A View to a Kiss

by Caroline Linden

  “No.”

  Another long silence, very long. “My friends call me Harry.”

  Mariah waited, but he said nothing more. “And your family?”

  “Oh, they call me Harry as well,” he said at once. “Except my mother, when she’s angry with me.”

  “Your family’s name,” she said, exasperated enough to laugh.

  He laughed, too, his tone easy again. “Come now, one shoe, one name. Toss it down, please.”

  “I shall discover it anyway,” she declared. “My mother will have the guest list.”

  “No doubt. I wish you luck.”

  Mariah’s eyes narrowed. “Do you think I cannot do it?”

  This time his laugh was too confident, with that underlying darkness in it again. “I know you cannot.”

  Her mouth fell open in surprise. “Of all the cheek!” Without thinking, she hurled the shoe, rewarded with a faint, “Ow!” But her moment of satisfaction was brief.

  “Thank you, Lady Mariah,” he said, his voice growing fainter.

  “Oh, wait!” She hurried along, trying to follow the direction his voice was going, and was brought up short by the end of the balcony. “How did you get down there?” It must have been fifteen feet to the ground at that point. She reached out blindly and felt leaves and vines: the ivy that crawled up much of the house’s exterior. He had climbed down the side of the house. She was impressed against her will. She would have to come back and take a better look in the daylight to see how he’d done it. But now the scoundrel was walking out on her! “Where are you?” she demanded.

  “Good-bye…” He was heading toward the terrace. Mariah tried to think how long it would take to go back through the house and around to the garden. Too long to catch him. She strained her eyes into the blackness below.

  “Harry?” There was no reply. All she heard was the murmur of noise from inside the house and the swish of the breeze through the tree branches. “Harry!”

  But he was gone.

  Harry held his breath as he waited in the pitch-black shadow of a tree until she turned and went back into the house, the flash of light from the ballroom illuminating her figure for a second as she threw open the drape. For a moment he had feared she would try to follow him over the balustrade and down the ivy, and he told himself that he’d waited to make sure she didn’t; he had almost certainly damaged the vines’ grip on the wall in his mad scramble down.

  But finally she did leave, and he let out his breath. He must have lost his mind. Not only had he spoken in his real voice, he’d gone and told her his real name. He’d be sacked at once if Phipps found out. Lord Wroth had been painstakingly constructed and brought to life, and he almost threw it all away for the pleasure of talking to a pretty female.

  No—not a pretty female, a beautiful one. Tall and slender, dark-haired and spirited. Harry wondered what color her eyes were: blue, or perhaps gray? He could imagine the way they flashed as she fought down her temper in annoyance at him. His mouth curved as he remembered the shock in her voice when he teased her. And the frustration in her tone as she confessed to feeling like an object. And the trill of her laughter. And the faint scent of her perfume. And the feel of her slim waist beneath his hands, and the touch of her hands on his shoulders—

  He stopped himself. That way lay madness. The spark of interest he had felt in her would be extinguished the moment she laid eyes on him—especially dressed as he was now.

  Harry squeezed his foot back into the too-small shoe. What a careless piece of work that had been, leaving it on the balcony when he pitched his things off and all but jumped after them. If she had refused to give it back, he would have been stuck, unable to return to the house, and then he would have been in real trouble. As it was, he had spent far too much time outside, and not seen a thing he meant to see. The longer it took him to search the grounds, the longer it would be before he could steal another glimpse of her in the ballroom.

  Straightening his coat and picking up his walking stick, he set off through the darkened gardens.

  Chapter 3

  Mariah flung back the drape and hurried through the ballroom toward the terrace. The doors were open wide to allow the guests to move freely from the crowded ballroom into the gardens. The scoundrel had climbed straight down a wall—to get away from her!—and if he thought to sneak back into the ballroom without explaining himself, he was sadly mistaken.

  The guests had begun moving toward the supper room, where a feast for hundreds was spread. Mariah threaded her way through them as quickly as she could, barely returning the greetings people called to her. See, Harry, she told him in her mind, everyone here wants to greet me and be introduced to me. Why don’t you?

