“By not screaming,” he said.
“Why would I do that? I hoped you might come.” So much for poise. She sounded as eager as a child. She bit her lip in consternation. “Even though I am still vexed you won’t tell me your proper name.”
“Does it matter so much?”
She wanted to know so badly she almost said yes, but couldn’t. He might call her bluff and leave. “I think you must not trust me if you won’t tell me,” she muttered.
“Ah, but what would it change? It’s just a name.”
“It’s improper for me to call you by your Christian name.”
“Is it?” Still shrouded by the darkness, he pulled out her dressing table chair and straddled it backward, a very ungentlemanly pose, and folded his arms across the top of the back. “More improper than wishing I would come again?”
“But you address me as Lady Mariah,” she said, ignoring his pointed question. “I can hardly call you…” She hesitated. “I should not call you Harry when you address me so formally.”
“I like you to call me Harry, Mariah.” His voice dropped on her name, making it sound even more intimate. Her heart leaped again, her hands grew a trifle unsteady, and she felt a bit breathless.
“Why is that?”
“If we must mind that rule of propriety, then why not others? It will be one rapid descent from cordiality to stiff formality. It will start with correct address, and then soon we shall be sitting uncomfortably upright in the drawing room, drinking tea neither of us wants, discussing the weather with great civility and a complete lack of wit. If that is your desire…” He trailed off as she tried to hide her laugh behind a cough.
“Of course not!”
“That is a great relief,” he said. “I should be hard-pressed to discuss this weather in civil terms. Absolutely beastly out tonight…”
This time she did laugh out loud. “Then I suppose we must be content with this very odd and improper conversation.”
“Indeed we must, Mariah.”
Again a little shiver rippled over her skin at the way he said her name. “How did you know who I am?” she asked on impulse. “It is unfair that you know more about me than I know about you.”
“It is.”
Hope rose. “May I light my candle, then?”
“No.”
She exhaled in frustration. “Why do you come to see me if you can’t actually see me?”
“Who said I can’t see you?”
“I can’t see you!”
He laughed. “Do you need to? Must I leave if you cannot?”
“No,” said Mariah with reluctant honesty, “but I want to.”
“Ah, I see. Because you want to be certain you’re not wasting your time speaking to a coarse, common fellow with big ears and missing teeth?”
“Because I think I deserve that small courtesy,” she said, trying not to laugh again. “No matter how large your ears may be.”
“No, no. I’ll tell you if I must. Big ears, several missing teeth, thinning hair. A crooked leg. Spots on my face, naturally—”
“Stop.” She couldn’t resist laughing now. “You’re being ridiculous.”
“Am I? And does it matter?”
Mariah sobered. She peered into the shadows that cloaked him and considered Joan’s question again: would she lose interest if he were beastly? “No,” she said at last. No one else she had met in London mocked himself just for her amusement. Whatever he might look like, he made her laugh.
He got to his feet, still in shadow. He seemed to find the darkest parts of the room, preventing her from catching even the most fleeting glimpse of his features. Mariah vowed to sleep with the lamps lit every night from now on. “Close your eyes,” he said.
She blinked. “Why? I cannot see you anyway.”
“Do you trust me? Can I trust you?”
Mariah hesitated, then closed her eyes. “Yes.”
For a long moment all was quiet. What was he doing, she wondered. “Harry?” she whispered uncertainly. Had he left?
“Yes,” he said, and the mattress dipped. He was sitting on her bed, within arm’s reach. Her breath came faster and her skin prickled all over with awareness. There was a man in her bed, and she was wearing only a fine lawn nightdress. She felt exposed and vulnerable; this was shockingly improper, far more so than inviting him into her room in the first place…
“When you cannot see with your eyes, you must trust your other senses.” He took her wrist lightly between his fingertips and brought her hand to his face.
