With a snort that drifted into a sigh, she flopped into bed, deliberately turning her back on the windows. If it weren’t so hot, she would close them. She wished it were winter. She wished her room faced the street. She wished the gardeners had never planted ivy. Why couldn’t they have planted climbing rosebushes, with plenty of thorns? That would keep any lying, sneaking imposter from disturbing her peace.
And yet…She sniffled a little, then scrubbed one hand across her face. It wasn’t entirely Harry’s fault. She did tell him to come in, that first night he appeared at her window. She did ask him to come back when he left. If he had been guilty of an overreaching presumption, she had been equally guilty of accepting and even encouraging his advances. If she had behaved with the circumspection proper in a young lady, this might not have happened at all.
But the worst part was, she wasn’t even sure that would make her happy. Would she be better off if she had never known him? Perhaps she would have met someone else, someone more suitable and just as interesting and charming…and perhaps not. After all, she had spoken to nearly every other gentleman in London while looking for Harry, and many of them had called on her. Not one had captured even half as much of her interest as he had. She heaved another sigh, rolling over and trying to find a comfortable position. Deep down, she suspected, part of her would always treasure the memory of her mysterious, romantic suitor. If only—
She sat up and pounded her pillow, wildly annoyed that it should be so lumpy tonight of all nights. Then she lay back down and closed her eyes, determined not to open them again until morning. A small drop leaked from one eye and slid down her cheek. She refused to move, even to wipe it away, willing herself to sleep. Finally, after several more tears had followed that one, she drifted off.
Harry melted into the deep shadows of a hedge that surrounded the Doncaster House gardens. He really ought not to be here. He could only make things worse, after all, either for her or for himself or, most likely, for both—and yet, here he was, unable to listen to his own good sense and stay away.
As usual, the gardens were deserted. He had never encountered a gardener or other servant, and the gate was a child’s game to open. For a man supposedly in danger of his life, Doncaster seemed strikingly unaware of how easy it would be for someone to walk into his gardens, climb a wall of his house, and…and fall hopelessly in love with his daughter. Harry scowled. He was the fool, not Doncaster.
All right, he decided grimly. In for a penny, in for a pound. He wouldn’t be able to stop thinking about her until he saw her one last time, saw how she turned up her nose at a lowly secretary and heard her scathing dismissal of a man with neither title nor fortune to his name. Once he felt the lash of her scorn in person, he might recover from the madness that had gripped him since the moment he first saw her. At least he wouldn’t be able to deceive himself any longer.
Taking a deep breath, he strode across the lawn, ducking into the shadows of the towering ivy. With one last glance around to make sure he was as unnoticed as always, he took hold of a vine and scaled the wall.
He slipped through the window, bracing himself for a scream, a curse, an order to leave. The room was silent. She obviously wasn’t waiting up for him as she once had. That was probably for the best, he thought with a silent sigh. As his eyes adjusted, he took a step farther into the room. “Mariah?” he whispered.
There was no response, and then he saw she was asleep. She had kicked off the bedclothes, her legs bared to the knee. She lay on her side, facing him, one hand tucked under her cheek. Something wrenched at his heart. She looked exhausted, and for a moment he thought he should just leave her in peace.
But that would only prolong the agony. Mariah deserved a chance to tell him just how dreadful he was. He deserved to hear it, too, for he had known all along they had no future. He had known, but selfishly came back again and again, letting her believe a lie because…He cursed under his breath. He had let her believe it because he wanted to believe it, too.
Not that it excused his actions in any way.
Quietly, he crossed the room. The moon was full tonight, and the sky cloudless; silvery light filled the room, revealing the luxurious furnishings more clearly than ever before. Inside, he laughed mockingly at himself. Had he truly believed, for one moment, he could have a girl who lived in such splendor? He could never provide her with half this much elegance, and was a fool even for wishing he could. Ladies like Mariah didn’t marry scoundrels like him.
At her bedside he stopped, greedily watching her sleep. God above, but she was the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen. He reached out and lifted a stray curl from the pillow, letting the silky lock slip through his fingers. The pillow looked damp beneath her cheek, another sign of the harm he had done her. Oh, yes, he was every kind of fool for ever speaking to her. Brandon had been right from the beginning: she was not for him.
“Mariah.” He went down on one knee next to the bed, hoping she didn’t wake with a scream and scratch out his eyes. “Mariah.”
She didn’t move.
He touched her shoulder. “Mariah.” Her eyelashes fluttered but didn’t rise. “Wake up, Mariah.” Her nose twitched, and a thin line appeared between her brows, as if she were annoyed that her rest was being disturbed. Harry smiled in spite of himself. “I’m so sorry, love,” he whispered. He touched her cheek, his fingertips barely skimming her soft skin, and felt the full force of his folly.
Slowly her eyes opened. She blinked twice, not moving. “Harry?” she murmured thickly.
He snatched his hand away. “Yes.”
“Oh, Harry,” she gasped, lurching upright to throw her arms around him and pull him close. Caught completely off guard, he fell against the side of the bed, instinctively throwing his arm around her. “I’m so glad you came!”
