A View to a Kiss

by Caroline Linden

  The Arnold soiree was a difficult test of Harry’s fortitude.

  As expected, Mariah was there, stunningly beautiful in a green gown with silver lace that framed her bosom like a setting for a rare jewel. As expected, she danced with a number of gentlemen, each of whom carried her hand to his lips and smiled at her and held her close enough to know the smell of her skin. Harry hated them all, for having what he could not, and he hated that he had to be here to witness it.

  He tried to focus on his duties. Ian slipped around to one of the windows and warned him of some grim-looking guests just arriving, who turned out to be an austere Whig politician and his sons. That threat ruled out, Harry forced himself through the motions of monitoring Lord Crane and the Earl of Doncaster. But he couldn’t be social, not tonight when his heart swelled with bitter longing every time he saw Mariah, so he found a chair with a good view and stayed slumped in it for most of the evening, ruminating on his well-deserved sufferings.

  To his shock, Mariah herself came walking toward him after the second waltz. Harry tensed, bracing himself, but she wasn’t looking at him. She took a seat near him with only a distracted nod in his direction. Hard on the heels of his relief that she hadn’t recognized him came a fierce satisfaction. He was near her again, almost near enough to touch her. Of course, to her he looked tipsy, slightly unkempt, and old enough to be her grandfather. Only a fool, or someone driven mad by desperation, would be glad to see her now.

  Harry, though, was a little of both. It had been almost a week since he made his vow to stay away from her, and although he wasn’t about to break that vow, he hadn’t enjoyed a minute of it. He had gone through his duties with a grim efficiency, and then gone to his bed every night and dreamed of what he was missing. But this was beyond his control. He was sitting here minding his duty, and she simply appeared next to him. Perhaps it was a gift from heaven, or a temptation from the devil, but he didn’t care.

  “Tired of the dancing, are ye, miss?”

  She glanced at him, startled. “No, sir, not at all.”

  He persisted, leaning toward her on his cane. “Aye, well, their loss.”

  She exhaled slowly and turned a polite smile on him. “How kind of you to say so.”

  “It was my pleasure to say so,” he retorted with a leering wink. “Never say Henry Wroth can’t tell the prettiest gel in the room.”

  “You are too generous, sir,” she said. Her eyes drifted back to the dancers.

  Lord Wroth chuckled; deep inside, Harry laughed recklessly. The longer he played at being an elderly rogue, the more it felt as though the old man became a sort of second skin. “I’m feeling generous, not that my compliments are ever accused of being so. But since I am so fortunate to find myself sitting next to you, I’ll not keep my own counsel tonight.”

  The glance she gave him was half amused, half perplexed, as if she didn’t know what to say and would rather not have to converse with him at all. “What a rogue you are, sir.”

  You don’t know the half of it, he thought, and cackled again. “There’s not much else left in life for me to be! Better a rogue than dead. But I can see you’ve a preference for younger company.” He got to his feet, making a show of his supposed infirmities. This might be the last time he ever spoke to her, and he couldn’t say a word of farewell. “I’ll leave you to these young gents—although mind you choose wisely, for there’s many a young rogue dancing there now!”

  Mariah stared at the strange old man in fascination. He was an uncommon character, no question, but there was also something about him that seemed somehow familiar. He bowed, leaning heavily on his cane. “Good-bye, my lady. It has been my pleasure.”

  She bobbed her head, murmuring something polite in reply. He shuffled off, skirting the crowd, and she watched him for a moment, puzzled. What was familiar about him? And why had he said good-bye instead of merely good night?

  Then she mentally shrugged it off. It must be her imagination. It had certainly played enough tricks on her tonight. She turned back to watching the dancers, catching one more glimpse of old Lord Wroth several minutes later. He was standing in profile to her, speaking to someone she couldn’t see. Again her eyes lingered on the curious fellow. He was an odd one, to be sure.

  Then he lifted his head and laughed.

  Mariah looked, and looked again. It was impossible, and yet…She gasped out loud. She could swear she’d seen that profile before.