Mariah’s eyelashes trembled, but she didn’t open her eyes. Gingerly, tentatively, she let her fingers drift over his face. His skin was warm, especially given how chilly and rainy it was outside. She touched his cheekbones, the bridge of his nose, his upper lip. There was the beginning of a beard on his jaw, a roughness she had never felt before. Of course, she had not touched a man’s face since she was a child, and then it was her father’s face—not the face of an enigmatic stranger who slipped into her bedroom only under cover of night to fascinate her until she could hardly bear it.
He sat patiently under her hand, not speaking or moving. She grew a little bolder and explored his forehead, running her fingers along his brows and even delicately touching his short, thick eyelashes. Gradually an image formed in her mind, still somewhat indistinct but more definite than before. He had a smooth, straight scar at his temple, and she wondered how he had gotten it. His nose was straight and his jaw was square. It was…She scrunched up her face in thought. It was a strong face. It wasn’t the same as seeing him in the light, but it made her feel that she knew his features better than if she had simply lit the lamp.
“What made you think of this?” she asked as her fingers brushed over his lips; softer than she had expected, but still firm.
“My sister,” he said. “She is blind, and this is how she sees.”
“You have a sister, then.” She smiled, pleased to have learned even that minor fact about him.
He laughed, very quietly. “Two, in fact. The bane of any man’s life, sisters.”
“Are you a good brother?” Mariah touched his jaw again, fascinated by the texture of his skin, the shape of his face. She felt his grin lift his cheeks.
“Not the worst, I suppose. They might have a different answer, of course.”
Mariah laughed, too. “I daresay you torment them and tease them, as you do me—”
“I can safely promise that I tease them in entirely different ways, Mariah.” That flicker of awareness licked her skin again, but he went on in the same light tone. “They are the ones who torment me.”
“Well, who would not,” she said airily, “when faced with such a brother: warts, missing teeth, thinning hair—”
“True, they caused all that.”
Mariah choked on a laugh that burst out as a giggle. “And shockingly impertinent, too! I feel no evidence of any of it, sir.” She rested her fingers lightly on his lips. “Although I have not checked your teeth…”
Harry’s breathing changed, and Mariah’s heart skipped a beat. “Are you satisfied?” he whispered, his lips barely moving under her fingertips.
“It is not the same—”
“But it must be enough,” he interrupted. “Can it be?”
She had been about to say much the same thing. She had been about to say it was perhaps even better, for it gave warmth and texture to him, proving him a flesh-and-bone man and not some phantom of her romantic imagination. “Yes,” she whispered. “For now.”
Her fingers drifted sideways, and he caught her wrist. “Careful,” he whispered. “Mind the warts.”
Mariah’s laugh ended in a silent gasp as he brought her hand to his mouth and pressed his lips hungrily into her palm. She trembled as he kissed her palm, her fingers, the throbbing pulse in her wrist.
“You bewitch me,” he breathed, holding her hand against his cheek. “Why did you wish I would come to you again?”
“You—You intrigue me,” she st
ammered. It was hard to speak with her heart in her throat.
He sighed against her hand. “I should stay away.”
“No…”
“I should.” He kissed her fingers once more, then took her hand from his face and laid it back on her knee. “But I don’t think I can.”
“Tell me your name,” she pleaded, leaning forward, eyes still closed. “Please.”
He laughed under his breath. The mattress shifted again. “Henry Arthur. Harry, to those who know me.” With the lightest of touches, his fingers brushed her jaw, then her lower lip, lingering there. Mariah gasped and quivered, thinking—expecting—hoping—he would kiss her next…
“Good night, Mariah.” She couldn’t move, not even to open her eyes, as he rose from her bed and walked away. She felt his absence keenly now, as if a warm cloak had been pulled from her shoulders. He was right; without her sight she was far more aware of her other senses, and they all seemed to be acutely attuned to him.
“Good night, Harry,” she whispered, even though she was sure he was no longer in the room. “But you must not stay away.”
