Lady Arabella's Scandalous Marriage

I do not tell lies, Your Grace!’

Darius quirked a derisive brow over lazily mocking blue eyes. ‘Prove it.’

Arabella’s eyes opened wide at the challenge. ‘I beg your pardon …?’

They might have been the only two people in the room as Darius regarded her from between narrowed lids. The air between them was charged with expectation as he noted the loss of colour to her cheeks, and the shocked uncertainty that now shone in those previously rebellious brown eyes. ‘I am merely inviting you to prove your claim, Arabella,’ he repeated softly.

‘I—But—How am I to do that, Your Grace?’

His mouth twisted humourlessly. ‘Surely there is only one way in which a woman might prove her … experience in the matter of physical intimacy?’

AUTHOR NOTE

I feel quite sad to have come to the end of The Notorious St Claires quartet.

Hopefully, it will not be the last you hear of the St Claire family. I have no doubt there will be many more family members who’ll have their own story to tell, while at the same time you will get brief and tantalising glimpses into the continuing lives of Hawk, Lucian, Sebastian and Arabella. In fact, I couldn’t resist setting a story at Christmas, where the family makes a further appearance. Look for my short story CHRISTMAS AT MULBERRY HALL, coming later in 2011.

Thank you for sharing this experience with me, and until next time I wish you happy reading!

About the Author

CAROLE MORTIMER was born in England, the youngest of three children. She began writing in 1978, and has now written over one hundred and fifty books for Harlequin Mills & Boon. Carole has six sons: Matthew, Joshua, Timothy, Michael, David and Peter. She says, ‘I’m happily married to Peter senior; we’re best friends as well as lovers, which is probably the best recipe for a successful relationship. We live in a lovely part of England.’

Previous novels by the same author:

In Mills & Boon® Historical Romance

THE DUKE’S CINDERELLA BRIDE*

THE RAKE’S INDECENT PROPOSAL*

THE ROGUE’S DISGRACED LADY*

*Part of The Notorious St Claires mini-series

You’ve read about The Notorious St Claires in Regency times.

Now read about the new generation in Mills & Boon® Modern™ Romance

The Scandalous St Claires

Three arrogant aristocrats— ready to be tamed!

Don’t miss Jordan St Claire in Jordan St Claire: Dark and Dangerous January 2011

Lucian St Claire The Relucant Duke in February and Gideon St Claire Taming the Last St Claire in March!

LADY ARABELLA’S SCANDALOUS MARRIAGE

Carole Mortimer

www.millsandboon.co.uk

For my readers,

for helping to make writing

The Notorious St Claires such a wonderful and rewarding experience for me.

Chapter One

‘How I have come to hate weddings!’ Lady Arabella St Claire muttered inelegantly as her partner in the waltz—a dance still considered slightly risqué by the older members of the ton—swept her assuredly amongst the two hundred or so other wedding guests milling about the candlelit ballroom of St Claire House in London.

‘Could that be because in the past year you have been three times the sister of the groom rather than being the bride?’ drawled Darius Wynter, the Duke of Carlyne.

Arabella looked up sharply, intending to give him a set-down for the mockery she detected in his cynically bored tone. That was her intention, but instead Arabella found her attention caught and held by the hard and perfect male beauty of his face—a face Arabella had once described to one of her sisters-in-law as being that of an angel. Or a devil …

Six or seven inches taller than her own five feet and eight inches in stockinged feet, Darius Wynter had stylishly overlong golden hair, which gleamed in the candle-light, and his eyes were of dark cobalt-blue, edged by long lashes of that same gold. His nose was long and aristocratic, his cheekbones hard, and he possessed perfect sculptured lips above a square and determined jaw.

The stark black of his jacket over snowy-white linen emphasised rather than hid the width of his shoulders, his muscled chest and taut abdomen, and the lean elegance of his hips and thighs was defined by tailored black pantaloons.

Yes, Darius Wynter, Duke of Carlyne, was certainly elegance personified—and he was also the most com-pellingly handsome man Arabella had met since her coming out the previous year.

