“I ought never to have even spoken to you,” he went on. “I’ve broken so many rules, it hardly bears contemplating…”
“Then why did you?”
His eyes flashed toward her, hot with raw desire, and with a shock Mariah recalled the feel of his hands, pulling aside her nightdress to free her breast. She felt the hungry pull of his lips against her inner wrist, and the sensual creature within her stirred. “Why did you accost me in the park?” he asked quietly.
Her cheeks were burning, but she didn’t look away. “You know why,” she whispered.
He turned aside first, pushing the spectacles back into place. “We must neither of us do it again.”
“I don’t agree to that. I promise to be patient,” she added quickly as he gave her a dark look. “But only if you promise me—”
“I cannot promise you anything.”
She didn’t like that line of conversation. He wanted to promise her something, she could sense it in his tense posture and clipped tone, but he wouldn’t. She changed the subject. “Will you be punished?”
His face softened and a slightly cocky smile quirked his mouth. “Not if no one ever knows.”
“I won’t tell a soul,” she vowed. “No one.”
“Not even Miss Bennet?”
Mariah blushed. She’d completely forgotten about Joan. “How did you know I’d told her?”
He just raised his eyebrows and looked at her over the top of his spectacles. Then he shrugged. “You cannot change it, so it doesn’t matter. But you mustn’t reveal anything else, and not just for my sake.”
Her eyes rounded. “Why?”
Harry could see he’d frightened her, and even though he’d meant to, he felt badly about it. He gathered her close again, knowing he had only a few more moments with her. “Don’t ask me any more,” he whispered. “Not now.”
She clutched at him, then pulled back. “Will you at least show me what you really look like?”
He met her eyes for a moment. He shouldn’t. He never shed any part of his costume except in the safety of Fenton Lane. But she was looking up at him with those luminous eyes, her body pressed against him as if she couldn’t bear to let go. He had refused her so much, what was this one small thing, after he’d already unmasked himself? Slowly he straightened, his hunched shoulders falling back, the cotton padding shifting against his back. He rarely stood upright in Wroth’s clothing, and it felt strange. He removed the spectacles and peeled off the misshapen coat.
“Do you always wear spectacles?”
“Only to read,” he said. She brushed her fingers over the lean slope of his cheek, the joint of his jaw. His eyes closed and he inhaled a deep breath at her touch. “Your hair is…?”
“Brown.” He opened his eyes and ran one hand lightly over his head. “It’s powder. A stage trick.”
She nodded solemnly, scrutinizing his face as if trying to commit everything about it to memory. Perhaps she was. Who knew when they might have another moment like this? Harry stripped off his gloves and took her face in his hands.
Her hands crept up his chest. Slowly, almost tentatively, her fingers slipped under the edges of his waistcoat. “I thought—I began to suspect you weren’t real,” she whispered.
A wry smile curled his mouth. Many parts of him weren’t real. “And now?” he murmured, his lips brushing hers.
A tremor passed through her, and she tugged on his clothing. “Kiss me again, so I might know for certain.”
Harry kissed her, deeply and desperately. Then he caught himself and gentled the kiss, in case this were the last one. She tasted like tea and cherries, sweet and crisp and delicious. Until the day he died, he would remember the taste of her mouth today, when she clung to him with both hands and whispered to him to kiss her again. The fact that she knew he was beneath her, and yet was here in his arms anyway…He held her tighter, knowing he was far beyond merely besotted.
“Call on me again,” she whispered, her breathing growing uneven as his mouth moved over her cheek, her jaw, her neck. “Come as yourself…”
Harry groaned. “I can’t.”
“Please,” she begged. “Tell me your name, I swear I will receive you.”
“No.”
“Then come to me as you usually have…”
He hesitated. “Perhaps.”
“Perhaps?” she cried softly. “No, tonight…”
He placed his hands on the wall on either side of her head and leaned in to kiss her once again without rumpling her dress even more. “No.”
“Mariah? Lord Wroth? Mariah, are you here?”
