Forbidden (8 page)

She had been primped and primed to within an
inch of her life by Dora, who it transpired, had ambitions of being
a lady's maid and took great delight trying out her skills on
Mariah.

So, as it turned out, Mariah looked ready to
be presented at Court by the time she arrived downstairs.

The dress that she had paid absolutely no
attention to earlier was a confection of amber chiffon and silk. It
was by far the most luxurious thing Mariah had ever worn and she'd
had to concentrate hard on not thinking of Brandon Haverton as the
cool silk slid over her curves.

The neckline was lower than any she'd ever
worn and was bordered by a row of tiny pearls that glinted in the
candlelight. The satin bodice was overlaid with chiffon of a
slightly brighter colour and split at the empire line of the gown,
falling open to the bottom.

Dora had managed to find ivory silk slippers
and matching gloves, and even an ivory fan decorated with amber
coloured flowers, before pulling Mariah over to the looking glass
for her to inspect herself.

The colour of the gown highlighted the gold
flecks in Mariah's eyes and her russet curls, dotted with pearls
that Dora had found somewhere, were piled loosely at the crown of
her head with some tendrils framing her face and falling round her
shoulders.

Mariah had been shocked at the transformation
from a pretty but rather plain bluestocking to an elegant lady of
quality. And if Dora's exclamations were anything to go by, she too
was impressed.

Mariah took a steadying breath and stepped
into the drawing room, her eyes seeking out the man who hours ago
had made her feel like the happiest woman in the world and who now
made her feel murderous.

He stood by the fireplace and for a moment
Mariah's anger was frozen by the look of desolation on his
face.

He stood with one arm on the mantel, gazing
into the fire as if it held the answers to every secret in the
world.

He looked tense and angry and, well, sad. So
sad that Mariah, who only moments before had been plotting his
demise, now wanted to run to him and comfort him. Which was
crazy.

As she stepped further into the room a
floorboard creaked beneath her foot and he spun around at the
noise.

As their eyes locked Mariah felt the now
familiar frisson of awareness slide through her body. Dear Lord.
How could she still feel this pull toward him when he had lied to
her? That he had been married to another?

She felt thoroughly ashamed of herself and
her anger at him returned in spades.

His eyes raked her slowly from her toes to
the top of her head and Mariah tried to ignore the flush she felt
in every part of her that his eyes touched.

Finally, after what seemed like an age, his
dark eyes met hers again.

"You're breathtaking," he said hoarsely.

He's a swine, Mariah
she told herself
desperately,
do not listen to his false compliments. He's
probably said that to hundreds of women.

That thought alone was enough to break the
spell of desire that she was falling under, and she managed to
raise a haughty brow.

"Oh really?" she asked, her voice dripping
with disdain. "As breathtaking as your wife?"

His eyes widened in shock, no doubt as much
at her words as at the venomous tone in her voice. He stepped
towards her.

"What?"

"You heard me."

"Yes, I did. But I thought I must have
misheard since I've already told you I don't
have
a
wife."

He was stepping closer with every sentence
and Mariah had to force herself not to back away from him.

"Oh yes. You have told me that. Funny then,
that this" she gestured angrily to the dress she wore, "beautiful
gown should belong to the lady of the house whose arrival is
expected in a couple of weeks. Did you really think that I would
not know about your wife when you sent one of her gowns for me to
wear?"

Mariah could hear that she was shouting in a
most unladylike manner but right then she didn't care if she
sounded like a fishwife.

"Did you really think that if I was hiding a
wife from you I would
send
you a dress belonging to her?" he
shouted, equally loudly. He stopped in his approach and glared at
her from halfway across the room instead, his fists balled at his
sides.

His question took the wind out of Mariah's
sails a little. It did seem rather strange that he should lie about
a wife in order to seduce her only to let her borrow a gown
belonging to the lady.

But then, she rationalised, she knew nothing
of rakish men. Perhaps this was part of the sick little game he
enjoyed.

"I don't know," she said truthfully. "Perhaps
that is part of appeal for you. Perhaps you enjoy seeing
unsuspecting young ladies wearing your wife's gowns. Perhaps you
thought to make love to me while I was wearing it."

Mariah had never before spoken so boldly of
such things, but she had no time to feel embarrassed. Not when she
was so furious with him. Her own fists were curled with the force
of her emotion but she wrapped her arms around herself, holding
tight to her fury, wrapping it around herself so that she did not
feel the hurt that was trying to make itself known.

"You have quite the imagination, Mariah."

"And you have quite a nerve," she
shouted.

"Bloody hell and damnation I AM NOT
MARRIED."

His yell fairly shook the ground so loud was
it and Mariah had to stop herself from covering her ears.

"You are a bloody nuisance. You have given me
nothing but trouble since the second you pulled up to this house. I
am
not
married. I have never
been
married and if all
women are like you, I have no intentions of
ever
being
married," he shouted.

Mariah felt quite hurt at that last bit.

"That was very rude," she berated him and
watched as his jaw dropped open so wide she was surprised it didn't
hit of the floor.

"Are you serious?" he asked
incredulously.

"Yes, I am," she answered firmly. "There
really is no need to be so insulting."

Now, Mariah had been witness to plenty of
afflictions in her time helping Papa. But never had she seen
someone's face turn quite so red in so short amount of time as Mr.
Haverton's did at that moment.

"Of all the ridiculous, exasperating,
maddening chits I have ever met. You — I, you — argh!"

