Regency rebels, p.32
Regency Rebels, page 32
He drew in a deep breath before answering her distractedly. ‘What was Nichols doing wandering about up here in the first place when the entertainment is downstairs?’
She gave a dismissive shrug. ‘Perhaps he came to collect something?’
‘Or perhaps he came up here for another reason entirely!’ Darian rasped as he turned and strode determinedly down the hallway towards her, collecting up the candle and taking a firm grasp of her arm before continuing on his way to their bedchambers.
‘Darian?’ Mariah was totally at a loss to know what was bothering him as he stepped aside and waited for her to enter her bedchamber ahead of him, before following her inside and closing the door firmly behind him. Because something most assuredly was.
For herself, she could imagine nothing more humiliating than the two of them, their lovemaking, now being the amusing topic of conversation down the stairs, when no doubt Richard Nichols would skip over his cowardly response to Wolfingham’s violent reaction, but enlarge and embellish what he had observed, for the lascivious pleasure of his listeners. It was—
‘What are you doing?’ She frowned as she watched Darian now moving about her bedchamber, lighting several more candles before he commenced prowling about the room. His expression was grim as he moved several paintings aside before moving on to examine the four-poster bed, stepping up on to the pink bedspread to examine the top and back of it. ‘Darian?’
Angry colour stood out in the hardness of his cheeks when he finally stepped down from the bed, a nerve pulsing in his tightly clenched jaw. ‘There are peepholes, through several of the paintings and the frame at the back of the bed, all neatly disguised so that none would know if not aware of them, but there nonetheless.’
‘Peepholes?’ Mariah repeated uncomprehendingly.
‘You had no idea they were there?’
‘I—’ She gave a dazed shake of her head. ‘I do not even know what they are.’
He grimaced. ‘No doubt Nichols came up the stairs just now to check on which bedchamber we had gone into, yours or my own. His intention then being to go back down the stairs and invite his guests to come up here and observe the two of us together through those peepholes, no doubt accessed through a shallow passage between the walls.’
Mariah dropped weakly down on to the side of the bed and felt all the colour leach from her cheeks as she took in the full import of what Darian was saying to her.
A peep show. They were to have been nothing more than a—
‘It did not happen, Mariah,’ Darian soothed as he moved to sit on the bed beside her before taking her into his arms as she collapsed weakly against his chest; one look at the blank shock on Mariah’s deathly white face had been enough to tell him that this was the first she had known of those strategically placed peepholes in the walls of Lady Nichols’s bedchamber.
He felt ashamed now for having harboured even the briefest of doubts that Mariah might have been a willing participant in the entertainment the Nichols had now intended providing for their guests.
An understandable doubt, perhaps, in view of Mariah’s reputation, but Darian now felt a heady relief at realising, from her collapse against him, that if they had made love together she would have been as innocently unaware of the people watching as he was.
A reputation Darian had already started to question earlier this evening and about which he now had serious doubts.
She had been at deep pains in his carriage earlier to ensure that he understood that any show of intimacy between the two of them was for show only.
The gown she wore this evening was positively virginal in comparison with the other ladies’ attire.
Mariah had seemed relieved rather than disappointed when his glowering presence beside her had kept all other gentlemen at bay this evening.
She had been as disgusted as he by the sexual play they had witnessed during dinner and since.
Lastly, he would swear that her responses just now, to his kisses and the caress of his hands, lips and tongue, had been completely without guile or pretence.
As had her dismay when she realised that Richard Nichols had been watching them.
‘It could have,’ she choked now. ‘It could have!’
Mariah pulled out of Wolfingham’s arms before standing up abruptly, knowing, that if Richard Nichols had not played his hand too early, that she had been on the brink—the very brink!—of allowing her emotions to rule her head.
She had wanted Darian Hunter to make love to her.
She had hungered for it.
Had been so lost to the pleasure of his hands and mouth, of wanting that pleasure to continue, that she had almost been on the point of begging him to make love to her!
It was incomprehensible.
Unbelievable.
Unacceptable!
She did not find pleasure in a man’s arms, in his closeness, in his lovemaking. She never had. She never would. How could she when the single memory of that act was of the violation of her body rather than pleasure?
When Martin Beecham, the man who had later become her husband, had forced himself upon her shortly before her seventeenth birthday.
A rape of her body and her soul of which Christina was the result, thus forcing Mariah into becoming Martin’s wife.
Chapter Eight
‘What is it, Mariah?’ Darian questioned sharply as he stood up.
He made no move to touch her again; Mariah now looked so fragile, in her emotions as well as her body, that he feared she might crumple and fall at his feet if he attempted to place so much as a finger upon her.
‘You can ask me that?’ she choked out incredulously, those turquoise eyes glittering brightly in the pallor of her face. ‘After learning that the two of us were to be nothing more than exhibits in the Nicholses’ peep show?’
He grimaced. ‘Only if we had proceeded to make love together. Which we have not.’