Mariah’s horrified gaze flew to Harry’s. In a flash he had shrugged into his padded coat, his chest slumping back into Wroth’s usual posture, and slid the spectacles on his face. “Fix your dress,” he breathed, yanking his gloves back on. She slapped at her skirt with one hand, patting the bodice with the other to make certain she was all in order. “Now tell me about something,” Harry ordered.
Mariah obligingly turned, her eyes flying about the small alcove. “Yes, of course,” she whispered back. “This painting is of the first Earl of Doncaster,” she began in an overly loud, bright tone. “He was elevated to the earldom by Edward the Third, who was in fact a cousin of his.” They could hear footsteps now, coming closer. Mariah took a deep, ragged breath, and forged on, blurting out everything she could remember about her ancient ancestor. It rather surprised her she could pull anything from her brain now, with her blood still pulsing hot and fast from Harry’s kiss. “There you see his coat of arms, chosen in honor of Edward, with the lion for England and the lily for purity. Lilies have ever since been the badge of the Dunmores—”
“There you are.” The countess stood in the doorway.
“Yes, Mama.” Mariah turned and smiled at her mother. “I was just showing Lord Wroth the first earl’s things.”
Her mother smiled back politely. “Of course. Do you have an interest in landscapes, sir? There are a fine pair of Wilson landscapes in the dining room.”
“Eh? Ah, right.” He pulled out a handkerchief and coughed into it. “Landscapes,” he said, and coughed again. Mariah waited, too relieved at the close escape and too excited about their stolen moment to say much of anything. Her mother shot her a questioning glance as Lord Wroth kept coughing into his handkerchief. “Pray, excuse me, madam,” he croaked. “I think I must go.”
Mama bowed her head graciously. “Of course. It was so good of you to call, sir.”
“The most delightful call I’ve made this Season. Your daughter has been so kindly attentive to an old man. You must be very proud of her.”
Mama’s smile seemed painted on her face. “We are indeed.”
Slowly they walked through the house. He did not look at Mariah again until they reached the front door, where he bowed over her hand and said a polite farewell. She didn’t let herself watch him leave, but turned away at once.
“I believe I would like to take some air. May I walk with Joan in the park, Mama?”
Her mother gave her a severe look. “Come with me a moment, Mariah.”
She knew a terrible scolding awaited her, and she couldn’t have cared less. Obediently, she followed her mother back into the drawing room, where a maid was clearing away the tea tray. Once the servant left, Mama closed the door and turned on her.
“Mariah, what on earth has come over you?”
“Oh—nothing, Mama.” She shrugged. “I find Lord Wroth amusing, more so than Lord Whitting and Lord Carteret.”
“I could see that, from the way you all but insisted he tour the gallery. Mariah, he is old enough to be your grandfather!” Her mother’s face was taut with concern. “You have had offers from some of the most eligible men in England, and rejected them all. What makes you prefer Lord Wroth?”
Mariah frowned to keep from giving anything away. How astonished Mama would be if she knew the truth! “He doesn’t look at me as a wealthy society wife. He just looks at me as a person. He is interesting,
and I am well aware that he is far too old for me. But you have always advised me to heed my heart—”
“Not if it looks toward him,” her mother said sharply.
She bit her lip and looked down. “I have no intention of becoming Lady Wroth,” she said quietly. And it was true; she could never be Lady Wroth because Lord Wroth didn’t exist. She only then realized that her hope of finding a respectable connection of Harry’s had come to naught. His true name was as unknown to her as ever, and even more so: he was an admitted spy and an imposter. There was no denying it now.
Her mother seemed to wilt with relief. “I am so pleased to hear that.” She crossed the room and placed her hands on Mariah’s cheeks. For a moment her worried eyes searched Mariah’s face. “I’ve been concerned about you, dearest. Your father and I do so want you to be happy, and yet it seems you are not content. Is there something you desire? Are you not pleased with London?”
