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“Why?” she pressed. “You hardly know me.”

“No,” he agreed. “It’s a risk, I know. You might be as vain and silly and spoiled as any young lady in London. Certainly not worth risking a broken neck, as you were so kind to warn me.”

Her mouth dropped open in shock.

“Still,” he went on in the same thoughtful tone, “I really had to come, just for my own peace of mind. I couldn’t sleep at all last night for thinking of your voice.”

Oh, dear. Her stomach fluttered and her toes curled. Mariah licked her lips. “Why didn’t you come to call on me today, if you were so curious?”

“Didn’t I?” He leaned forward, and a slash of moonlight moved over his head for an instant, too quickly for Mariah to make out any of his features. “Am I not here?”

There was something in his voice, some quiet undercurrent, that made her abruptly, acutely, aware of just how near he was. Here in her dark room, the house quiet around them in peaceful ignorance, it was just the two of them, alone and unseen and well outside the rules of propriety. Her skin prickled with nervous excitement.

“I suppose you are,” she murmured, peering into the darkness that cloaked him.

* * *

Harry sensed the instant her curiosity became more sensual and less intellectual. He’d caught her off guard with his unorthodox visit, but now she was fully aware that a man was in her bedchamber and that they were completely alone. She had shifted her weight, from sitting cross-legged in front of her bank of pillows to leaning toward him propped on one arm. Her fingers twisted the end of the long dark braid that lay over her shoulder, and her head tilted to one side in a pose of innocent allure.

He stayed where he was. This visit, after all, was not to seduce her, but to see if his impressions last night had been correct. Good God, she was beautiful. When she leaned out her bedroom window, he’d been frozen to his spot in a shadowed hedge, mesmerized by the way she turned her face up to the sky, her eyes closed and a small smile on her lips.

He had been compelled then—compelled to climb a vine that ought to have dumped him straight back into the dirt and compelled to ignore every caution and rule imposed on him by asking to come into her room. And she was pleased that he had; with his back to the window, he could see her expression fairly well without letting her see him. He knew that would only make her more curious about him, but he couldn’t afford to give himself away yet.

The thought brought him up short. Not yet? Not ever. Because he was, and always would be, beneath her. Pursuing Mariah Dunmore would be ruinous for her and, if he were lucky, merely the most dishonorable thing he had ever done—and thanks to his current employment, that said a great deal. If Mariah knew who and what he was, she’d certainly not welcome him into her room. She’d never speak to him again.

“What shall we do now?” came her suggestive whisper, driving home the point.

Harry clenched his jaw and forced down the surge of craving her question caused. She was a lady, not a tavern wench ready for a tumble. “I think we’ve talked quite enough.”

“R—Really?” The breathless catch in her voice, revealing her to be at once startled and intrigued, acted like fuel on the desire smoldering inside him.

“Yes,” said Harry, keeping his tone careless even as his body roared to alertness at the thought of what she might allow him... if he’d only set aside every last scruple he had left.

He wasn’t prepared for that. He had expected she would hold him at arm’s length, where he belonged. “I must go,” he said abruptly, realizing this had been the worst idea of his life. “I apologize for disturbing your peace.”

“What? No, wait,” she exclaimed, scrambling toward the side of the bed. Harry instinctively ducked toward the window, and she leaped back. “Stay,” she cried softly. “Please.” He paused, hands on the sill, and looked back at her over his shoulder. “Why didn’t you come see me during the day, as other gentlemen do?”

He shrugged. “I can’t.”

“Can’t, or won’t?”

A clock somewhere in the house began to chime. In eight hours he had to be at Lord Crane’s house. “I can’t.”

She was quiet for a minute. “Who are you?” she asked slowly. “Who can’t come calling during the day?”

He took another look out the window. The garden appeared deserted, and temptation loomed behind him. He’d better leave before he lost his mind entirely and did something that would cause her trouble, and him eternal regret. “A rogue like me,” he said lightly. “Good night, Lady Mariah.”

“Stop!” He paused, balanced on the windowsill. “You will come again, won’t you?” she whispered, hope unmistakable in her voice.

Harry wavered. If he were caught, neither Stafford nor anyone at the Home Office would be able to save him from her father’s wrath, even if they tried—and he knew they wouldn’t. No one would fault Doncaster in the slightest for shooting a man sneaking into his daughter’s room. It was quite likely suicidal to approach her again. The correct answer, the only possible answer, was a firm and final no.

“Perhaps,” he said, and slid down the vines before he committed any unpardonable sins.

* * *

Mariah leaped out of bed the moment he was gone and ran to the window. Yanking back the drapes, she strained her eyes into the dark night. She didn’t hear anything other than the dying chime of the clock, and what was worse, she didn’t see anything. She scanned the garden below, but there was nothing, not a shadow moving, not even a rustle of the ivy. How the devil had he slipped into their garden and climbed up the ivy to her room without being seen by anyone or leaving any trace of his presence? She leaned out as far as she dared, craning her neck in every direction, and still saw absolutely nothing.

Slowly, reluctantly, Mariah retreated from the window. Gone, like a ghost or a phantom. But he had been there—she put her hand against the windowsill where he had leaned his weight, the wood still warm—and instead of curing her fascination, he had only increased it. There was something dangerous in him, something mysterious and compelling that she was helpless to resist. Was he a scoundrel? A thief? A spy? She didn’t know, but a coy, delighted smile spread across her face. Whoever he was, he found her as intriguing as she found him.