She set aside her book and got to her feet. “I’ll see him in the drawing room, Hawking.”
“Very good, my lady.” The butler bowed and glided away.
Mariah followed more slowly. She had a dreadful apprehension she knew what Mr. Crane had come about; no one could have missed his devoted regard and constant presence near her. Joan would tease her to no end about this one, even though her cousin found her other marriage proposals less and less amusing as the number of them mounted.
He was waiting in the drawing room and swept a deep bow as she entered. Mariah curtsied, and left the drawing room doors wide open. With any luck, her mother would come by and save her.
“Good day, Mr. Crane.”
He always wore the same broad, slightly foolish smile when he looked at her. “It is a very fine day, indeed, Lady Mariah.”
“Won’t you be seated?” she murmured, gesturing to the furniture behind him. Purposely, she took a single chair. He sat on the edge of the nearest sofa, never taking his eyes from her face.
For a moment neither spoke. It made Mariah uncomfortable, the way he looked at her with such focused admiration. “How is your uncle?” she asked, thinking more of Lord Crane’s secretary. “I trust he is in good health.”
“Indeed he is.” Mr. Crane wet his lips and inched forward in his seat. Before she could react, he reached out and took her hand. “Shall I compare thee to a winter’s day?”
Mariah blinked. “A winter’s day? Am I cold, sir?”
Horror flashed across his face. “No, no, no! Never, dear lady! I—I should have begun with another poem—”
“Oh, please do not,” Mariah said hastily. “That is—please just speak your mind, sir. I am not a devotee of poetry.”
“You aren’t?” It seemed to confound him; his brow wrinkled in confusion and his grip on her hand slackened, just enough for her to pull free and quickly clasp her hands together in her lap. “But—then—oh, dash it all!” He lurched to his feet, looking almost like a boy about to plead for a treat. “I adore you,” he blurted out.
Mariah blinked again. “Sir—”
“Truly I do. Since the moment I saw you. I’d have told you then, except that it seemed bad form, and perhaps a trifle out of place, what with your cousin standing right there and a crowd of people close at hand—”
She blushed in mortification at the memory of their first meeting. “Mr. Crane, please.”
“I would be a faithful servant to you,” he barreled on. “A most loyal, devoted, tender and kind husband. You would rule me with one soft glance from your beautiful eyes.”
She bit her lip. She didn’t want a husband who was her servant, nor did she want a husband cowed by a glance. “Mr. Crane…”
“And I shall inherit my uncle’s title, so it would not be too far a fall in the world for you. Of course, you would still have your connections through your family, and eventually I might rise enough to join the circles you now inhabit.”
He was making her head hurt. Mariah closed her eyes and waited for him to finish.
“In short, I would do anything to win your hand, my dear. You have but to name it, and I will grant it. It shall ever be so, between us, if only you will consent to be my wife.” Thus concluding his speech, Mr. Crane fell to his knees and tried once more to capture her hand.
Mariah resisted. “Sir, please! Stop!”
“Yes, my heart’s most precious darling?” His expression was almost tragic in its hopefulness, his eyes shining, a fine sheen of perspiration on his upper lip. Mariah felt as though she were about to break a man’s heart, even though part of her felt he was ridiculous to fancy himself in love with her when he hardly knew her. He knew nothing of her temper, her humor, her wit, nothing at all of her moods and passions. It was calf love, but it was sincere calf love, and she felt a moment’s remorse.
But just a moment’s remorse. It was kinder to refuse him now than to give false hope. “I am greatly honored by your declaration,” she said gently. “But I must refuse.”
His eager expression didn’t change. “Why? You needn’t refuse. What is my fault? Tell me and I shall remedy it.”
“Er—no, no.” She squirmed backward in her chair, wishing he would stand up and move away. “It is just that—while I hold you in very high esteem—my affections are not engaged as they should be for marriage.”
“Oh.” The surprise was obvious in his voice. He sat back on his heels. “I see.”
“I am very honored by your offer and thank you most humbly,” she said by rote. “But I am certain we would each find greater happiness with other people.”
