main concern.

The reason for that was the how and why he came to still be in Mariah Beecham’s home on the morning following her ball, for he had no choice but to accept that was where he was.

Darian frowned as he recalled their unsatisfactory conversation on the terrace of Carlisle House the evening before. How he had been unable to resist moving closer to Mariah, drawn by her unique perfume and the temptation of the perfection of her skin in the moonlight.

He also had a vague memory of Mariah reaching up to physically push him away after he had ignored her instructions to step back from her. The pain that had followed that push had been excruciating. So intense that it had caused Darian’s breath to cease and his knees to buckle as the waves of blackness engulfed him. After that he remembered nothing.

Did that mean he had remained unconscious for the whole of the previous night?

That he had spent that night in Mariah Beecham’s home? Possibly in her own bedchamber?

If that was indeed the case, then Darian certainly had no memory of any of those events.

But neither did he recall having departed Carlisle House. Or having been attended by a doctor.

‘You are currently in one of my guest bedchambers,’ the countess supplied drily, as his horrified expression must have given away at least some of his thoughts. ‘My daughter’s choice rather than my own,’ she continued with a rueful glance at their feminine surroundings.

Darian licked the dryness of his lips before speaking for the first time since he had awoken. ‘Lady Christina knows I spent the night here?’

‘Why, yes,’ Mariah drawled, Wolfingham’s obvious discomfort in his surroundings succeeding in dissipating some of her own irritation in having to accommodate him here for the night, following his faint the previous evening. ‘There was nothing else to be done once you had fainted dead away on my terrace. What else would you have me call it, Wolfingham?’ she added mockingly as he gave a grunt of protest.

He scowled his displeasure. ‘I was obviously overcome with pain—to call it a faint makes me sound like a complete ninny.’

‘It does rather.’ She arched mocking brows. ‘Very well, Wolfingham, when you were overcome with pain,’ she conceded drily as he continued to glower. ‘Whatever the cause, it left me with no choice but to have two of my footmen carry you up the servants’ stairs, before placing you in one of the bedchambers and sending for the doctor—much as the temptation was for me to just leave you unconscious upon my terrace, apparently inebriated, for one of my other guests to find!’ she added.

Green eyes narrowed. ‘I suppose I should thank you for having resisted that particular temptation,’ Wolfingham growled.

‘I suppose you should, yes,’ Mariah drawled dismissively. ‘But I doubt you intend doing so?’

‘Not at this moment, no,’ Wolfingham bit out from between gritted teeth.

She gave a mocking shake of her head. ‘Bad show, Wolfingham, when at considerable inconvenience to myself, I have undoubtedly helped you to maintain your reputation as being the stern and soberly respectable Duke of Wolfingham.’

His brow lowered darkly. ‘You have also put me in the position of now having to remove myself from your home, without detection by a third party, on the morning following your ball.’

‘And so tarnishing that sterling reputation anyway,’ she derided. ‘Poor Wolfingham!’

He remained disgruntled. ‘My reputation in society is one of sternness and sober respectability?’

‘Oh, yes.’ Mariah strolled across to where Wolfingham still sat on the side of the bed, the darkness of his hair, tousled and unkempt, succeeding in lessening his usual air of austerity and also taking years off his age of two, or possibly three, and thirty.

Nevertheless, it was far safer for Mariah to take in the tousled appearance of Wolfingham’s hair than to allow her gaze to move any lower. To where the removal of his top clothes had rendered Darian Hunter naked from the waist up, apart from the bandage and sling the doctor had placed about his left shoulder and arm the night before.

And a very masculine and muscled chest it was, too, with a light dusting of dark hair, which deepened to a vee down the firm and muscled length of his stomach, before disappearing into the loosened waistband of his black evening trousers.

None of which Mariah was at all happy to realise she had taken note of! ‘The doctor remarked that the original injury to your shoulder has all the appearance of being a bullet wound,’ she said challengingly. ‘And was possibly inflicted a week or so ago?’

‘Six days ago, to be precise,’ he conceded gruffly. ‘I would now have your word that you will not discuss this with anyone else,’ he added harshly.

Her eyebrows rose. ‘And will you trust my word if it is given?’

‘I will.’ Darian had little choice in the matter but to trust to Mariah Beecham’s discretion. Besides which, there might be plenty of gossip in society in regard to the countess, but he had never heard of her having discussed with anyone the gentlemen with whom she was known to have been intimately involved.

