“Her?”
His hand fell away. “No. Not her. I expect no one watches after her.”
“Then after someone else. Someone special?”
Another long pause. “In a way.”
She wet her lips. “And what would you have done, if something had befallen that person?”
“Anything I had to do.” His voice had fallen into a murmur. “Do you have any more questions?”
“Yes.” She could feel his breath on her lips. Her heart beat so hard he must be able to hear it every time she opened her mouth. “When you watched me the other night…at the Spencer ball…what did you hope to see?”
Now his hand returned to caress her cheek, more boldly this time but no less gently. “I wanted to see you, so beautiful and elegant, like a faerie goddess come to earth for the night. I wanted to see the candlelight on your hair, and dream of seeing it down. I wanted to see your smile, and imagine it was meant for me.” His voice dropped even lower. “I wanted to see you dance, and pretend it was my hand you took. To hear you laugh and hope that someday you might laugh with me that way…”
“You’re such a scoundrel, to say such things to me,” she whispered as his lips brushed hers.
“You have no idea,” he murmured, and then he kissed her.
She almost forgot to breathe. His lips brushed once over hers, and then his hand slid around the back of her neck and he pulled her closer, so close she threw out her hands to keep herself from falling into him. Her palms hit his shoulders. He made a smothered sound deep in his throat, and her fingers curled into the soft fabric of his shirt as his mouth pulled at hers.
His head lifted; his lips moved to her forehead, her temple, the corner of her eyelid. He cupped her face in both hands and dragged his thumb across her lips. Mariah sighed, her head swimming, and he kissed her again, nudging her to open her mouth with a soft flick of his tongue. She gasped, surprised, but then moaned as he tasted her mouth, at first delicately and then more hungrily as she kissed him back.
When the kiss ended, a lifetime later, she sat shaken and breathless, still clutching Harry’s shirt by the shoulders. Her heart galloped along in her chest and her lungs burned, but her mind seemed to be ringing with a chorus of joy. Yes, that was what the hidden creature inside her craved. She had never felt more vitally alive than when Harry touched her.
He tipped up her chin and kissed her once more, lightly, on the mouth. “To answer your question,” he whispered, “I most definitely am.”
“Am what?” She smiled dreamily into his shadowy face.
“Wicked.” One more kiss. Mariah sighed, feeling a little drunk from the pleasure of it.
“In the very best way…”
His laugh was more a sigh. He ran his thumb once more over her lower lip. “Unfortunately, my darling, also in the worst.”
Chapter 12
Mariah hesitated at first to tell Joan about the kiss—her first true kiss—but in the end the joy of it was too great to keep to herself. Two days later, as soon as they reached the Plympton home for Lady Plympton’s annual garden breakfast, she rushed her cousin to a quiet corner and related the tale.
“Oh,” swooned Joan, laying one hand over her heart and fanning her face with the other. “Good heavens!”
“Stop,” said Mariah, blushing. “Everyone will wonder what we’re saying.”
“The gentlemen will know. Would that one of them would kiss me so.” Joan grinned and dropped her hand. “Perhaps he is here today.”
Mariah looked around. Lady Plympton was an old friend of her grandmother’s, and Mama had come because of that connection. The guests were mainly older, with hardly any young gentlemen present, but there were some. “Perhaps,” she said, “but it seems unlikely.”
“Well! That bodes well for discovering him. It always seems people turn up in the most unexpected locations.”
Mariah laughed and had to agree, even though she privately doubted it. Joan’s mother was beckoning to her, so Joan squeezed her hand and promised to look about for any men who might be Harry before hurrying off.
Mariah slowly wound her way through the gathering. Just thinking about Harry’s kiss had made her stomach fluttery and her breath short. Could he be here? She and Joan were probably the youngest guests in attendance among their grandmother’s set, but there were a few gentlemen, standing about the sideboard talking. Most of the guests had gone outside. Aimless without her cousin, Mariah drifted through the open doors to join them.
