A View to a Kiss

by Caroline Linden

  But that was how he had attended their ball, as Lord Wroth. She remembered an old-fashioned gentleman’s shoe, the sort of shoe an old man would wear, the sort of shoe that would pinch a young man’s foot. That was how he had avoided her notice that evening, and every evening since; she had been looking for a young man, and like everyone else, completely overlooked the elderly man. He had thoroughly taken in everyone in society.

  Not that she would give him away. She would be as silent as the grave, to show that he could trust her. But she would still do everything possible to see him. Perhaps a secretary couldn’t call on her, but Lord Wroth certainly could—provided her parents didn’t prohibit it. “He really is quite amusing, Papa, when he wants to be. I suspect he believes people are entertained by the crusty old tartar he usually projects—”

  “Projects?” Her father frowned again. “Mariah, you must not believe you know the man better than anyone else, when you have only spoken to him a few times. Why, Lord Wroth is old enough to be your grandfather! Who knows what he is really like?”

  “Do you know him, Papa?”

  His mouth closed into a thin line. “No.”

  “But he was invited to our ball last month,” she said innocently. “I remember seeing him.”

  His eyes remained straight ahead. “An invitation does not imply a close acquaintance.”

  “Oh. Perhaps we will become better acquainted when he calls.”

  Her father stopped and turned to face her. “I am not pleased that you accused Lord Wroth of wanting to pay his addresses to you. It was not well done of him to suggest such a thing, and it was even more ill-mannered of you to respond to it.”

  “But he’s far more interesting than any of the men who call on me every day to sit and stare, not just at me but at the furnishings and the art and the china,” she burst out. “Papa, everyone sees me as just an object, something rich and worthy of trying to get, but not because they care about me. Why may I not have at least one caller who listens to what I say and even gives credence to it?”

  “I did not say you may not receive him,” countered her father, looking more and more annoyed. “But he is not a harmless old man, Mariah. Young ladies your age have married old men before, and if that is in his mind, you must know I will never allow it.”

  Momentarily forgetting that he had no reason to suspect Lord Wroth was other than he appeared, she gasped. “Not even if I wish it?”

  “No,” he said with grim finality. “Not even then.” Mariah could only gape at him. Her father took a firm grip on her arm and led her home without another word.

  Harry let himself into the Fenton Lane house, gasping for air. His lungs burned as if he’d run from the park instead of walking doggedly along in Wroth’s shuffling gait. Damn it! Why did he have to see her there? And what on earth was she thinking, to force him to call on her? He threw down his walking stick and stripped off the suffocating coat. With an oath, he pulled the cravat from his neck and kicked off the terrible shoes. He hated Wroth now, hated the old man he must don like a second skin. He faced the terrible likelihood that Mariah had seen right through him. And he’d thought he was safe from her, after extracting her promise!

  And now what was he to do? He’d just given his word to the Earl of Doncaster that he would call on them. Stafford would throw him in Newgate. How was he to get out of this mess?

  He let his head fall back against the door with a sharp crack, welcoming the spike of pain. The pain was good. It might prod his brain to produce a solution to the problem, a problem he knew all too well was entirely his creation. He never should have spoken to her in the first place. He certainly shouldn’t have dared to slip into her bedroom and talk to her not once, but night after night. And he ought to be drawn and quartered for almost making love to her.

  The hard wall at his back was beginning to feel too comfortable. His head might as well have been stuffed with wool. He had crept too far out on the limb, and now felt it begin to give way beneath his feet. Unfortunately, if he came crashing down, everyone else would come with him.

  He gathered up his discarded clothing and trudged up the stairs to his room. He only had a short time to change back into Mr. Towne after shadowing Lord Crane to a botanical lecture in Wroth’s clothing. If Ian hadn’t been occupied driving Angelique, he would have gone in the carriage and not even had the choice of walking home through the park. And he’d walked because it was a fine day, and knew he would spend the rest of it closed up in Crane’s study. Cursed sunshine, he thought as he jerked his shirt off and hung his head.