Mariah watched in bemused fascination as the
large man before her, who much surely be over six feet in height,
threw what could only be described as a total temper tantrum right
in front of her.

He threw his hands in the air, even stamped
his feet at one point and shouted mostly incoherent words to the
ceiling.

Mariah wondered briefly if she should slap
him then figured that would probably make the situation worse. So
she waited calmly, hands clasped together until he was
finished.

After a moment or two of frankly ridiculous
behaviour Mr. Haverton stomped over to the sideboard, which held a
selection of drinks, and proceeded to pour a measure of brandy
bigger than any Mariah had ever seen.

He threw back the entire contents then
slammed the glass onto the table.

She waited a few seconds but when he didn't
speak or move, she guessed that the tantrum was over.

"Are you quite finished?" she asked
politely.

He ignored her.

Like a child.

"So" she ventured again after more mutinous
silence, "you're
not
married?"

Mariah was quite sure she heard a curse
before he turned around to face her.

"No. I told you before and I am telling you
now. I'm not married. Do you really think I would have kissed you
the way I did if I had a wife? Do you think I am that type of
man?"

Mariah felt instantly guilty then instantly
defensive.

"Well how should I know what type of man you
are?" she wailed, wringing her hands nervously. "You barely speak
to me and when you do you are boorish and uncivil. In fact, if you
didn't k-kiss me like, well, like you do, I would think you hate
me."

Embarrassment warmed Mariah's cheeks. This
was not how she had expected the evening to go. She'd had
marvellous visions of her delivering an icy set-down then gliding
from the room, magnificent in her anger.

Instead, she'd been subjected to a full-blown
tantrum, and now here she was, trying to defend herself.

Mr. Haverton sighed and ran a hand through
his hair. She was beginning to see that this was a habit of his
when he was agitated and upset. She found the gesture thoroughly
arousing. But now was not the time to be thinking such things.

"Mariah, I—"

"I really do not think it is appropriate to
call me by my given name, sir," she sniffed.

The look he gave her curled her toes.

"Mariah," he continued, eyes blazing, "if you
could read my mind where you're concerned, me using your name would
be the least of your worries."

A dart of heat shot through every part of
her. Well. What was she to say to that?

"I told you yesterday my life is complicated.
But I am not married. Nor am I the type of man who would look to
anyone other than his wife for affection."

"Well then, who owns this gown?" She picked
at the soft material, shaking it at him.

From the clenching of his jaw it seemed this
was a subject he didn't like to talk about. "It doesn't matter who
owns it. It's not my wife's, since no such wife exists. That's all
you need to know."

Curiosity rose, tempering her ire at his tone
and his refusal to discuss her concerns. "It does matter. It
matters to me," she persisted. "If I am wearing someone's clothes,
I'd like to know whose."

"Drop it, Miss. Bolton," he said
fiercely.

So, she'd been relegated back to being Miss
Bolton?

"But why? I do not feel very comfortable
about this, Mr. Haverton. We have – well, you have kissed me and,"
she could feel her cheeks burn with embarrassment at how naive she
much sound but she continued on doggedly, "and to my mind that
should make me privy to-"

"For God's sake I said
drop it."

This time Mariah did cover her ears, so loud
was his shout.

The subsequent silence was deafening.

Mariah could feel tears burning the back of
her eyes.

What dark, horrid secret was he hiding? Who
owned the blasted gown and why wouldn't he tell her?

As the evening loomed ahead, once again, she
cursed the fact that she was stuck in this huge, disused house with
a man who seemed to loathe her when he wasn't kissing her. A man
who yelled at her for daring to want to know anything about
him.

She felt suddenly desperate to go home to
where everything was familiar, albeit annoying. But she
couldn't.

"I'm sorry."

Mariah jumped at the sound of his voice and
she eyed him warily.

His face registered shock at her actions then
he sighed and stepped forward.

"Please, don't be scared. I just—"

"If you'll forgive me, please," Mariah
interrupted him, hearing the wobble in her voice but unable to stop
it, "I find I am no longer hungry."

"Mariah, don't run away. Please just—"

"My name is Miss Bolton," she said injecting
her voice with some much-needed steel. "Goodnight, Mr.
Haverton."

Mariah turned and ran as fast as she could
all the way back to her room.

God, how she wished she could go home.

For the first time in her life, Mariah longed
for her mother's company. Which just went to show, she thought
miserably, how bad it was for her in Mr Haverton's house.

The next morning,
Mariah
opened her eyes, taking a moment to recognise the
unfamiliar guest room she slept in. A pale light shone through the
curtains and her heart leapt with hope. She stepped eagerly towards
the window, barely feeling the cold floor on her bare feet. If it
was bright, surely that meant—

But, no. The storm was as bad as ever.

The snow lashed against the window pane and
made the surrounding countryside completely unrecognizable; not
even the palest sunshine greeted her.

With a sigh, Mariah turned away.

Someone had been in to light the fire while
she slept and she moved toward it to warm herself, suddenly aware
of the cold that seeped through her light night rail.

Her head pounded, no doubt from the tears she
had shed and the fitful sleep she had gotten.

But today was a new day. And a new attitude
was in order.

Perhaps she had engaged in foolish fantasies
and romantic notions about Mr. Haverton but that was at an end
now.

Yes, he was handsome. Yes, his kiss drove her
wild. Not to mention his smile.