Chapter 7 #2
“If you ruin his sister-in-law, you’re only reinforcing all the reasons he has to hate you.”
Argyll’s mouth fell agape. He instantly closed it, compressing his lips into a dangerous smile. “The reasons Craven has to hate me? Craven handed Lady Rutherford over to be killed.”
A flicker of astonishment disrupted her calm. “I didn’t know that.”
He let himself chuckle. “How would you, child?”
Rosy color splashed across her pale pallor. It tripped up the sharp slashes of fragile cheekbones.
Since boyhood, he’d possessed a voraciously sensual appetite.
It did not take much to rouse his lust, but this lady existed outside his purview of what was desirable.
Miss Daria Kearsley didn’t possess any of the attributes to stir him.
Perhaps that was why her rosy blush compelled him.
It was as much a mystery as the woman herself.
It fed fascinating questions. Like what would she look like stripped bare for his lustful worship?
“You didn’t answer my question, Daria,” he purred, seizing her name as his, owning her in this small way. “How does marriage to you help smooth things with Craven?”
“Ruining Miss Caldecott only deepens his mistrust and the rift between you.”
“Whereas you…?”
“Whereas I am a dear friend to Emmy and the Caldecotts.” And through them, closely linked to Craven.
Argyll folded his leg atop his opposite knee. “You would take on the role of peacemaker.”
“I could.”
The lady remained silent. He drummed his fingertips on the side of his leather boot, contemplating her offer.
Contemplating her.
He could use being diverted. Of a certainty, this one would never fail to divert him. He tapped his fingertips along the sides of his glass. What she proposed, smoothing his relationship with Craven and reopening the lines of communication between them, was something of great value.
Determined to test the full extent of the lady’s mettle, he unfolded his knee. He parted his legs and placed his palms on his thighs. “What else will you do for me?”
Her unblinking, implacable gaze—as intended—fell to his impressive erection.
An enchanting little wrinkle found the place between her eyebrows. “Do you mean conjugally?”
That’d kill a cockstand.
With a silent curse, he refolded his legs. “A scintillating seductress you are not—shocking.”
“You want me to seduce you?” A question crept into her always modulated tones.
Argyll winged an eyebrow. An image crept in. One of Miss Midnight on her knees. Her head tipped back, with that long, graceful, pale white neck of hers exposed, as she awaited permission to take his cock in her mouth. His breeches grew tighter. His breathing came slightly slower. Coarser.
He came back to her question. “Would you?”
“I…thought seduction and conjugal relations would be your territory, Your Grace.”
The chit sounded so mystified; she had Argyll questioning his own abilities.
He’d definitely not be getting a biddable bride in this one. Suddenly, the prospect didn’t leave the unpleasant taste in his mouth that it had. Turning her from befuddled virgin into a wicked wanton would be no difficult task. Quite the opposite.
“I’m growing impatient,” he said testily, annoyed by her inexplicable appeal. “What else do you bring me, Daria?”
The lady sat upright. “I could manage your household.”
“I have a staff for that. A very reliable one. Next.”
“I will spare you from having to worry about marriage-minded women.”
Now, there was something. Not having to worry about potential megrims and duels, on account he possessed a duchess. He cocked his head.
“I’m listening,” he said.
“You will not have to worry about me being unfaithful.”
Argyll waved her off. “As I said, after you provide me an heir and spare, you’re free to carry on with whomever you wish, as long as you are careful and discreet.
” He flicked a piece of lint from the leg of his otherwise immaculate black trousers.
“I have too much pride to raise some other man’s by-blow as my heir. ”
Daria darted the delectably pink tip of her tongue out and traced it along her lower lip. “I don’t know if I can promise that, Gregory.”
Utterly transfixed by the unbelievably erotic distracting gesture, it took a moment to register what she’d said.
Argyll narrowed his eyes. “You cannot commit to providing me an heir and a spare?”
“I’m destined to die, Your Grace.” Her surprisingly broad shoulders lifted in a matter-of-fact shrug. “I am cursed.”
Ah, the Cursed Kearsleys. The bizarre lot would better be referred to as the Crazy Kearsleys. “Yes, well, something tells me if you marry me, you’re doomed to live forever, stuck in a misery of your own making.”
She inclined her head. “Will you be a cruel husband? Beat me?” For the first time, she sounded worried. This flash of uncertainty righted tables that’d been tilted since the first meeting between them.
If he’d been a true gentleman, her query would have offended.
Argyll favored her with a patronizing smile. “Madam, I’d have to be capable of an emotion other than lust or boredom to do something as trite as beat my wife.”
Another tiny frown pulled that telling place between her arched eyebrows.
“You disapprove of my bluntness, little raven,” he noted.
“I regret you are so jaded as to speak casually about a woman being so hurt by her husband.”
“Regretful enough to abandon your mad call for marriage?” he asked, amused.
She shook her head. “Alas, I have to marry you for that reason.”
At last, he had a reason. Argyll zeroed his gaze on her face. “You’ll have to be more specific.”
“I am going to die, Gregory, and it will devastate my family. The only solace they’ll find is that I’m no longer married to you.”
Argyll opened his mouth and closed it, several times. This is why she’d marry him? He expected he should be offended some. “Let me get this straight. You want to marry me because you believe I’ll make you miserable.”