And Mariah felt a flood of guilt, at least equal to the relief her mother must be feeling. She had never kept something like this from her parents. They had always been firm but kind, and she had never been a deceitful child. But this was different, and she saw no way out of the predicament—not one that pleased her. “I—I am content,” she said at last. “Or becoming content. It seems as though I had forgotten, or perhaps never really knew, what it is like to be a Londoner. Everything feels so different than the last time we were here, Mama. I was only sixteen then, and I was different.” She shook her head. “I think I was a girl then, and now I am not, or at least am less of one. It has not been easy for me to see how gentlemen add up my worth as a bride in the pounds of my dowry and the advantage of Papa’s connections. I know you and Papa have been puzzled by my refusal of so many eligible offers, but I want someone who will want me for who I am. I want someone who will love me, Mama.”
For a long moment her mother was quiet. “I see.”
“You have been so good to me, and I am sorry to disappoint you, but I want a marriage like yours and Papa’s, with a man I can respect and trust and who will respect and trust me, even if he is not the most eligible man in town.” She lifted her hands and let them fall. “I won’t marry Lord Wroth, but at least with him I don’t feel as though I am on parade.”
Her mother’s eyes grew damp. “Oh, Mariah.” She opened her arms, and Mariah stepped into them. Everything she had told her was entirely true…except that she’d already found the man who fit her requirements. Harry was a spy, an imposter, and a commoner—and she would rather have him than the richest duke in Christendom. Somehow she doubted her mother would be well pleased to hear that, though.
“Would you like to come with me, Mama?” she said on impulse. “It is a very fine day out, and it’s only a few streets to Aunt Marion’s home.” She wouldn’t be able to talk to Joan, but Mariah realized that what had happened today was not something she could tell Joan. In fact, perhaps she could never speak to Joan again about Harry at all. Before, it had been like a game between them, trying to discover the elusive Harry. Now, she saw that there was nothing of a game about it; Harry’s safety—his life—might depend on her discretion.
Mama smiled again. “Yes, I think I shall.”
Chapter 17
When Harry returned to Fenton Lane that night, he had a visitor.
Alec Brandon stood in the back of the hall. He still wore his footman’s livery, although with a plain black greatcoat instead of the sage green Doncaster coat, and he wasn’t wearing his powdered wig. He might have come just to report in with Angelique, but something about the set of his chin put Harry on guard at once.
“Can I have a moment, Sinclair?”
Harry paused a moment, then nodded, divesting himself of the longshoreman’s coat. It had been a long day. After his call at Doncaster House, he’d spent the evening following Bethwell on another Whitechapel ramble and had to pull two drunken sailors away from the marquis, getting a bit of a thumping in the process. He had been looking forward to his bed with an almost passionate eagerness. “Of course.”
Brandon jerked his head and went into the small parlor. Harry laid aside his coat and unstrapped the knife from his waist. The hilt had been digging into his ribs all night. Pressing one hand against the bruise already forming, he followed Brandon. “What is it? Something about Don—”
Brandon’s punch to his gut caught him mid-word. Harry doubled over, his hand instinctively flying to where the dagger would have been. His fingers closed on nothingness, and he slowly straightened, still holding his stomach, and met Brandon’s eyes warily.
“Stay away from her.” Brandon kept his fists up and at the ready. “I warned you once before she was not for you. You’ll ruin everything, being led around by your prick!”
Harry didn’t move, not even to blink.
“I heard all about it in the servants’ quarters,” Brandon went on in a growl. “Lord Wroth calling on Lady Mariah! What a surprise! I wonder what that old fool could want with our beautiful, wealthy, young ladyship!”
“Nothing,” said Harry quietly, then more loudly, “Nothing! Damn it, Brandon, I didn’t want to go!”
“Then why were you there?”
Slowly, Harry raised his hands in surrender, his gaze steady on Brandon’s face. He lowered his voice calmingly. “I met her with her father in the park the other day. The earl invited me to call. What was I to do?”
Brandon lowered his fists a little. His eyebrow dipped in suspicion. “Then you have no interest in her? Your word of honor, Sinclair, that you’ve kept away from her and will continue to do so?”
Harry’s expression must have betrayed him, or else Brandon merely wanted to reinforce his warning. He threw another punch that just clipped Harry’s shoulder as he ducked. Harry put up an arm to defend himself and tried to shove the other man away, but his shoulder connected with Brandon’s midsection. Then Brandon slammed him into the wall so hard his teeth rattled, and all cooperation between them was forgotten until a sharp voice cut through the room.