  Harry pressed his fists to his forehead. “Bloody hell,” he whispered. It seemed his sins were catching up to him at last.

  Chapter 16

  Three days later Harry had his half day free from Lord Crane’s employ. After a minor quarrel with himself, he put on Wroth’s clothing and powder, muttered something to Lisette about reconnaissance around town, and headed out. All too soon he found himself on the doorstep of Doncaster House, his heart thumping and his palms damp. He felt exposed and out of place on the steps, and glanced nervously about; if he were seen by anyone in Stafford’s employ, he’d be sacked before supper. But if he didn’t call on Mariah, who knew what she would do when next they met? Pushing his spectacles back on his nose one last time, he rang the bell and stepped back to wait, hoping she would be out and praying she would be home.

  His prayers, and not his hopes, were answered when the butler returned very quickly after bearing away his card, to usher him into the drawing room. As he followed the man, he rehearsed what he would say to her. In the space of a scant half hour, he had to be boring, unfashionable, and dull-witted, everything that would dissuade her from seeking him out again, and cast every possible doubt on her suspicion that Lord Wroth and Henry Towne were even remotely related. Then he would excuse himself and totter off before he made another critical lapse in judgment, something he seemed very prone to doing in Mariah’s presence.

  The butler opened the door before him. Harry gripped his cane. “Lord Wroth,” the butler intoned, stepping aside, leaving him no choice but to enter the room. He shuffled forward, keeping his eyes firmly on the countess, a tall handsome woman whose serene smile hid any surprise or displeasure she might feel at his appearance. Harry murmured a reply to her greeting, hunkering into a shaky bow. He took advantage of the respite to draw a deep breath, gathering himself, bracing himself—

  “Lord Wroth.” She curtsied. “How splendid to see you again.” And his heart all but stopped in his chest at how beautiful she was in sunlight, her hair gleaming like polished ebony and her gray eyes as fresh and clear as dawn. For a moment all he could do was stare, blissfully, helplessly, idiotically besotted.

  “The pleasure is mine,” he heard himself say.

  Mariah beamed. “Do come in.” She extended a hand toward the seat nearest her own. Harry hesitated a split second, then shuffled over to it. “I am so glad you’ve called,” Mariah went on as soon as they were seated.

  “Well, it was very kind of you to receive me.” Harry gave a wheezy chuckle. “Very flattering, it is, to be welcomed by such lovely ladies.”

  “How good of you to say so, sir.” The countess smiled. “Mariah has told me of your kindness to her in the park.”

  “Oh, it was a trifling matter—” he began, but Mariah interrupted.

  “To me it was not trifling at all! I must thank you, sir.”

  Harry smiled uneasily. He had already lost control of the situation. “Eh, well, all the better! Not every day I can please a lady without so much as a spot of trouble to myself.” That came out less politely than he had intended, but it couldn’t be helped.

  “Would you care for some tea?” asked the countess.

  He nodded, resting his hands on the cane, propped beside his knee. Tea would be wonderful; he could hold the cup and stir the tea and have something to look at besides Mariah.

  No sooner had the countess handed him his cup than two other callers were announced, and
they all rose. Harry nodded his greetings, noting the covertly assessing looks the two newcomers gave him, as if wondering just what his business was here. He told himself he was glad to see them, for they would draw attention from him until he could manage to leave. He told himself that as he sipped his tea and watched both Lord Carteret and Lord Whitting maneuver for Mariah’s attention and her mother’s approval. Neither was having great success, he thought, if only because Mariah kept trying to draw him into conversation and her mother kept trying to divert her from him. Finally the countess seemed to have had enough and spoke to him directly.

  “You hail from Scotland, I believe, Lord Wroth? The Lowlands?” She looked at him with determined eyes.

  Harry sensed more than saw Mariah perk up her ears, as if he might accidentally reveal something. Of course, everything he was about to say was a lie, fabricated by Stafford to mesh with the true, long-dead, Wroth family. “Yes, yes, fine and lovely Scotland,” he answered. “I miss it more each day.”