It was a glorious day, especially bright and fresh after the recent rain. Beautifully decorated tables had been set up at various points, each of them surrounded by a profusion of greenery and color. In the middle of the garden a tall fountain gurgled away, the spray sparkling like diamonds in the sunlight. A large white tent was erected near the house, over a buffet laden with enough delicacies to feed half of London. Mariah’s eyes caught on the trays of sweet buns and platters of roasted fish. Would Harry think this wicked, she wondered, this sumptuous spread of food for people who had never gone hungry in their lives? Were there truly people starving in London? Funny how he had made her think about such things for the first time.
Not really hungry, she was walking past the buffet when a man spoke behind her. She didn’t even hear what he said, just caught the tenor of his voice, but it was enough; she jerked to a halt in disbelief. That voice. She knew that voice—it was his voice. She’d been searching all London for it, and here it was, right in Lady Plympton’s garden. She whirled around, her eyes flying about in search of the speaker.
He had his back to her, a broad expanse of dark cloth, and was bent over the buffet table. He spoke again, the familiar rumble that sent her heart straight into her throat and completely emptied her mind. Good heavens, what was she to say to him? In all the time she had been looking for him, she still hadn’t worked that out. A triumphant I found you! seemed out of order at a garden party. She didn’t want to seem rude or impolite or, worse, silly. She touched her hair nervously, wishing there were a glass nearby. Oh, where was Joan? With a friend at her side for support, she would be much more confident and composed.
He turned, a laden tray in his hands. Mariah stepped back, yet stayed on the path he was taking. She gripped her trembling fingers together. Almost here—five steps—now three—now one—
“Good day, sir,” she said airily. “What a surprise to meet you here.”
He paused, glancing at her from behind plain round spectacles with calm hazel eyes. He was tall, with brown hair neatly combed flat. He could not have been more than thirty, a modestly handsome but unexceptional man. “Ma’am.” He bowed politely, as well as he could with his tray. “May I assist you?”
“Wh-Why,” she stammered, thrown completely off stride by his lack of recognition, “do you not know me?” She lowered her voice to a whisper and added, “Harry!”
He blinked as if surprised. “Pardon?”
She shifted her weight uncertainly. It was his voice, she would swear it—but he was not responding as he ought to. “It is I, Mariah. Surely you’ve not forgotten me.”
“Indeed, I should not say that…” He trailed off. There was something terrible in his face—a shade of deferential pity that made Mariah shrink with horror. And yet, the one sentence he spoke crystallized her conviction that it was Harry. She wet her lips and plunged ahead, ignoring the doubts and misgivings multiplying in her mind. There couldn’t possibly be two gentlemen in London with the same voice…could there be?
“Then you must recall—you can hardly have forgotten our conversations! Nor the place where we met.” She watched closely, desperately, for any flicker of recognition, even as she began to wish she had not spoken to him yet; how humiliating to have to quiz him on this! Better to have maneuvered into a formal introduction, or a walk in the garden where she might speak to him in private. But there was no such sign of comprehension in his face. The horrible silence dragged on. “But I know you,” she said helplessly.
“Town
e!” Mr. Crane appeared at her side. “My uncle is waiting for his tea.” He turned to Mariah. “How lovely to see you today, Lady Mariah.” He bowed, beaming at her. Her stunned gaze veered back to Harry, still standing mute and passive.
“Yes, sir. I beg your pardon, my lady.” He bowed politely and moved past her.
Mariah could say nothing, struck dumb with shock and heartsick confusion as she watched him walk away without a backward glance. It was Harry, it really was, and he was either pretending not to know her or…or he didn’t want to know her.
“I hope the fellow didn’t bother you,” Mr. Crane was saying. “My uncle’s secretary—Uncle depends on him, particularly of late.” He paused, but she couldn’t have spoken to him if she wanted to. A secretary. A common secretary. And she had invited him into her bedroom and let him kiss her. “You look rather pale, Lady Mariah,” said Mr. Crane. “May I fetch you a glass of wine?”
She nodded faintly, anything to get him to leave. Just a secretary…
“Or perhaps lemonade?” Mr. Crane pressed on in oblivion. “I could send for a cup of tea, if you wish, I’m sure it wouldn’t take but a moment. Or water?”
