Dangerous Dukes 02 - Darian Hunter - Duke of Desire

by Carole Mortimer

  Mariah had always made a point of attending the Nicholses’ weekend parties, when inhibitions became relaxed and information was more freely given.

  A lowering of inhibitions that Mariah now accepted could—and according to Aubrey Maystone’s information, had—equally have been used to Lord or Lady Nicholses’ advantage.

  Aubrey Maystone’s suggestion was that, the danger being high, Wolfingham would now accompany Mariah into Kent, posing as her lover. Explaining that it would not be unexpected, when the two of them had been seen talking and dancing together several times this past week or so, and apparently giving rise to a certain amount of gossip and speculation concerning whether or not there might be a relationship between the two of them.

  Mariah could not claim to have heard any of that unwelcome gossip herself, but then she could not expect to have done, when that gossip was about her.

  It would be an easy step, Maystone had assured, for the two of them to attend the house party together and so confirm the gossip and speculation.

  But it was a pretence that Mariah, despite those two occasions in which Wolfingham had held her in his arms or kissed her, would not have believed the austere and disdainful Duke of Wolfingham to be capable of.

  Before today…

  Mariah had no doubts now that Wolfingham had indeed chosen to hide his real self behind the guise of that cold and disdainful duke, because she now suspected—knew—that behind that haughty exterior was a man of deep passions.

  Deep and unrelenting passions that terrified her at the same time as they caused a wild fluttering inside her.

  She straightened determinedly. ‘You do understand that, if I should agree to do this in order to flush out the traitors, the public liaison between the two of us would be for appearances’ sake only? That there would be no actual intimacy?’

  Her eyes widened as Wolfingham gave a rueful chuckle, the signs of that humour, in the warmth of his green eyes and the soft curve of chiselled lips, instantly lessening his veneer of austerity and making him appear years younger than his age.

  ‘You do have a certain way with words, Mariah.’ Darian gave a wry shake of his head. ‘And I assure you, I never doubted for a moment that our liaison,’ he drily echoed her own words, ‘would be for appearances’ sake only.’ He sobered. ‘If we should agree to go forward with Maystone’s proposal,’ he added harshly, ‘which neither of us has yet done.’

  Mariah did not see how either of them had any real choice in the matter, if the perpetrators of this plot to assassinate the Prince Regent were to be arrested.

  Chapter Six

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  A thought that did not give Darian any pleasure whatsoever.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  ‘Do you always wear the same perfume?’

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

  Her chin rose. ‘You do not like it?’

  ‘It is unusual,’ he answered noncommittally.

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

  ‘Darian.’

  She blinked. ‘I beg your pardon?’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  Until Wolfingham.

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

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

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

  Nothing, came the blunt and unequivocal answer.

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

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

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

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

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

  What would Wolfingham—a man who believed her to have been an adulteress in her marriage and to have had a multitude of lovers during her five years of widowhood—what would such a man think if he were to learn that Mariah had had but a single night of carnal knowledge in her life and that one occasion had been the most horrible, degrading, painful— ‘Where have you gone, Mariah?’ Darian had not liked the way in which her expression had grown distant, turned inwards, her thoughts giving a shadow to the depths of those beautiful eyes. He liked it even less when she had given an obvious shudder just now of what seemed like revulsion…

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

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

  Unfortunately, Darian had no answer to that question.

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