Harry fought to subdue his seething sense of discontent. She was trying to provoke him but didn’t know how well she was succeeding. Not only had he been tormented all last night by the sight of her, ethereal in a pale blue gown that clung to her every curve as she laughed and danced with every other man there, but after the miserable hours he’d spent tonight trailing Lord Bethwell, his temper, his patience, and his control had frayed a bit too much.
So he replied to her taunt instead of letting it go. “I’m not much given to overstatement, miss.”
“Well, perhaps the next time we attend the same ball, you will ask me to dance. Just to prove your prowess, of course.”
He kept hearing the young whore’s muffled sounds of pain as Bethwell used her. He kept seeing the thin pale face begging him to do the same, for only two shillings in her hand. The contrast between that ruined scrap of a female and the lovely, pampered creature before him made him sick. It made him angry. Bethwell was a hypocrite and an arrogant ass, but he was living the life he was born to. No one would protest his treatment of the whore; he was a gentleman and a marquis, while the girl was nothing. Just as he was nothing, while Mariah was a wealthy young lady of aristocratic blood.
“Come, then.” He put out his hand, his desire to blot out the memory of his evening conspiring with his desperation to touch her.
“Come where?” As if sensing his dark mood, she pulled her feet back up onto the side of the mattress.
“Dance with me,” Harry said, knowing he should despise himself for this but doing it anyway. “Or perhaps you are the coward.”
Her chin came out. She slid off the bed and came toward him. “There is no music.”
He didn’t move, just remained with his hand outstretched, waiting, dying. He couldn’t make himself do anything else; if she wouldn’t touch him, how could he blame her? He reeked of the rookeries and sweat and vice, nothing she should know about, nothing she could want.
She came one more step forward, then another—and laid her fingers on his.
Harry inhaled a long, controlled breath. Her hand was so soft, so smooth. She smelled of lavender and clean linen, everything comforting and right, and for a moment the blackness inside him abated. He craved her touch and presence like some men craved gin or opium; a weakness, but not one he could deny tonight. He drew her close, then stepped back and bowed. She dropped a quick curtsey.
“What is the dance, sir?” she asked.
In reply, he softly whistled the opening bars of a popular country dance. Mariah almost laughed at herself, for thinking he would propose something intimate like the waltz. When he had put out his hand and dared her to dance with him, she had wondered, just for a moment…But a country dance. It was almost respectable. She fell in step with him and danced the simple steps.
There were no other couples, so they simply repeated the steps others would have performed. Neither spoke, but every time their hands touched—their bare hands—she felt a shock that went straight to her heart. His hands were large but gentle, his long fingers firm around hers. They were not the hands of a gentleman, not soft or plump, but then she knew he was not like other gentlemen.
She could also sense that something was wrong. Their other conversations had all been light and teasing. Tonight the darkness she had always sensed in him was at the fore, even in this dance. His fingers lingered on hers; she could feel his eyes on her as they turned about each other; and more than once their shoulders brushed, at his doing she was sure. He was indeed a fine dancer, but she no longer cared about that.
At the next turn she went the wrong way deliberately, facing him just as he stepped toward her instead of promenading around his back. They both stopped cold, no more than a few inches separating them.
“What happened tonight?” she whispered, straining to see his face. “What has changed you?”
He loomed over her, dark and silent. “A girl,” he said at last, his voice flat and yet heavy with emotion at the same time. “She couldn’t be more than fifteen years old.”
“What happened to her?”
“I gave her a crown and sent her home.”
He hadn’t answered her question. Carefully, she laid her hand on his arm. He inhaled sharply but didn’t pull away. “What else could you have done?”