‘Then you have it.’ She nodded now. ‘Nevertheless, I should be interested to learn how you came to receive such a wound. Unless England is already once again at war and I am unaware of it?’ She arched mocking blonde brows.

Darian knew that for most women, this would have been her first question upon entering the bedchamber and finding her uninvited guest had finally awoken from his stupor!

But, as he had learnt yesterday evening, Mariah Beecham was not like most women. Indeed, he truly had no idea what manner of woman she was. Which only added to her mystique.

And attraction?

Yesterday evening Mariah Beecham had given the appearance of being the sophisticated and confident woman of society that she undoubtedly was. Today, free of adornment or artifice, Mariah Beecham looked no older than her seventeen-year-old daughter.

Her figure was that of a mature woman, of course, but her face was smooth and unlined in the sunlight, her eyes a clear Mediterranean turquoise, despite her having hosted a ball the previous evening and no doubt having retired very late to her own bedchamber.

Darian felt that stirring of his arousal, which was rapidly becoming a familiar reaction to being in this woman’s company, as he gazed upon her natural loveliness through narrowed lids. ‘I fear that peace will not last for too much longer, now that Napoleon has returned to France and is currently reported to be on his way to Paris,’ he rasped in an attempt to dampen his physical response to this woman.

‘I do not interest myself in such boring things as politics and intrigue,’ she drawled dismissively. ‘Nor does any of that explain how you came to receive such a wound.’ She continued to look at him pointedly, before a derisive smile slowly curved the fullness of her lips at his continued silence. ‘Can it be that the cold and haughty Duke of Wolfingham has recently fought a duel? Over a woman? Surely not?’ Mocking humour now gleamed in her eyes.

Darian had not cared for the disparaging way in which Mariah Beecham had earlier said his reputation was one of sober respectability. Or that she now referred to him as the cold and haughty Duke of Wolfingham. Nor did Darian like the implication that she doubted he had ever felt so emotional about any woman that he would have fought a duel over her.

Admittedly, he was, by nature, a private man. One who had long preferred his own company or that of his few close friends. But he’d had no idea, until now, that this privacy of nature had resulted in society, in Mariah Beecham, believing him to be sober—boring?—as well as cold and haughty—arrogant?

As the elder son of the sixth Duke of Wolfingham, and Marquis of Durham from birth, Darian had been brought up to know he would one day inherit the title of Duke from his father, along with the management of all the estates entailed with the title. An onerous and unenviable responsibility, which had become his at the age of only five and twenty; much earlier than might have been expected, but his father had been but sixty years of age when he died.

With the title of Duke and its other onerous responsibilities had also come the guardianship of his younger brother, Anthony.

All of these things had made it impossible for Darian to continue with the hedonistic pursuits he had previously enjoyed with his close friends and that, along with his soldiering, had hitherto occupied much of his time.

He had not realised until now that it had also rendered him as being thought stern and sober, as well as haughty. By society as a whole, it would appear, and by this woman in particular.

Nor did he care to be thought so now, for it made him sound as old as Methuselah and just as uninteresting! A circumstance Darian did not enjoy, when he considered his own undoubted physical response to Mariah Beecham.

His mouth tightened. ‘I am sure you are as aware as I that the fighting of duels is forbidden.’

She arched blonde brows. ‘And do you always follow the rules, Wolfingham?’

Darian gave a humourless smile. ‘Your opinion of my reputation would seem to imply as much.’

‘But we are all so much more than our reputations, are we not?’ Mariah Beecham replied enigmatically.

‘Do you include yourself in that statement?’ Darian studied her through narrowed lids, taking note of that curling golden hair, the smoothness of her brow, those clear and untroubled blue eyes and the light blush that now coloured her alabaster cheeks, her lips both full and succulent.

A face that appeared utterly without guilt or guile.

Misleadingly so? Or could that air of innocence, so unusual in a woman of four and thirty, possibly be the real Mariah Beecham?

In view of this woman’s reputation, Darian found that impossible to believe; the countess could no doubt add ‘accomplished actress’ to her list of other questionable attributes!

* * *

Mariah did not at all care for the way in which Wolfingham was now studying her so intently.

Having Wolfingham point out, the previous evening, that his younger brother had shown a marked interest in her these past weeks was irritating enough. But to have the far too astute, and equally as intelligent, Darian Hunter, the Duke of Wolfingham, show an interest in her, for whatever reason, was not only disturbing, but could also be dangerous.

For Mariah was most certainly not all that her reputation implied. Indeed, she did not believe, after Wolfingham’s revelations the night before regarding that reputation, that she was much of any of what society, or this man, believed her to be.