He nodded once, as if dazed, then got to his feet and barely managed a bow before turning and walking from the room, his steps quick and jerky. Mariah held her breath until the main door opened and closed, then exhaled in relief. It was becoming uncomfortable to refuse so many offers of marriage. It was so much easier when the gentlemen went first to Papa and he could refuse for her.
A tap on the door roused her from her thoughts. “Beg pardon, my lady,” said the footman who entered. “Just delivered.” He handed her a florist’s box, plain and rather small.
It contained a single lily, stark and lovely in its simplicity, with a few ferns to surround it. The card, though, was the true gift. There was no signature, just a delicately drawn strand of ivy with a suggestion of stonework behind it. Mariah stared at it a moment, then a delighted smile spread across her face and she laughed aloud in joy as she clasped the card to her breast.
Harry had not forgotten her any more than she had forgotten him.
Chapter 20
The next night, they were to attend a musical evening in Chelsea. Lady Fromby had engaged a Scottish soprano, Mrs. Campbell, and was holding a benefit for the Royal Hospital, which lay nearby and where Lord Fromby served as a director. Mama was keen to hear the singer, and Papa would no doubt end up in a heated discussion in Lord Fromby’s study. Mariah had no interest in going. She was quite sure Harry wouldn’t be at a benefit in Chelsea, where only wealthy guests of the highly connected and proud Frombys would be invited.
But she was wrong.
It was indeed a very elegant affair, and Mama was soon deep in conversation with several other ladies. Mariah stood quietly, until a stooped figure across the room caught her eye. She even took a step back to be certain her eyes didn’t deceive her. No, she was quite right, and an involuntary smile bloomed on her face. Quickly, she looked away, raising her fan to hide her expression. She followed her mother into the large, ornate drawing room without a word, but temptation was already whispering in her ear. Could she manage it? And did she dare? It was a risk, after both her parents had expressed their disapproval…
Mariah wet her lips and debated. Hang the risk, she finally decided in a burst of recklessness. Just as the singer came out to the applause of the guests, she leaned toward her mother. “I have to visit the powder room,” she whispered, and jumped out of her chair to hurry quietly out of the room before her startled mother could say a word. As she walked past the last row, where Lord Wroth sat in solitary dignity, she thought she saw a hint of a smile on his face.
She hurried to the powder room, patted her hair and fluffed her skirt, then hurried back to the drawing room. She almost shrieked aloud as Lord Wroth shuffled out the door at the same moment she almost rushed in, then fell back with her fist at her lips.
“Eh, there, are you going to be ill?”
He stepped closer and grasped her elbow. She stared into Harry’s warm, laughing eyes and shook her head mutely.
“Good thing. A mighty blow to this old man’s pride, it would be, if young ladies fainted at the sight of me.” He winked at her over his spectacles, and Mariah smiled, her heart settling back into place after its leap into her throat.
“You aren’t leaving, are you?” she murmured. A servant stood at the end of the hall, but otherwise they were alone.
He shook his head, his eyes steady on hers.
“Oh, goo
d. I am so glad.” Mariah hesitated, but it was too risky. If she didn’t return to the concert, her mother would come look for her. And she had promised Harry not to do anything to give him away. “Then should we return?”
He put out his arm. Her fingers trembling, Mariah took it, and they slipped wordlessly back into the drawing room. It was dark at the back of the room, all the candles having been lit at the front to show off the singer. Instead of returning to her seat, she followed Harry—moving soundlessly in spite of his cane—into the darkest shadows. As they turned to face the musicians and Mrs. Campbell, Mariah let her hand hang at her side, behind the folds of her skirt. Harry’s fingers closed around hers, strong and sure, where no one else could see. She felt a peaceful warmth steal over her, and when she darted a sideways glance at Harry, he was watching her the same way. There they stood, shoulder-to-shoulder and hand in hand until the song ended.
