Dangerous Dukes 02 - Darian Hunter - Duke of Desire

by Carole Mortimer

  For now…

  ‘From the speed with which they left, once the two of us began to make love, I believe they can have no further doubt regarding the latter— Mariah?’ he questioned again sharply as he felt her increase in tension. He turned on his side to look at her searchingly, easily noting the pallor of her cheeks, the shadows in those beautiful turquoise eyes, before she lowered her long, dark silky lashes and hid those shadows from his view. ‘Do you regret what just happened between the two of us?’

  She moistened her lips with the tip of her tongue—tasting him there, as Darian could still taste her on his own lips? The colour that suddenly warmed her cheeks, as she became aware of her movements, would seem to imply that she did.

  ‘I accept it was necessary,’ she answered him evenly now. ‘If we were to successfully keep up this pretence that we are lovers.’

  ‘It is no longer a pretence, Mariah!’ Darian felt stung into snapping his frustration with her coolness. With the fact that they both knew there had been no need for the continuation of that pretence, once he had assured Mariah their eavesdropper had departed.

  She swallowed, those long lashes still hiding the expression in her eyes. ‘We have shared…certain intimacies. That does not make us lovers.’

  ‘Then what does?’ Darian scowled down at her darkly. ‘I will admit that this was far from the ideal place, or situation, for the two of us to have become lovers,’ he continued impatiently, very aware that he had previously decided he could not allow such a thing to happen at Eton Park. But he could no more have resisted, denied himself the pleasure of making love to and with Mariah just now, than King Canute had been able to turn back the tide! ‘But that does not change the fact that it is now exactly what the two of us are,’ he added huskily.

  Mariah drew in a ragged breath even as she gave a definitive shake of her head. ‘I believe we have allowed the licentiousness and erotica at this place to colour our judgement. That once we return to town we shall both see how…ridiculous such a relationship would be between us.’

  ‘Ridiculous?’ Darian knew the frown had deepened on his brow.

  ‘Of course.’ She gave a dismissive laugh as she finally looked up at him, those eyes reflecting her derision. ‘We have absolutely nothing in common outside of this current situation. No common interests, or friends. Indeed, in London you are every inch the austere and sober Duke of Wolfingham as I am the scandalous Countess of Carlisle.’

  Having come to know Mariah better, Darian was now extremely sceptical about the latter.

  ‘And this?’ He reached out to grasp the tops of her arms. ‘What was it that just happened between the two of us?’

  ‘A very enjoyable but unrepeatable interlude,’ she dismissed drily. ‘As I have said, I believe we have both allowed our forced alliance, along with the licentiousness of our surroundings, and the people here, to arouse and cloud our better judgement. Left to our own devices in town, the two of us would never have so much as spared each other an approving glance.’

  Darian could not deny that his opinion of Mariah, before meeting her, had been far from favourable. Nor had that opinion changed once he had met and spoken to her, despite the unwanted and begrudging desire he had felt for her.

  But sometime during these past few weeks his opinion of Mariah had changed. Dramatically. He now knew her to be a woman of great courage and fortitude. A woman who risked her own life and reputation, on a daily basis, in order to work secretly for the Crown. For that alone Darian might have admired and respected her.

  But there was so much more to Mariah than that.

  Darian now knew that she had also fought her own personal demons of the past and not just survived them, but had become a gracious lady of great dignity and personal independence.

  Much like a soldier after a success in battle.

  Truly, Darian believed Mariah to have as much courage, to be as heroic, as he or any of his four closest friends had been in their fight against tyranny, openly and secretly.

  None of which changed the fact that Mariah was now rejecting, out of hand, the very idea of the two of them continuing any sort of relationship once they had returned to town.

  A rejection, the challenge of her expression, as she met his gaze so fearlessly, he would do well to heed.

  Darian had never been one to back down from any sort of fight. Least of all one that mattered to him as much as this one did. As much as continuing to see Mariah, to be with Mariah, now did.