Deliberately so. For who would suspect that the scandalous Mariah Beecham, the widowed Countess of Carlisle, was also an agent for the Crown, and that she had been so these past seven years and more?

She had not set out for it to be so. She had become embroiled in the intrigues of the English court quite by accident, after discovering that her own husband was a traitor to both his country and his king.

Having no idea what to do with that knowledge, it had taken Mariah some weeks to find a member of the government to whom she might pass along that information.

Only to discover that once she had done so the first time, there was no going back. That her position in society could, and did, open many doors, as it invited confidences from both ladies and gentlemen of the ton.

And so, from that time on Mariah had made a point of forming her friendships only with those ladies and gentlemen who might have knowledge that would be of benefit to, or was opposed to, the English monarchy or government.

She had been brought up in the knowledge that her parents’ only expectation of her was that she become the wife of a titled gentleman, even if she did not love that gentleman. Her father was himself extremely wealthy, but not completely acceptable to all of society. Indeed, greater acquaintance with society had shown her that love was not a requirement of any of the ton’s marriages.

Her husband’s only expectation of her had been that she bring a considerable portion of her father’s fortune to their marriage, his own fortune having become depleted almost to extinction.

Mariah loved her daughter dearly and, because of that, had willingly sacrificed the years she had suffered of being thought of as just an adjunct of her husband, Lord Martin Beecham, the Earl of Carlisle.

Finding herself suddenly of use, her opinions of importance, had caused Mariah to relish the new role in her life.

As a consequence, the past seven years were the first ones where Mariah had felt useful and valued for herself alone.

She would be unable to continue along that path if anyone in society were to ever discover that she used her title and wealth only as a way in which she might work, and spy, for the Crown.

If the shrewd Darian Hunter, Duke of Wolfingham, were to ever discover her work as a spy for the Crown...

She forced a teasing smile to now curve her lips. ‘Surely that is for me to know and for others to find out?’

Darian drew in a sharp breath at Mariah Beecham’s huskily flirtatious tone, a quiver of awareness tingling down the length of his spine as his body responded.

At the same time, he sensed that Mariah’s flirtation was somehow not genuine, but forced, although he had no idea why that should be.

Indeed, nothing about this woman, or her actions, was in the least clear to him. And until such time as it was, if it ever was, he would be well advised to remain wary in her company.

‘Considering that you have refused my request to discourage my brother’s interest in you,’ he answered her briskly as he stood up, ‘and the amount of times our paths have chanced to cross these past seven years or more, I very much doubt there will be any opportunity in future for me to know you any better than I do at this moment.’

‘Do I detect a note of regret in your tone?’ she taunted.

‘Not in the least,’ Darian dismissed harshly. ‘I am more than ready to leave and so end our acquaintance.’

‘Then you had best do so,’ she drawled unconcernedly.

His eyes narrowed. ‘Did you dismiss my carriage last night?’

The countess laughed huskily. ‘Tempted as I was to do otherwise!’ She nodded in confirmation. ‘It might have been amusing to see how you would have explained that occurrence to any who cared to ask. But, of course, you are Wolfingham, one of The Dangerous Dukes,’ she continued drily. ‘And like your four friends, Wolfingham does not care to explain himself, to any man or woman!’

Darian’s eyes narrowed. ‘You do not have a very good opinion of me, do you?’

‘Until yesterday evening I do not believe I held any opinion of you whatsoever,’ she assured uninterestedly.

His breath caught in his throat at that dismissal; if he did not care to explain himself to man or woman then it was equally as true that same man or woman would never dare to question him, either! ‘And now?’

‘Now I know without a doubt that you are both arrogant and insulting.’

Darian winced at her dismissive tone, knowing that he had been both of those things in his dealings with this woman. ‘If you would kindly send word to Wolfingham House, via one of your obviously capable footmen, and inform my butler that I have need of my carriage, I will then be able to remove my intrusive self from both your household and your presence!’

Mariah felt a sense of disquiet at the abruptness of Wolfingham’s departure. ‘I had not expected you to capitulate quite so easily, Wolfingham, in regard to my continuing friendship with your brother?’ she mocked.

‘I am not capitulating, merely withdrawing in order to rethink my strategy,’ he assured drily.

‘Ah.’ Mariah nodded knowingly. ‘I remind you that the doctor instructed that you were to remain abed for the next three days at least.’