Miss Kearsley nodded without hesitation.
Well, it was confirmed. She was touched in the head.
And he must be too, for he found himself actually…contemplating the arrangement.
“Well, Daria,” he said impatiently, “out with it already. What else do you want?”
“I will retain my dowry.” Her tone marked that detail as non-negotiable.
How adorable. She believed he had a need or want of anything she came with? What would she think if she knew the wealth at her fingertips were they to marry?
Daria dipped her gaze to her lap. She worried the gauzy fabric of her skirts with long fingernails.
Argyll locked a hot stare on her graceful hands—long, delicate fingers, and long nails that conjured a visceral image. Daria Kearsley under him, scraping those nails along his back, leaving her mark while she begged—
Daria glanced up.
He’d already schooled his features. He’d never be so gauche as to be caught lusting after a woman.
“If we do have children—”
“Before you die, yes, yes.” He quirked a mocking grin.
“I would like my family to be a daily part of their life.”
“I’ll take a wife and end up with seven bothersome women?” Argyll snorted. “You’re a terrible negotiator, Miss Kearsley.” So why did he continue this back and forth?
Daria lifted her palms. “They will not interfere in your life. You will be free to continue your carousing and club business. They will just ensure they’ll be looked after and loved.”
That didn’t sound terrible. Hmm. “And all of this is irrelevant, as you’ll live forever.”
The little raven stayed silent.
Determined to shake her of her stoicism, he spoke in silken tones. “Very well, Daria.”
“Your Grace?” she asked, her voice wavering, the dark silver specks of her eyes glittering with confusion.
What color would those dark eyes take when he had her crying out in passion? Oh, he’d enjoy freeing her of all the cages she kept, and teach her the pleasures of actual ones.
“Devil take it.” He jumped up. “Let’s be about it.”
His unconventional bride-to-be stood on unsteady feet.
Ah, not so stoic, was she?
Argyll headed for his desk. Withdrawing several sheets of parchment from the front center drawer, he collected a pen, dipped it in ink, and penned a quick note. Followed by another. And one more still.
“That…is all?”
Amused, he lifted his gaze. “Looking to change my mind, little raven?”
“N-No.” Her voice trembled a touch, making an absolute mockery of the air of solemness she cloaked herself in. “I am just…”
“Surprised by why I’d marry you.” Of all people really needn’t be spoken. He wasn’t a completely cold-hearted rake.
Daria hesitated; she gave a slight nod.
“I need a wife and do not wish to be bothered courting a virginal miss.” Argyll picked up with his note to the archbishop.
“You have connections to Craven, and as you pointed out, he’s more likely to reject any reunion if I bed his sister-in-law,” he said, scribbling off several more lines.
“You have no pretenses about who I am. You are certainly no romantic.” Thank God for that.
“As such, you’ll do.” Finished, Argyll tossed his pen down.
“The sooner—”
“The better?” he finished for her.
She nodded.
“Afraid I’ll change my mind?” Folding his arms at his chest, Argyll perched a hip on the edge of his desk. “Or afraid you’ll change yours?”
“I’m not the flighty sort, Gregory.”
No, she wasn’t. Her confidence was strangely compelling.
Daria continued. “My brother rides every day at dawn.”
“Fitting,” he drawled.
“And my mother enjoys her sleep in the morning,” she said, not missing so much as a beat. “As such, I suggest seven o’clock as the absolute latest.”
Argyll made a mental note of “resourceful.” A woman married to him would have to be. With the amount of time he spent at his establishment and philandering, she’d have to look after herself. “We will meet—”
“Here,” she interrupted. “In your office.” She glanced about, her eyes lingering on the pink and green Aubusson floral carpet. “I know this room,” she said from a faraway place.
Unfurling slowly to his full height, Argyll strolled over to meet his strange bride-to-be. “You’ve thought of everything, little raven.”
Some six or so inches shorter than his own six-foot two frame, Daria was forced to tip her head back to meet his gaze. As he’d intended with his positioning, it gave him the vantage of her long, swan-like neck that fascinated him.
Argyll trailed his index finger along the obstinate point of her chin. “Should we seal our betrothal with a kiss, Daria?” he infused a husk to his voice.
The stoic chit’s eyes remained coolly devoid of emotion. “I believe that part is reserved for the marriage. That is, as how I remember from my siblings’ weddings to their current spouses. Good evening, Gregory.”
He’d barely shut his gaping jaw before Daria took it upon herself to end their exchange.
He thought she’d stop. Turn back. Curtsy and then leave.
It was a wager he would have lost. Daria opened the panel without hesitation. She had one foot outside.
Argyll called to her. “Daria?”
That forced her back around. “Gregory?”
She thought she was in charge? Oh, she’d learn and fast.
“Wear something other than black, little raven.”
That gave her pause.
Argyll arched a single brow at her continued silence.
With a little nod, his innocent bride left.
This time he let her.
Arms folded at his chest; Argyll stared at the door she’d departed through. A grin played at his lips. He, the Duke of Argyll, agreed to marry the Lady in Black? It was preposterous. Ludicrous. Irrational.
And it was also the most electrifying thing to break through what’d become his tediously predictable rake’s existence. Daria Kearsley, the most unlikely of women, had managed to pierce his ennui.
His smile stretched.
It appeared madness was contagious, after all.