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She frowned. “No! I did not wish to marry him, nor even to have an offer from him. But it would have been a very eligible match, and my parents were both quite sanguine about my refusal. My father even laughed about it, afterward. That’s how they indulge me. Not every parent would be so easy about it.”
He was quiet for a moment. “Perhaps they had some objection to the man and were relieved.”
She shook her head. “I don’t think so, although my father did admit he was a bit of an idiot.”
“If they knew that, they knew he was not right for you,” was Harry’s immediate reply.
“Many parents don’t care,” she told him. “A title, a fortune, an illustrious connection... That’s what they want in a daughter’s marriage, particularly when a daughter is as old as I am.”
“Perhaps they feel you’re old enough to know your own mind.”
She smiled ruefully. “I have known my own mind since I was a child. ‘Willful,’ my governess once called me.”
“And why shouldn’t you know your own mind?” His dim figure spread his arms. “Should you believe yourself incapable of it merely because you have a father to look out for you?”
“No,” she said slowly. “Of course not.”
“Did you not tell me yourself a woman isn’t a prize to be won? Wives should not be gotten by bargaining with the father, offering so much in settlements and requiring this much in dowry, when all that is wanted is her family alliance, her bloodline, and the heirs she can bear. A woman has hopes and dreams and affections just as any man does.”
Mariah’s eyes widened in surprise. “Yes, but...”
His white-sleeved shoulders rose again in another shrug. “Why should her desires not be as important as her family’s, or her suitor’s?”
“I—I’m sure my parents do want me to be happy,” she stammered. “They would have been pleased, had I accepted him.”
“Why did you refuse?”
She stared at him. “Because I don’t love him.”
“How do you know?”
“Because—” Because I never longed to see him the way I long to see you. “Because I just know.”
“Ah.” He was quiet for a moment. “I’m very sorry for the fellow, but if he had not won your heart, it’s a mercy that you refused him.”
Mariah thought about telling him it was his fault she had refused Lord Hartwood, that it was his fault she couldn’t begin to think of another man. But that would be a confession she wasn’t ready to make. She found Harry intriguing and exciting and amusing and she wanted him to keep visiting her—but beyond that she would not let herself think. She had no proof of his affection for her, and she was just reserved enough to keep her uncertain feelings to herself. In fact, she didn’t even know what she felt for Harry. How could it be love, when she didn’t know his name or anything about him? And yet, she did know it was more than mere interest or liking. If only she had some thought of his true intentions toward her.
“Don’t you think you’re a bit—a bit wicked?” she asked. The question had been burning inside her all day. If Harry thought his visits wicked, then she would have to be wicked for taking such pleasure in them. But if he could offer her any explanation that didn’t admit wickedness, perhaps her own conscience would be more at ease. And perhaps, just perhaps, it might prod him to reveal something more about his motives in coming to see her. “For coming see me like this.”
“Ah.” He shifted on the mattress with a faint creak of the bed ropes. “I think ‘wicked’ is a word flung about with distressing ease. Our amiable conversation cannot compare to all the true wickedness in the world.”
“Then what do you think this is?” Mariah waved one hand to encompass her darkened room, their nearness, the intimacy of the situation. She felt driven to compel some declaration from him, of anything. Amiable conversation? Was that all it was to him?
“I find it quite pleasant.”
“You enjoy climbing the ivy?” she said with a disbelieving huff.
“Especially climbing the ivy,” he declared. “I searched all London for an ivy-covered wall with a beautiful woman at the top. I was beginning to despair of ever finding one.”
“Then what would be really wicked?” she asked, trying not to laugh.
“Why, wearing a waistcoat that doesn’t suit one’s complexion, I imagine.”
“Oh.” She sighed, deflated. “Something else you cannot tell me.”
He was quiet for a long time, then spoke again more seriously. “No. What is wicked, you ask? A great deal, I answer. To say a man may not vote if he isn’t wealthy enough, yet still expect him to support the government that gives him no voice. To pass laws keeping the price of wheat high for the benefit of landowners, when people in the cities are starving for want of bread. To declare swaths of society immoral and indecent because they are poor, but do nothing to help them out of poverty. All those things are much more wicked, to my mind, than anything you’ve done.”
That wasn’t what she had expected to hear. “You said you’re not a reformer.”