  But she was absolutely correct in one regard. This was not the time, or the place, for them to have this conversation. There was too much else at stake: a would-be assassin in this house they still had to identify and bring to justice.

  As such, Darian would agree to delay the conversation between himself and Mariah.

  For now.

  Once they had left Eton Park and returned to town, he had every intention of pursuing a satisfactory conclusion to this conversation.

  Of pursuing Mariah.

  Chapter Thirteen

  ‘Does our hostess seem less than composed to you this evening?’ Darian murmured softly to Mariah, eyes narrowed as he observed a rather red-faced Clara Nichols across the crowded ballroom, as she issued low-voiced instructions to a somewhat panicked-looking young footman.

  A small ballroom that, along with the hundred or so masked and indecently clothed guests laughing and talking too loudly, was every bit as outrageously decadent as Mariah had earlier warned him it would be.

  The walls were all mirrors, reflecting back the dozens of candles illuminating the room, as well as the lurid and explicit frescoes painted on the ceiling above. Although to Darian’s way of thinking, it was hard to decide which was worse, those erotic frescoes above, or the half-clothed guests milling about below.

  He had certainly breathed a sigh of relief once he had realised that Mariah’s gown, a delicate gold confection of some gossamer material to match the gold of her mask, was actually not as revealing as it at first appeared.

  Her beautiful and creamy shoulders were completely bare, admittedly, but there was at least a bodice to the gown, albeit a sheer and delicate lace that did little to hide the fullness of her breasts and rouged nipples below. But the body of the gown was at least lined, with only the barest hint—literally!—of the silky limbs and blonde curls hidden beneath.

  With things so unsettled between the two of them still, Darian did not believe he would have been able to hold on to his temper if he also had to cope with other gentlemen ogling Mariah’s near nakedness!

  ‘She does,’ Mariah now answered him equally as softly. ‘Perhaps I should stroll over and see what is amiss?’

  Darian’s first instinct was to say no, to keep Mariah safely beside him, rather than risk her moving through the crowded room, and the possible groping hands of the other gentlemen present, to where their hostess stood beside the doorway.

  There was also a would-be assassin still somewhere in their midst.

  Darian quickly repressed his overprotectiveness, knowing that Mariah would no more accept that than she had wished to listen to his conversation earlier, in regard to the continuation of their relationship once they were back in town. He had no doubt that she would especially baulk at any sign of possessiveness towards her on his part. Even if that was exactly how he felt!

  Just the thought of any other man but himself so much as looking at Mariah with more than admiration was enough to cause his jaw to tighten and his back teeth to grind together.

  ‘We shall both go,’ he compromised as he held out his arm to her.

  Mariah eyed Darian from behind her mask as she placed her gloved hand on his arm before allowing him to escort her across the crowded ballroom, knowing that the avidly covetous eyes of at least a dozen other women followed his progress.

  He was, without a doubt, the most handsome and striking-looking gentleman in the room, formidably so.

  Once again dressed all in black, accompanied by snowy white linen, the mask that cove
red the top half of Wolfingham’s face was also a plain and unrelenting black, green eyes glinting warningly through the two eye-slits to ward off the approach of any of the other guests.

  Mariah repressed a shiver at just how devilish Darian looked this evening. Dark and watchful. Cold and unrelenting.

  Nothing at all like the warm and satiated man who had made love to her, and to whom she had made love, earlier this evening.

  ‘Cold?’ Darian turned to her solicitously as he obviously felt her shiver.

  Mariah straightened determinedly; after all, she was the one who had insisted there was nothing between them but the intimacy of the circumstances under which they now found themselves. She was a little disappointed, hurt, at how easily Darian had accepted her dismissal after making only a token protest, but that was for her to deal with, not him. Darian had promised nothing and she had asked for nothing, which was how it should be. How it must be, if she was to continue to maintain her emotional independence.

  ‘Not at all.’ She now gave him an over-bright smile. ‘Did you manage to send your groom with a note to Winterton Manor?’ she prompted softly.