Mariah could no longer meet his gaze. ‘That does nothing to change the fact— Oh! Do you think anyone could have been behind those walls earlier this evening?’ she gasped, eyes wide as she twisted her gloved fingers together.
Darian shrugged. ‘I doubt, with the responsibility of his other guests, that Nichols would have found the time to come up the stairs and observe you dressing.’
‘I was referring to our conversation, Darian! Did we say anything in this room earlier that might have— Do you seriously think that weasel Nichols might have watched me bathing and dressing earlier this evening?’ Mariah’s face had taken on a sickly green hue at the thought of it.
‘As I recall, our conversation was perfectly innocuous earlier,’ he reassured. ‘I also think it more likely that Lady Nichols, after escorting us to our bedchambers, would have lingered upstairs to observe me!’ Darian’s mouth twisted with distaste for the very idea of having that pale blue gaze moving lasciviously over his naked body whilst he’d bathed and dressed earlier.
Mariah stilled. ‘You believe there to be similar peepholes in your own bedchamber? In all the bedchambers?’ she added aghast.
‘After tonight I believe the master and mistress of this house to be capable of anything! After all, this is not the Nicholses’ main country residence.’ He shrugged. ‘They do not bring their children here, for example, but leave them at their Norfolk estate with their nurse. Thank heavens for small mercies!’
Mariah thought of the other occasions when she had stayed in this house, totally unaware of the eyes that might have been secretly watching her. As she bathed. As she went about her toilette. As she stood completely naked before dressing.
She felt ill.
Unclean.
Violated!
As violated as she had been that night eighteen years ago when Martin had lured her into one of the private rooms at a ball they were both attending, locked the door behind them and then coldly and calculatedly assaulted her. Warning her after the event that no one would believe the word of the daughter of a minor landowner and merchant against an earl’s, if she were to accuse him of the deed.
Mariah had been but sixteen years old and was too frightened, too devastated, felt too unclean, to dare take the risk of telling anyone what Martin Beecham, the Earl of Carlisle, had done to her.
Most especially so as he had also warned her that he would repeat the violation, again, and then again, until such time as she was with child. Not because he particularly wished for an heir, but so that she was forced into marrying him, thus bringing a good portion of her father’s fortune into the marriage.
And it had all worked out perfectly for Martin, of course, because Mariah had become pregnant with that very first attempt. She had tried to tell her parents the truth then, but as promised, Martin had denied her accusation of his having forced her, claiming that she had been as eager as he for the coupling. He also insisted that she was merely frightened of the repercussions after the event, now that she found herself with child. Repercussions that would cease to exist when she accepted his offer of marriage.
Whether or not her parents had believed Mariah’s version of events had not mattered at this point, although she liked to think that they had; she was an only child and their relationship had always been a close one.
But whether they believed her or not, her mother and father had been left with no more choice in the matter than Mariah. She would have to accept the earl’s offer of marriage. A babe born seven months after the wedding could be overlooked by society and very often was! But if Mariah refused to marry the father of her child—the more-than-willing father!—then she would be ruined and both she and her parents ostracised from society.
Faced with those choices there had been only one decision that Mariah could make.
Marriage to the very man who had raped her.
Her body might not have been violated tonight, but her privacy, her very person, had.
She was no longer a girl of sixteen, of course, too frightened to accuse the person responsible for that violation. But the reputation she had nurtured in society, as the sophisticated and flirtatious Countess of Carlisle, would most certainly be in danger if she were to now voice her complaints to her host and hostess.
As her obvious shock now had already placed that reputation in danger in regard to Darian Hunter, the astute and intelligent Duke of Wolfingham.
Mariah drew in a deep breath before straightening her shoulders and unclasping her fingers, her chin high as she turned to give Wolfingham a derisive smile. ‘How unfortunate, for the Nichols, that you grew wise to their little scheme!’
Darian was relieved to see that some of the colour had now returned to Mariah’s cheeks. Although he did not believe for a moment that she was as composed as she now wished to appear; her obvious shock a few minutes ago had most certainly been genuine.
A shock he might not have expected from one as promiscuous as Mariah Beecham was reputed to be.
He also wondered what thoughts had been going through her head just a few minutes ago. Whatever they were, they had brought a grey tinge to her already pale cheeks and haunted shadows to those beautiful eyes.
‘Very unfortunate,’ he echoed drily, prepared, for the moment, to accept that Mariah was determined to place those walls back about her emotions. This was not the time, and certainly not the place, to question her further on the subject.
But the very fact that she had not as yet upbraided him for their lovemaking earlier was surely evidence of her inner unease?
A lovemaking, and Mariah’s response, that Darian knew was going to haunt and disturb his own rest tonight—again!
‘Do you have any shawls or handkerchiefs with you? I could place them over the pictures and the head of the bed to ensure your privacy,’ he explained at her questioning frown.
‘Oh. Oh, yes, of course,’ she breathed in obvious relief as she moved to open the wardrobe and look through the things on the shelves in there. ‘Here.’ She handed Darian several handkerchiefs and two shawls. ‘Will they be enough to prevent anyone from at least seeing into this room?’