“Yes, tea,” she said desperately. Go go go, she willed him.
He beamed at her. “Tea at once. I shall return in a moment, Lady Mariah.”
The instant he was gone, she pushed her way through the guests to an open space, where she could see him. Harry was well away, crossing the grass toward old Lord Crane. Her chest felt tight and her stomach heaved. A servant…No wonder he wouldn’t tell her his name…
“Mariah! There you are.” Joan scurried over, her skirts in her hands. “Come, there’s a group of gentlemen beyond the fountain. Some of them I’ve never met, and two are fearfully handsome!” Then she noticed Mariah’s expression. “What is it? What’s wrong?”
“That’s Harry.” Mariah’s lips barely moved as she stared after the secretary, now almost back to Lord Crane, sitting in a sunny spot by the camellias, the pride and joy of Lady Plympton’s garden.
Joan followed her gaze. “Mariah, that’s Lord Crane. He must be nearly a hundred years old.”
“No, not him. The young man with him.” The words choked her. “His secretary.”
Joan gasped out loud. “No! His secretary is Harry? No!” She swung around to squint at his figure, then back. “Mariah, you must be mistaken. Your mother would never invite a secretary to her ball. It must be a relation, or someone who sounds like him…”
Mariah shook her head. “I heard him speak, Joan. He spoke to me. I heard him as clearly as I ever heard Harry and it was the same voice.” Her knees trembled and she caught Joan’s hand. “He lied to me—he led me to believe he was a gentleman—”
Joan threw her arm around Mariah’s shoulders. “Come sit down.”
She let her cousin guide her to a bench a short distance away and collapsed onto it, all her dreams and fantasies mocking her. How could he have deceived her so? How could he have presumed to sneak into her room when he was nothing but a servant? How could he have let her think he meant to court her?
“Well, now you know why he was too cowardly to give his name,” Joan said. “What a snake! As if he had any chance of being acceptable. I for one think you should consider yourself lucky you found him out this way. Now he has nothing to hide behind, and is exposed for the liar and trespasser he is. You should tell your parents at once; they should know a common servant is sneaking into their affairs masquerading as a gentleman.”
“No,” said Mariah, her voice faint but calm. “He—He did deceive me, but he never actually said he was a gentleman. I assumed…” I assumed he was what I wanted him to be. “I assumed he was one,” she finished aloud. “But I won’t tell my parents. It—It would cause more trouble, for them to know.”
“But then what will you do?” exclaimed Joan. “How shall you make the wretch suffer? He deserves that, you know. Why, I myself was half in love with him, just from the way you talked about him.” She leaned closer, squeezing Mariah’s hand. “Do you know, perhaps that was his goal all along! If he could have kept up his masquerade, he might have fooled some poor girl into falling in love with him and even persuaded her to run off with him. Think how she would feel when she found out she was married to a common nobody.”
Mariah heard what her cousin was saying; Mariah should count herself lucky, for unlike Joan, she had been more than half in love with Harry, and could indeed have considered marrying him, if only…if only…
But that had never been possible. Her hands balled into fists as the shock of discovery gave way to disillusionment. Harry had to know the Earl of Doncaster would never allow his daughter, his only child, to marry a man so far beneath her station. Once Harry knew who she was, he must have known her father would disapprove of them speaking, let alone marrying. Every single moment of his attentions had been a cruel trick, letting her grow attached to a man she would never have.
Of course, he hadn’t been so dishonorable, she argued with herself. He had hardly done anything she hadn’t invited or permitted, and overall their meetings had been fairly innocent. Not that it excused him sneaking into her bedroom—no matter that he had asked permission—but he hadn’t taken advantage of her, not really. Every time he touched her, she had wanted him to, allowed it and welcomed it. And perhaps he had known he was unacceptable and yet just couldn’t help himself because of his feelings for her…
Mariah leaped to her feet, appalled with herself for defending him, for still wanting him to be someone he wasn’t. She hoped he was madly in love with her, so her rejection would hurt him just as much as his deception had hurt her. She hoped he suffered a decline and wasted away and died of a broken heart. Then she would be happy again.