Chapter 8
Mariah slept late the next morning, kept awake almost until dawn by her own wicked thoughts. After Harry had gone, she realized the ribbon around her neckline was tied too loosely, and that her nightrail must have gaped alarmingly low. It made her blush to think what he might have seen, but not with much shame. She pressed her hands over her breasts to stop them from tingling, but her mind conjured up the question of what Harry’s hands would feel like there, and then it took her a very, very long time to fall asleep.
This was all a new world to her. She’d told him true last night—he intrigued her, in a purely intellectual sense—but now her body had come alive to the fascination as well. When he kissed her hand—her palm—with almost palpable desire, something hungry and sinuous stretched to life inside her, awakening a craving she had never known. It felt as though she’d shed her old skin and now moved in a sleeker, more sensitive one, a skin that prickled in anticipation of a man’s touch. Of Harry’s touch. She thought she might burst if she didn’t tell someone, and so she gulped down a few bites of breakfast and hurried off to talk to Joan.
But the sight of the flowers in the drawing room stopped her short, and before she could recover, her mother came up beside her.
“There you are, Mariah. I’ve been waiting for you to come down.”
“Oh.” She didn’t like the sound of that. “You have?”
Her mother nodded. “Yes, indeed. These are all for you.” She smiled at Mariah, looking very pleased and proud. “I knew you would be a success.”
Mariah went over to the bouquets on the table. A thought roused her curiosity, and she ripped open the card with each one. Not one of the names could be Harry; some she didn’t even recognize. She put the cards down, curious no longer, and turned to go. “I shall be at Joan’s, Mama.”
“Mariah, really.” Her mother came forward with an exasperated sigh. “Who sent them?”
She glanced at the cards with disinterest. “Sir Edward Riley, Mr. Ingleby, Lord Dexter…and…” She thought hard. “Lord Burke and…ah…two others.”
The countess clucked in disapproval, taking up the cards. “One would think you had no interest in the gentlemen, Mariah. We must decide now whom to receive, when they come to call.” She flipped through the cards and promptly discarded four. “These are flattering, but of no consequence. Mr. Ingleby is in search of a fortune, and Mr. Brimmer and Lord Christopher are nobody. Lord Burke…No, I think not. He’s terribly dissolute.” She frowned. “Where did you meet Lord Burke? He was not at our ball, and I cannot think Lady Avery invited him last night.”
Mariah lifted one shoulder. “In the park, I suppose. Joan and I went for a stroll the other day and Douglas introduced us to several people.”
Her mother sighed. “Douglas! Marion should not let him run so wild. That explains these.” She still held two cards. “Lord Dexter would be a fine match, though; an earl, very eligible, and handsome as well. Many young ladies would be overjoyed to catch his notice. We shall receive him.” She studied the last card. “And Sir Edward Riley. Well. A fine family, although I have my doubts about his suitability. We’ll receive him as well.”
Mariah wasn’t terribly interested in receiving either of them. One reason she hadn’t remembered any of the gentlemen from the park was that they seemed just like the ones at the ball: dull. Perhaps it wasn’t fair to judge them on so little observation, but then, she’d seen for herself that at least one man in London could be fascinating in a few minutes’ time. And she still wanted to find him more than she wanted to investigate the suitability of other gentlemen.
However, she would have to explain this to her mother if she refused to receive the other gentlemen—an untenable choice. “Of course, Mama. May I call on Joan now?”
Her mother shot her a keen glance, but before she could say anything, a footman brought in a bouquet that put all the others to shame. Lilies and roses interspersed with ferns and vines overflowed the vase, almost as wide as it was tall. It was magnificent, in an overpowering way. “Just delivered, my lady,” said the footman, setting it down. It was too large to fit on the same table as the others.
“Indeed,” her mother said, and retrieved the card. Her eyebrows rose again. “Mr. Tobias Crane?”
Mariah tried not to grimace. That was one gentleman she would really prefer not to receive, after the way she had embarrassed herself. And he had obviously gotten the exact wrong impression, judging from the size of the bouquet, which would make his call all the more tedious.
Her mother extended the card. “There is a poem, Mariah.”
