Darian Hunter: Duke of Desire

DANGEROUS DUKES

Rakes about town

Carole Mortimer introduces London’s most delectable dukes in her new mini-series.

But don’t be fooled by their charm, because beneath their lazy smiles they’re deliciously sexy—and highly dangerous!

Coming this month

DARIAN HUNTER: DUKE OF DESIRE

Mariah held back the hysterical laugh that threatened to burst forth at the obvious sincerity of Darian’s promise of allowing no harm to come to her—when the person she now feared the most was him.

Oh, not him, exactly, but her responses to him certainly. Responses of heat and desire. Responses which she had believed herself to be incapable of feeling towards any man.

Until Wolfingham.

Just a few minutes of being back in his company and Mariah had known that she was still aware of everything about him. The dark and glossy thickness of his hair. Those beautiful emerald-green eyes. The stark and chiselled handsomeness of his features. The strength of his muscled body.

The gentleness of the long and sensitive hands that now held her hands so lightly, but securely, within his own.

Hands that Mariah could only too easily imagine moving, exploring her body, lighting a fire wherever they touched, giving pleasure wherever they caressed. A pleasure she’d never imagined she could desire so deeply …

Darian Hunter:

Duke of Desire

Carole Mortimer

www.millsandboon.co.uk

DEDICATION

My good friend, Susan Stephens.

What fun we have on our travels!

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.’

Contents

Cover

Introduction

Excerpt

Title Page

DEDICATION

About the Author

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Epilogue

Extract

Copyright

Prologue

March 1815—White’s Club, London

‘You wanted to speak to me?’

Having been perusing today’s newspaper, whilst seated in an otherwise deserted private room of his club, Darian Hunter, the Duke of Wolfingham, now continued reading to the end of the article before folding the broadsheet neatly into four and placing it down on the low table beside him. He then glanced up at the fashionably dressed young gentleman who had addressed him so aggressively. ‘And a good afternoon to you, too, Anthony,’ he greeted his younger brother calmly.

Anthony eyed him impatiently. ‘Do not come the haughty duke with me, Darian! Most especially when I know it is you who wished to speak with me rather than the other way about. You have left messages for me all over town,’ he reminded as Darian raised dark brows questioningly. ‘I presumed the matter must be of some urgency?’

‘Is that why it has taken you those same two days to respond to those messages?’ Darian was not fooled for a moment by his brother’s bluster. He knew that his brother always went on the attack when he knew he was in the wrong, but was refusing to admit it.

‘I have better things to do with my time than seek out the more often than not elusive Duke of Wolfingham—even if he does happen to be my big brother as well as my guardian. The latter for only another three months, I thank heavens!’

‘Oh, do sit down, Anthony,’ Darian snapped. ‘You are making the place look untidy.’

Anthony gave a wicked grin at having obviously succeeded in irritating Darian as he threw himself down into the chair opposite. He was dressed in the height of fashion as usual, in his jacket of royal blue, with a bright blue-and-green paisley-patterned waistcoat beneath and buff-coloured pantaloons, his dark hair rakishly overlong and falling across his brow. ‘When did you get back to town?’

‘Two days ago, obviously,’ Darian drawled.

‘And you immediately sought me out?’ Anthony raised mocking brows. ‘I am flattered, brother.’

‘Don’t be,’ he advised pointedly.

His brother now raised his gaze heavenwards. ‘What have I done to annoy you this time? Overspent at my tailor’s? Gambled at the cards a little too heavily?’

‘If only it was your usual irresponsible behaviour then I should not have needed to speak with you at all, but merely dealt with the matter as I always do,’ Darian drawled in a bored voice. ‘I am sure we are both well aware of why it is I wished to speak with you, Anthony,’ he added softly.

‘Not the slightest idea.’ The fact that Anthony shifted uncomfortably, his gaze now avoiding meeting Darian’s as a slight flush coloured his cheeks, instantly gave lie to the claim.

Darian gave a humourless smile. ‘Do not force me to mention the lady by name.’

Anthony narrowed eyes as emerald green as Darian’s own, the two of them very alike in colouring and looks, and so obviously brothers, in spite of the eight years’ difference in their ages; Darian aged two and thirty to his brother’s four and twenty. ‘If you are referring to the actress with whom I had a liaison last month, then I do not even recall her name—’

‘I am not.’

