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Her mother shot her a keen glance, but before she could say anything, a footman brought in a bouquet that put all the others to shame. Lilies and roses interspersed with ferns and vines overflowed the vase, almost as wide as it was tall. It was magnificent, in an overpowering way. “Just delivered, my lady,” said the footman, setting it down. It was too large to fit on the same table as the others.

“Indeed,” her mother said, and retrieved the card. Her eyebrows rose again. “Mr. Tobias Crane?”

Mariah tried not to grimace. That was one gentleman she would really prefer not to receive, after the way she had embarrassed herself. And he had obviously got the exact wrong impression, judging from the size of the bouquet, which would make his call all the more tedious.

Her mother extended the card. “There is a poem, Mariah.”

Worse and worse. She took the card with great reluctance. He wrote a nice hand, she thought; too bad that was the best thing about the poem. She managed a weak smile for her mother, who was watching her with an air of expectation. “I met him in the park,” she murmured again. “Sir George Bellamy introduced us.”

Her mother exhaled slowly, the sound rife with suspicion. “His uncle is a very prominent advisor to the Prime Minister, although his own parents were nobody of consequence. I suppose we cannot avoid receiving him.” She paused, a frown pinching her brow.

Mariah had a blinding flash of hope that her mother would think of a way they could avoid Mr. Crane. If anyone could wiggle her free of this, it would be Mama.

“Although,” the countess continued thoughtfully, “he is his uncle’s heir. A handsome fellow”—she smiled knowingly at Mariah—”and an ambitious one, although I have heard he isn’t as intelligent as his uncle. Not that many are. Still, we should receive him.”

Mariah had to smile and nod; what else could she do? “I shall be late meeting Joan,” she said, sidling toward the door.

Her mother threw up her hands. “You may go, then. But Mariah...” A note of reproof entered her voice, and Mariah paused in the doorway, clutching her bonnet. “Be sure you return soon. You must be ready to receive your callers.”

Mariah’s eyes strayed to the bouquets. “Today, Mama?” she asked plaintively.

The countess laughed in surprise. “Yes, today.” She paused, tilting her head to scrutinize her daughter’s face with bemusement. “Is something wrong, dear? You don’t seem at all as pleased as I imagined you would be. Don’t you wish to have your choice of gentlemen?”

I do, Mariah thought helplessly. But he hasn’t sent me flowers, and most likely won’t be coming to call today. For a split second she considered telling her mother that someone had caught her eye, that she had met a gentleman she liked very much. But she had already tempted fate enough by asking to see the guest list the other day. As tantalizing as it was to imagine her mother’s formidable energy focused on the search for Harry, it was even more daunting to imagine the consequences if Mama discovered he had visited her at midnight—twice.

“Yes, Mama,” she replied. “But I don’t want to keep Joan waiting. I shall return for tea.”

Her mother sighed and waved one hand, and Mariah flew out of the house before she could change her mind. She would have to adapt her plan to be less cordial, it seemed, or she would be doomed to spend her days sitting in the drawing room with the same gentlemen she had already marked off.

Joan, unfortunately, found it funny rather than alarming.

“But what am I to do?” Mariah complained as her cousin dabbed a tear from her eye.

Joan stopped laughing, although a huge smile still sat on her face. “Prepare yourself to drink a great deal of tea.”

Ugh. “I hardly paid attention to most of them,” she grumbled. “I shall have nothing to say to anyone.”

“That’s not necessary. Most gentlemen don’t care much for what you have to say. My mother told me they admire a quiet, retiring girl.” Joan affected a dramatic swoon into a nearby chair. “Needless to say, I have not been much of a success at that.”

Mariah flipped one hand in disgust. “Unless they admire a mute girl most of all, I shall be a crushing disappointment to them.”

“Does that bother you?”

“No. But it will be a terrible bother and a wretched waste of time!” She sat down on the chaise with a thump.

“You oughtn’t to ask me in any event,” said Joan. “I haven’t much experience with having too many suitors.”

Mariah looked at her. Even though she had spoken in her usual droll way, Joan wouldn’t meet her eyes, fiddling instead with her journal. Suddenly Mariah felt awkward. In two full Seasons, Joan had never had a serious suitor. For two years her letters had been full of London gentlemen and their quirks, and Mariah had spent many an hour laughing over Joan’s descriptions. Joan never seemed dismayed that none of them took her fancy or swept her off her feet.

But then, Mariah had never had a suitor like that, either—until now.

“I shall send them all to you, for I don’t want any of them.” She flopped into the cushions behind her. “They only want to call on me because of Papa, you know. But what shall we do now?”

“You could be very rude to everyone.” Joan gave a practical nod. “Then they won’t send you flowers or come to call.”

Mariah laughed. “A tempting thought. No, I meant about Harry. My mother looked very suspicious when I admitted I met Lord Burke in the park—who is he, anyway? She said he was very dissolute.”

“Oh, he is,” Joan said with relish. “Douglas has known him since Eton. He gambled away his entire quarter’s allowance once with Lord Burke, not two days after Papa paid it to him. Well! You can imagine how Mother scolded Douglas, and Papa declared he wouldn’t give Douglas a farthing more before the next quarter, which naturally only made Douglas gamble even more with Lord Burke. I think Lord Burke wagers on everything, but he’s wealthy enough to afford it, unlike Douglas, and there are shocking rumors about him and actresses.” She paused. “Did... Did he send you flowers, too?”