  ‘Yes,’ Wolfingham confirmed. ‘Although he has not returned as yet with Maystone’s reply,’ he added grimly.

  ‘Do you think that something might have happened to him along the way?’ Mariah frowned; Aubrey had told them that Winterton Manor, where the older man had waited these past twenty-four hours or so, along with several other of his agents, until he heard word from them, was only situated five miles or so from Eton Park.

  Darian frowned. ‘We shall go out to the stables and check for news of his return, once we have talked to Clara Nichols.’

  Mariah’s brows rose. ‘Surely there is no reason for both of us to go?’

  Perhaps not, but Darian still felt that reluctance to leave Mariah’s side. ‘We shall both go, Mariah,’ he repeated uncompromisingly, returning the searching glance Mariah gave him with one of cool determination.

  Darian sensed an underlying air of tension in the Nicholses’ ballroom this evening, one that smacked almost of desperation. As if someone in this room knew they were being hunted. And if anything amiss was about to happen, then Darian intended being at Mariah’s side when and wherever it did.

  ‘Very well.’ Mariah finally nodded acquiescence, her eyes narrowing as they approached their flustered hostess and her obviously nervously trembling footman.

  ‘Something definitely has Clara on the verge of a fit of the vapours,’ she murmured softly to Darian, her voice rising as they reached Clara Nichols’s side. ‘Clara, darling, whatever is the matter?’ She left Darian’s side to link her arm companionably through the older woman’s.

  Lady Nichols dismissed the footman before answering. ‘Oh, Mariah,’ she wailed. ‘Nothing this evening is going as it should, and— Oh! Good evening, your Grace,’ she greeted hastily as she saw Darian was standing just behind Mariah.

  ‘Can the countess and I be of any help?’ he queried lightly, senses now on full alert, knowing it was most unusual for ladies of the ton to become so discomposed in front of their guests, no matter what the situation.

  ‘Oh, no!’ Clara Nichols looked horrified at the suggestion. ‘No, thank you, Wolfingham,’ she added with more calm. ‘It was just a— There were several domestic matters in need of my attention. It is all settled now.’

  Mariah somehow doubted that, from the hunted look still in Clara Nichols’s pale and constantly shifting blue eyes. ‘Could the capable Benson not have dealt with them?’

  The older woman’s mouth thinned, those angry spots returning to her cheeks. ‘Benson is the main cause of the problem! Indeed, personal recommendation or not, I am seriously thinking of dismissing him the moment he returns.’ Her eyes now glittered with her anger. ‘The servants are all in disarray without his guidance.’ She had obviously forgotten her earlier reassurances to the contrary, in her agitation. ‘And I am sure that there are far more guests here this evening than were actually invited.’ She looked askance at the very overcrowded ballroom.

  ‘Indeed?’ Wolfingham was narrow-eyed as he also glanced at the overabundance of masked guests.

  ‘No doubt they had heard of the entertainments here and wished to be a part of it, whether invited or not,’ Clara twittered coyly.

  ‘No doubt,’ Wolfingham drawled drily. ‘When Benson returns from where?’ he added softly.

  Clara gave an impatient shake of her head. ‘He has gone to be at the bedside of his sick father. Against my instructions, I might add,’ she added agitatedly. ‘When he asked earlier I refused him leave to go until tomorrow, but I learnt just minutes ago that he has gone this evening anyway!’

  Mariah’s breath caught in her throat as she turned to give Darian a wincing glance.

  Stupid!

  How could they both have been so utterly, utterly stupid?

  Or, perhaps more accurately, how could she and Darian have allowed themselves to become so distracted, by their ever-deepening attraction to each other, as to totally miss what had been right in front of their noses this whole time?

  Of course neither Richard nor Clara Nichols had reacted as had been expected to the news that the Prince would not be attending their masked ball this evening, after all. Why should they, when neither of them was the assassin or one of the conspirators, whom Mariah and Darian had been sent here to find, in the discovered attempt to assassinate the Prince Regent.