Tears stung the back of her eyelids. “I want to go home,” she said to Joan. “Now.”
“Of course.” Joan wrapped a comforting arm around her waist and they went into the house. Mariah refused to look back, not wanting to see the lying rogue again as he served old Crane his tea.
Not that she would have noticed him watching. Harry couldn’t allow himself to look directly at her, but he did steal several glances back. Her shocked expression was branded on his mind, the hurt and betrayal in her eyes piercing him like a white-hot lance—of guilt, most likely. He felt it eat away at him—the knowledge that he had hurt her by indulging his personal desires, desires he knew damned well were forbidden and ultimately doomed. And at the same time, a part of his wicked soul exulted that she cared enough to be hurt. He ought to be flogged, he told himself in a fury of self-loathing as he arranged the tea and cakes on the table at Lord Crane’s elbow.
“You brought kippers,” grumbled Crane. “I detest kippers.”
“Of course, sir.” Harry moved that plate back onto the tray, sneaking another look in Mariah’s direction. She was huddled on a bench with another young lady. It hadn’t taken too much effort to discover that the tall brunette was her cousin, Miss Bennet. Mariah’s face was pale, except for two spots of red in her cheeks, and from the expression on her face, he guessed she was agreeing that he should be flogged.
“And I don’t want tea. There must be port somewhere in the house.”
“The physician says you should not have port,” Harry reminded Crane for the hundredth time.
“Ballocks,” snapped Crane. “I think I know what’s better for me than the leech knows. Fetch some port, Towne.”
“Now, sir, I cannot in conscience contribute to a decline in your health.”
Crane snarled some more. “I don’t pay for your bloody conscience.”
“No, sir, I believe my conscience remains in my own employ.” Harry barely noticed Crane’s peevishness today. If only Tobias hadn’t persuaded his uncle to come to this garden party, where he had been required to go along and attend to Crane. He’d known that Crane would dislike it and take it out on him. But of course he hadn’t known Mariah would be here, intent on seeking him out and confronting him.
“I
want to move over there, into the shade,” Crane said, just as Harry had the table arranged. “The sun is too hot here. And where’s my nephew? That useless fribble; he cozened me into this party, and now he’s nowhere to be seen. No respect for his elders, no appreciation.” Crane got to his feet, clutching his cane. “I’m going inside,” he announced, and started in that direction.
“Will you want your tea there, sir?” Harry asked dutifully.
Crane swore. “Damn it, Towne, I want no tea! I’ll find some port if I have to search every cupboard in the house! Drink the tea yourself.”
“Yes, sir.” He ought to follow him. Crane was exposed, surrounded by dozens of people in strange surroundings. His duty today was to stick closely to the old man, no matter how prickly Crane was and no matter how pointless or unwanted his presence might seem.
Instead, Harry remained where he was, silently replacing the dishes on the tray, barely registering the sharp clink of china on china. Mariah and her companion had disappeared. Even if they hadn’t, he couldn’t have done anything; there was no explanation he could give, no excuse, that would pardon his actions, even had there been any way he could have spoken to her.
With a great effort, he picked up the tray and straightened his shoulders. He still had a job to do. A job that did not, and never would, involve Lady Mariah Dunmore. And he had never been more heartily sick of it.
Chapter 13
That night, Mariah went to bed late. Not wanting to spend any time awake in her room, she waited until she was dropping with exhaustion. She hated her room now, where she’d lost her silly, naive heart to a liar, bared her soul to a common scoundrel who never had any intention, or hope, of marrying her. No wonder he had sneaked around! Papa would have set the dogs on him for approaching her. She should have known better than to trust any man who would slip into her room…after climbing a thirty-foot wall…at midnight!
She dismissed her yawning maid; she didn’t need anyone tonight, not Sally and certainly not Harry. The cad. The bloody blighter. She called him every bad name she could think of, even as her heart twisted in her chest.
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