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“I dislike unfairness.” His voice was clipped.
“What would you change, then, if you could?”
“Many things.” His voice vibrated with an undercurrent of passion. “Wouldn’t you?”
“Yes,” she said. “I know my world is not the one everyone enjoys. I meant it when I said I wanted to help, even if I can only achieve a little. Helping even one person is worthwhile, isn’t it?”
He inhaled sharply. “Yes.”
Mariah leaned forward, wishing she could see him better. At the same moment, he moved forward, raising one hand, and she froze at his gossamer-light touch on her skin.
“Why were you in Whitechapel the other night?” she whispered. “When you saw that poor girl.”
Harry’s fingers stilled on her cheek. “I was watching after someone.”
“Her?”
His hand fell away. “No. Not her. I expect no one watches after her.”
“Then after someone else. Someone special?”
Another long pause. “In a way.”
She wet her lips. “And what would you have done, if something had befallen that person?”
“Anything I had to do.” His voice had fallen into a murmur. “Do you have any more questions?”
“Yes.” She could feel his breath on her lips. Her heart beat so hard he must be able to hear it every time she opened her mouth. “When you watched me the other night... at the Spencer ball... what did you hope to see?”
Now his hand returned to caress her cheek, more boldly this time but no less gently. “I wanted to see you, so beautiful and elegant, like a faerie goddess come to earth for the night. I wanted to see the candlelight on your hair, and dream of seeing it down. I wanted to see your smile, and imagine it was meant for me.” His voice dropped even lower. “I wanted to see you dance, and pretend it was my hand you took. To hear you laugh and hope that someday you might laugh with me that way...”
“You’re such a scoundrel, to say such things to me,” she whispered as his lips brushed hers.
“You have no idea,” he murmured, and then he kissed her.
She almost forgot to breathe. His lips brushed once over hers, and then his hand slid around the back of her neck and he pulled her closer, so close she threw out her hands to keep herself from falling. Her palms hit his shoulders. He made a smothered sound deep in his throat, and her fingers curled into the soft fabric of his shirt as his mouth pulled at hers.
His head lifted; his lips moved to her forehead, her temple, the corner of her eyelid. He cupped her face in both hands and dragged his thumb across her lips. Mariah sighed, her head swimming, and he kissed her again, nudging her to open her mouth with a soft flick of his tongue. She gasped, surprised, but then moaned as he tasted her mouth, at first delicately and then more hungrily as she kissed him back.
When the kiss ended, a lifetime later, she sat shaken and breathless, still clutching Harry’s shirt. Her heart galloped along in her chest and her lungs burned but her mind seemed to be ringing with a chorus of joy. Yes, that was what the hidden creature inside her craved. She had never felt more vitally alive than when Harry touched her.
He tipped up her chin and kissed her once more, lightly, on the mouth. “To answer your question,” he whispered, “I most definitely am.”
“Am what?” She smiled dreamily into his shadowy face.
“Wicked.” One more kiss.
Mariah sighed, feeling a little drunk from the pleasure of it. “In the very best way...”
His laugh was more a sigh. He ran his thumb once more over her lower lip. “Unfortunately, my darling, also in the worst.”
Chapter Twelve
Mariah hesitated at first to tell Joan about the kiss—her first true kiss—but in the end the joy of it was too great to keep to herself. Two days later, as soon as they reached the Plympton home for Lady Plympton’s annual garden breakfast, she rushed her cousin to a quiet corner and related the tale.
“Oh,” swooned Joan, laying one hand over her heart and fanning her face with the other. “I may die of the romance of this story!”
“Stop!” Mariah blushed. “Everyone will wonder what we’re saying.”
