As the devil dares, p.10
As the Devil Dares, page 10
“Of course,” he muttered, struggling to keep from smiling.
She folded her arms across her chest and cocked her head suspiciously. A lock of ebony hair had loosened from its pin and dangled against the side of her neck, and he itched to touch it, even knowing the slap that might very well result. “Why do I think you’re not really interested in learning about my school days, Carlisle?”
“But I am.” Know thy enemy. And at that moment, he wanted to know everything about her.
“Then you should know that everything I have ever studied was to make myself more valuable to this company,” she declared with a quiet intensity, her eyes flashing with fire and determination. “I have dreamt of working beside my father since I was a little girl. It’s all I’ve ever wanted, and I won’t surrender that dream.”
Then they were in trouble. Because no matter how much he was coming to understand now why the company meant so much to her, Robert had no intention of surrendering it himself.
“It must have been difficult for you,” he said sympathetically, keeping the conversation focused on her instead of putting them at odds again. Because when she wasn’t fighting him, she was quite enjoyable. “Losing your mother at such a tender age.”
Grief flashed across her face, but it was gone in an instant, leaving only a lingering sadness behind. She shrugged a shoulder and looked away. “I suppose it’s difficult to lose one’s parent no matter how old you are.”
His chest tightened, and he admitted quietly, “It is.”
“Mama was a wonderful woman,” she continued, reaching for her muff to keep her fingers busy by pulling idly at the fur. “I cannot imagine how different my life might have been had she not caught that fever—” Her voice broke, and she froze, her fingers stilling. Then she drew a deep breath and divulged softly, “It was harder for Evelyn. She was younger, and at first, she couldn’t understand what happened, why Mama had gone away.”
Her eyes glistened with unshed tears, and Robert’s heart went out to her. He’d witnessed firsthand the grief that his own sister had suffered upon his father’s death. He would have done anything to bring her solace, just as he was certain Mariah would have done for Evelyn. In that, at least, they agreed.
“I’m worried about her,” she confessed in a whisper. “She seems so…lost these days.” She looked up at him hopefully, a thought striking her. “Would your mother mind if Evie benefits from my season, too? The distraction might do her good. Perhaps she could come to the soirees and events that I’m forced to attend.”
Forced to attend. He fought back a smile at her defiance. Even in the midst of concern over her sister, she’d bared her claws.
“Two young ladies to fuss over?” he teased. “My mother would adore it.”
“Good. Evie needs guidance, and—”
She turned toward him, stopping in mid-sentence with a soft hitch of her breath at finding him so close. Her green eyes dropped to stare at his mouth, and she swallowed hard, as if remembering the taste of him and longing to experience it again. God certainly knew he wanted to.
“You were saying?” he prompted when she continued to stare at him, as if trying to fathom him and yesterday’s embrace.
Then her gaze darted over his shoulder toward the outer office, checking up on the dandy out there. And gauging the privacy between them in here.
“Tell me, Carlisle…why do you want this partnership so much?” she whispered, her gaze intense. “Why would it matter to someone like you?”
“Someone like me?” A touch of pique sparked inside him.
“The brother of a duke, wealthy, educated, refined—when he wants to be,” she added quickly in afterthought, which drew a crooked grin of amusement from him, despite himself. “Why would you want to work with a shipping company?”
“Why not?” he evaded with a small shrug. The last thing he would do was share his need to prove himself. They were beginning to trust each other, albeit tentatively, but he would never share that.
Her eyes narrowed. She was too sharp to fall for prevarication. She opened her mouth to press—
“Mariah?” Whitby stuck his ginger-haired head into the inner office. “Are you going to be much longer? We really should get on to Mayfair.”
“Just one moment,” she called out over Robert’s shoulder, her gaze never leaving his.
“All right,” Whitby acquiesced, and Robert nearly rolled his eyes at the man’s lack of spine. What could she possibly see in that milksop? “But I’m to meet up with my brothers at Boodle’s soon.”