The audience applauded. She had only a few minutes before her parents saw her. “I have to go,” she whispered. “I wish I did not. I wish we could slip away somewhere and be alone for an hour…”
He pressed her hand, then let go. “It has been a pleasure listening with you. I shall take a turn in the garden, I believe. The fresh air will be good for my chest.” Every word he said had been in Lord Wroth’s scratchy, quavering voice. “Good evening to you, my lady.” He gave a brief bow and shuffled off. Mariah closed her eyes and laid her hand on her bosom; the garden. She could find him in the garden.
“Where did you go, dearest?” asked her mother in concern when she made her way back through the guests. “Are you feeling well?”
“Ah—yes. Well enough. I felt a little overcome—the heat…” She fanned herself vigorously in illustration.
Mama looked a bit perplexed, but smiled. “Shall we step outside? It is warm tonight.”
“Oh yes.” Mariah obediently followed, wondering how she would manage to get away. Harry had disappeared, although she’d expected that.
On the terrace outside they met her father. He was talking to Lord Dexter, one of Mariah’s early suitors. Mama drew her toward them, greeting Lord Dexter warmly; she had always thought him most eligible. Mariah curtsied, casting a longing glance at the sunken garden. Could she profess a sudden interest in tulips?
“Are you enjoying the concert, Lady Doncaster?” Lord Dexter asked politely. He must have gone out with Papa and the other gentlemen to discuss politics while the ladies listened inside. Many gentlemen were caught up in politics these days, mostly the question of whether Queen Caroline would return to England and fight for her crown. Mariah had no interest in it, not now.
“Very much, sir,” Mama replied, fanning herself. “If only it weren’t so warm.”
Papa smiled. “I cannot complain, if the heat has driven you out here to us.”
“Indeed no,” Lord Dexter agreed.
The conversation ran on in that manner for a bit, although Mariah paid no attention. Was Harry waiting for her? Could he know she had been caught and delayed? How she wished he would come to her again; it was easier for him to sneak into her room than it was for her to get away for even a quarter hour, apparently. Not for the first time, she bristled against the unfair advantages gentlemen had over ladies.
Then Lord Dexter turned to her, startling her out of her thoughts. “Lady Mariah, might I persuade you to take a turn about the garden with me?”
Mariah’s lips parted in dismay. She turned to her mother in appeal. Her mother mistook her hesitation, and smiled graciously at Lord Dexter. “How kind, sir. You may go, Mariah, if you wish.”
She bobbed a curtsey to hide her frustration. “Thank you, sir.” With no choice, she put her hand on his arm and let him lead her across the grass and down the steps into Lady Fromby’s Dutch garden.
It was cooler and much darker in the garden. A few lanterns cast flickering shadows across the path, but otherwise it was quiet and still. Not many guests had come all the way out here.
“What a lucky man I am, to have the most beautiful young lady on my arm tonight.”
Mariah smiled uneasily at the way he pulled her even closer to his side. “You flatter me too much, sir.”
“I should like to flatter you more.” He reached out to touch her face, but she turned away at the last moment.
“And I am sure you also wish to be quite proper and gentlemanly.” She tugged at her hand but he wouldn’t let her go.
“I have been, my dearest Lady Mariah. Part of my desire to speak to your father hinged on it. I have asked his permission to call on you.”
“Indeed?” Mariah glanced over her shoulder. Had no one else come into the garden? “What answer did he make?”
“He indicated your choice was yours alone, and that I had his blessing to try to persuade you.”
The faintly patronizing amusement in his voice stung her temper. “I must warn you I am not easily persuaded against my inclination,” she said coolly, hoping he would get the hint.
“That sounds like a challenge.” Only as he bent his head toward her did she smell the wine on his breath. He wasn’t drunk, but had probably had enough to make him bold. She twisted in his grip as he put one arm around her waist and pulled her against him.
“Stop,” she protested, shoving at his shoulder. “I believe I have made up my mind against you already!”
“Can’t have,” he muttered, trying to kiss her. “Come now, you’re an intrepid female, smiling at every man in town…” Mariah pulled one arm free and swung, smacking him on the side of his head with her forearm. He ducked under her flailing and pressed his mouth to her cheek. She squeaked and protested again when his hand, trying to grasp her shoulder, slid down to her breast.
