that he was a generous and attentive lover, with more of an interest in ensuring his partner’s pleasure than taking his own.
Could she give herself to this man? Could she let down her guard, her inhibitions, and open herself up to such intimacy? Such vulnerability?
She was starting to believe, that with Darian Hunter, she just might be able to do so...
She straightened her shoulders as she made her decision. ‘Perhaps,’ she allowed gruffly.
Darian’s eyes widened as he barely heard Mariah’s softly spoken reply. He had feared the worst minutes ago, as Mariah’s eyes once again took on that look of distance, as if she were no longer quite here with him in this room, but somewhere else entirely. Lost in memories, perhaps? Some of them unpleasant ones, if he had read her expression correctly.
Of her husband? Or some other man she had been involved with during her marriage or since?
Darian’s ire rose just at the thought of a man, any man, ever having hurt her, in any way.
‘Mariah?’ He sat down in the chair beside her before taking one of her hands in both of his. Instantly becoming aware of the trembling of her fingers beneath delicate lace gloves—evidence that those thoughts had indeed been unhappy ones? Whatever the reason, he felt heartened by the fact that she did not instantly pull her hand away from his.
‘Do you think we could please get out of this oppressive house, if only for a few hours?’
She blinked long lashes. ‘I ordered fresh coffee.’
‘I am sure that Benson is an understanding fellow. He would have to be to suffer working for the Nicholses!’ Darian grimaced.
‘Ah, Benson.’ The butler appeared in the room almost as if he had been cued to do so. ‘The countess and I have decided to go for a walk in the grounds this morning—do you recommend any direction in particular?’
The butler poured fresh coffee into their cups as he answered, his face as expressionless as ever. ‘I believe most of her ladyship’s guests find Aphrodite’s Temple of interest, your Grace.’
‘Aphrodite’s Temple?’ Darian repeated doubtfully; if he remembered his Greek mythology correctly, from his years spent at Eton, Aphrodite had been the goddess of love, beauty and sexuality, but better known as being a goddess who indulged her own selfish sexual desires and lust.
Totally suited to the Nicholses’ lifestyle, of course, but not necessarily Darian’s own.
‘It is Lady Nichols’s name for it, your Grace.’ Benson seemed to guess some of his thoughts, his expression still stoic and unrevealing. ‘It is situated amongst the trees to the left of the lake at the back of the house.’
‘Mariah?’ Darian turned to prompt, aware that she had not taken part in the conversation as yet. But still Darian felt heartened by the fact that she had allowed her hand to remain in both of his.
She looked up at the butler. ‘It sounds...intriguing, Benson.’
She dutifully picked up her cup with her other hand and drank some of the coffee.
The butler nodded. ‘And it is always deserted during the day.’
Darian narrowed his eyes. ‘But not in the evenings?’
‘Not this evening, certainly, your Grace.’
To say Darian was intrigued would be putting it mildly. Although, bearing in mind the sexual games the Nicholses liked to play, he could well imagine that Aphrodite’s Temple might prove a little too much for what he now believed to be Mariah’s sensibilities. She was much more easily shocked than he might ever have imagined, or hoped for, before spending so much time in her company.
She had become, in fact, the most intriguing woman he had ever met. And was becoming more so rather than less, the more time he spent in her company. It was a certainty he had never been in the least bored when with her.
‘Thank you, Benson.’ Mariah smiled up at the butler warmly. ‘Perhaps you might ask my maid to bring down my pelisse and bonnet from my bedchamber?’
‘Of course, my lady.’ He bowed.
The silence in the breakfast room seemed charged once the butler had left the two of them alone there. Almost as if the very air itself was waiting expectantly.
For what, Darian was unsure. He only knew that he wanted to get out of this unpleasant and cloyingly decadent household, if only for a few hours. And that he wanted more than anything for Mariah to accompany him.
He stood up, retaining his hold upon her hand as he pulled her up beside him, so close he could almost feel the brush of her hair against his jaw, her perfume once again invading and capturing his senses. ‘Ready?’
Mariah’s heart leapt in her chest, as she knew instinctively that Darian was asking for more than if she was ready to go for their walk. That he was continuing their previous conversation rather than starting a new one.
Was she ready?
Was she prepared to take their relationship a step further?
To give in to the desires of her own body and engage in intimacy with Darian?
Could she do that?
Or would the memories of the past intrude once again and bring with them the fear and aversion that was all she had known as Martin’s wife?
Mariah looked up at him searchingly, not at his handsomeness; that was all too apparent. No, she looked into his eyes, those clear, deep and unwavering green eyes. Eyes that spoke of a man of both honour and truth. A man capable of killing his enemy, if necessary, but totally incapable of physically hurting a woman, most especially one he desired. And Wolfingham did desire her, was making no effort to hide that fact as he steadily met and returned her searching gaze.
Was she ready?
Was it time for her to release her memories of the past, along with her inhibitions, and give in to these new, and at times uncomfortable, yearnings of her own body?
Was she ready to do that?
‘Good gracious!’ Darian winced up at the pale pink marble structure of what could only be described as a miniature copy of the Greek Parthenon he had visited whilst taking the Grand Tour ten years ago or more.
Nestled amongst the woodland to the left of the lake at Eton Park, exactly as Benson had said it would be, it had six small Doric-style marble columns fronting the building, with ten more along each side, and a domed cupola on the roof. And standing in pride of place before the huge wooden doors at its entrance was a nude statue, of what Darian could only assume was Aphrodite, cupping and stroking her own breast.
A nude statue that should not have been there, considering that, if Darian remembered his Greek mythology correctly, the Parthenon in Greece was dedicated to Athena, the virginal goddess of wisdom and philosophy.
‘I