Having now crossed to where his clothes lay draped over the bedroom chair, Wolfingham turned to look at her with those narrowed green eyes.

Green eyes surrounded by the longest, thickest, darkest lashes Mariah had seen on any man.

Indeed, Darian Hunter was a man of startling and masculine good looks; the nakedness of his back was exceedingly broad and muscled for a man who supposedly ran his estates from the comfort of his home here in London. As were his arms and the flatness of his abdomen, his legs also appearing long and muscled in those black evening trousers. Even his feet, sans his boots, bore a long and elegant appearance.

And Mariah could not remember the last time she had noticed the masculine beauty of any man, fully clothed or otherwise!

Perhaps when she had been Christina’s age, and on the brink of womanhood, she might have allowed her head to be turned a time or two by a handsome gentleman, but certainly not at any time since. The very nature of her marriage to Martin Beecham had meant there had never been any further inclination on her part to indulge in those girlish infatuations.

But Mariah could not deny, to herself at least, that she had noticed, and been aware of, every muscle and sinew of Darian Hunter’s muscular torso these past few minutes. And also been affected by it, as the slight fluttering of her pulse, the warmth in her cheeks and the aching fullness of her breasts all testified.

And she did not want to feel any of those things for any man!

Warning her that Darian Hunter more than lived up to his dangerous reputation, not only to her continued work for the Crown, but also to Mariah’s own peace of mind.

‘Nor shall I once I am returned to it,’ Darian now answered the countess huskily, aware of the sudden, sexual, tension in the heavy stillness of the bedchamber. ‘As for my brother, if all else fails, then I fear Anthony must learn of the vagaries of women in the way that all men do—the hard way!’ he added derisively.

‘Now you are being deliberately insulting again, Wolfingham, not just to me, but all women.’ An angry flush now coloured Mariah Beecham’s cheeks.

A blush that only succeeded in enhancing her beauty; her eyes glittered that deep turquoise, her cheeks glowing, her lips having become a deep and rosy red.

A very kissable deep and rosy red...

‘That was not my intention,’ Darian dismissed softly.

‘No?’

‘I believe my remark was more specific than that,’ he assured huskily, holding Mariah’s gaze as he slowly crossed to where she stood so stiff and challenging in the middle of the bedchamber. ‘Might I ask for your assistance in dressing? I realise it is usual for a man to ask a woman for help to undress,’ he added drily as Mariah’s brows rose in obvious surprise at his request, ‘but I am unable to pull my shirt on over my head on my own.’

Mariah accepted that Wolfingham’s request for assistance was perfectly logical, given his injury, and yet she still baulked at the thought of performing such a task of intimacy for him.

She very much doubted that Wolfingham—or any in society!—would believe it if told, but Mariah had seen no man, other than her husband, even half-naked as Wolfingham now was. And Martin, twenty-five years her senior, had certainly never possessed the same muscular and disturbing physique Wolfingham now displayed so splendidly.

Her mouth firmed. ‘I will send for one of my footmen to assist you.’

‘There is no need for that, surely, when you are standing right here before me?’ Darian murmured throatily, his good sense having once again deserted him as he was again assaulted by Mariah Beecham’s unique and arousing perfume. An arousal he was finding it more and more difficult to control when in this woman’s presence.

In view of Anthony’s infatuation with 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...

Chapter Three

‘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, to the younger of the two Beecham ladies at least, for the manner of his indisposition the week before.

Mariah Beecham had proved somewhat more elusive this evening than her daughter, always flirting or dancing away on the arm of some other gentleman whenever Darian had attempted to approach her. Christina Beecham had proved far less averse to his request that she dance a set with him. No doubt, unlike her mother before her, Christina Beecham was fully aware of the compliment being paid to her, as the Duke of Wolfingham did not, as a rule, dance at any of these occasions.

She looked up at him shyly now from between thick blonde lashes, her eyes the same beautiful turquoise colour as her mother’s, her blonde-haired beauty also similar to that of the countess. ‘Mama has already explained the situation to me, your Grace,’ she now dismissed huskily.

Darian would be very interested to hear how Mariah had managed to do that, when he was not altogether sure how to explain the situation himself. To himself, as well as to others.

‘Indeed,’ he murmured noncommittally. ‘She seems to be fully occupied this evening.’ Another glance about the ballroom had shown him that Mariah Beecham was no longer in the room.

Christina gave a smile of affection. ‘Mama’s time, and dance card, are always fully occupied at such entertainments as these, your Grace.’