‘Oh, yes.’ Darian tied the two shawls securely to the paintings before moving on to do the same to the bed with the handkerchiefs. ‘There.’ He nodded his satisfaction as he stepped back.
‘What of your own bedchamber?’
‘I have some handkerchiefs of my own,’ he dismissed.
‘I— Then I will wish you a good night.’
He frowned. ‘Mariah—’
‘I believe we have provided enough of a display for our audience for one night, Wolfingham. Besides which, it is late and I am very tired.’ She arched one pointed brow.
Darian knew himself well and truly dismissed, without either of them having made direct reference to their heated lovemaking earlier.
If Nichols had not interrupted them then Darian might not have left this bedchamber at all tonight.
But equally, if Nichols had not interrupted the two of them, allowing Darian the time to think of what the other man was doing there at all, then they might even now be providing entertainment for the other guests.
Not that Darian was the prude Mariah had once thought him. Far from it. He had spent his share of time in gaming hells and the houses of the demi-monde, and knew full well the games played in such establishments. But that play was at the consent of both parties, not the intrusion, the violation, tonight’s game would have been to the privacy of their lovemaking. He did not perform for the entertainment of strangers.
‘Very well, Mariah.’ He nodded as he strode across the room to bend down and kiss her lightly upon her brow. ‘I wish you a good night,’ he added huskily as he looked down at her intently.
Mariah felt flustered by Darian’s close proximity, coming so soon after this shocking discovery of the peepholes in her bedchamber.
So soon after she had felt those strange and wonderful sensations as he made love to her earlier out in the hallway.
Sensations Mariah could still feel, in the tingling fullness of her breasts and the swollen dampness between her thighs.
And so reminiscent of those sensations she had felt when he’d kissed her at Lady Stockton’s ball.
Was it possible, after all these years of feeling nothing, that her body was actually awakening to sexual arousal?
A sexual arousal caused solely and completely by Darian Hunter, the Duke of Wolfingham?
And felt only for him?
Mariah stepped back abruptly, too alarmed by even the possibility of that being true to be able to suffer his close proximity a moment longer. ‘Goodnight, Wolfingham,’ she stated firmly.
Darian studied her from between narrowed lids for several seconds longer, knowing from the determined set of Mariah’s mouth and chin that she considered this conversation over.
He gave a terse nod. ‘If you should need me, you know where I am.’
Her brows rose. ‘You are suggesting that I might possibly be overcome with lust for you in the middle of the night?’
Darian grimaced at her scathingly derisive tone. ‘I am suggesting that I noticed there is no key in the lock to this bedchamber. We could place a chair beneath the door handle,’ he suggested as he saw the alarmed look Mariah gave in the direction of the door.
‘Yes! Yes, please do,’ she confirmed more coolly. ‘Thank you,’ she added softly, eyes downcast, as Darian saw to the placing of that chair.
Darian sighed his frustration as he looked at her bent head for several seconds more. Not sexual frustration—that seemed to be with him constantly whenever he was with Mariah. And when he was not!
No, his frustration now was due to another reason entirely.
With Mariah he so often felt as if he took one step forward and then was forced, by circumstances, into taking two steps back. As now. Their lovemaking had been beyond enjoyable. Darian could not remember ever having been aroused quite so quickly, or so strongly, by any other woman. And he knew, from the obvious responses of her body, her breathless sighs of pleasure, that Mariah had been just as aroused. And yet now she was dismissing him as if that closeness had never happened.
It was beyond frustrating; it was infuriating.
Mariah was a woman of four and thirty, had been a married woman for twelve of those years, and as such she could not be unaware of how much he had wanted to make love to and with her a short time ago. Or that she returned that desire for him to make love to and with her. And yet she behaved now as if that desire had never happened.
Was that only because of the unpleasantness of the circumstances here at Eton Park?
Or because, beneath that desire, she disliked him still?
Darian breathed out his frustration with the situation. ‘Goodnight, Mariah,’ he repeated harshly before turning on his heel and leaving the room abruptly, firmly closing the door adjoining their two bedchambers behind him.
Mariah sank back down on to the side of the bed the moment Darian closed the door between their rooms, her thoughts in turmoil. Not because, unpleasant as it was, of the knowledge of those intrusive peepholes in the walls of her bedchamber. Nor was she overly concerned as to what might or might not transpire tomorrow, after the Regent’s note of apology had been delivered.
No, the reason for the present disquiet of her emotions was all due to Darian Hunter and the desire she could no longer deny, to herself at least, that she felt for him.
And him alone.
‘Would you care to go for a ride, or perhaps a walk, in the fresh air this morning, Mariah?’ Darian suggested as he looked across the breakfast table at her.
A breakfast table at which only the two of them sat, the other guests, as Mariah had suggested might be the case, either still asleep after their late night, or choosing to break their fast in the privacy of their bedchambers.