Harry froze. Was she truly awake? That was not the greeting he had expected. “Why?”
“Because I missed you!” she said against his shoulder.
Even though he knew it was wrong, his heart took a great leap. He rested his cheek against her silky hair and inhaled warm, rumpled woman, wishing yet again that there were any way…
But there wasn’t. He lifted her arms from his neck and sat back to look at her. “You ought not to. I only came so you could give me a proper dressing down.”
She blinked again. “But why? Of course I was terribly surprised at the Plymptons’ party—I’d been looking for you simply everywhere, and then I didn’t know what to say when you were there right in front of me. So I jumped at you and insisted you act as if we were old acquaintances, which would have been dreadfully improper—”
Harry’s eyes narrowed. That sounded suspiciously like an apology, which wasn’t right. He was here to apologize to her.
“—and then Mr. Crane came up and I couldn’t think. I only wanted him to go away, and Joan wasn’t there to distract him, and then I was so flustered I just went home. But I’ve thought about it all night, and only just now, while I was sleeping, I think, did it come to me—”
“Mariah, what are you talking about?” he interrupted.
“Why you are employed with Lord Crane,” she said. He could only stare at her. She smiled, her face glowing. “But it’s fine! You’re not the first, you know; my mother’s youngest brother was also a secretary for some time, I had completely forgotten—then he went into Parliament—”
He must have made a noise or done something to betray his dawning realization. She thought he was a younger son, still a gentleman. Still someone of her class.
“What?” she whispered anxiously.
Slowly, woodenly, Harry shook his head.
She opened her mouth, then closed it. “But…but you must be,” she said in a voice that began to tremble. “Many younger sons take employment as secretaries, particularly with men like Lord Crane. It would be such a good opportunity…”
Harry sat back on his heels, a vague sense of contempt filling him. But for whom? He could hardly blame her for wanting—
expecting—him to be a gentleman. Her life was filled with gentlemen. He, on the other hand, knew he was no such thing and had known it from the beginning, despite all the times he’d let her continue assuming he was one. He had known, even if he hadn’t admitted it to himself, that he wanted her to want him, and he knew she would never speak to him if he weren’t good enough. This was his just reward, he told himself bitterly.
Suddenly he was angry. Angry at her, for trying so hard to make him acceptable by her standards. Angry at himself, for wanting her so desperately that he had deceived her. She was a wealthy elegant lady, born for someone in the peerage. He was nothing more than a common actor, playing at being a spy with the hope of becoming more, but still no one worthy of her.
He surged to his feet and paced away, trying to suppress his resentment and anger and knowing they both sprang from his frustration with his circumstances. It wasn’t Mariah’s fault. She had been born to her lofty station just as innocently as he had been born to his lowly one. At least she had not pretended to be what she was not.
She interpreted his actions correctly. “No!” she gasped after a moment. “I cannot believe it. You—You must be a gentleman. You’re the younger son of an earl, or a viscount—even a barrister—”
He put up a hand to stop her. “No,” he said shortly. “No, I am not.”
There was a moment of dreadful silence. Harry scowled, wishing he could have said yes. But his father was an actor; his grandfather had been a tailor. He was not a gentleman.
“It’s so bloody unfair!” Mariah exploded abruptly, pounding her pillow. He turned and rocked back on his heels.
“What isn’t fair?” Besides the fact that I’m falling in love with you and can’t have you…
“It’s not fair that you should have to sneak around to see me while dull, boring people like Mr. Crane may call on me and waste the entire day. And why, I ask you? Because his uncle is a viscount!” Harry, about to speak, paused. She rushed on. “Just because he’s going to have a title someday, he may speak to any female he chooses. But I must sit and wait until a proper, acceptable man finds me. What an unfair thing it is, to be a female!”
That disarmed his anger like nothing else could have. He laughed ruefully. “Perhaps, but you’re far too beautiful for a boy.”
Her mouth twisted, and she punched the pillow again, without force. Her dark hair was coming loose from her braid and fell forward, hiding her face. He drew in a deep breath and let it out, all at once tired and resigned. “I came to apologize—”
“How did you get into our ball?” she demanded. Harry tensed. “Secretaries don’t go to balls. They aren’t invited. Lord Crane would never bring you, not to my mother’s ball. How did you get in?”
“Perhaps I snuck in,” he said, dodging a direct answer.
“But you would stand out. No one would know you, and at my mother’s ball, everyone knew everyone, or at least of them. And if you snuck in, why? What did you intend to gain?”
A plausible story was on the tip of his tongue; every step he took, he had a story prepared. Things could go wrong, people could make mistakes. He might be caught out or suspected at any moment. But he had already lied to Mariah enough. Even though it went against everything he had been told to do, Harry thought it might be better to tell her something like the truth, if only to keep her from trying to discover it herself.
“You must believe me,” he began, “when I swear I had an honorable purpose. Beyond that you must trust me, if you can. It was not for personal gain—I did nothing to harm or embarrass any of your guests or your family—but I can’t tell you precisely why.”
She had listened with eyes growing rounder at each word. For a moment she didn’t reply. “Is it dangerous?” she whispered.
Harry said nothing.