Darian looked down searchingly at the younger of the Beecham ladies. ‘And are you not bothered by having to witness the spectacle of seeing so many gentlemen flirting and leering at your mother’s— Forgive me,’ he bit out stiffly. ‘That was unforgivably rude of me.’ And, he realised, far too close to his feelings on the matter for his own comfort.

Mariah was wearing a red silk gown this evening, with a very low décolletage that revealed the full, ivory swell of the tops of her breasts. A fact Darian had noted several gentlemen taking advantage of as they talked or danced with her.

‘Yes, it was,’ Christina Beecham answered him with the same bluntness as her mother. ‘But then, Mama had already warned me you are very forthright, in both your manner and speech,’ she added pertly.

Darian found he did not care for being dismissed so scathingly. Nor did he believe Mariah had used a word so innocent as ‘forthright’ to describe his previous manner and conversations with her. ‘I meant no disrespect to you,’ he bit out tersely.

‘Only to Mama,’ she acknowledged drily. ‘Mama has taught me that it is better not to pass comment on what one does not know.’

‘Obviously my own mother was neglectful in that particular duty.’

‘Obviously.’

Yes, this lady, for all she was very young, was proving to be just as capable of delivering a set-down as her mother!

Darian was also aware that his own reaction to those flirting and leering gentlemen was not one of impartiality, but rather one of complete partiality. Indeed, he had disliked intensely to have to stand by and witness those other gentlemen showing Mariah such marked attentions.

In truth, he had thought of Mariah Beecham far more than was wise this past week. Of her beauty. Her unique perfume. Of his own physical and uncontrollable response to the lush curves of her body.

And, quite frankly, he found the whole situation annoying. Distracting. Unbearable.

‘My dance, I believe, Darian?’

Darian roused himself from those troubling thoughts to look about him almost dazedly; the music had stopped playing and the other couples had left the dance floor, as they now gave curious glances their way. All without Darian having been aware of any of it. His brother, Anthony, was also now standing beside him with eyebrows raised expectantly, as he waited for Darian to release Christina Beecham.

‘Of course.’ He straightened abruptly as his arms fell back to his sides and he stepped away from Lady Christina. ‘I— Thank you,’ he added with a belated bow towards the young lady.

Anthony continued to look at him frowningly, eyes narrowed speculatively as he took his brother’s place at Christina Beecham’s side. ‘Are you quite well again now, Darian?’

‘Quite, thank you.’ Darian nodded abruptly.

‘In that case I will call upon you tomorrow,’ Anthony stated firmly, his expression challenging, telling Darian that the conversation between the two of them might have been delayed for this past week, whilst he was feeling unwell, but it was not to be avoided altogether!

‘Very well.’ Darian gave another distracted nod as he once again glanced about the ballroom to see that the three of them were still the focus of more than one group of gossiping people.

‘Your Grace?’

‘Lady Christina?’ Darian turned, one brow raised enquiringly.

A sparkle of humour now brightened those eyes, so like her mother’s. ‘I believe Mama to have accepted Lord Maystone’s invitation to accompany him into the next room to partake of refreshment.’

Had he made his interest in Mariah’s whereabouts so obvious that even her daughter was aware of it?

And what the deuce was Mariah doing in Maystone’s company, a gentleman Darian had reason to know rather better than might be socially apparent?

Aged in his late fifties, and a widower for more than twenty years, Aubrey Maystone was nevertheless still a handsome man, with his head of silver hair and chiselled features. Nor had his trimness gone to obesity, as had happened to so many of his peers.

He was also Darian’s contact at the Foreign Office in regard to his work for the Crown.

Whatever the reason for Aubrey Maystone’s interest in Mariah, Darian had no intentions of wasting any more of his own time this evening in an effort to secure the opportunity in which to converse with her again.

He took care to avoid his brother’s no-doubt accusing gaze as he gave Lady Christina a rueful smile. ‘Thank you.’ He gave another bow before turning to cross the ballroom in long and determined strides as he went in search of the refreshment room.

And Mariah Beecham.

* * *

‘I believe you have accepted an invitation to attend Lord and Lady Nicholses’ house party in Kent this weekend?’ Lord Maystone nodded his acquaintance to Mrs Moore, as she stood across the room, even as he continued his softly spoken conversation with Mariah.

‘I have, yes.’ Mariah eyed him curiously. ‘Will you also be attending?’

‘Good heavens, no!’ Maystone turned to give her his full attention, a look of distaste upon his lined but handsome face. ‘Subjecting myself to a single tedious evening of socialising in a week is quite enough for me. I assure you, I have no intentions of suffering through a weekend of it.’