Until a few short months ago he had been Lord Darius Wynter, a man well known for his numerous exploits in the bedroom and at the gaming tables. A wild and reckless reputation that had only been added to when he’d married the heiress Sophie Belling a year ago, only to be suddenly widowed one short month later, when his bride was thrown from her horse while out hunting and killed.

As expected, the majority of the ton—marriage-minded mamas especially!—had forgiven Darius Wynter all his previous sins when he’d inherited the title of the Duke of Carlyne on the death of his elder brother seven months ago.

Arabella had been drawn to his decadent good-looks the first time she’d seen him at a ball some eighteen months ago. An attraction, despite the many social occasions at which they had both been present, that Darius Wynter had unfortunately never given any inclination of returning.

Her top lip curled now with haughty disdain. ‘I am sure you did not mean your remark to be so insulting, Your Grace.’

Darius gazed down into the beautiful face of Lady Arabella St Claire. With three brothers older than herself, one of them Hawk, Duke of Stourbridge, Darius knew that this young lady had been petted and spoilt for most if not all of her almost twenty years.

Nevertheless, her beauty was dazzling: a riot of honey-gold curls framed her heart-shaped face, her eyes were the colour of melted chocolate, and she had a tiny up-tilted nose, full and sensuously pouting lips, and a pointedly determined chin. The pale cream gown she wore revealed a spill of creamy breasts above a narrow waist and rounded hips, and her tiny feet were covered in cream satin slippers.

Yes, Lady Arabella St Claire was without doubt a very beautiful and highly desirable young lady. But as the young and so far unattached sister of the Duke of Stourbridge, wealthy in her own right following the death of her father eleven years ago, this haughtily condescending young lady had been hotly pursued by every eligible buck during the past two Seasons. Darius, whilst still only the lowly Lord Wynter, had even made an offer for her himself the previous year. An offer that had been summarily dismissed by this wilful baggage, he recalled grimly.

‘Are you so sure?’ Darius taunted.

Those deep brown eyes narrowed slightly. ‘I am but nineteen years of age, Your Grace, hardly old-maid material yet!’

Darius rather liked the angry flush that had entered her cheeks. It made her eyes appear darker, the fullness of her lips redder. Lips that it would no doubt be a pleasure to kiss and explore, he noted. ‘Nevertheless, you have been out for two Seasons now, with no hint of a betrothal being announced.’

Those expressive dark eyes flashed her displeasure. ‘Is it your opinion, then, that all young ladies are so giddy and empty-headed that their only aim in life must be to snare themselves a suitable husband?’

He raised enquiring blond brows. ‘By suitable I presume you mean wealthy, as well as titled?’

Her pointed chin rose challengingly. ‘It is the enlightened year of eighteen hundred and seventeen, Your Grace, a time when not all women feel that they need a husband—any husband—by which to justify their very ex is tence!’

‘Then it is not your intention to marry?’ he asked curiously.

‘Not for some years, no,’ she answered stubbornly. ‘A pity.’

Her brows drew together. ‘I beg your pardon?’

Darius shrugged broad shoulders. ‘At nineteen a woman’s body is still firm and ripe—’ He broke off as Arabella gave a shocked gasp and attempted to pull away from him, yet Darius easily prevented her withdrawal by tightening his arm about the narrowness of her waist and his fingers about her tiny gloved fingers.

Her eyes glittered up at him angrily when she found herself forced to continue dancing, the softness of her thighs pressed against his much harder ones. ‘Release me at once, sir!’

Darius grinned down at her unrepentantly. ‘I am merely endeavouring to show you what you are missing by spurning the idea of marriage whilst you are still young enough to enjoy it.’

Arabella had not grown up with three older brothers without learning at least some of the mechanics of a man’s body. And at the moment she could feel exactly what she would be missing as the hard press of Darius Wynter’s thighs became a shocking torment against hers. A shockingly sensual torment.

Her legs felt weakened by the intimacy. Her breasts were swelling against her gown, her palms becoming slightly damp inside her gloves, and her cheeks were burning as she glanced about them self-consciously.

