Page 61 of As the Devil Dares

“I will admit,” she answered, deliberately choosing her words, “that Robert Carlisle is an attractive man, if a lady likes that golden Adonis sort.” Which she did. A great deal. “And he does appear to have some fine qualities, if a person is able to overlook that prickly personality of his.”

“Prickly?” He glanced curiously in Robert’s direction. “That’s some neat trick.”

She puzzled. “What is?”

“How a man can turn himself into a cactus,” he goaded teasingly. “But then, Adonis was the god of plants.”

She rolled her eyes with failing patience. “Not of plants, Whitby. The god of spring’s rebirth.”

“So you admit that Carlisle is a god?”

“Robert Carlisle is not an Adonis!”

The aggravated words flew out before she could stop them, and in her pique, just loudly enough for all the nearby couples to hear. The women tittered at her embarrassment, while the men smiled smugly to have their jealous opinions of Robert confirmed.

A hot blush heated the back of her neck. For once, Whitby’s antics were not amusing. She lowered her voice and glared daggers at him, which only broadened his grin. Drat him.

“Robert Carlisle is attempting to take Winslow Shipping away from me,” she reminded him. “And his goal is to marry me off, don’t forget.”

That vanished his grin. He said somberly. “Not if you don’t want to.”

“And risk losing my allowance?” The severity of that thought landed hard on her shoulders, which sagged beneath the weight of it. That was still a very real threat. Papa would never force her to marry the first man who came along just to be wed and out of his house. But if a proper gentleman with a solid reputation and financial resources offered for her, then he might very well carry out his threat rather than let her refuse. “What would Gatewell do then? And all the children? Where would they go if they didn’t have us to shelter them? What would happen to them?”

When he couldn’t answer, she looked away as fresh frustration knotted inside her. Over a month had passed since Papa laid down his ultimatum, and nothing about her situation had changed. Her allowance was still as tenuous as ever, and Whitby certainly wasn’t helping with all his taunts about Robert.

“Then marry me instead,” he proposed earnestly.

Her chest tightened at the sweetness of his offer. One she would never accept. For all that she didn’t want marriage forced upon her, she still held out hope that one day she might find a husband who loved her. Whom she loved in return. And that man was not Hugh Whitby.

With a shake of her head, she answered gently, “You don’t love me.”

“Not romantically,” he admitted, giving her hand a squeeze, “but I do care about you. And I don’t want you to be hurt by Carlisle.”

Her eyes blurred. He no longer wore that silly grin but looked down at her with complete sincerity…and an expression lying somewhere between dreadful expectation and sheer terror that she might just accept. His offer to marry her only proved what a good man he was. And someday he would make a very wonderful husband. To some other woman.

“Oh, Whitby,” she whispered, “I love you.”

His face turned white. “You—you do?”

She gave a choking laugh. “As a dear friend.” She laid her hand against his cheek, then stifled another laugh as relief flooded through him and the ruddy hue returned to his face. “That you would offer marriage to help me means more to me than I can say. But I don’t think that’s the right solution.”

“Are you certain?” Even as he asked, she knew he was sending up a silent prayer that she wouldn’t change her mind.

“I can hold my own against Robert Carlisle,” she assured him.

The waltz ended. As Mariah stepped back and sank into a low curtsy to match Whitby’s overly enthusiastic bow, she glanced across the dance floor…and directly into Robert’s eyes as he took his partner’s hand to lead her off.

Despite her anger at him, attraction spiraled through her, only to turn to icy jealousy when he leaned down to whisper something into the woman’s ear that made her smile.

Hold her own? She bit her lip. If only she could convince herself of that as easily as Whitby.

* * *

Three dances later, Robert watched Mariah over the rim of his wineglass as he raised it to his lips. Tonight she looked like a goddess as she glided across the floor, one fully aware of the heated effect she had on every man in the room.

Except for him. He’d gained immunity to her charms the hard way.

She was the shining star of tonight’s ball, and everyone wanted to be at her side. A few lucky men had been favored enough to partner with her for a dance. Even now she stepped gracefully through a set with the Duke of Wembley. His Grace was twice her age, but she smiled at him as if he were a young buck, putting him into her thrall. The way she had every man she’d danced with tonight. Just as his mother had hoped. After all, the duchess had been very busy working to ensure that all of Mariah’s dances were taken by only the most eligible gentlemen.