As the Devil Dares (Capturing the Carlisles #3)(13)
“I won’t let you take my place at my father’s side,” she said, as calmly as if stating a fact about the weather. Rain falls down, winters are cold…I won’t let you win. “The best partner for Winslow Shipping is a Winslow. Always has been, always will be.”
At that declaration, he reached past her shoulder to set his glass on the mantel and leaned in close, bringing his face level with hers. Close enough that he could see flecks of gold in her emerald eyes and smell the exotic scent of orange and cinnamon lingering on her skin. He touched her hair again, and this time as he pulled away he let his knuckles caress across her cheek, even as he carefully kept his fingers out of biting range.
“You don’t have a choice,” he reminded her. A faint blush pinked her cheeks, and he couldn’t help but faintly smile at her reaction. That she should react so strongly to such a little touch…Remarkable. “Unless you want to be cut off, you have to do as required of you this season.”
Her bottom lip jutted up defiantly. “Papa will see sense and relent. He always does.”
His gaze fixed on her mouth. If she wasn’t careful, a man might just feel compelled to wipe that disobedient smirk off her lips with his. And enjoy it immensely. “Not this time. He’s expecting you to fully participate in the season and make a valiant attempt at finding a husband. If you refuse to cooperate, you’ll lose.”
“Then so will you,” she countered, her soft breath spicy-sweet as it fanned his lips and vibrated an electric tingle through him. “Because you won’t succeed at your test, and you won’t get the partnership.”
Unable to resist any longer, and thoroughly willing to risk a bite, he brushed his thumb over her bottom lip.
She gasped, her lips parting in surprise. Yet she didn’t step away.
Emboldened by her defiance, and enchanted by the fire inside her, he slowly traced his fingertip around her mouth, drawing the outline of her full lips. When she trembled, the electric tingle inside him turned into a yearning ache. Never had he wanted to kiss a woman more than he did at that moment.
“I’m willing to take that chance,” he drawled in a low voice, then quirked a brow in challenge. “Are you?”
As if considering her options and finding no escape from her father’s plans for her, she stared at him silently, her eyes shining with unshed tears of frustration. She whispered, each word a warm breath against his fingers, “I will never surrender.”
Admiration for her perseverance flared inside him, and he murmured, “I would be disappointed if you did.”
He dropped his hand to his side and stepped back. Oh, certainly to keep from touching her again, although this time more than likely to throttle her. Then he turned on his heel and walked away.
“I might have to participate in this fiasco of a season,” she called after him as he headed toward the door, “but I certainly don’t have to make it easy on you.”
“From you, Miss Winslow,” he replied with a heavy sigh, acknowledging her tenacity if not the aggravation she sparked inside him, “I would expect nothing less.”
With that declaration of war, he politely inclined his head and stepped from the room.
*
Still muttering to herself as she’d done during the entire hour-long carriage ride from Mayfair to St Katharine’s, Mariah hurried up the front steps of the massive stone house that served as the Gatewell School for Orphans of the Sea, cursing Robert Carlisle, his connections in Parliament, and every one of his ancestors whose procreation culminated in him. A man so infuriating that she could barely see straight by the time he’d so arrogantly sauntered from the drawing room.
The audacity of that man! To come sweeping into her life to take the company away from her. To turn her father against her. To force a season upon her, with the end goal of marrying her off…oh, the mortification of it! And to dare to touch her the way he did—
Well, perhaps that wasn’t so awful. Except that behind the caresses stood the devil himself, gleefully ready to take her soul.
She swiped at her eyes as she hurried through the maze of rooms that comprised both school and safe haven to children whose fathers had died at sea or working on the wharves. The solidity of this old house with its sagging roof and cracked walls had always brought her comfort. So had the knowledge that she was helping children just like her mother, who had lost her own father to the sea. Every time Mariah entered this building, she felt Mama smile, as if she were watching over her from heaven.
But today, even the school couldn’t bring her peace.
Doing her best to force from her mind the image of Carlisle’s infuriating grin, she ran down the back stairs and into the kitchen in search of Mrs. Smith, the woman who served as both housekeeper and cook for the school. On the tip of her tongue she held an angry rant about Carlisle so venomous that she was certain it would peel the whitewash from the walls once she unleashed it.
But she halted in the middle of the doorway. Inside the kitchen, Mrs. Smith pulled a fresh sheet of biscuits from the oven, and Hugh Whitby sat perched on a stool at the table, relating some juicy bit of gossip while rolling out little balls of dough.
At the sight of her two dearest friends, an anguished sob tore from her.
Mrs. Smith looked up and dropped the sheet onto the table with a clatter. “Mariah!” Concern instantly gripped her. “My dear, whatever is the—”