  “Indeed,” she replied. “I often miss our home near York.”

  “Ah, that is understandable, madam. True comfort cannot be achieved anywhere but at one’s own hearth and home.”

  “Every time I have had the pleasure of visiting the Lowlands, I have remarked on the excellent gardens.”

  Harry barely kept from laughing. She’d done him a favor, in some sense; a neutral topic he could discuss at great length, if not with great enthusiasm, thanks to Lord Crane. “’Tis the most beautiful place on earth,” he said, ruthlessly launching into a long-winded discussion of horticulture and botany designed to bore everyone within earshot. Thus far he had managed to avoid any attempts by Mariah to draw him apart, and with two other gentlemen insulating him now, he felt confident in his ability to prose on and on until he could conclude his call.

  The countess smiled, pleased to be bored so long as she held his entire attention. Mariah now had no choice but to turn to the other gentlemen or risk being appallingly rude.

  The next quarter hour seemed to last half the day. By the time Harry’s mental clock chimed that he had stayed long enough and could make his escape, he half expected to see the sun setting out the tall windows. “Eh, I must take my leave, Lady Doncaster, Lady Mariah,” he said, reaching for his cane. “It has been a rare pleasure, indeed.”

  Mariah almost leaped from her chair. She’d been waiting all this time, and now he was about to leave before she had spoken more than ten words to him. She couldn’t let him go before she discovered if she’d been right—or wrong—about his real identity. “Oh, no! But you’ve only just arrived, sir!” There was a silence as everyone except Lord Wroth looked at her. He seemed absorbed in finding the perfect spot on the floor to place his cane. “Perhaps you would care to see some of my father’s collection,” Mariah said, trying to sound calm when her heart was beating furiously. Every moment of his visit had been agony for her as she waited for an opening to suggest a stroll in the garden, a viewing of the gallery, anything to get a moment alone with him. She was barely even aware of Lord Whitting’s and Lord Carteret’s presence anymore.

  Slowly, Lord Wroth turned to her, his hazel eyes keen over those dreadful spectacles. “What’s that? What’s he collect?”

  “Why—Why, many things,” she blurted, suddenly forgetting what was in the gallery. It was amazing, how he made her wits go wandering so easily.

  “My husband has a fine collection of antique arms,” provided her mother, with a veiled stern glance. Mariah knew she was running on like a blathering idiot, and would have to account for it later, but that was later. He was sitting here now, and Mama had wasted nearly his entire visit asking about plants!

  Lord Wroth nodded his shaggy gray head. “Now that’s—”

  “Perhaps you would like to see the garden, then,” Mariah said. “The laurels, and the ivy”—she cringed; not the ivy!—“and the roses.”

  He shifted in his chair. “A very kind offer, indeed. However…”

  He was trying to leave. “But you must at least see the Reynolds portrait of my grandmother. I recall you mentioned a fondness for his art,” she lied in desperation.

  This time Lord Wroth seemed caught. He hesitated, his gaze shifting back to her mother.

  “By all means, sir. It is a fine portrait,” her mother said with a gracious smile that didn’t fool Mariah at all. Mama would never correct her in front of others, but Mariah knew she would have her ears blistered later. Later.

  Slowly, Lord Wroth turned back to her, his expression almost grim. “Thank you, Lady Mariah,” he said. “That would be very kind.”

  The walk to the gallery had never seemed so long. Mariah was acutely aware of every scrape of his cane on the floor, every labored breath he exhaled. He was such a good actor, she could see why all of London believed wholeheartedly in his masquerade. But why? The unknown reason hammered away at her; she had to know. After an eternity of walking, they passed through the wide double doors of the gallery where portraits of her ancestors hung. Mariah managed to give the door a little push behind her so it swung slowly closed but did not latch. For the first time in hours, it seemed, she let out her breath, alone with him at last.