Luckily there was such a crush of people attending the celebration of her brother Sebastian’s wedding to his darling Juliet that no one—not one of her brothers or their wives, nor indeed her many aunts and uncles and numerous cousins—seemed to have noticed the Duke’s over-familiarity with Arabella.

Arabella’s eyes gleamed as she turned back to face him. ‘Surely it is not necessary for a woman to marry in order for her to enjoy such … intimacies?’ She looked up at him challengingly, hoping to shock him.

The Duke narrowed his eyes. ‘Perhaps you have already done so?’ he retorted.

Of course Arabella had not. She might not as yet have found any man interesting enough to even think of marrying him, but for her to go to her husband on their wedding night as anything but pure and untouched would cause the most tremendous scandal. Besides which, her three over-protective older brothers would never allow it.

However, she considered this taunting mockery from a contemporary of her eldest brother Hawk intolerable. At one-and-thirty years of age, he should know better! ‘Perhaps …’ she echoed enigmatically.

Those sculptured lips curved into a hard smile. ‘Why is it I find that so very hard to believe, Lady Arabella?’

She drew in a sharp, indignant breath. ‘Are you calling me a liar, Your Grace?’

‘I believe I am, yes,’ Darius murmured.

Arabella St Claire really was a wayward little baggage, he acknowledged with admiration as he continued to twirl her about the magnificent candlelit ballroom. A wilful baggage with a complete disregard for the fact that she was playing with fire by behaving in this flirtatious way with a man she had refused to marry so condescendingly the previous year.

She held herself very erect, her challenging stance pushing up the full swell of those creamy breasts so that Darius now felt their warmth against his chest.

‘I do not tell lies, Your Grace.’

He quirked a brow over lazily sensual blue eyes. ‘Prove it.’

Her eyes opened wide at the challenge. ‘I beg your pardon?’

They might have been the only two people in the room as Darius regarded her from between narrowed lids. The air between them was charged with expectation as he noted the loss of colour to her cheeks and the shocked uncertainty that now shone in those previously rebellious brown eyes. ‘I am merely inviting you to prove your claim, Arabella,’ he repeated softly.

‘I—But—How am I to do that, Your Grace?’

His mouth repressed a smile. ‘Surely there is only one way in which a woman might prove her … experience in the matter of physical intimacy?’

Arabella stared up at Darius Wynter in disbelief. He could not seriously mean for her to—? He did not expect her to—?

Yes, he did!

His intent was blatantly plain for Arabella to read in that single raised brow. In the deep blue of his eyes. In the cynical half-smile on those perfect lips.

Darius Wynter, Duke of Carlyne, was openly challenging her to indulge in physical intimacy with him!

Arabella’s heart fluttered wildly in her chest at the mere thought of the muscled strength of this man’s hard, naked body pressed against her own; those wide shoulders, the firmness of his chest and stomach, his powerful thighs and the naked glory of his—

‘I assure you, sir, that the infamous Darius Wynter is the very last man I would ever contemplate becoming intimate with,’ Arabella bit out with deliberate insult.

He looked down his aristocratic nose at her. ‘Is that so?’ he responded icily.

She nodded. ‘You are undoubtedly the rake everyone believes you to be. A rake and a scoundrel. A man who married for money before being suspiciously widowed only a month later.’

‘Suspiciously?’ His voice was deceptively, dangerously soft.

‘Conveniently, then,’ Arabella substituted recklessly. ‘As you were then able to keep your heiress’s money without the bother of the heiress. In other words, sir, you are a man no decent woman should ever align herself with, as wife or mistress, regardless of your newfound wealth and respectability as the Duke of Carlyne!’

Arabella was instantly aware of her serious error in judgement in insulting this particular man as those dark blue eyes narrowed dangerously in a face gone hard with displeasure. His mouth was a thin, uncompromising line above a clenched and unrelenting jaw. That very stillness was in itself a warning of the coldness and depth of his anger.

Arabella swallowed hard. ‘Perhaps I have said too much—’

‘Only perhaps? ‘ Darius grated menacingly.