  In moonlight.

  Chapter 15

  The notion that Harry might be related to Lord Wroth bothered her well into the next day. It was surely impossible, and yet there was just something, a nebulous, indefinable something, that refused to let the thought die. It was absurd, of course. She already knew Harry was Lord Crane’s secretary. She was imagining things. Lord Wroth was just an old roué who delighted in shocking young ladies, just as Harry always managed to catch her off guard, and that similarity was putting ideas into her head.

  Perhaps he was a distant relation. That thought was rather pleasing, to tell the truth. Lord Wroth wasn’t the most acceptable gentleman in town, but he was a…Mariah wasn’t certain. A baron, most likely. Perhaps a viscount. He might be Scottish, or Irish even, which didn’t help much but at least he was a titled Scot. Or Irishman. She would have to look up Lord Wroth in the peerage. Any sort of title in the family would help, even if Harry weren’t to inherit it himself.

  She made her way to the library the next morning to check. Excitement made her steps quicken, not only at the idea that she might finally learn something about him, but at the hope that he might have any connection of consequence. She turned the corner, trying to think where she would find a copy of the peerage, and almost bumped into her father.

  “Good morning, Papa.”

  “Good morning, Mariah.” He laid his hands on her shoulders and kissed her forehead. Then he stepped back and studied her face. “You’re up and about early today.”

  She was dying of curiosity and hadn’t been able to sleep another minute. “It’s such a lovely day, who could stay abed?”

  He laughed. “Who? Why, you, miss, many days! I’ve had luncheon before I’ve seen you the day after a ball.”

  “Papa,” she said severely. “Mama will not like you teasing me about that.”

  “No doubt.” His eyes gleaming with mischief, Papa lowered his voice. “Would you care to accompany me, since you are awake so early, Lady Mariah?”

  Having her father’s undivided attention was a rare treat, so great it diverted her from her quest. “Where are you going?”

  “I’ve a petition to deliver to Hastings, and thought to walk. It’s barely a mile.”

  Mariah debated less than a moment. The peerage would still be in the library when she returned, and it had been a while since she walked with her father. He was so busy, especially since their return to London. “Of course I shall walk with you.”

  They set off a short time later. Papa laid his hand over hers, nestled in the crook of his arm. “Are you still enjoying London?”

  She thought of Harry, with his visits that made her blood run hot and fast, and his infuriating lack of openness and possible unsuitability, which made her mind burn with intrigue. She sighed half in dismay, half in pleasure. “Yes, although I shall also be glad for the quiet of Doncaster again. It seems an eternity since we’ve been home.”

  Her father nodded, seemingly gratified by her words. “I miss it, too. I knew it would be a great imposition on you and on your mother to go along on my travels—”

  “No,” Mariah protested.

  “Nonsense,” he said firmly. “Of course it was. If you both hadn’t been such hardy creatures, it might have been disastrous. I would never have forgiven myself if either of you had come to harm on our journeys.”

  “Neither of us would have willingly stayed behind.”

  “No, but I am glad to have you safely home all the same.” He patted her hand. “Although it seems I have only postponed the inevitable. I foresee th
at I shall lose you very soon.”

  Mariah smiled nervously. “Oh, perhaps not…”

  Papa snorted. “How many men have I refused, Mariah? You have had your choice of the finest men in England, and just because one has not suited you yet does not mean one won’t, all too soon.”

  She wasn’t sure what to say to that. They walked in silence for a moment. “Papa,” she began, choosing each word with care, “whom do you think I should marry?”

  His eyebrows went up. “Ah. You have never asked my opinion before.”

  “Now I am.” And it wasn’t something she did lightly. She knew he would be livid if he discovered her scandalous behavior with Harry, and she was quite certain he wouldn’t approve of Harry’s actions in the least. Papa was likely to name some other man, perhaps even one of the ones she had rejected, and then she didn’t know what she would do. Her father was a very perceptive man, and he knew the gentlemen of London much better than she possibly could. Her father was, after all, a man; and who better to judge other men than the man who had loved her best all her life? If he named a man she had already met and dismissed, she would have to consider the chance that she’d made a mistake.