‘Poor Aubrey.’ Mariah chuckled sympathetically, placing a conciliatory hand briefly on his arm as she sobered. ‘Do you have a special reason for asking whether or not I am to attend this particular weekend party?’ Aubrey Maystone had long been her contact for the work she did for the Crown.

‘I have reason to believe— Ah, Wolfingham.’ Aubrey turned to greet the younger man warmly. ‘Just the man! The countess is as polite as she is beautiful, but nevertheless I believe her to be in need of far younger company than my own.’

Mariah was relieved she had her back turned towards Darian Hunter, so he would not mistake the colour in her cheeks for anything other than what it was: annoyance at the way in which he had seemed to dog her every step this evening.

Lady Stockton had obviously been as surprised as her guests when the Duke of Wolfingham, a man who rarely attended any of the entertainments of the ton, but who had now attended two in as many weeks, had arrived at her home earlier this evening. A surprise that had lasted for only a few seconds, as that lady hastily crossed the room to welcome her illustrious guest.

Mariah’s reaction to seeing Wolfingham again had been less enthusiastic. She wondered what he was doing here.

Indeed, she had gone out of her way not to show any reaction at all, but rather to ignore him completely.

Not an easy task, when it seemed that every time she had turned round this evening Wolfingham had been standing there behind her, looking very dark and handsome in his impeccable evening clothes, the darkness of his hair rakishly dishevelled.

Nor did Mariah believe his appearance now, in the refreshment room, to be coincidental, either.

No doubt, whilst forced to convalesce, in order to recover completely from his injury, the duke had also had time to rethink his decision not to leave his younger brother’s fate to chance—or Mariah’s caprice or whimsy.

Whatever the reasoning behind Wolfingham’s dogged persistence this evening, Mariah was more than a little weary of reassuring him that she had absolutely no romantic interest, nor would she ever have, in his brother, Anthony.

‘Not at all, Aubrey.’ She gave Maystone a warm smile as she now linked her arm with his. ‘Indeed, you are so handsome and distinguished that you put all younger men to shame,’ she added before turning to look up at Wolfingham now that she felt reassured her cheeks were no longer flushed.

Darian’s lips twitched and he held back a smile as he met Mariah Beecham’s challenging gaze, recognising her remark for exactly what it was: an insult to him rather than just a compliment to Aubrey Maystone.

Although the warmth of familiarity between the two of them did seem to imply a deeper acquaintance than just a socially polite one.

To the degree that Maystone might be Mariah’s current lover? If that was so, then it made a nonsense of Darian’s request that she cease her friendship with the far more youthful and inexperienced Anthony.

The possibility of that being true also brought a scowl to Darian’s brow. ‘Lady Beecham.’ He bowed formally as it was the first occasion upon which the two of them had actually spoken this evening; Mariah’s avoidance of him had been absolute. ‘Maystone.’ Darian’s nod to the older man was terse.

‘Wolfingham.’ There was a mischievous twinkle in the older man’s eyes, as if he had guessed Darian’s thoughts and was amused by them. ‘Have you come to steal Mariah away from me for a dance, or are you going to join us in some refreshment?’

‘Well, I am certainly not here for refreshment.’ Darian made no effort to hide his distaste as he eyed the glasses in their hands. ‘I have heard it said that Lady Stockton is parsimonious with the brandy in her punch.’

‘Surely it is not necessary to become inebriated in order to enjoy oneself?’ Mariah drawled mockingly.

‘Not at all.’ Darian observed her between narrowed lids. ‘But if I wished to drink something as innocuous as fruit juice then I should request fruit juice.’ Standing so close to Mariah, he was once again aware of her unique perfume, the lightness of spring flowers and that deeper, more exotic perfume, which he now recognised as being jasmine. It was a heady and arousing combination.

‘How true.’ Maystone’s dismissive laugh broke the tension that had been steadily rising between Darian and Mariah. ‘It seems I must forgo your delightful company for now, my dear.’ He placed his glass down on the table and raised Mariah’s gloved hand to his lips before releasing it. ‘And allow a younger man to steal you away from me for a dance.’

Mariah frowned as she answered coolly, ‘To my knowledge, his Grace has not had the foresight to request a dance with me this evening. As such, I am afraid my dance card is completely full.’

‘Well, there you have it, Wolfingham.’ Maystone turned towards him with a grin. ‘You will have to be much quicker off the mark in future, if you are to secure a dance with our delightful Mariah,’ he teased jovially.

