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“It’s not the same⁠—”

“But it must be enough,” he interrupted. “Can it be?”

She had been about to say much the same thing. She had been about to say it was perhaps even better, for it gave warmth and texture to him, proving him a flesh-and-bone man and not some phantom of her romantic imagination. “Yes,” she whispered. “For now.”

Her fingers drifted sideways, and he caught her wrist. “Careful,” he whispered. “Mind the warts.”

Mariah’s laugh ended in a silent gasp as he brought her hand to his mouth and pressed his lips hungrily into her palm. She trembled as he kissed her palm, her fingers, the throbbing pulse in her wrist.

“You bewitch me,” he breathed, holding her hand against his cheek. “Why did you wish I would come to you again?”

“You—You intrigue me,” she stammered. It was hard to speak with her heart in her throat.

He sighed against her hand. “I should stay away.”

“No...”

“I should.” He kissed her fingers once more, then took her hand from his face and laid it back on her knee. “But I don’t think I can.”

“Tell me your name,” she pleaded, leaning forward, eyes still closed. “Please.”

He laughed under his breath. The mattress shifted again. “Henry Arthur. Harry, to those who know me.” With the lightest of touches, his fingers brushed her jaw, then her lower lip, lingering there. Mariah gasped and quivered, thinking—expecting—hoping—he would kiss her next...

“Good night, Mariah.” She couldn’t move, not even to open her eyes, as he rose from her bed and walked away. She felt his absence keenly now, as if a warm cloak had been pulled from her shoulders. He was right; without her sight she was far more aware of her other senses, and they all seemed to be acutely attuned to him.

“Good night, Harry,” she whispered, even though she was sure he was no longer in the room. “But you must not stay away.”

Chapter Eight

Mariah slept late the next morning, kept awake almost until dawn by her own wicked thoughts. After Harry had gone, she realized the ribbon around her neckline was tied too loosely, and that her nightgown must have gaped alarmingly low. It made her blush to think what he might have seen, but not with much shame. She pressed her hands over her breasts to stop them from tingling, but her mind conjured up the question of what Harry’s hands would feel like there, and then it took her a very, very long time to fall asleep.

This was all a new world to her. She’d told him true last night—he intrigued her, in a purely intellectual sense—but now her body had come alive to the fascination as well. When he kissed her hand—her palm—with almost palpable desire, something hungry and sinuous stretched to life inside her. It felt as though she’d shed her old skin and now moved in a sleeker, more sensitive one, a skin that prickled in anticipation of a man’s touch. Of Harry’s touch.

She thought she might burst if she didn’t tell someone, and so she gulped down a few bites of breakfast and hurried off to talk to Joan.

But the sight of the flowers in the drawing room stopped her short, and before she could recover, her mother came up beside her.

“There you are, Mariah. I’ve been waiting for you to come down.”

“Oh.” She didn’t like the sound of that. “You have?”

Her mother nodded. “Yes, indeed. These are all for you.” She smiled at Mariah, looking very pleased and proud. “I knew you would be a success.”

Mariah went over to the bouquets on the table. A thought roused her curiosity, and she ripped open the card with each one. Not one of the names could be Harry, or Henry Arthur; some she didn’t even recognize. She put the cards down, curious no longer, and turned to go. “I shall be at Joan’s, Mama.”

“Mariah, really.” Her mother came forward with an exasperated sigh. “Who sent them?”

She glanced at the cards with disinterest. “Sir Edward Riley, Mr. Ingleby, Lord Dexter... and...” She thought hard. “Lord Burke and... ah... two others.”

The countess clucked in disapproval, taking up the cards. “One would think you had no interest in the gentlemen, Mariah. We must decide now whom to receive, when they come to call.” She flipped through the cards and promptly discarded four. “These are flattering, but of no consequence. Mr. Ingleby is in search of a fortune, and Mr. Brimmer and Lord Christopher are nobody. Lord Burke... No, I think not. He’s rather rakish.” She frowned. “Where did you meet Lord Burke? He was not at our ball, and I cannot think Lady Avery invited him.”

Mariah lifted one shoulder. “In the park, I suppose. Joan and I went for a stroll the other day and Douglas introduced us to several people.”

Her mother sighed. “Douglas! Marion shouldn’t let him run so wild. That explains these.” She still held two cards. “Lord Dexter would be a fine match, though. He’s an earl, very eligible, and handsome as well. Many young ladies would be overjoyed to catch his notice. We shall receive him.” She studied the last card. “And Sir Edward Riley. Well. A fine family, although I have my doubts about his suitability. We’ll receive him as well.”

Mariah wasn’t terribly interested in receiving either of them. One of the reasons she hadn’t remembered any of the gentlemen from the park was that they seemed just like the ones at the ball: dull. Perhaps it wasn’t fair to judge them on so little observation, but then, she’d seen for herself that at least one man in London could be fascinating in a few minutes’ time. And she still wanted to find him more than she wanted to investigate the suitability of other gentlemen.

However, she would have to explain this to her mother if she refused to receive those other gentlemen—an untenable choice. “Of course, Mama. May I call on Joan now?”