  “Mariah!” A tall, plump girl with bouncing chestnut ringlets caught her arm. “Where are you going in such a rush?”

  “Joan, have you been on the terrace?” Mariah demanded.

  Her cousin Joan smiled coyly. “Well. I’m sure I’d never admit it, if I had been.”

  “Bother that. Did you see a…” Oh blast, how was she to describe him? “A tall gentleman with a sly laugh?”

  Joan blinked. “Only ten or twelve. Why?”

  Mariah seized her arm and towed her through the doors out onto the terrace. “Point them out,” she whispered. “Especially any who have not been here all along.”

  Joan stared at her. “Why? I refuse to incriminate anyone until you tell me what happened. Did he make an improper advance? Did—”

  “Just do it.” Mariah pushed her cousin forward, following close behind.

  Joan huffed, but put on a bright smile and began nodding at the guests returning to the house from the terrace and garden. Mariah kept one eye on the other doors, too, although they were farther from where Harry had left her. He would have to make a very wide circle to get in that way without her seeing him.

  “This one?” whispered Joan through her fixed smile. Mariah stared at the approaching tall gentleman with golden good looks. She doubted he was the one; he did not fit her mental picture of Harry at all; much too elegant and proper-looking. Harry was sly, bold, charming…and took off his shoes at a ball. The gentleman paused in front of Joan, probably because she was staring at him and grinning like a fool.

  “Good evening, Miss Bennet.” He bowed. “Lady Mariah.”

  It was not Harry. His voice was nowhere near the same, too cool and too languid. Mariah immediately turned away, scanning the terrace for any other candidates as he spoke to Joan.

  “How kind of you, sir,” Joan was saying. “But we are already engaged for supper, thank you.” Thank heavens Joan was such a good friend.

  Mariah murmured something to the gentleman as he bowed again and excused himself with a lingering puzzled glance. No doubt he thought them quite strange for staring at him, then brushing him aside. She would worry about that later, after cornering the impertinent Harry.

  If she found him, that is. There were only a few people crossing the terrace now. A pair of gentlemen talking in low voices went back into the ballroom, but Joan whispered that she had seen them both talking outside for some time. A woman strolled out of the garden, smiling secretively, and a few moments later a man followed, too obviously intent on her to fool anyone. Soon it was only she and Joan.

  “Now,” exclaimed Joan when it became clear they were alone. “Tell me everything!”

  “There’s nothing much to tell,” said Mariah, a little let down. “I met a gentleman, and he only told me his given name.”

  “Which is?” Joan prompted, her brown eyes shining.

  “Harry.” Mariah put up her chin as she said it. Harry was a rather common sort of name, now that she thought about it.

  “You mean Henry. Or Harold. Perhaps Harris?” Joan frowned. “I met a Mr. Harris Cortney the other day, but he was quite short.”

  Mariah shook her head. “No, no, this Harry was tall, taller than I am.”

  “What does he look like?”

  “I don’t know,” she mutter
ed.

  Joan gasped. “You don’t know! Why not? Did you have your eyes closed? Were you—Oh! Mariah Dunmore!” she squealed. “Were you alone with him in the dark?”

  “Yes!” Mariah glanced around. “Quiet, you ninny.”

  Joan laughed. “And you, such a good girl,” she whispered in glee. “Alone with a strange man in the dark, and you didn’t even learn his name!”

  “I did not mean to be alone with him.” Mariah gave up searching. The terrace was deserted, the garden seemed empty. Anyone still outside wanted to remain outside. She sank onto a nearby bench, half annoyed and half disappointed. Joan immediately sat next to her, alive with excitement.

  “So how did it happen?”

  “I went out on the balcony for some fresh air—I went alone, and thought I would be alone,” she added at Joan’s wicked smile. “He was out there already, and very impertinent.”

  “Mmm, a saucy fellow,” said Joan with delight. “Are you in love with him?”

  “No!” Mariah looked at her incredulously. “How could I be? I don’t even know his proper name or what he looks like.”

  “But he’s tall,” Joan said. “And has a nice voice.”

  Mariah smiled. “Yes.”

