As the Devil Dares (Capturing the Carlisles #3)(22)

Robert Carlisle stepped her back against the wall and pressed his hands against the paneling at her shoulders, trapping her with his broad body. Raw anger pulsated from him.

As she stared at him, her heart lodged in her throat even as it lurched into a furious tattoo.

“Quite the little show you put on back there,” he drawled, his deep voice even more terrifying for all of its control.

“You’re the one who declared war, Carlisle,” she countered, the fight rising in her. She refused to be cowed. Certainly not by him! “I’m merely playing by your rules of—”

He placed a fingertip to her lips. She fell silent, more from the furious flicker in his eyes than the resistance of his finger. “Our war,” he said, surprisingly icily given the hot anger that radiated from him, “does not involve my mother. Understand?”

She glared at him through eyes narrowed to slits, but nodded. When he pulled his finger away, she resisted the urge to bite it.

“I would never dream of upsetting your mother.” How dare he suggest such a thing! Indignantly, she threw back, “I like the duchess. She’s a lovely woman with a caring heart.”

Which was the truth. Mariah had expected a pinch-faced, boring matron as pompous as her son and was prepared to hate the woman on sight. Instead, she found herself liking Elizabeth Carlisle a great deal. Everything Whitby had told her about the woman—her elegance, her graciousness, her generosity—had proven true.

So had the arrogance and wicked reputation of her son, who stood far too close for comfort. Close enough that she could smell the faint bergamot scent of his shaving soap still clinging to his skin.

“And that bit about the orphans?” His jaw tightened. “How were you trying to manipulate my mother with that?”

“I wasn’t. I am a patroness of the Gatewell School.” Something pricked shamefully inside her that he’d think her so evil as to use orphans to her advantage. His low opinion of her bothered her more than she wanted to acknowledge.

“And that parting shot about the elephant?” he pressed.

She flashed him a saccharine smile and purred, “Pure spite.”

He leaned toward her to bring his flashing eyes level with hers. His mouth was so close that the warmth of his breath tickled against her lips. “Did it ever occur to you, Mariah, that I’m on your side?”

Ha! Did he truly think her so simple as to believe that? She arched a brow. “By driving a wedge between me and my father?”

“You don’t need me for that.” A dark light glinted knowingly in his eyes. “You’ve done a fine job of turning your father against you yourself.”

Beast! Anger spun through her, and she drew her hands into fists. “I don’t need you for any—”

“You need my help more than you realize.”

His help? She was certain that the kind of help he’d offer would only cause problems. She scoffed. “What could you possibly do for me?”

His gaze dropped to her shoulder, where his fingers plucked at the bow decorating her capped sleeve. He drawled in a husky voice, “Save you from yourself.”

“I’m not in need of a savior.” She swatted his hand away with a warning scowl. “Nor do I seek absolution from society or the blessings of its good graces.”

“Good.” Condescending amusement sounded in his voice. “Because you’re never going to get any.”

That was painfully blunt. So much so that her lips parted as she stared at him, astonished by his brutal honesty.

He took advantage of her momentary shock to reach up again to her shoulder. “Not with your family’s wealth.” He teased the satin ribbon around his fingers, then trailed his hand over to the neckline of her bodice. “And certainly not with your beauty.”

She swallowed, hard, not knowing what to say to that. Or to the heat of his fingertips as they traced over the lace edging of her bodice and seared the skin near her collarbone. Her traitorous heart pounded so furiously that he could most likely feel it, and she prayed he recognized it for what it was—anger. Nothing else. Certainly not attraction to this damnable devil.

His sapphire blue eyes followed the tracing of his fingertip back and forth over her neckline. She cursed herself for not wearing an old-fashioned fichu. Next time, she’d come properly prepared for battle, with a spencer buttoned up to her chin and a sword hidden in her skirts.

“Society’s watching every move you make,” he cautioned, “all those gossips, just waiting to pounce. You’re only one misstep away from crossing a line from which you’ll never be able to step back.”

Despite the harshness of that warning, his deep voice came smooth and soft. Like a velvet cape wrapping itself warmly around her. She trembled. Heavens. If this much masculinity radiated from him when he was attempting to persuade her into behaving decorously, what must he be like when he’d set his mind on seduction?

“All it would take is a new rumor or two.” His fingers stroked lightly up her neckline to her shoulder, and a faint ache tightened low in her belly. “About you gambling alone in some seedy hell in Covent Garden or getting foxed in a private box at Vauxhall—after all, everyone knows how you raced that phaeton down St James’s Street. It wouldn’t take much for those bitter old hens and jealous misses to have everyone believing you’d done something even worse.”