Darian Hunter: Duke of Desire (Dangerous Dukes 3)

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 mat

ter!

‘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?