  “Why do you suppose he was out there? Hiding from someone? Waiting for someone? Planning to steal the silver? Oh, perhaps he’s a very scandalous person and was trying to avoid a duel!”

  “I don’t think my mother invited anyone scandalous.”

  Joan made a face. “I was afraid of that.”

  Mariah got to her feet. Joan could tease and laugh all she wanted, but Mariah knew—somehow—that Harry had not been on the balcony to avoid a duel or to steal the silver. “But then—you’ll never believe it, Joan—he climbed down the side of the house!”

  Her cousin’s mouth opened in surprise. “What do you mean, climbed down the side of the house? How?”

  “The ivy.” He wouldn’t try to climb back up the wall and sneak into the house, would he? She hadn’t thought of it, but if he could go down the ivy, why couldn’t he go up? Mariah took a few steps toward the path leading toward the balcony. Perhaps if she ran around now, she could catch him trying it.

  “The ivy!” Joan was saying. “Oh, Mariah, just like Romeo!”

  “Yes, only it was to get away from me,” she grumbled.

  “Show me.” Joan hurried over. “Let’s go see how far he must have climbed. This is so romantic. A mystery suitor! I knew you would have a flock of gentlemen at your feet, but I never dreamed you’d find someone so exciting, and at your very first ball, too! While I have lived here all my life and had two full Seasons, and never met anyone nearly so interesting.”

  “You are too particular,” said Mariah.

  Joan shrugged cheerfully. “You’re right. I am too particular. But let’s go see the ivy, quickly, before my mother comes looking for me.”

  Mariah glanced quickly back at the ballroom doors. Her mother would soon come looking for her, too. “All right. But hurry!” They picked up their skirts and ran across the terrace, down the steps, and along the gravel path. Mariah scanned the walls, squinting against the deep shadows that cloaked the house.

  “There.” She pointed at the balcony. From below, it didn’t look so very far, actually; perhaps he hadn’t been quite as daring as she’d thought. The English ivy that crawled up vast swaths of stone was particularly thick near the balcony, and when she leaned out and tugged a thick stalk, it felt as sturdy as a tree.

  “All that way down.” Joan sounded very impressed. “Just to get away from you. What on earth did you say to him?”

  “Nothing!” Mariah protested. “I—I might have been a bit abrupt at the beginning…”

  Joan sighed. “Well, it’s still a lovely story. You didn’t by any chance share one perfect kiss, did you?”

  Mariah choked on her laughter. “Joan, you’re really intolerable.”

  “I know.” She linked her arm through Mariah’s. “We’d better go back before my intolerable curiosity lands us in the suds. Perhaps we can discover him inside.”

  Mariah turned to go with her, but cast one last thoughtful glance back at the ivy, innocently rustling in the breeze. Joan might laugh it off as a smashing good tale, but her determination to track down the wretched, infuriating, intriguing man hadn’t faltered. No, indeed, not in the least.

  Harry took great care to keep his distance from her the rest of the evening. After making his rounds of the garden and examining the doors in the high wall that ran around it, he turned back toward the house. There were only guests out in the grounds, and he was powerless to do anything about them unless they drew a weapon. The gates were secure, so he went back to the ball.

  Inside the ballroom he scanned the room and located Lady Heath, a plump old lady who would sit and talk with anyone about her dogs. He headed in her direction, needing some subterfuge.

  “Good evening, Lady Heath. A pleasure to see you again.” He bowed as the elderly lady looked vacantly at him.

  “Oh, yes, good evening…er…” She trailed off with an expectant look.

  Harry answered it. “Wroth, madam, Henry Wroth at your service. We met at the Roxbury affair a fortnight past.”

  Her smile was relieved. “Oh yes. Now I remember. You’ve an interest in greyhounds.”

  Harry nodded, settling into the chair next to her. “Indeed I have, most particularly after our conversation. You contended they were superior to pointers. I’ve always preferred pointers myself.”

  A gleam of near-mania appeared in Lady Heath’s eyes. “Far superior, sir, far superior. You must start with some young bitches of good blood…” One mention of greyhounds was enough to set her off for hours. Harry knew he would be free to monitor the entire room while paying minimal attention.

