Today's Reading
A woman who did not want a duke was rare in his experience. Something stirred inside Caine. Intrigue? His innate need to protect? Maybe even a little anger at Harlow on her behalf. Lady Mary Kimber was showing herself to be made of sterner fibre than he'd given her credit for. Beneath the rose silk and lilies-of-the-valley perfume, she possessed the steel of conviction, the strength of self-knowledge. She understood who she was—to herself and to others. 'What do you want, then?'
With another sort of woman, this would be the opening move in a seduction because that's how all his flirtations began and ended: seduction intended, seduction accomplished. He didn't flirt without a particular end goal in mind. He wasn't certain why he was bothering now when such an end was out of the question. Lady Mary Kimber was not for seducing, ergo, not his type.
'Not a duke, no matter what my parents are determined to say.' The sharp point of her chin jutted up defiantly.
Not just her parents but society. Caine paid enough attention to the gossips to know that, in the span of two Seasons, she'd lost two dukes—one of them to Caine's own sister. Her father was furious. Society made it out to be her fault she couldn't captivate a man. Perhaps she just hadn't met the right man? Which raised the competitive edge in him to prove that Harlow was somehow a lesser man because he'd not appreciated her. But she wasn't looking for Caine's type of appreciation.
'Yet, you are the one who will pay the price,' Caine probed. By all accounts, her Season was going poorly. She'd lost the Duke of Harlow—she, who had everything to offer such a man. She, who had been bred for such a man. Worse, she'd lost that man to a nobody and quite publicly. All of society had been watching that house party. Just as they were likely watching her now, noting how her group had been asked to dance while she'd been left on the sidelines.
An unusual pin of guilt pricked at Caine. Any censure directed at her now was his fault. But no doubt she'd be the one to pay for that, too. Men could get away with almost anything, but not women. He could imagine what the social columns might make of it in tomorrow's papers. Beyond them on the dance floor, sets were forming for another dance. His conscience stirred to wakefulness.
'Lady Mary, I find I've changed my mind.' He offered his arm in a surge of unusual gallantry. 'Would you care to dance?'
The sharp point of her chin went up and her quicksilver eyes flashed. 'No, Mr Parkhurst.' Not 'no thank you', or any other gracious refusal. Simply and bluntly: no. Those eyes flashed again and he expected to hear thunder follow. 'I do not require your pity.'
Caine felt his own temper rise in answer. He didn't like having his gesture thrown back in his face. 'Perhaps I'm the one who needs your pity,' he cajoled. The competitor in him was wide awake. Now that he'd made the offer, he wasn't going to tolerate being turned down. Perhaps she didn't understand the necessity of accepting? They could not stand here much longer. The room was starting to watch. Eyes always followed the Horsemen. And eyes followed Lady Mary Kimber. Put the two together and there was no chance of escaping notice: the ton's most competent young lady with society's most reckless rake.
He laid a light hand on her glove-covered arm and lowered his voice to a private tone. 'Please, Lady Mary. People are starting to stare. It does neither of our reputations any good. We are inviting comment.' Particularly her, although to explicitly remind her of that would likely earn him another lightning bolt from her eyes. He could care less what anyone thought of him outside of his family. She did not have that luxury. After losing Harlow, her reputation was in danger of becoming frayed, her pristine image tarnished.
'Well, when you put it in such practical terms, I can hardly refuse, can I?' she quipped drily and reluctantly took his arm, the scent of lilies undercut with vanilla wafting past his nose—the smell of trouble. But how much trouble could one dance with Lady Mary Kimber, the ton's most dutiful daughter, actually be?
CHAPTER TWO
How much trouble could one dance be? Mary argued with herself, especially when that dance was designed to mend her reputation, not rend it. Yet, when she took Caine Parkhurst's arm and felt the firmness of the muscles beneath her gloved hand, she had the unmistakable impression that this was very much a case of a wolf in sheep's clothing and she was most certainly a red riding hood led astray by her own curiosity and a pair of dark eyes with mysterious depths.
Worst of all, she knew these things and she'd not put a stop to it. Instead, she'd followed this particular wolf on to the dance floor just to see where it led, although her conscience did make one last bid for retraction as they drew closer to his cousin's set. The logic that had propelled her on to the dance floor had been flawed. What had she been thinking to accept? In what world did dancing with Caine Parkhurst, rake extraordinaire, a man who'd turned his town house drawing room into a gambling hell, a man who seduced women for entertainment, make anything right?
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