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“It certainly is,” her cousin said at once.
“But it’s wrong of him.”
“Oh, yes.”
Mariah frowned. Joan was being very agreeable. “But is it wrong of me to feel that excitement? Oughtn’t I to be horrified, or scandalized?”
Joan snorted with laughter. “You’re not!”
“I know, but do you think I should be?”
Joan stopped laughing and gave her a sideways look. “What do you mean? How could you help it?”
“I can’t.” Mariah sighed. “I just wondered if it makes me wicked or immoral.”
Her cousin rolled her eyes. “It makes you normal. Who would not be interested in such a man? I cannot think of anything a man could do that would be more intriguing. If I were so fortunate as to have an exciting suitor, I would revel in every lovely, scandalous moment of it, you may depend on it.”
Slowly, Mariah nodded. “Yes, I suppose.” She certainly couldn’t change the way she felt, and surely things like this only happened to a person once in her life. If nothing this exciting were to happen to her ever again, at least she would have this one adventure. “Yes. You’re right.”
“You needn’t sound so surprised. I am right from time to time.” Joan tilted her head. “But now that we’re agreed I’m a marvel of wisdom, will you tell me why, after all this time, you’re pondering questions of propriety? I thought we agreed it was highly improper and therefore highly exciting.”
She had to smile at that. “No, you thought it was highly improper and therefore highly exciting. I think it’s intriguing and exciting and wonderful, but... can it be right to like something so improper?”
Joan stopped short. “You aren’t getting nervous, are you?” she whispered, her face blank with surprise.
“Nervous?” Her laugh did sound high and thin—nervous. “No,” she whispered back. “Not if by ‘nervous’ you mean ready to give up looking for him or not wanting him to come again. I only wondered what it said about me that I find him mysterious and fascinating instead of shocking and scandalous.”
Her cousin let out a breath. “I think he’s all of those things. And I’ve never even met the man!” Her face brightened. “Now there’s a thought! I could stay over at your house one night and sneak into your room after everyone has gone to bed. Then, when he comes to see you, I could be hiding behind the curtains and leap out and catch him!”
Mariah stared at her in dumbstruck amazement before she burst out laughing. A moment later Joan followed, a mite sheepishly.
“Oh, Joan,” Mariah gasped, clutching her cousin’s arm. “Have you gone utterly mad? How did you plan to catch him?” She lowered her voice abruptly at the end, looking around anxiously, but no one was paying them any mind.
“I... I... I don’t know!” Joan said on a hiccuping giggle. “Borrow Papa’s walking stick and rap him around the ankles, or some such thing.”
Mariah wiped a tear from the corner of her eye. “Well, that would make it harder for him to climb down, I suppose.” The last of her amusement faded. “No, I think not.”
“I quite liked the idea,” Joan said with a sigh. “I’m perishing of curiosity, you know. If only he would come out in public where I might meet him, too.”
Mariah just smiled uneasily. She hadn’t told Joan that Harry had seen her out in public. It would be hard enough to keep herself in check, wondering if he might be at every gathering she attended, just out of her sight. It would be impossible if Joan were whispering in her ear about it every night.
And yet... Something had to change. It was thrilling and intriguing and vastly flattering, but she simply had to find out more about the mysterious Harry—and it seemed the only way would be to ask him.
Chapter Eleven
“Tell me about your family, if you won’t tell me about yourself.”
“My family.” Harry leaned back against the bedpost and folded his arms. The muscles in his shoulders tightened in protest. Crane had kept him busy all day shelving and re-shelving thick reference books on shelves high above his head, according to an ordering system that seemed to change by the hour. Harry’s daytime employment had grown so tedious, his late night visits to Mariah had taken on an importance beyond even his craving for her. At least with Mariah, he was himself, just Harry, even if he must conceal so much from her.
But she wanted to know about his family. “What would you like to know?”
“Your sister,” she said. “You mentioned her the other night.”
When her fingers had traced every line of his face. When he had been close enough to see the pulse in her throat and smell the faint jasmine scent of her skin. “Yes. Ophelia.” He hadn’t thought about his family in weeks. It was easier if he didn’t; his father would not approve of what he had chosen to do, and his mother would screech herself hoarse if she knew.
“She’s my younger sister,” he went on. “By five years. She’s the wit of our family, and none of us are ever spared. When Ophelia is in a temper, we all run in fear, for she will tease us mercilessly.”
“And she is—is—”