She had said too much. Far too much, and most assuredly to the wrong man. That the Duke had challenged her into being so indiscreet Arabella had no doubts. That she should not have taken up that challenge was also beyond doubt. As was the retribution promised in the hard blue of his eyes.

‘I believe we should retire somewhere a little less … crowded so that we might continue this conversation in private,’ Darius growled, his fingers firmly gripping Arabella’s elbow as he left the dance floor to pull her along at his side through the crush of people.

‘We cannot be seen leaving the ballroom together,’ Arabella hissed self-consciously, hoping that at any moment one or other of her brothers would arrive and demand to know what they were about.

Darius did not so much as falter in his departure as he glanced down at her with cold, remorseless blue eyes. ‘I believed you to be unconcerned by such impropriety in this enlightened year of eighteen hundred and seventeen!’

Arabella felt her cheeks warm as he neatly turned her earlier bravado back on her, to good effect. ‘I assure you I am completely unconcerned, Your Grace, but my brothers may perhaps be less … guarded in voicing their opinions.’

His mouth twisted derisively. ‘Sebastian and his bride disappeared some minutes ago, and Hawk and Lucian also seem to be similarly engaged with the charms of their own wives.’

Another hurried glance about the ballroom did indeed show an obvious lack of the presence of Arabella’s brothers. How typical! Since her coming out last Season her brothers had made her life almost impossible with their over-protectiveness, and now, when Arabella would actually have welcomed their high-handed interference, they had all disappeared to goodness knew where to dally with their wives. Even Aunt Hammond, her chaperon during these past two Seasons, appeared blind to Arabella’s unwilling departure from the ballroom as she stood across the room engrossed in conversation with several of their relatives.

‘As I said,’ Darius drawled with dry satisfaction, ‘I think it better by far that we retire somewhere less crowded in order to continue our present … xonversation.’

Arabella had no doubt from the determined tone of his voice that conversation was the last thing the arrogant Duke of Carlyne wished to continue..

Darius strode from the ballroom, pulling Arabella through yet another crush of people where they stood chattering and laughing in the cavernous hallway, although he was not unaware of the expression in her beautiful brown eyes as he looked for a room where he could be alone with this insultingly outspoken young madam. Those eyes of hers, Darius knew, could sparkle with laughter as easily as they now snapped with anger.

So far the former had never happened in his presence..

Whenever he and Arabella St Claire had chanced to meet this past year and a half it had always been at one function of the ton or another. Occasions when this feisty little miss had treated the disreputable Lord Darius Wynter with all the haughty disdain of which a St Claire was capable—if she deigned to acknowledge him at all. Which usually she had not.

The tenuous accuracy of Arabella’s recently voiced insults proved that although she had appeared to be completely unaware of him personally, she had obviously not been above listening to the scandalous gossip that so often circulated about him amongst the ton!

It was time—past time—for Darius to demonstrate to her that as the Duke of Carlyne he would no longer tolerate such dismissive behaviour from her or anyone else!

The noise and heat of the wedding party faded, and Darius kept his hand tightly about her elbow as he strode forcefully down a corridor towards the back of the house.

‘What is in here?’ He indicated a door to the left of the hallway with his free hand.

‘It is a linen closet, I believe. Lord Wyn—Your Grace,’ she corrected herself hurriedly as she stumbled along beside him, ‘this really is most improper—’

‘Here?’ Darius ignored her protests, his expression grim as he indicated a door to the right.

‘Hawk’s study. But we cannot go in there!’ she protested agitatedly.

Darius thrust the door open before pulling her into the darkened room behind him. ‘Now.’ He took both her hands in one of his and lifted them over her head as he pushed her back against the closed door and pressed the length of his body against hers. ‘Shall we put to the test your claim that I am the very last man you would ever contemplate being intimate with? ‘ His eyes glittered down at her as he slowly lowered his head with the intention of capturing her pouting lips with his own.

Arabella couldn’t speak. Couldn’t breathe. Her struggles to release her hands from Darius’s steely restraint were only causing her body to become pressed more intimately against his. Causing her to feel more closely the hard warmth of his chest and thighs even as those cynical lips claimed hers.

