Nor did he have any intentions of allowing his brother to marry such a woman.
And if Anthony could not be made to see sense, then the lady must...
Two days later—the ballroom of Carlisle House, London
‘Would you care to repeat your remark, Wolfingham, for I fear the music and loud chatter must have prevented me from hearing you correctly the first time?’
Darian did not need to look down, into the face of the woman with whom he was dancing, to know Mariah Beecham, widowed Countess of Carlisle, had heard him correctly the first time; her displeasure was more than obvious, in both the frosty tone of her voice and the stiffness of her elegantly clad body.
‘I doubt that very much, madam,’ he drawled just as icily, as the two of them continued to smile for the benefit of any watching them as they moved about the dance floor, in perfect sequence with the other couples dancing. ‘Nevertheless, I will gladly repeat my statement, in that it is my wish that you immediately cease to encourage my brother in this ridiculous infatuation he seems to have developed for you.’
‘The implication being that you believe me to have been deliberately encouraging those attentions in the first place?’ His hostess for the evening arched one haughty blonde brow over eyes of an exquisite and unusual shade of turquoise blue.
A colour that Darian had previously only associated with the Mediterranean Sea, on a clear summer’s day.
Darian had long been aware of this lady’s presence in society, of course, first as the Earl of Carlisle’s much younger wife and, for these past five years, as that deceased gentleman’s very wealthy and scandalous widow.
But this was the first occasion upon which Darian had spent any length of time in her company. Having done so, he now perfectly understood his younger brother’s infatuation with the countess; she was, without doubt, a woman of unparalleled beauty.
Her hair was the gold of ripened corn, her complexion as pale and smooth as alabaster; a creamy brow, softly curving cheeks, her neck long, with elegantly plump shoulders shown to advantage by the low décolletage of her gown. Those unusual turquoise eyes were surrounded by thick dark lashes, her nose small and pert above generous—and sensual—lips and the ampleness of her breasts revealed above a silk gown of the same deep turquoise colour as her eyes.
No, Darian could not fault his brother’s taste in women, for Mariah Beecham was a veritable diamond, in regard to both her beauty and those voluptuous breasts.
Unfortunately, she was also a widow aged four and thirty to Anthony’s only four and twenty, and mother to a daughter of seventeen. Indeed her daughter, the Lady Christina Beecham, was newly out this Season, and so also present this evening. She also bore a startling physical resemblance to her mother.
The young Lady Christina Beecham did not, however, as yet have the same scandalous reputation as her mother.
It was that reputation that had prompted Darian’s recent concerns in regard to his brother’s future happiness and for him to have uncharacteristically decided to interfere in the association.
He would have understood if Anthony had merely wished to discreetly share the lady’s bed for a few weeks, or possibly even months. He accepted that all young gentlemen indulged in these sexual diversions—indeed, he had done so himself for many years at that age—for their own enjoyment and in order to gain the physical experience considered necessary for the marriage bed.
Unfortunately, this lady could never be called discreet. And Anthony had made it more than plain, in their conversation two days ago, that he did not regard Mariah Beecham as his mere mistress.
As Anthony’s older brother and only relation, Darian could not allow him to entertain such a ruinous marriage. As Anthony’s guardian, for at least another few months and so still in control of Anthony’s considerable fortune, Darian considered it to be nothing more than an unsuitable infatuation.
His efforts so far to dissuade Anthony from continuing in his pursuit of this woman had been to no avail; his brother could be as stubborn as Darian when he had decided on a course of action.
Consequently, Darian had been left with no choice but to approach and speak to the woman herself, and he had attended the countess’s ball this evening for just that purpose. His forays into polite society had been rare these past few years.
He much preferred to spend his evenings at his private club, or gambling establishments, in the company of the four gentlemen who had been his closest friends since their schooldays together. The past ten years had seen the five of them become known collectively in society as The Dangerous Dukes. It was a reputation they had earned for their exploits in the bedchamber, albeit discreetly in recent years, as much as on the battlefield.
Confirmed bachelors all, Darian had recently watched as two of his close friends had succumbed to falling in love—one of them had already married, the second was well on his way to being so.
Much as he might deplore the distance a wife would necessarily put between himself and two of his closest friends, Darian considered the two ladies in question to be more than suitable as his friends’ consorts, and had no doubt that both ladies were equally as smitten as his two friends and that the marriages would flourish.
Also, Worthing and Hawksmere were both gentlemen aged two and thirty, the same age as Darian himself, and so both old enough, he considered, to know their own minds, and hearts. His brother, Anthony, was so much younger, and as such Darian did not consider him old enough as yet to know enough of life, let alone the true meaning of love for any woman.
Most especially, he knew Anthony could have no previous experience with a woman of Mariah Beecham’s age and reputation. Nor had it helped to quell Darian’s disquiet over the association that, when he had arrived here earlier this evening, his first sighting of his younger brother had been as he danced with the countess, a besotted smile upon his youthfully handsome face!
That she now felt just as strongly opposed as Anthony did to Darian’s interference in the friendship was in no doubt as he looked down into those cold and challenging turquoise eyes.
* * *
It was a long time since Mariah had allowed anyone to anger her to the degree Darian Hunter had just succeeded in doing. Not since her husband, Martin, had been alive, in fact. But Darian Hunter, the arrogantly superior Duke of Wolfingham, had undoubtedly succeeded in annoying her intensely.
How dared this man come into her home and chastise her in this way? As if she were no more than a rebellious and impressionable young girl for him to reprove and reproach for her actions?
Actions of which she was, in this particular instance, completely innocent.
Mariah had, of course, been aware of Anthony Hunter’s youthful attentions to her during these past few weeks. Attentions that she had neither encouraged nor discouraged. The former, because Anthony could never be any more to her than an entertaining boy, and the latter, because she had not wanted to hurt those youthful feelings.
All of which she would happily have assured his arrogant duke of a brother, if Wolfingham had not been so determined to be unpleasant to her from the moment they began dancing together.
She should have known that Darian Hunter, a gentleman known for his contempt of all polite social occasions, would have an ulterior motive when he had accepted the invitation to her ball. That he had also claimed a dance with her was unheard of; the duke’s usual preference was to stand on the edge of society, looking coldly down his haughty nose at them all.
So much for that particular social feather in her cap! For Mariah now knew that Darian Hunter’s only reason for attending her ball, for asking her to dance, had been with the intention of being unpleasant to her.
If