“She doesn’t need a crown,” he said, and Mariah realized what the emotion was: anger. He was boiling with it. “She needs a proper place to live and decent clothes and an honest living that doesn’t require her to sell herself to a gentleman gone slumming for the night. He only paid her a shilling and then took her up against a brick wall in an alley reeking of shit.” The anger was slipping into his voice, sharpening his words. “I could hear her crying, and then he didn’t even pay her the second shilling he had promised, but walked away without a care—”
No one had ever spoken to Mariah of such things before. She supposed she ought to be shocked and offended at his crude speech, but was too horrified by what he described. “Where?” she asked. “Where is she? Perhaps I can help—”
He laughed, a harsh bark of bitterness. “Of course you can’t. I probably couldn’t find her again if I tried. She might not even survive the night, out on the streets in Whitechapel.”
“But I would like to help,” Mariah insisted, truthfully. She couldn’t even imagine a life like that. Who would not want to help such a poor creature, starving and cold and abused? She could take clothing and food, blankets; even money. Papa gave her enough pin money, she could spare some for a girl in need. “I can help, Harry.”
“Would you? How?” He stepped back, spreading his arms out wide. “Sell your furnishings? Give her your silk gowns?”
“Well…perhaps not, but—”
“Feeding her a meal or giving her a warm cloak won’t help. That won’t change the facts of her situation. She’s poor and young and already ruined. What would a meal do for her when she’ll be hungry again tomorrow?” He swept one hand through the air as if flinging something away. “Your offer is kindly meant, but it won’t help. No one person can help. It requires all men, and women, of decency to stand up for her. How noble can a man be if he allows people to starve to death a few streets from his own home and never makes the slightest effort to help? Your father cares for you and your health, but does he even know what other young women in London endure?”
“I—I don’t understand,” she stammered, startled by his fury. “Why were you in Whitechapel? Are—Are you a reformer, Harry?”
He was silent. His shoulders fell. “No,” he said at last, as if the anger and animation had all drained away, leaving only hollow weariness. He turned his back to her and hung his head. “I’m not. I’m nothing.”
Mariah moved without thinking. She stepped forward and put her hands on his back, then rested her cheek against him, too. He was so big and solid, so warm through the soft linen of his shirt. She closed her eyes and inhaled deeply, even though he smelled of fish. Where had he been tonight, and what had he been doing? Why had he watched a gentleman engage a prostitute in the squalor he described if it disturbed him so? But he cared; he cared for the discomfort of a common street girl he would never see again, and he gave her a crown. There was something in that gesture that touched her heart. “You are not nothing, not to me.”
He turned. Mariah stared up into his face, only dimly visible even at this close distance. She realized it didn’t matter what he looked like anymore. She would know him anywhere, from the way he moved and the way he breathed and the way he laughed. “I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I should not have said that, when you offered to help.”
“I would help her, Harry, truly.”
“I know.” His hands came up. His fingertips whispered over her jaw. Her body reacted on pure instinct, swaying toward him as her eyes drifted closed and she arched her neck, raising her face to him. His lips brushed hers, lingering barely a moment. “You’re wrong, though,” he whispered against her cheek. “To you, I am worse than nothing.”
&nbs
p; By the time she opened her eyes, he was gone.
Chapter 10
The next morning Mariah saw her room and her life with new eyes. She had been thinking all night about Harry and that girl. Whitechapel, she knew, was a very dangerous part of town, and Harry never said what he was doing there. For the first time, a serious shadow of doubt clouded her mind: Was she being led on by a liar? He certainly could have done any number of things to her—he’d slipped into her room without waking her, after all—but he hadn’t. After some hesitation, she brushed aside that concern. She trusted Harry, at least enough to keep enjoying his company. But other questions couldn’t so easily be put to rest.
Once again she needed to talk to Joan. She smiled ruefully to herself, realizing that her cousin was as inexperienced with gentlemen and their intrigues as she was. But the other young ladies in London had their eyes and minds filled with wealthy peers and scandalous rakes; there was no one she trusted to keep her secret other than Joan.
Her mother caught her as she was about to descend the stairs. “Mariah, come here. We would like a word with you.”
Mariah paused. “Yes, Mama?”
