Darian Hunter: Duke of Desire. Carole Mortimer

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      ‘Something, the doctor assured me yesterday evening as he reapplied those stitches, that you must have been aware of for some time before last night?’ the countess added sternly.

      Of course Darian had been aware of it, but his brother’s future, and this unsuitable alliance, had been of more importance to him than his own painful shoulder. Nor was it the state of his own health that was now his main concern.

      The reason for that was the how and why he came to still be in Mariah Beecham’s home on the morning following her ball, for he had no choice but to accept that was where he was.

      Darian frowned as he recalled their unsatisfactory conversation on the terrace of Carlisle House the evening before. How he had been unable to resist moving closer to Mariah, drawn by her unique perfume and the temptation of the perfection of her skin in the moonlight.

      He also had a vague memory of Mariah reaching up to physically push him away after he had ignored her instructions to step back from her. The pain that had followed that push had been excruciating. So intense that it had caused Darian’s breath to cease and his knees to buckle as the waves of blackness engulfed him. After that he remembered nothing.

      Did that mean he had remained unconscious for the whole of the previous night?

      That he had spent that night in Mariah Beecham’s home? Possibly in her own bedchamber?

      If that was indeed the case, then Darian certainly had no memory of any of those events.

      But neither did he recall having departed Carlisle House. Or having been attended by a doctor.

      ‘You are currently in one of my guest bedchambers,’ the countess supplied drily, as his horrified expression must have given away at least some of his thoughts. ‘My daughter’s choice rather than my own,’ she continued with a rueful glance at their feminine surroundings.

      Darian licked the dryness of his lips before speaking for the first time since he had awoken. ‘Lady Christina knows I spent the night here?’

      ‘Why, yes,’ Mariah drawled, Wolfingham’s obvious discomfort in his surroundings succeeding in dissipating some of her own irritation in having to accommodate him here for the night, following his faint the previous evening. ‘There was nothing else to be done once you had fainted dead away on my terrace. What else would you have me call it, Wolfingham?’ she added mockingly as he gave a grunt of protest.

      He scowled his displeasure. ‘I was obviously overcome with pain—to call it a faint makes me sound like a complete ninny.’

      ‘It does rather.’ She arched mocking brows. ‘Very well, Wolfingham, when you were overcome with pain,’ she conceded drily as he continued to glower. ‘Whatever the cause, it left me with no choice but to have two of my footmen carry you up the servants’ stairs, before placing you in one of the bedchambers and sending for the doctor—much as the temptation was for me to just leave you unconscious upon my terrace, apparently inebriated, for one of my other guests to find!’ she added.

      Green eyes narrowed. ‘I suppose I should thank you for having resisted that particular temptation,’ Wolfingham growled.

      ‘I suppose you should, yes,’ Mariah drawled dismissively. ‘But I doubt you intend doing so?’

      ‘Not at this moment, no,’ Wolfingham bit out from between gritted teeth.

      She gave a mocking shake of her head. ‘Bad show, Wolfingham, when at considerable inconvenience to myself, I have undoubtedly helped you to maintain your reputation as being the stern and soberly respectable Duke of Wolfingham.’

      His brow lowered darkly. ‘You have also put me in the position of now having to remove myself from your home, without detection by a third party, on the morning following your ball.’

      ‘And so tarnishing that sterling reputation anyway,’ she derided. ‘Poor Wolfingham!’

      He remained disgruntled. ‘My reputation in society is one of sternness and sober respectability?’

      ‘Oh, yes.’ Mariah strolled across to where Wolfingham still sat on the side of the bed, the darkness of his hair, tousled and unkempt, succeeding in lessening his usual air of austerity and also taking years off his age of two, or possibly three, and thirty.

      Nevertheless, it was far safer for Mariah to take in the tousled appearance of Wolfingham’s hair than to allow her gaze to move any lower. To where the removal of his top clothes had rendered Darian Hunter naked from the waist up, apart from the bandage and sling the doctor had placed about his left shoulder and arm the night before.

      And a very masculine and muscled chest it was, too, with a light dusting of dark hair, which deepened to a vee down the firm and muscled length of his stomach, before disappearing into the loosened waistband of his black evening trousers.

      None of which Mariah was at all happy to realise she had taken note of! ‘The doctor remarked that the original injury to your shoulder has all the appearance of being a bullet wound,’ she said challengingly. ‘And was possibly inflicted a week or so ago?’

      ‘Six days ago, to be precise,’ he conceded gruffly. ‘I would now have your word that you will not discuss this with anyone else,’ he added harshly.

      Her eyebrows rose. ‘And will you trust my word if it is given?’

      ‘I will.’ Darian had little choice in the matter but to trust to Mariah Beecham’s discretion. Besides which, there might be plenty of gossip in society in regard to the countess, but he had never heard of her having discussed with anyone the gentlemen with whom she was known to have been intimately involved.

      ‘Then you have it.’ She nodded now. ‘Nevertheless, I should be interested to learn how you came to receive such a wound. Unless England is already once again at war and I am unaware of it?’ She arched mocking blonde brows.

      Darian knew that for most women, this would have been her first question upon entering the bedchamber and finding her uninvited guest had finally awoken from his stupor!

      But, as he had learnt yesterday evening, Mariah Beecham was not like most women. Indeed, he truly had no idea what manner of woman she was. Which only added to her mystique.

      And attraction?

      Yesterday evening Mariah Beecham had given the appearance of being the sophisticated and confident woman of society that she undoubtedly was. Today, free of adornment or artifice, Mariah Beecham looked no older than her seventeen-year-old daughter.

      Her figure was that of a mature woman, of course, but her face was smooth and unlined in the sunlight, her eyes a clear Mediterranean turquoise, despite her having hosted a ball the previous evening and no doubt having retired very late to her own bedchamber.

      Darian felt that stirring of his arousal, which was rapidly becoming a familiar reaction to being in this woman’s company, as he gazed upon her natural loveliness through narrowed lids. ‘I fear that peace will not last for too much longer, now that Napoleon has returned to France and is currently reported to be on his way to Paris,’ he rasped in an attempt to dampen his physical response to this woman.

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