Darian’s frustration with his own increasing arousal, as well as Mariah’s avoidance of him, was now such that he could barely keep the impatience from his tone and he knew the frown had deepened on his brow. ‘A pity, of course, Lady Beecham,’ he drawled coldly. ‘But as consolation I have just enjoyed the pleasure of dancing with your lovely daughter, Lady Christina. A delightful young woman and a credit to both you and her father.’

Mariah looked up sharply at Wolfingham, easily noting the mocking challenge in his deep green eyes as he returned her gaze unblinkingly. No doubt because he was fully aware of the fact that she would prefer that he stay well away from her young and impressionable daughter.

Oh, Christina had accepted readily enough Mariah’s explanations as to Wolfingham’s indisposition the previous week having been the reason for his having to remain at Carlisle House overnight. But beneath that acceptance there had been an underlying girlish excitement, a curiosity, about the arrogantly handsome and illustrious Duke of Wolfingham. The last thing Mariah wished was for Christina to develop a crush on the man.

Not that she thought Wolfingham was in the least serious in his attentions to Christina; rather Mariah believed his intention had merely been to annoy her. If so, he had succeeded!

The less she, and Christina, had to do with Darian Hunter, the dangerous Duke of Wolfingham, the better Mariah would like it. Her lifestyle was such, most especially her work for the Crown, that she did not wish to have such an astutely disturbing gentleman as Wolfingham taking an interest in it, or her.

‘I believe the music and dancing have now stopped for supper, your Grace.’ Mariah had noted the influx of people into the room and strolling towards the supper tables. ‘It appears to be raining outside, so perhaps you might care to accompany me for a stroll in the West Gallery?’ At which time she intended to warn him to stay away from her daughter!

Darian was not particularly proud of himself for having used Lady Christina Beecham as a means of securing Mariah’s company, but neither was he about to apologise for it. Not when it had succeeded in accomplishing his aim, which was to talk with Mariah again. In private.

Although he wasn’t sure that being alone with Mariah was an entirely good idea, given his painful state of arousal.

* * *

‘You will stay away from my daughter!’ Mariah barely waited until the two of them had entered the long and deserted picture gallery, lit by a dozen candles or more, before removing her hand from Wolfingham’s arm and glaring up at him, her cheeks hot with temper in the candlelight.

‘Will I?’ he came back with infuriating calm, dark brows raised in equally as mild query.

‘Yes—when it is not a serious interest, but merely a means of punishing me.’

‘That is not very flattering to Lady Christina.’

‘But true.’

‘Is it?’ he returned mildly.

‘What do you want from me, Wolfingham?’ Mariah looked up at him in exasperation. ‘A public declaration of my uninterest in your brother? Would that appease you? Reassure you?’

He gave a humourless smile. ‘It would most certainly not appease or reassure Anthony.’ His mouth tightened. ‘Nor would it do anything for my own future relationship with him, if you were to tell him that I had been instrumental in bringing about the sudden end to your friendship.’

Mariah drew in a deep breath through her nose. ‘Perhaps you should have thought of that before you chose to so arrogantly interfere in his life a week ago?’

‘What is your relationship with Maystone?’

Mariah was momentarily disconcerted by this sudden change of topic. As she was meant to be?

She and Aubrey Maystone preferred to keep the true nature of their relationship private and as such it was rare for them to pass any time together in public. Indeed, they would not have done so this evening if Aubrey had not expressed a wish to speak with her urgently. A conversation that had been cut short by the arrival of Darian Hunter.

But the manner of the public acquaintance between Mariah and Lord Maystone was such that Wolfingham could not possibly have guessed that there was a deeper, more private, connection between the two of them. Could he?

Mariah was quickly learning that it would not be wise on her part, or anyone else’s, to underestimate the intelligence or astuteness of Darian Hunter.

‘My acquaintance with Lord Maystone is a long-standing one,’ she answered frostily. ‘Come about because he was once a friend of my late husband.’

‘And is that all he is to you?’

‘What are you accusing me of now, Wolfingham?’ Her tone was impatiently exasperated, deliberately so. ‘Do you imagine that I am currently enjoying a relationship with Lord Maystone, as well as your brother? Would that not make my bed very overcrowded?’ she added scathingly. ‘And what business would it be of yours, even if that were the case? I am a widow and they are both unattached gentlemen, so there is no prior claim to hinder the existence of either relationship.’ She gave a dismissive shrug.