She gave a muffled squeak. “I—I shan’t tell! I don’t want to cause you any harm…”
“I can’t come back to see you,” he said. “I dare not. And you mustn’t speak to me again if we should meet.” She wet her lips. Harry returned to her bedside in one stride and reached out to take her hand without thinking. “Promise me.”
“I promise,” she said, her voice barely audible. “But when will you be…free?” Harry stiffened. “When can you come to see me again?” she clarified. “Don’t tell me you won’t. Not at night, but during the day, as yourself.” He started to shake his head, and she put her hands on the sides of his face, stopping him in place. “You must,” she implored. “Please! I will only give my word if you give me yours that you will.”
Her face was so near, her eyes so bright in the silvery moonlight, and her words so tempting, Harry heard himself say “I will try” before he was aware of even thinking it. She let out her breath and her face softened with relief.
Refusing to think about what he was doing, he tugged her forward. She came easily, moving into his arms without hesitation. Her arms went around him and her head nestled against his shoulder, her body fitting perfectly to his. For a moment he just held her. She was soft and warm, her hair smelled like spring flowers, and her cheek felt like the finest silk against his. Harry closed his eyes and thought he might sell his soul to stay like this with her.
But not even that bargain would suffice, not in her father’s eyes, not in society’s eyes, and doubtless not even in her eyes if she knew what he really was. So he gently set her back. “Good-bye.”
“When, Harry?” she whispered. “When will you come again? I can’t bear it, not knowing…”
He pushed to his feet. “I don’t know.”
This answer displeased her, he could tell, but she let it go. Perhaps she sensed that he was unwilling to tell her the truth—that he didn’t expect her parents would ever receive him no matter what he promised her. “Why…” Her voice faltered. “Why did you approach me?”
Harry frowned. “What do you mean?”
“That evening at my parents’ ball, when you were on the balcony and I came out for some air. And why—why did you come to see me later?”
Still frowning, he thought rapidly; how on earth was he supposed to answer?
“Was it, by any chance,” she went on, her voice a little higher-pitched, “because of my family?”
The suggestion was so completely absurd, he almost laughed. If anything, he had come in spite of her family; her father could have him sacked and thrown in prison for what he had done. But then he thought back to what she’d said that evening on the balcony, and understood. He didn’t like it that she thought he might also be a greedy, status-crazed suitor, but she must have met several of them. He could hardly blame her for wondering, after he refused to tell her what he was doing or anything about himself. “No.”
“Not at all?” There was an almost accusatory bent to the question. It reminded him again of just how far above his touch she was.
“No,” he repeated sharply.
“Because it wouldn’t be unusual, you know,” Mariah went on, unable to stop herself. “My father is a very important man. Marrying me would be an enormous advantage to someone like you.”
The instant the words left her lips, she wished them back. Her feelings had been so unsettled and so confused today, it seemed she wasn’t in control of them anymore. All her bitterness at the thought of Harry being just like all the other men who wanted to marry her for her money and her family had risen up inside her again, with the echo of Joan’s words running underneath—as if he had any chance of being accepted…you were lucky to find him out this way…When it crashed into the sudden joy when she thought she had figured it out, followed abruptly by his denial, she wasn’t able to moderate her emotions or her tongue.
But she hadn’t meant to blurt that out so baldly. “I didn’t mean it that way,” she said swiftly, but he turned away.
“No, you’re correct.” His voice was low but controlled. “The advantage in such a match would be entirely mine. But I assure you, never once did I think of your family when I spoke to you.” He started toward the win
dow without a backward glance.
Mariah leaped from her bed and ran after him. “I’m sorry, Harry, truly I am! I said that very badly. I never thought you were like all the other useless idiots and fops who called on me, but—” She stopped, wringing her hands as he paused with his hands braced on the sides of the window and glanced over his shoulder. “I just want to know,” she said desperately, “why you would sneak into my room if you didn’t even hope to court me.”
For a moment he said nothing, regarding her grimly. In the moonlight he was silver and black, halfway between reality and fantasy, everything she wanted and nothing she understood. If only, if only he would explain…She thought she would be able to bear almost anything so long as he told her for certain…
Slowly, as if making a deliberate decision, he turned, his hands falling to his sides. “Because you are the most beautiful creature I’ve ever seen,” he said in a dark whisper. His eyes seemed to burn into her. “Because the sound of your voice echoes in my dreams every night until I think I might go mad from it. Because I would rather see you like this, for these few stolen moments, knowing I have no hope of anything more, than not see you at all. Why? Because I can’t seem to stop myself, Mariah, even though I know I should.”
She felt tears gather at the back of her throat. Why oh why couldn’t he have been somebody, anybody, proper enough for her parents to accept? Harry might not die of a broken heart, but she very well might. “How dare you,” she said, her voice shaking. “How dare you come and make love to me—”
He gave a caustic huff of laughter. “You haven’t the slightest idea what that means.”
“I do,” she burst out, unaware that her voice was rising. “I do know, and you—”
In two long steps he reached her. “Do you?” he whispered harshly, seizing her by the arms and giving her a small shake. “Do you know what I long to do to you?”
A View to a Kiss Page 14