Ignoring Whitby, she whispered low enough that he could barely hear, “This partnership can’t possibly mean that much to you.”
“More than you know,” he answered in the same intense voice, his gaze once more drawn to her sensuous mouth. Just a small lowering of his head, and his lips would be on hers, tasting again that spicy-sweetness he’d begun to crave—
“Mariah?” Whitby called out again, and Robert gritted his teeth. Forget siege warfare. Apparently Whitby’s weapon of choice was hounding one to death.
“You should go,” he urged her quietly, then pushed himself away from the desk, ending their conversation before she could trap him into other topics he had no intention of discussing. “Whitby!” he called out with far more jocularity than he felt. “Nice to see you again.”
“And you, Carlisle.” A toothy grin blossomed on his ruddy face. “Say, we should meet up at Boodle’s sometime—”
“Have a safe drive to Mayfair,” he interrupted, unable to imagine a worse outing than a night spent prowling the clubs with Mariah’s dandy in tow. “Miss Winslow.” He bowed his head and ignored the irritation that once more flitted across her face as he murmured, “I’d stay away from the phaeton’s ribbons, if I were you.”
With a soft humph, she flipped up her cape hood and flounced from the room. “We’re not through with this discussion,” she warned as she pulled on her kid gloves.
Oh yes, they were. Yet he tossed out an olive branch. “I’d appreciate any further insight you could give about St Katharine’s.”
She paused as she reached for the door and shot him a look of annoyance over her shoulder as he stood in the middle of the office, his feet wide and one hand closed in a fist against the small of his back.
But she’d better get used to seeing him here. Because he’d determined to make this business his life’s work, and no one was going to stop him. Not even a hellcat with emerald eyes and ebony hair, a mouth that would have tempted a saint, and an attitude as hot to match. Not even the vulnerable woman beneath, of whom he’d had a fleeting but striking glimpse.
“Don’t get too comfortable here, Carlisle,” she warned as Whitby rushed to escort her out. “The season is far from over.”
The door closed behind her.
Robert blew out a harsh breath and a soft curse.
Through the office’s front window he watched Whitby help her onto the seat, then settle in beside her. As the groom scurried to the rear, the dandy leaned over to say something in her ear that earned him a laugh and a bright smile. And her hand resting far too familiarly on his arm. Robert felt that touch from twenty feet away, its heat pouring through him as palpably as if she’d reached for him instead of that fop at her side.
His eyes narrowed as they drove away. What did a woman like Mariah see in a pup like Whitby? For the life of him, he couldn’t imagine.
But he sure as hell understood what Whitby saw in her. The magnetic attraction she stirred in men was undeniable. He knew firsthand how she challenged them with her cleverness, always keeping them on their toes and leaving them wanting more. How much she made them long to lay her down, peel away the layers, have her panting—
Christ. Mariah was the last woman he should be thinking about as…well, a woman.
He’d been too long without the physical pleasures of a woman, that was all. Because of the long hours he’d spent managing his business ventures, he’d not been with a woman since he returned from Quinton’s wedding in Cumbria nearly four months ago. That was all that was the matter with him. Nothing else.
Because the alternative—that he truly desired the Hellion—was simply unthinkable.
* * *
The next afternoon, Mariah stood in front of a full-length mirror in the private salon of Madame Bernaise, wearing only her stockings, stays, and shift. Around her, a small army of French assistants scurried to take her measurements, present bolts of the finest satins and muslins for approval, and make certain that the tea never cooled.
Sitting on the settee and calmly sipping her tea, Elizabeth Carlisle seemed right at home amid the flurry of activity. She had a list of all the dresses and accessories Mariah would need for the start of her season, in specific colors and fabrics, right down to the ribbons on her slippers. She gave orders to the assistants as firmly and without compromise as Madame Bernaise herself.