Her mother beckoned her to follow. “Not until we join your father. Come, dear.”
Mystified, she followed her mother. Was she in trouble? But no, Mama looked more pleased than angry, which surely wouldn’t be the case if—Mariah suppressed a shudder—she or Papa had any suspicions about Harry. But then, Mama’s expression also seemed to rule out a scolding for her disinterest in her callers, which Mariah felt was far more likely to get her in trouble. What had she done?
Perhaps it wasn’t about her, she thought as they walked down the long hall to her father’s study. Perhaps Papa had some happy news he wished to share with her, or perhaps he and Mama had planned another trip, or a ball, or…or…The possibilities petered off in her mind. What on earth? When her mother had something to say, she usually just said it. More and more curious, she followed Mama into the study. Her mother closed the door behind them, then crossed the room to stand beside the desk where Papa was waiting.
“Mariah, come in. Be seated.”
Obediently she sat, turning a questioning face to her parents.
Her father sat down as well, his handsome face relaxing in a fond smile. “Have you enjoyed your Season thus far?”
She blinked at his question. “Yes, Papa. Of course.”
“It has been entertaining to you?” She nodded, still utterly at sea. Surely this wasn’t what they wanted to discuss. “And you have met interesting people?” She nodded, as he seemed to be waiting for her reply after each query. “Interesting gentlemen?” Papa added with a significant look.
Ice-cold dread poured through Mariah. Petrified, she stared back, finally managing to jerk her head in a tiny nod. Dear God. They knew. Somehow they had found out about Harry. Joan! But Joan had sworn on her life not to tell a soul, and Mariah trusted her. Who, then? No one knew—no one.
Unless…Her breath caught in her throat. Had Harry himself approached her father? Had he asked permission to call on her? Were all her questions about her mystery suitor about to be answered? And her parents looked pleased! If Harry had called on Papa and asked to call on her, her father must have said yes. She would be able to see him again!
A wild wave of hope rose up in her breast, which she instantly quelled by reminding herself of the debacle with Mr. Crane in the park. She must go cautiously until she knew for certain. Still, her heart, which had almost stopped beating at Papa’s questions, began to pound painfully against her ribs. She clenched her hands in her lap to keep them still. “Yes, Papa,” she said in as normal a voice as she could. “Some gentlemen have been…interesting.”
He smiled. “I am delighted to hear it.” He paused, leaning forward, his hands folded on his desk. “And is there any particular gentleman who’s caught your eye?”
Color flooded her face despite her best efforts. “Perhaps,” she murmured carefully.
His smile broadened. “Then I have happy news for you. Your mother and I have just entertained a gentleman who confesses himself quite dazzled by you. He sang your praises for quite some time, and even I, who knew every word he spoke to be true”—Papa winked, his eyes twinkling—“even I felt it was too much. The man is smitten, my dear, hopelessly, head over heels in love with you.”
It was all she could do to smile nervously. Something was telling her it could not be Harry her father spoke of. Sing her praises until even her father tired of hearing it? That did not sound at all like Harry, who was more likely to tease her than compliment her.
“He asked me for your hand in marriage, Mariah.” Papa sat back, smiling at her with pride and great satisfaction. “I presume he has informed you of his intentions?”
“Well…” She wriggled in her seat and cleared her throat. “No, Papa. No, he hasn’t.” And that also made her believe it was not Harry they spoke of. Surely he would have said something to her directly, at least a hint. A man bold enough to climb into her bedroom window would surely be bold enough to tell her himself if he loved her.
“You must have guessed,” her mother chided gently. “I was not surprised at all.”
Well, that settled the matter. It couldn’t possibly be Harry if her mother knew and was not surprised. Mariah tried to ignore the hard lump of disappointment sinking in her stomach. She couldn’t dwell on that now, not while she had to get through this ordeal with some semblance of grace. She merely looked up at her mother in question.
Mama smiled, coming forward to cup her cheek. “Just think, my dear—you would be a countess. Are you not pleased?”