Anthony gave an exaggerated stretch of his shoulders. ‘Then give me a clue, brother, because I have absolutely no idea what—or possibly who?—you might be referring to.’

Darian’s mouth firmed at his brother’s determination not to make this an easy conversation. For either of them. ‘It has been brought to my attention that you have been seen in the company of a certain lady, more often than is socially acceptable.’

Anthony stilled. ‘Indeed?’

Darian nodded. ‘And while it is perfectly acceptable for you to discreetly indulge in a gentleman’s diversions, this particular lady could never be considered as being in the least discreet. Indeed, she is—’

‘Have a care, Darian,’ Anthony warned softly.

‘Her associations, past and present, mean she is not a woman with whom it is acceptable for a gentleman of your standing to indulge in these diversions,’ Darian maintained determinedly. ‘You—’ He broke off as Anthony sprang lightly to his feet, hands clenched into fists at his sides as he glared down at Darian. ‘I have not finished—’

‘In regard to this particular lady, I assure you that you have indeed finished,’ Anthony said fiercely. ‘And might I say that you have a damned nerve, daring to lecture me about my behaviour, when you have only just returned from spending almost two weeks in the company of whatever doxy it was who had so taken your fancy you might have disappeared off the edge of the earth! Or perhaps it is that you consider a duke is allowed to live by different standards than us mere mortals?’

Darian lowered heavy lids as he flicked an imaginary speck of lint from the sleeve of his jacket, at the same time avoiding meeting his brother’s accusing gaze.

Not because he had just spent almost two weeks with his latest doxy. ‘Latest doxy’? Darian could not even remember the last time he had spent any length of time in a woman’s company, let alone her bed.

No, the reason for his avoidance of Anthony’s probing gaze was because he had not been in a woman’s company at all, but had spent almost two weeks across the sea in France, acting secretly as an agent for the Crown.

Almost two weeks when he and his good friend Zachary Black, the Duke of Hawksmere, had roamed the French countryside, and then Paris itself, as they endeavoured to gauge how the French people themselves felt about Napoleon’s return, the emperor having recently escaped from Elba and currently on his way to the French capital.

Not even Darian’s own brother was aware of the work he had undertaken for the Crown these past five years. Anthony certainly had no idea that Darian had suffered a bullet wound to the shoulder just days ago, a souvenir of this last foray into France. And that he was suffering with the pain and discomfort of that wound even now.

Something that had not improved his temper in the slightest. ‘Perhaps you would care to lower your voice?’

‘Why should I, when there is no one else here to hear us?’ Anthony challenged as he looked about the otherwise empty room.

Darian sighed. ‘I am well aware that this lady has certain attributes that you—most gentlemen!—might find diverting. But she is not a discreet woman. Far from it, if gossip is to be believed. People in society are starting to comment upon your marked attentions to her.’

‘Then let them,’ Anthony dismissed with bravado.

He sighed. ‘It simply will not do, Anthony.’

‘Says who? You?’ his brother challenged, aggressive once again. ‘I am almost five and twenty, Darian, not five. Nor,’ he added darkly, ‘do I appreciate your interference in this matter.’

‘Even when I have your best interests at heart?’

‘Not when I am in love with the lady, no.’

Darian held on to his temper with difficulty, having had no idea that his brother’s affections had become engaged to such a degree. A physical diversion, if discreetly handled, was acceptable; a love affair most certainly was not. ‘I am sure the lady has certain charms and experience, which you obviously find attractive. But it would be a mistake on your part to confuse lust with love.’

‘How dare you?’ Anthony challenged fiercely, his face having become a mottled and angry red. ‘My intentions towards the lady are completely honourable!’

Then it was worse even than Darian had feared. ‘By all means continue to bed her then, Anthony, if that is your wish. All I am asking is that you at least try to make less of the association when the two of you are in public.’

‘Continue to—’ Anthony looked as if he might now explode with the depth of his fury. ‘I have not laid so much as an indelicate finger upon the lady. Nor do I intend to do so until after I have made her my wife.’