  “I think you should marry a man who deserves you,” he replied after a moment. “You are not like many other young ladies. Your mother and I have always taken great pride in your poise and insight, your charm and your intelligence. You…I fear you would be wasted on a country squire, Mariah, or even a placid duke. You, I think, need a man who will rely on you, who will respect you and appreciate your talents, who will interest you and excite your respect in return.”

  “Do you think any of the men who have approached you fit those requirements, Papa?”

  He thought for several minutes as they crossed the park. Riders cantered along the path across the rolling grass. It was quiet in the park at this hour, almost like being in the country.

  “No,” he said at last, and he sounded regretful and relieved at the same time. “I cannot say I do.”

  Mariah breathed a sigh of relief.

  “Perhaps I am too indulgent,” her father said with a wry smile. “I cannot think of anyone I would like to give you to. He will have to be a rare man, my dear.”

  She thought of Harry and forced a smile. He was a rare man, but perhaps not in the way her father intended. She wondered just what would happen when the two came face-to-face. She couldn’t see Harry being intimidated by her father, and yet, everyone else was.

  They reached Viscount Hastings’s home and were offered tea. Hastings was a jovial gentleman, a bit single-minded but in a charming way. Mariah poured the tea and listened with half an ear as her father and Lord Hastings argued good-naturedly over the petition Papa had brought. She was used to this. She had been privy to more political discussions than she could remember, so many that she’d always assumed she would marry a man in politics, just because she couldn’t imagine life without debates over the Corn Laws or Catholic emancipation. She didn’t find it tiring, although not all of it was engrossing. What would she discuss, she wondered, with the man she eventually married?

  She was still thinking about it, trying to form a picture of her future, when they left. Papa was quiet, no doubt pondering the petition or perhaps Lord Hastings’s arguments. Mariah walked beside him and felt for the first time a bit of melancholy for her waning girlhood. She could feel it fading away, and while she looked forward to what life would bring, it was moments like this when she liked being a girl still, able to walk with her father.

  “Mariah, I see Silton approaching,” Papa said then. “I believe he wants a word. Do you mind waiting, or should I put him off?”

  “No, I don’t mind. I shall walk down to the lake and back.” She smiled and strolled off as Lord Silton strode up, doffing his hat to her.

  She wandered slowly down the path toward the water, her thoughts returning to the question of Harry and Lord Wroth. Harry had already told her he was not the younger son of an earl or other nobleman, but he might still have connections to a good family. He must have some level of respectability to obtain his post as Crane’s secretary. Wroth was a kind old man, she told herself, and seemed fond of her the other night. Perhaps if she could discover a link between him and Harry, she could implore him to recognize Harry as his cousin or nephew, and he would. It would help so much if she knew Harry’s last name, she thought in frustration.

  Just as she was growing impatient to return home and look up Lord Wroth, who but the man himself should come limping around a clump of shrubbery. Mariah stopped and gasped out loud.

  Lord Wroth looked up and started, then clapped a hand to his chest. “Eh, goodness there, young miss. I might have run you down.”

  The thought that an old man with a cane might run her down made Mariah bite her lip to keep from smiling. She ducked her head and curtsied as all her questions and hopes flooded back. “Good morning, Lord Wroth. We met last night.”

  He frowned, peering closer at her. “Oh, yes, so we did, much to my pleasure. Good morning, Lady Mariah. How do you fare this fine day?”

  “Very well, sir.” Mariah studied his face as intently as she dared. “I am walking with my father.”

  “What, what?” He tilted his head as if he couldn’t hear her.

  “My father,” she repeated. And then the question burst out before she could stop herself. “Sir, I cannot help but think I know a relation of yours. He reminds me of you so strongly—”

  “I am sorry to say, you are likely mistaken,” he said sadly. “All my family are dead. My wife and sons fell to the consumption, years ago…’Tis a sad thing to find oneself alone at the end of life, my dear.”

