Regency rebels, p.23
Regency Rebels, page 23
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.