She forced a grim smile. “Actually, Mama…I must confess, I—I haven’t the slightest idea of whom we’re speaking.”
Mama dropped her hand. “Really, Mariah, how could you not know? The Earl of Hartwood.”
Oh. Him. Mariah felt a wave of relief. Lord Hartwood was a nice enough fellow, but she doubted he was truly in love with her. “Lord Hartwood. Yes, I should have guessed.”
“Are you pleased?” asked her mother again. “Do you mean to accept him?”
Mariah blinked at her. “Of course not.”
For a moment there was surprised silence. Her parents exchanged a look, and then her mother faced her again. “Why not, dearest?”
“Mostly because I do not love him,” she said, finding it was easy to explain now that she’d gotten over the first rush of surprise and dismay. “And I believe he doesn’t really love me. We would bore each other silly within a month. He is a kind and amiable gentleman, but he is not for me.”
Again her parents looked at each other. “If that is your final word on the matter,” Papa began, looking more nonplussed than angry or even disappointed, “I shall refuse him.”
She smiled at him in gratitude. “Thank you, Papa. You truly are the best father.” She got up and went around his desk to kiss his cheek.
He caught her hand. “Are you certain, though? A man does not usually ask twice, Mariah. Perhaps you would care to consider it for a day before I speak to him.”
“He is a very eligible match,” said Mama quietly. “A handsome man, kind and goodhearted. You would be well provided for. I hope you’re not being hasty, Mariah.”
She turned to her mother. “I’m not. I know my heart in this, Mama; Lord Hartwood is not the man for me. I don’t need to consider it, even though I know him to be a very eligible and decent gentleman, because I don’t love him and don’t believe I ever would.”
For a moment her mother was motionless, then she smiled and bowed her head in acceptance. “Then he is not the man for you. I would never urge you to ignore your heart.”
“I know you would not.” She clasped her mother’s hand. “Thank you for understanding.”
“Of course, darling. We want you to be happy.” If her mother were disappointed, she hid it well. Mariah felt a burst of love for both her parents. They obviously thought they were bringing her happy news, and were taking her refusal
in amazing good grace.
“I was planning to visit Joan,” she said. “May I go to her now?”
“I vow, you and Joan are practically attached to each other of late,” exclaimed her mother. “What do you two talk about all day?”
Mariah grinned. “We are making up for not seeing each other for five years.”
The countess threw up her hands and laughed. “I see. Well, Marion and I were the same, I suppose, when we were young. Go then, and give my niece my love.”
“Yes, Mama.” She slipped out of the room, closing the door behind her. Just before it latched, she heard her father say mildly, “Well, Hartwood’s a bit of an idiot, anyway,” and her mother’s laughing response, “Oh, Charles!”
Mariah grinned to herself. All was well if they could laugh about it. Lord Hartwood! What a surprise. He’d only called on her…hmm…She couldn’t precisely recall, but it couldn’t have been more than once or twice. And she’d danced with him on a few occasions, but nothing out of the ordinary. Which was only fitting for Lord Hartwood, who was nothing if not ordinary, although still, as her mother had pointed out, a decent and eligible gentleman.
As for her hope that it might have been Harry…Mariah heaved a bittersweet sigh. As much as it would have made things considerably easier if he had indeed called on her father and asked his permission, she also acknowledged there was an excitement in Harry’s midnight visits that she would miss if he began calling on her in the ordinary fashion. Harry, in her mind at least, was the very antithesis of ordinary.
And it worried her, just a little. She tried to be as honest with herself, about herself, as she possibly could. She admitted she was thrilled by her secret suitor and his mysterious habits. She admitted his unpredictability piqued her interest and fanned her curiosity to almost unbearable levels. She admitted his attentions were all the more delicious for being paid in the dark of night, in her bedroom, on the razor’s edge of scandal and utter ruin. And so, she worried, what did that say about her character?
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