  To date, all of the known network of arrested spies, set up by André Rousseau during the year he had spent working as a tutor in England, had been employees in the households of rich or politically powerful people. Servants of one kind or another who could move about at will without attracting attention. A private secretary. A tutor. A footman.

  A butler…

  Benson!

  Benson had been Rousseau’s spy in the Nicholses’ household.

  Benson, who had only been employed in the Nicholses’ household for a matter of months.

  Benson, who had proved to be such ‘a treasure’ since coming to work in the Nicholses’ household.

  Benson, who had been the only person to leave the Nicholses’ sitting room after the Prince’s note had been delivered and read.

  Benson, who had carried that note up the stairs to Clara Nichols’s private sitting room, before no doubt proceeding to read its contents!

  Benson, his suspicions perhaps aroused, who had then followed Mariah and Darian back up the stairs, before entering that passageway behind the wall in Mariah’s bedchamber, for the sole purpose of listening to their conversation?

  Mariah knew by Darian’s slight nod of acknowledgement, and the grimness of his expression, that he had already drawn those same conclusions.

  As they both must now also be aware that Benson had already departed Eton Park, before either of them had been able to make that connection.

  To go where, though, and for what purpose? Did Benson intend to go to London and somehow attempt to assassinate the Prince Regent still?

  ‘You said that Benson came to you through personal recommendation?’ Wolfingham, obviously one step ahead in his thinking than Mariah, now prompted their hostess shrewdly.

  ‘Why, yes.’ Clara Nichols looked slightly surprised by his interest, before then giving an affectionate smile. ‘But, of course, I could not possibly be cross with dear Wedgy. I can only assume that Benson must have fooled him as to his reliability, in the same way that he has fooled all of us.’

  ‘“Wedgy”?’ Darian had little or no patience left for the woman’s prattling, especially so when she obviously had absolutely no knowledge of just how much, and in what way, Benson had fooled them all.

  His hostess continued to smile. ‘Darling Wedgy. Lord William Edgewood,’ she supplied irritably as Darian continued to glower down his aristocratic nose at her. ‘But I have always called him Wedgy. William and Edgewood—Wedgy, do you see?’

  Darian did indeed see. He saw exactly how the slightly rotund and jolly, and
apparently innocuous, Lord Edgewood, a man he now recalled was also attached to the Foreign Office and so privy to certain information—such as the Prince Regent’s social engagements!—might have conspired with others in an attempt to assassinate the Prince Regent.

  ‘We have been friends since childhood, you see,’ Clara continued to confide. ‘More than friends in recent years, of course,’ she added coyly, obviously in reference to the debauched display of that affection they had been forced to witness the evening before. ‘But I have always considered that friends make the best lovers.’

  ‘What colour mask is Wedgewood wearing this evening?’ Darian could not even pretend to listen politely to this dreadful woman another moment longer.

  Clara blinked at his obvious aggression. ‘He is wearing the red mask of the devil.’

  How appropriate! ‘And have you seen him yet this evening?’

  His hostess frowned as she nodded. ‘Just before this latest crisis, as it happens.’

  ‘Where?’

  Clara frowned her irritation. ‘Really, Wolfingham, you are being less than polite.’

  ‘Where did you last see him, madam?’ he demanded tautly.

  She blinked pale lashes. ‘He was talking to one of the musicians as they prepared their instruments before they commenced playing. Why, Mariah, what on earth is wrong with Wolfingham this evening?’ She looked totally bewildered as the duke turned sharply on his highly polished heels to disappear into the melee of the crowded ballroom, without so much as a word of apology or explanation.

  Mariah knew exactly what was wrong with Darian, and the reason for his having left so abruptly, and her heart began to beat a wild tattoo in her chest at the realisation that Darian had every intention of confronting Lord Edgewood. ‘I will explain later.’ She threw the words distractedly at Clara before herself hurrying off in Darian’s wake.

  Very aware that the assassin’s plans for this weekend had been thwarted on two levels. First, by the arrival of the Prince Regent’s note of apology. And second, by Benson’s hurried departure.