“You’re drunk!” she cried. “Let me go!”
And he did. With a strange choking sound, he released her and bowed his head.
Mariah stumbled backward, breathing hard, and rounded on him in anger. “How dare you, sir,” she began, only to stop as she realized that Lord Dexter was not standing in penitent silence before her; he was slumping, unconscious, into the arms of another man whose hand was still wrapped around Lord Dexter’s throat.
Her stunned gaze jumped from Harry’s face—so foreign still, under the wild mop of Lord Wroth’s hair, but taut with controlled fury—to the man in his arms, then back again.
“Are you hurt?” He spoke in a harsh whisper that hummed with intensity.
Wordlessly she shook her head.
His eyes locked with hers for a moment. Then he turned and lowered Lord Dexter onto the grass, propping him up against a tree. Dexter’s head lolled back on his shoulder, his mouth gaping, and Mariah’s heart took another sickening leap—but then a distinct snore drifted out of that mouth, and she stumbled away, weak with relief.
“You should return to the house.” Harry rose from settling Lord Dexter and turned to her. She gasped as the deadly gleam of a knife disappeared under his coat. He held out his hand. “Come. I’ll see you out of the garden.” His voice had become that of Lord Wroth again, crackling and thin. She looked at him in amazement. He appeared every inch an elderly gentleman—except that now she knew there was a dagger under his coat, and he had just taken down Lord Dexter with one hand. Lord Dexter was a large man, tall and broad in the shoulders. He was strong, too; Mariah had always thought she was a fairly sturdy woman, but Dexter easily held her with one arm while he groped her with the other. She glanced down at him again as if to remind herself this had all truly happened.
“Is he…?” She swallowed, unconsciously touching her throat.
“He’s had too much to drink,” said Harry. It was eerie to hear Lord Wroth’s voice from his lips. It didn’t sound a thing like his normal voice. Mariah swallowed another gulp of hysteria at his unnatural abilities. “He’ll have a splitting headache on the morrow, and doubtless not a single memory of this evening.”
“What did you do to him?” she whispered.
He hesitated, then stepped closer. “Here…” His fingers tra
iled down her cheek, then curved around her jaw as if to raise her face for a kiss. His thumb rested lightly on the side of her throat. “Here runs a vessel of blood. Press firmly for just a moment, and the strongest man will fall senseless. The wine did the rest.” His hand slid down her throat, his touch still feathery light, then stopped at her collarbone.
Mariah stared back at him in the faint light of a nearby lantern. Stooped over as he was, his eyes were level with her own.
“You should return,” he murmured again, even though he didn’t move.
She had to clear her throat before she could speak. “Yes.”
“I’m sorry I frightened you.”
She shook her head. “No—no, I just—I was frightened before you appeared. He seemed like a perfectly decent gentleman…” She put her hand on his arm, clinging to him. He had just proved himself not the romantic gallant of her dreams but a dangerous man—and she had never felt safer. Lord Dexter snored behind her in drunken oblivion, and she stepped closer to Harry, wanting to fling herself into his arms and hide within the safety he offered.
Harry clenched his jaw as she crowded against him. His body reacted to the feel of hers, his cock growing hard and heavy as her soft breasts pressed into his arm and chest. The fury that had roared through him when he saw Dexter holding her as she struggled hadn’t abated, only mutated into a blazing desire that strained his conscience and his soul. Part of him remembered that he was still Wroth tonight, that he would be caught out and exposed as a liar and imposter if anyone had seen what he had done. The other part of him, the greater part, wanted to pull Mariah farther into the shadows, push her up against a tree and make love to her hard and fast, marking her as his in the most primal way. Because she was; whatever chasm of propriety and situation lay between them, he knew without a shadow of doubt that he would die for her.
She raised her face to him. Her lips trembled and her eyes glistened. “Harry…”
Harry swore. He could feel her pulse beneath his thumb, throbbing rapidly. His conscience made one last token objection, and then he was pulling her deeper into the darkness to a sheltered arbor, trapping her against the trunk of an oak, and taking her face in his hands to kiss her with a hunger that threatened to consume him.
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