A nerve pulsed in the duke’s tightly clenched jaw. ‘Except a moral one.’

‘You are a fine one to preach to me of morals, Wolfingham, when you are currently sporting the bullet wound you received whilst fighting a duel over some woman!’ Her eyes flashed in the candlelight.

Darian glowered his frustration down at her, wanting to deny the accusation, but knowing that to do so would then bring the real cause of that wound back into question. A question he would not, could not, answer.

Having no answer, he decided to act instead.

Although that was possibly an exaggeration on his part, when his arms seemed to have moved of their own volition as they encircled Mariah’s waist and he pulled her in close against the hardness of his body.

Her exotic perfume immediately filled all of his senses as his head swooped down to capture her lips with his own. Soft and delectable lips that had parted with surprise, so allowing for further intimacy as Darian’s tongue swept lightly across her lips before plunging into the heated warmth beneath.

She felt so slender in his arms, the fullness of her breasts crushed against his chest, her lips and mouth tasting of honey. A silky-soft sweetness and heat that drew Darian in even closer, as he attempted to claim, to possess, that heat as his own. To claim, to possess, Mariah as his own.

Mariah had been totally unprepared for Wolfingham taking her into his arms, let alone having him kiss her. So unprepared, that for several stunned seconds she found herself responding to that kiss as her hands moved up to cling to the lapels of the duke’s evening coat, her body crushed, aligned with Wolfingham’s, as his mouth continued to plunder and claim her own. Making her fully aware not only of the hardness of his chest, but also the long length of his arousal pressing against the warmth of her abdomen.

She allowed herself to feel a brief moment of triumph, at the knowledge, this physical evidence, that Darian Hunter, the coldly arrogant Duke of Wolfingham, was aroused by her. From holding her in his arms. From kissing her.

Those brief moments of triumph were quickly followed by ones of panic and a desperate need to free herself. A move she attempted to instigate as she now pushed against that hard and muscled chest even as she wrenched her mouth out from beneath that sensually punishing kiss. ‘Release me immediately, Wolfingham!’

Her eyes now gleamed up at him in the candlelight, her chest quickly rising and falling as she breathed heavily, having managed to put several inches between the hardness of his body and her own, but failing to release herself completely.

‘You are taking your protection of your brother too far, sir,’ she added fiercely as her hands against his chest kept him at a distance but he still made no effort to remove the steel band of his arms from about her waist.

A nerve pulsed in the tightness of his jaw. ‘This has nothing to do with my brother.’

‘It has everything to do with him.’

Darian was breathing heavily, unable to reason clearly as he looked down at Mariah, his mind and senses too full of her to form a coherent thought, other than the taste of her on his own lips and tongue. The feel of her soft curves against his much harder ones. The smell of her causing his body to throb and pound with need.

A need that the pallor of Mariah’s face in the candlelight, and over-bright turquoise eyes, said she did not reciprocate.

He gave a pained frown. ‘What did you think would happen when you invited me to join you alone here in the gallery, Mariah?’

‘Not this!’ Her breasts quickly rose and fell in rhythm with her agitated breathing as she continued to hold him at arm’s length. ‘Never this!’

Darian’s frown deepened to one of concern as he heard the underlying sob in her voice. ‘Mariah—’

‘I believe the lady has expressed a wish to be set free, Darian!’

Darian’s head whipped round at the sound of his brother’s harshly reproving voice, a scowl darkening his brow as he saw Anthony watching them from the shadowed doorway into the gallery, the expression on his brother’s face one of disgust as well as fury.

A disgust and fury Darian fully deserved, given the circumstances, of Mariah’s obvious distress and the feelings Anthony had previously expressed for the woman Darian now held in his arms.

Feelings that Darian had totally forgotten about in his need to claim Mariah’s lips for his own.

His arms fell heavily back to his sides as he stepped back and away from her, only to then reach out a hand to steady Mariah as she appeared to stumble.

‘Do not touch me!’ she lashed out verbally even as she pulled free of his grasp, twin spots of fevered colour now high in her cheeks as she turned away. ‘Accompany me back to Lady Stockton’s ballroom, if you please, Lord Anthony,’ she requested stiffly as she left Darian’s side to walk quickly down the gallery to take the arm his brother so gallantly offered her.

Anthony paused to give Darian a warning glance over the top of Mariah’s averted head. ‘I have changed my mind, Darian, and we will now talk again later tonight, rather than tomorrow morning.’

Darian recognised those words for exactly what they were: a threat, not a promise.

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