  He watched Lord Doncaster navigate the room with aplomb, conversing with the Prime Minister and other prominent persons. Brandon had been keeping his eyes on Doncaster for nearly a month now, but as the Season began in earnest, it would also be his responsibility to know the man and his habits.

  The earl appeared to be all Harry had been told he was, a natural diplomat who managed to be agreeable to most everyone. His wife was obviously an asset, sophisticated and elegant, and a brilliant hostess, cordial to Tories and Whigs alike. Doncaster was rumored to be the new King’s choice for Prime Minister, should Liverpool step down, and many in London openly hoped that would happen soon. Harry wished Lord Wroth had been given an interest in politics; what he wouldn’t give to be a party to that conversation, to know if Doncaster would be more open to reform and progress than Liverpool…

  That was what had drawn Harry to this assignment, in fact: his interest in politics. Stafford had offered him the post and held out the promise of a patron, should Harry wish to stand for the House of Commons. How Stafford had guessed that his ambitions and hopes lay in that direction, Harry didn’t know, but the lure was too strong to resist. And ever since accepting, he had been surrounded by members of Parliament, with policy and intrigue discussed almost within his earshot. But it was more maddening than anything else. He had been explicitly told that Wroth was not to be a political creature. He couldn’t call attention to himself by spouting opinions and suggestions, and rarely had a reason to linger even close enough to eavesdrop. With a silent sigh he turned his gaze elsewhere.

  Lord Crane, his other responsibility tonight, was at once harder and easier to watch. Harder, because of his prickly, impatient nature: Crane was a brilliant legal mind whose body had begun to fail, and it made him irritable and somewhat unpredictable. Easier, because he’d already been watching Crane for a few weeks and had a good sense of his habits. Through lecturing the Foreign Secretary, Crane was now expounding on something to Lord Sidmouth, hammering one fist into his palm as he spoke. Harry watched them for a while, his erstwhile employer and his real one, and wondered what they spoke of so passionately. No doubt it was the question of Queen Caroline, who was threatening to return to England and
claim her crown now that her husband was King George IV. It was a particular passion of Lord Crane’s, who thought the King a fool for trying to divorce his wife. Harry took some small amusement at Sidmouth being harangued, reassured that Crane’s infirmity would keep him where he was.

  He saw Mariah Dunmore again. He couldn’t help noticing that she spent a great deal of time in close conversation with a tall buxom brunette. Harry wondered who she was and what the two of them talked about with such intensity. He wondered if they talked of his odd introduction to Lady Mariah. He wondered if she were offended or intrigued by his secretive manner. He wondered if she had dismissed it—and him—from her mind the instant he left. But it was not his job to know, so he forced himself to look away.

  He cast his eyes around the room again, murmuring some vague but encouraging reply to Lady Heath, who had paused for breath. He spied Doncaster across the dance floor, just behind his daughter. Again Harry’s eyes snagged on her, watching the way the candlelight gleamed on her dark hair and the way her breasts swelled against her bodice as she curtsied to her partner. She raised her face to the fellow and smiled. She was flirting with him. A challenge shone in those clear gray eyes, as if she were daring the man to be impertinent to her. Or perhaps she merely found him as interesting as she had hoped a London gentleman would be. No doubt there were several who could catch her interest if they chose to try, gentlemen of suitable rank and fortune who could speak to her openly and dance with her in front of all society. If anyone recognized her taste for a little adventure and her desire to be viewed as a woman…Harry reined in his thoughts and turned his eyes away yet again.

  Doncaster was dancing with his wife, but Crane was no longer speaking to Sidmouth. In fact, he was nowhere to be seen. Instantly, Harry sprang to alertness, his muscles tensing even though he didn’t move. Where the devil was Crane?

  It took him several seconds to locate the viscount. His jerking limp was distinctive, but he was moving behind a large group of people and was screened from Harry’s vision for a while. Only when he had Crane’s stooped figure firmly in sight did he relax, but only for a moment. Crane was heading for the door.