Madame, meanwhile, draped fabric after fabric over Mariah’s shoulders so that Elizabeth could see how each one complemented her complexion. Those deemed acceptable were whisked away by the assistants though a rear door, where seamstresses immediately set to work to fashion gowns from them. Those that were rejected were sent away by Madame with a dismissive wave of her hand, never to be seen again.
“I have the perfect material for her ball gown!” Madame raved. She snapped her fingers and spoke in street French to one of the shopgirls, threatening that she would have the chit’s hide if she didn’t fetch the bolt of copper satin.
Mariah bit back the smile at her lips. Madame didn’t know she could understand every word. When the assistant complained that she had no idea which fabric Madame meant, Madame called her a worthless cow whom she should have left behind in Marseilles.
“I shall fetch it myself,” Madame declared to the duchess, as if the material were too special to trust to an assistant. Then she swept through the room with the imperial air of a woman who had dressed the finest ladies at the French court, rather than the displaced seamstress she was who had been lucky to flee from France with her life.
Elizabeth set down her teacup and stood. Smiling warmly as she approached Mariah, she reached for a length of cream-colored lace, decorated intricately with tiny pearls and silk ribbons.
“Are you having a good time?” she asked as she draped the lace over Mariah’s shoulders, possessing an eye for fashion and quality that rivaled Madame’s.
She beamed. “I am.”
Truly, she was. Her past fittings had been rushed affairs filled with pinpricks and admonishments from the dressmaker that she was too tall to be fashionable, her hair too dark to complement any of the fabrics on hand, her tastes too simplistic. Today, though, there was none of that, and Mariah suspected that if she told Madame that she wanted to attend her debut ball wearing a burlap bag, the Frenchwoman would have fallen over herself in her hurry to recommend a matching wrap of flour sack.
But most of her enjoyment was due to Elizabeth. She loved her role as duchess, and her eyes sparkled whenever she mentioned the season’s upcoming events. She also dearly loved her family, glowing with pride whenever she spoke of them. The same proud way she now looked at Mariah. Amid the flurry of preparing for her season, Elizabeth made her feel special, beautiful, and oddly excited about it, the way her mother surely would have if she’d lived.
A knot of emotion tightened in her throat. Did the Carlisles realize how lucky they were to have her for their mother?
Elizabeth smiled. “Good. That’s what a season is for, after all. To enjoy oneself.”
As the duchess wrapped the end of the material over her hair like a wedding veil, Mariah mumbled pointedly, “Not to marry me off, then?”
Realizing with a jolt what she’d done with the lace, Elizabeth quickly lowered it away with a chagrined grimace. “Well, yes, I suppose that, too.” Then she paused, her brow creasing as she looked closely at Mariah. “Robert said you wanted suitors, but you’ve never shared those same sentiments. You do want to marry, do you not?”
Mariah uncomfortably averted her eyes. “I suppose.” Only a small dissembling, although she still couldn’t bring herself to look at Elizabeth as she said it. Because she did want a husband, family, and home of her own. “But only to the right man.”
One who didn’t mind sharing her with a shipping company.
Elizabeth nodded, as if that were obvious. “Of course, dear.”
“No, I meant…” Her cheeks pinked as she admitted, “I want a love match.” The words came hesitantly. Evelyn had been her only confidante in matters of the heart until this season, when she’d begun to confide in Elizabeth, and she dared not tell Evie a breath of how she truly felt about marriage. Oh, she’d never hear the end of it from her overly romantic sister! “Is it silly to wish for that?”
“Not at all.” Elizabeth gave her a melancholy smile, yet one full of affection. “My marriage was a love match.”
Mariah took hope in that. Her own parents had married for love, but with Mama dying so young and Papa working such long hours, she could barely remember seeing them together. She’d been too young to ask her mother about such things. But Elizabeth instinctively understood her need to learn about marriage and love, and Mariah treasured this moment of shared female intimacy more than she could express. “The duke loved you?”