Despite her earlier attempt at sophisticated bravado, Arabella had never even been kissed before. Her own lack of any deep interest, along with the threat of her brothers’ wrath raining down on the head of any man who dared take such liberties with their young sister, had been enough, it seemed, to warn off any of the young bucks she had met so far.

Not so in the case of Darius Wynter who, at one and thirty, was most certainly not a young buck. Nor, as the illustrious Duke of Carlyne, was he in awe of any of her brothers.

A mouth that had appeared hard and sculptured was instead softly intimate as Darius kissed Arabella with a thoroughness that made her body tremble and shake even as it burned. Her breasts somehow felt fuller as they pressed against the restraining material of her gown, and there was a heat between her thighs that Arabella had never experienced before. A flowering that caused her to shift her hips in restless need. What she needed exactly, she was unsure. She only knew that she wanted something more than he had so far given her.

Darius raised his head to look down into the flushed and beautiful face reflected in the moonlight that shone so brightly through the window directly across the room. He noted the feverish glitter of Arabella’s eyes as she looked up at him. The warmth in her cheeks. The fullness of her lips. The uneven rise and fall of the creamy breasts that spilled so temptingly over the low neckline of her gown.

The burn of Darius’s gaze returned to the pout of her mouth. ‘Open your lips for me,’ he encouraged gruffly.

Arabella frowned. ‘Certainly not!’

She was such a little vixen in her condemnation of him. So critical of his reputation. The same reputation that, along with his lack of wealth, had no doubt caused this haughty young lady to refuse his offer for her the previous year.

Darius’s grip tightened as he held her hands pressed to the door above her head, his eyes glinting down in promised retribution for all of her earlier slights. ‘Open your mouth, Arabella,’ he rasped. ‘Show me how a real woman kisses,’ he added, with challenging scorn for her earlier effort.

He was instantly rewarded by the light of battle that caused Arabella’s eyes to shine more brightly in the moonlight as she glared up at him. ‘If you will but release my hands, Your Grace?’ she snapped angrily.

He gave a hard smile. ‘I have no intention of releasing you only to have you use your little claws on me.’

Arabella was furious. More angry than she could ever remember being in her life before. Which, considering how often in the past her brothers had caused her to lose all patience with them, was impressive indeed.

She narrowed her eyes at him. ‘Perhaps you might enjoy the way I use my little claws on you …’

‘Perhaps.’ Darius Wynter gave a soft appreciative laugh and slowly released her hands before taking a step back. ‘I am waiting, Arabella,’ he drawled seconds later, when she made no attempt to make good on her threat.

Arabella’s mouth firmed determinedly. She could do this. She could do anything she wished if she set her mind to it.

Even seduce Darius Wynter.

How hard could it really be? The man was, after all, an acknowledged and indiscriminate rake.

Arabella gave a knowing smile as she closed the distance between them, her gaze holding his as her hands moved up to caress lightly across his shoulders before touching the silky softness of that golden hair where it rested on the collar of his jacket. Her fingers became entangled in that silkiness as she pulled his head down to hers so that she might be the one to instigate the kiss. As instructed, she parted her lips this time, immediately aware of the deeper intimacy of their kiss. Of the way her pulse quickened and her body suffused with a new heat as she felt the hot rasp of Darius’s tongue against her parted lips, that tongue retreating slightly, only to repeat the heated caress seconds later. Beckoning. Enticing. Encouraging Arabella to do the same to him, perhaps?

How Arabella wished at that moment that she knew more about the intimacies that took place between a man and a woman. How she wanted to bring this arrogant man to his knees in the heat of his desire for her. Longed to have him beg and plead for her capitulation as he became lost to that need.

His need for her, Arabella St Claire, and for no other woman.

She allowed her instincts to take over as she pressed her body against Darius’s to run her tongue lightly over his parted lips, at once feeling the leap of the pulse in his throat. A second, deeper penetration of her tongue elicited a low and throaty groan.