  “Where is this Reynolds?” He peered around the room, his humped back seeming more pronounced. “Mustn’t hang too near the window. Fades the paint, don’t you know.”

  Suddenly tongue-tied, Mariah indicated the portrait.

  His cane tapping loudly, he hobbled over to peer at it closely, studying it for just a few moments before nodding. “Excellent work. Fine eye for light, Reynolds.”

  “There are some miniatures in the case there, also by Reynolds, I believe.” She wasn’t sure of any such thing, but he was already turning toward the door. At her words he stopped as if curbing his eagerness to leave, and went to the case.

  Mariah gathered her courage in both hands. This was it. If she didn’t speak now, there might never be another chance.

  “Harry.” She said it very softly, still somewhat fearful that she might turn out to be wrong. “Do you not know me any longer?”

  Lord Wroth remained bent over the glass display case. “I think it’s you who don’t know me,” he returned in his scratchy voice.

  Mariah’s courage almost gave out. She wet her lips and made one last effort. “I think I do know you. I think you are posing as an old man to move about town without drawing much notice. I think you must be a—a spy, of sorts. Not that I think you are an enemy spy,” she hurried to add as he darted her a shocked glance. “I trust you, truly I do. And I will never, ever say a word to anyone, not even to my parents—”

  He turned and started walking away from her, his cane making a loud tap on the floor that echoed through the gallery—not not not, it seemed to say.

  Mariah hurried after him, on the verge of tears. Tears that he was refusing to admit who he was, or tears that she had been wrong and was thus still in the dark about her mysterious suitor, she didn’t know. “Please don’t run from me,” she begged. “I’m sorry for the things I said. I’ve missed you so, please don’t go just yet…”

  He stopped outside a small alcove. Mariah stopped, too, wringing her hands and waiting in agony. He gestured toward the alcove. “What’s this?”

  “It’s—It’s some things which belonged to the first Earl of Doncaster, five hundred years ago,” she said. “But will you—”

  “Show me,” he interrupted. “I do love something older than myself.”

  And that was when she admitted defeat. Either she was wrong, or he was simply determined not to tell her. Either way, Harry was lost to her forever, keeping to his promise never to return. The thrilling lover scaling her ivy tower was gone, and she didn’t even know why. She wanted to turn and storm away, leaving him to play at being Lord Wroth without letting him break her heart. But she had brought this on herself and would not show how much it hurt.

  She straightened her slumping shoulders. Head held high, she swept past him into the alcove. “This sword bel
onged to William More,” she said coolly. “He was known as the ‘dun More’ because of his dark colored armor—”

  Abruptly she was yanked back, against the wall and almost behind the drape that partially shielded the alcove, keeping the light off the most fragile portraits. Lord Wroth crowded close to her, one hand over her mouth and one arm around her waist, holding her in place.

  “As God is my witness, you’ll be the very death of me,” he whispered. Mariah made a muffled squeak—it was Harry!—and then his mouth replaced his hand on her lips, and everything else vanished.

  “It is you,” she sighed when she had caught her breath. Her arms tightened around his neck. “I thought I would never see you again!”

  He sighed. “You shouldn’t have.” He still held her close, and she could feel his heart thumping rapidly.

  “But why? Why must you pretend—”

  “Shh.” He silenced her with another hard kiss. “Don’t even ask. I cannot tell you, and prefer not to lie.”

  She swallowed her next ten questions. “Will you do this forever?”

  He was quite still for a moment, his eyes roving over her face. “No.”

  She let out a pent-up breath of relief. “Then when you said you couldn’t come to see me again—”

  He sighed, releasing her and pushing up his spectacles to pinch the bridge of his nose. “I meant it. But you…” He shook his head. “Mariah, I’ll be in terrible trouble if anyone discovers what I’ve done, visiting you as I did. And not just from your father, who would be well justified in shooting me.”

  “Oh.” That silenced some of her curiosity even as it made her heart flutter. When she had asked before if he were doing something dangerous, he hadn’t answered. She never suspected he risked his life by coming to see her, though.