“Deeply, but he wasn’t a duke when we married. Richard wasn’t even a baron yet.” Her eyes softened as they took on a faraway look. “He was an officer in the army, and I was so proud to have him for my husband. Then they sent him to war, and he returned a hero.” She smiled. “King George made him a baron. We already had Sebastian by then. Robert arrived the following spring, Quinton the year after that. A few years later we adopted Josephine.”
Adopted? No wonder Robert had behaved so peculiarly about the orphans she helped at the school. Mariah’s blossoming love for the duchess grew even stronger at discovering this.
“We were so very happy.” Despite her smile, her voice trembled with grief. “Richard’s been gone over two years, and I miss him more with each day that passes.”
“I’m sorry,” Mariah whispered, tears for the duchess stinging in her eyes. She knew how grief lessened but never vanished. For all their fighting, that was one thing that she and Carlisle had in common.
Elizabeth’s face melted at the tears she could so easily glimpse in Mariah’s eyes. With motherly affection, she lovingly brushed a stray lock away from her cheek. “I agreed to help with your season because I knew how difficult it would be…for me, not having Richard at my side, and for you, not having your mother to share this special time.” She smiled then, with such love and affection that Mariah lost her breath. “But, Mariah, I’m also enjoying simply spending time with you.” Her eyes glistened. “Very much.”
“Me, too,” she whispered, unable to find her voice.
In only a few days, Elizabeth Carlisle had found her way into Mariah’s heart. She finally had someone she could talk with about dresses and dances, flowers and fashion, love and grief…all those things mothers and daughters were supposed to share. She might never like Robert Carlisle, but because of him, she’d met his mother. For that, she would always be grateful to him.
An assistant brought over a dress for inspection, one Madame had already made for another client. Emerald-green silk with cream lace, a tight-fitted bodice, an old-fashioned waist…The entirety created a shimmering gown that reminded Mariah of something from a book of fairy tales.
Standing behind her so she could look over Mariah’s shoulder at her reflection, Elizabeth held the dress in front of her.
Mariah caught her breath at the sight. That was definitely not burlap and flour sack.
Elizabeth’s eyes sparkled with pleased amusement at her reaction. “So you like it?”
Oh, she absolutely adored it! It was the most beautiful dress she’d ever seen, and selfish longing to wear it ached in her chest. Yet she gave a wistful shake of her head. “I don’t need any more dresses.”
“Of course you don’t need it.” The duchess’s lips curled into a conspiratorial smile. “But wouldn’t it be wonderful to have anyway?”
Mariah stared at her reflection in the mirror and bit her lip. Such a beautiful dress, and so tempting…but she should say no. She already had enough dresses and accessories ordered to give Papa a fit of apoplexy when he saw the tallies.
Yet it was such a lovely dress, the color perfectly matching her eyes. And Elizabeth wanted so badly for her to have it…
“All right,” she acquiesced with a sigh.
“Good. Because we could all use some pleasant distractions this season, even in the form of a gown.” Elizabeth smiled at her as she fussed happily with the dress. “And I think that this season will be a good distraction for Robert, as well.”
Her mouth fell open. Carlisle? Well, the duchess was completely wrong about that! His interest in her season was purely mercenary. “What could he possibly need to be distracted from?”
“Oh, lots of things.” Elizabeth’s attention strayed to the drape of the dress, her gaze moving away from Mariah’s. She busied herself with adjusting the bodice, but Mariah could see a troubled concern cloud the duchess’s face. “His father’s death, for one.”
A stab of shame pierced her. She should have thought of that immediately. She’d lost her mother fifteen years ago, yet she still carried grief inside her and feared she always would. Of course Robert still mourned his father. The fact that he had been twenty-five instead of ten wouldn’t have lessened his loss.
“Richard’s death devastated all of us,” Elizabeth explained. Avoiding Mariah’s gaze, she picked up a velvet wrap from a nearby chair and placed it over her shoulders. “It was an accident. There was absolutely nothing that could have been done, but—” She choked off, then inhaled a deep breath before continuing, and the glimpse of pain Mariah saw in her at that moment ached into her own chest. “Robert blamed himself.”