Now it was Darian’s turn to stand up, his shock at this announcement too great to be contained. ‘You cannot even think of making such a woman your wife!’

‘Such a woman? You damned hypocritical prig!’ Anthony glared at him, eyes glittering darkly. ‘You return from who knows where, after spending days, almost two weeks, in some woman’s bed, and you have the nerve to tell me how I might conduct my own life. Whom I may or may not marry! Well, I shall have none of it, Darian,’ he dismissed heatedly. ‘In just a few more weeks I shall have control of my own life and my own fortune, and when I do I shall marry whom, and when, I damn well please.’

Darian gave an impatient shake of his head. ‘This particular woman is—’

‘A darling. An angel.’ His brother’s voice rose angrily. ‘And it is as well you have chosen not to so much as say her name, because your conversation today shows you are not fit to do so.’

Darian winced. From all that he had heard of the lady, she was neither a darling nor an angel. Far from it.

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...

Chapter One

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 only he was not so devilishly handsome, Mariah might have found it in her heart to forgive him. After all, his concern for the welfare of his younger brother and ward was commendable; Mariah also felt that same protectiveness in regard to her daughter, Christina.

And Wolfingham’s arrogant handsomeness was of a kind that no woman could remain completely immune to it. Not even a woman as jaded as herself.

That she knew she was not immune rankled and irritated Mariah more than any of the insulting things Wolfingham had just said to her.

The duke was excessively tall, at least a foot taller than her own five feet, his overlong hair as black as night and inclined to curl slightly on his brow and about his ears. His face—emerald-green eyes fringed by thick dark lashes, a long patrician nose, sharp blades for cheekbones, with sculptured lips that might have graced a Michelangelo statue, along with a strong and determined jaw—possessed a masculine beauty that was undeniably arresting.

The width of his shoulders, and broad and powerfully muscled chest, were all also shown to advantage in his perfectly tailored, black evening clothes. As were his lean and muscled thighs, and the long length of his legs and calves.

Wolfingham was, in fact, everything that Mariah, while acknowledging his male splendour, recoiled from and disliked in a man.

‘I was not implying anything, madam.’ Those sculptured lips now turned back contemptuously. ‘Merely stating a fact.’

Mariah eyed him coldly. ‘Indeed?’

Wolfingham nodded tersely. ‘I know, for example, that my brother has attended every one of the same excessive amount of entertainments as you have these past three weeks or more. That he then rarely leaves your side for longer than a few minutes. That he calls at your home at least three, sometimes four, times a week and that he stays well beyond the time of any of your other callers. And that, in turn, you—’

‘You are having me watched?’ Mariah gasped, so disturbed at the thought she had almost stumbled in the dance.

‘I am having my brother watched,’ Wolfingham corrected grimly, his tightened grip upon her gloved hand having prevented her stumble. ‘It is an unfortunate...coincidence that you have always happened to be wherever Anthony is and so your own movements have been afforded that same interest.’

It was truly insupportable that the haughtily contemptuous Duke of Wolfingham dared to so blatantly admit to having monitored those innocent meetings. Totally unacceptable on any level Mariah cared to consider and regardless of Wolfingham’s reasons for having done so.

Lord Anthony Hunter was young, yes, but surely old enough to live his own life as he chose, without this excessive interference from his arrogant and disapproving older brother?

As for Mariah, she did not care in the least for having her personal life placed under such close scrutiny.

‘Well, madam, what is your answer to be to my request?’ Darian prompted impatiently, aware that the dance would soon come to an end and having no desire to waste any more of his evening than was absolutely necessary at the countess’s ball. His shoulder, still healing from the recent bullet wound, was currently giving him an excessive amount of pain, following his exertions on the dance floor.

Mariah Beecham pulled her hand from his and stepped back and away from him as the dance came to an end. ‘My answer is to make a request of my own, which is that you should leave my home forthwith!’

Darian’s eyes widened in surprise before he was able to hide it; he had been the Marquis of Durham for all of his life, and the Duke of Wolfingham these past seven years, and as such no one talked to him in such a condescending manner as Mariah Beecham had just done.

He did not know whether to be irritated or amused that she should have done so now. ‘And if I should choose not to?’