  “Of course,” she said quickly, wishing she hadn’t said anything. He did look somewhat like Harry, but it might be coincidence, or even just her imagination. It was hard to say now, while Lord Wroth’s face sagged into lines of sorrow and his gray hair fell around his temples.

  Lord Wroth coughed and groped in his pocket, drawing out a large handkerchief to blot his face. “How kind you are. I miss them still…”

  “Mariah, are you ready to return home?” Papa had come up behind her.

  Lord Wroth’s eyes moved past her to her father. “Good day, sir. And to you, my lady.” He glanced at her again, a sad, polite smile on his mouth, and bowed, his head cocked slightly to one side.

  Mariah’s eyes widened as some faint memory caught and held, of Harry bidding her good-night before slipping out the window, only visible in silhouette, his head dipping just a little to one side. Her mind whirled. Harry wasn’t a relation of Lord Wroth’s. No, indeed—Harry was Lord Wroth. It was all a disguise.

  Before Lord Wroth could move more than a step away, she leaped forward and latched onto his arm. He started, but kept them both upright even though she had all but jumped on him.

  “A moment more, Papa,” she said, frantically searching Lord Wroth’s face, now very close to her own. It was spectacularly unlined for a man of his age. And his eyes—his hazel eyes—so sharp yet so opaque behind his spectacles. Her fingers tightened convulsively on his arm—not the bony, frail arm of an elderly gentleman, but the firm, well-muscled arm of a young man who could scale ivy-clad walls at midnight. “Lord Wroth has asked permission to call on me,” she blurted out. That strong arm tensed under her grip. “And I have consented.”

  For a moment there was a shocked silence. Mariah dared a glance over her shoulder to see her father staring at her with his mouth all but hanging open. Lord Wroth—Harry—was as still as stone. Then he gave a wheezing laugh.

  “Good gracious, gel, such a start you gave my old heart. What a thought! An old scoundrel like me paying court to a young lady like yourself!” He patted her hand rather condescendingly, then turned to her father. “No insult intended, good sir. It was a momentary breath of youth again, speaking to such a lovely child, but of course I’m much too old for her.”

  “None taken, sir,” her father said in a strangled tone. “Mariah, do come here.”


  Mariah refused to let go of Wroth’s arm. “But you did say you enjoyed speaking with me, sir, and I would very much like you to call! Please say you will come.”

  He chuckled again, his eyes flickering toward her father. “That is very kind of you, Lady Mariah, but I would not wish to impose. Every young man in London will wish my other foot in the grave if I should take up your time.”

  In desperation, Mariah turned to her father, beyond caring what he thought of her sanity. She was holding onto Harry’s arm—she was sure she was—and she would not let go until he agreed to call on her. “It wouldn’t be improper, would it, Papa?”

  Of course he couldn’t possibly say no. With a very strange expression the earl inclined his head. “We would be delighted, Wroth.”

  For a moment Lord Wroth didn’t move. Then he coughed. “It would be my honor.” He eased his arm out of Mariah’s grasp. “Good day to you, sir, Lady Mariah. Until another day.” He bowed again, gingerly, creakily, like an old man, and hobbled off, leaning on his cane. Mariah watched him closely, looking for any trace of youth in his departing figure. She could see none. A shadow of doubt clouded her mind. She was still sure she was right—probably—although if not, she had just made a spectacular fool of herself.

  “Mariah?” Her father took her chin in his hand and tilted her face up to his. “Are you well, child? I’ve never seen you so…” He frowned in worry. “So overset.”

  She managed a smile. “Perhaps I am a little light-headed. The sun is very bright.”

  “Let us return home then.” He tucked her hand securely around his arm and led her slowly back in the direction of Doncaster House. “You startled Lord Wroth by your declaration.”

  I’ll wager I did, she thought in silent satisfaction. If she were right, she had just seen through a disguise that had all of London fooled. But why? Why would a young man masquerade as an old one? Was he a spy after all? For whom? And why on earth was he posing as an old man and working as a secretary?