“What on earth are you doing?”
Brandon gave Harry one last shove before he turned to face Angelique. His chest heaved and his face was red. “Nothing.”
She turned to look at Harry, slumped against the wall and holding his side. He gritted his teeth and nodded. “Nothing.”
Angelique rolled her eyes. “I am not so simple to believe nonsense. Stop beating each other and explain.”
“We were just reviewing our instructions,” muttered Brandon.
“I see.” Her gaze swung between the two of them. “And which of you has forgotten?”
Brandon shot a bitter look at Harry, who hadn’t moved. “Neither, I hope.”
Angelique’s expression didn’t change. “I see,” she said again. “May we speak in the hall, Alec?” He hesitated, then nodded once and followed her, shaking and flexing his hand as he went. He closed the door behind him.
Harry slid all the way to the floor and hung his head, gingerly. Brandon had a punishing jab. He deserved that, though. Again he felt the weight of his presumption, his arrogance that he thought he could do what he wanted and no one would be hurt or even know. Today’s visit to Doncaster House had a reasonable explanation only when he admitted to the rest of the story, that he had incited Mariah’s curiosity by sneaking into her room in the middle of the night until she was searching for him in every man she met. There was no chance she would have pressed him to call on her today or even spoken to Wroth at all if he had done as he ought, and stayed far away from her from the beginning.
He was still sitting there when Angelique came back into the room. She regarded him a moment, then crouched down beside him. “Look at me.” Reluctantly, he raised his eyes. Angelique was not pleased. “Are you risking this entire enterprise for the sake of your cock?”
He scowled. “No.”
“That is what Alec tells me. He says you are drawn to this young lady, that she distracts you from your work.”
“I have never compromised my d
uties.”
Her eyebrows went up a little. “I see.” For a moment there was silence in the room. “Is she very beautiful, this Mariah?”
Harry let his head fall back against the wall and sighed. “She’s utterly out of my reach.”
Angelique tilted her head to one side, studying him. “That does not always matter to the heart, does it? Out of reach does not mean out of mind.”
Harry glanced at her, then looked away from her perceptive eyes. “I haven’t let it interfere with our work.”
“I see.” She smirked. “You are too ambitious, non? Not only the Home Office’s gratitude, but an earl’s daughter.”
“It’s not ambition,” he muttered.
Angelique’s smile grew. “Perhaps not.”
“And it hasn’t interfered in any way with my work,” he went on, repeating it to convince himself. “Never.”
“Good. See that it does not, or I will hand you over to Stafford.” She reached out and lifted the hair that had fallen over his forehead. “At least Alec did not hit you in the face. That would be difficult for Lord Wroth to explain.”
Harry winced, pressing a hand to his ribs again. Brandon had hit him plenty of other places. “It was a bloody hard blow nevertheless.”
“Then you will not forget it soon. Alec has as much to gain, and to lose, as you do, Harry.”
He grimaced and got to his feet, putting out a hand to help her up as well. “I have never forgotten it, Angelique.”
Nor would he.
For several days Harry applied himself to his duties with renewed focus and concentration. Staying away from Mariah and getting a full night’s sleep was a great deal of help in that regard.
Crane was more querulous than ever, dictating a dozen letters a day and then sending him off on a variety of errands, once even all the way up the river to the botanic garden at Chelsea. It took him an entire day, and yet Stafford said not a word about the lengthy absence from his post.
In fact, the more he thought about it, Stafford never said much of anything about their performance. Every night he and Ian, and sometimes Angelique, sat around the kitchen table and put together their reports, in excruciatingly tedious detail. Bethwell attended the opera with his wife and spoke to Lord Canning while eyeing the girls onstage. Doncaster spent the night at his club in company with several other members of the House of Lords. It was hard to see the threat, even though Harry dutifully lurked in the rain waiting to see them safely home. Bethwell in particular, with his pompous demeanor, should have offended someone badly enough to cause a scene, but it never happened.
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