Worse and worse. She took the card, all but cringing at the verse. He wrote a nice hand, she thought; too bad that was the best thing about the card. She managed a weak smile for her mother, who was watching her with an air of expectation. “I met him in the park,” she murmured again. “Sir George Bellamy introduced us.”
Her mother exhaled slowly, the sound rife with suspicion. “His uncle is a very prominent advisor to Lord Eldon, although his own parents were nobody of consequence. I suppose we cannot avoid receiving him.” She paused, a frown pinching her brow. Mariah had a blinding flash of hope that her mother would think of a way they could avoid Mr. Crane. If anyone could wiggle her free of this, it would be Mama! “Although,” the countess continued thoughtfully, “he is his uncle’s heir. A very handsome man”—she smiled knowingly at Mariah—“and an ambitious one, although I have heard he is not as intelligent as his uncle. Not that many are. Still, we should receive him.”
Mariah had to smile and nod; what else could she do? “I shall be late meeting Joan,” she said, sidling toward the door.
Her mother threw up her hands. “You may go, then. But Mariah…” A note of reproof entered her voice, and Mariah paused in the doorway, clutching her bonnet. “Be sure you return soon. You must be ready to receive your callers.”
Mariah’s eyes strayed to the bouquets. “Today, Mama?” she asked plaintively.
The countess laughed and shook her head. “Yes, today.” She paused, tilting her head to scrutinize her daughter’s face. “Is something wrong, dear?” she asked in bemusement. “You don’t seem at all as pleased as I imagined you would be. Don’t you wish to have your choice of gentlemen?”
I do, Mariah thought helplessly. But he hasn’t sent me flowers, and most likely won’t be coming to call today. For a split second she considered telling her mother that someone had caught her eye, that she had met a gentleman she liked very much. But she had already tempted fate enough by asking to see the guest list the other day. As tantalizing as it was to imagine her mother’s formidable energy focused on the search for Harry, it was even more daunting to imagine the consequences if Mama discovered he had visited her at midnight—twice. “Yes, Mama,” she replied. “But I don’t want to keep Joan waiting. I shall return after luncheon.”
Her mother sighed and
waved one hand, and Mariah flew out of the house before she could change her mind. She would have to adapt her plan to be less cordial, it seemed, or she would be doomed to spending her days sitting in the drawing room with the same gentlemen she had already marked off.
Joan, unfortunately, found it funny rather than alarming.
“But what am I to do?” Mariah complained as her cousin dabbed a tear from her eye.
Joan stopped laughing, although a huge smile still sat on her face. “Prepare yourself to drink a great deal of tea.”
“Ugh. I hardly paid attention to most of them. I shall have nothing to say to anyone.”
“That’s not necessary. Most gentlemen don’t care much for what you have to say. My mother told me they admire a quiet, retiring girl.” Joan affected a dramatic swoon into a nearby chair. “Needless to say, I have not been much of a success at that.”
Mariah flipped one hand in disgust. “Unless they admire a mute girl most of all, I shall be a crushing disappointment to them.”
“Does that bother you?”
“No. But it will be a terrible bother and a wretched waste of time!” She sat down on the chaise with a thump.
“You oughtn’t to ask me in any event,” said Joan. “I haven’t much experience with having too many suitors.”
Mariah looked at her. Even though she had spoken in her usual droll way, Joan wouldn’t meet her eyes, fiddling instead with her journal. Suddenly Mariah felt awkward. In two full Seasons Joan had not received a single serious marriage proposal. For two years her letters had been full of the gentlemen who did court her, and Mariah had spent many an hour laughing over Joan’s descriptions of them. Joan never seemed dismayed that none of them took her fancy or swept her off her feet. But then, Mariah thought, she had never had a suitor like that, either—not until now.
“Then I shall send them all to you, for I don’t want any of them.” She flopped into the cushions behind her. “They only want to call on me because of Papa, you know. But what shall we do now?”
“You could be very rude to everyone.” Joan gave a practical nod. “Then they won’t send you flowers or come to call.”
A View to a Kiss Page 9