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“Mariah! There you are.” Joan scurried over, her skirts in her hands. “Come, there’s a group of gentlemen beyond the fountain. Some of them I’ve never met, and two are fearfully handsome!” Then she noticed Mariah’s expression. “What is it? What’s wrong?”

“That’s Harry.” Mariah’s lips barely moved as she stared after the secretary, now almost back to Lord Crane, sitting in a sunny spot by the camellias, Lady Plympton’s pride and joy.

Joan followed her gaze. “Mariah, that’s Lord Crane. He must be nearly a hundred years old.”

“No, not him. The man with him.” The words choked her. “His secretary.”

Joan gasped out loud. “No! His secretary is Harry? No!” She swung around to squint at his figure, then back. “Mariah, you must be mistaken. Your mother would never invite a secretary to her ball. It must be someone who sounds like him.

Mariah shook her head. “I heard him speak, Joan. He spoke to me. I heard him as clearly as I ever heard Harry and it was the same voice.” Her knees trembled and she caught Joan’s hand. “He lied to me—he led me to believe he was a gentleman⁠—”

Joan threw her arm around Mariah’s shoulders. “Come sit down.”

She let her cousin guide her to a bench a short distance away and collapsed onto it, all her dreams and fantasies mocking her. How could he have deceived her so? How could he have presumed to sneak into her room and kiss her and make her fall in love with him? How could he have let her think he meant to court her?

“Well, now you know why he was too cowardly to give his name,” Joan said. “What a snake! As if he had any chance of being acceptable. I for one think you should consider yourself lucky you found him out this way. Now he has nothing to hide behind, and is exposed for the liar and trespasser he is. You should tell your parents at once. They should know someone is sneaking into their affairs masquerading as a gentleman.”

“No,” said Mariah, her voice faint but calm. “He—He did deceive me, but he never actually said he was a gentleman. I assumed...” I assumed he was what I wanted him to be. “I assumed he was one,” she finished aloud. “But I won’t tell my parents. It—It would cause more trouble, for them to know.”

“But then what will you do?” exclaimed Joan. “How shall you make the wretch suffer? He deserves that, you know. Why, I myself was half in love with him, just from the way you talked about him.” She leaned closer, squeezing Mariah’s hand. “Do you know, perhaps that was his goal all along! If he could have kept up his masquerade, he might have fooled some poor girl into falling in love with him and even persuaded her to run off with him. Think how she would feel when she found out she was married to a common nobody.”

Mariah heard what her cousin was saying; Mariah should count herself lucky, for unlike Joan, she had been more than half in love with Harry, and could indeed have considered marrying him, if only... if only...

But that had never been possible. Her hands balled into fists as the shock of discovery gave way to disillusionment. Harry had to know the Earl of Doncaster would never allow his daughter, his only child, to marry a man so far beneath her station. Once Harry knew who she was, he must have known her father would disapprove of them speaking, let alone marrying. Every single moment of his attentions had been a cruel trick, letting her grow attached to a man she would never have.

Of course, he hadn’t been so dishonorable, she argued with herself. He had hardly done anything she hadn’t invited or permitted, and overall their meetings had been fairly innocent. Not that it excused him sneaking into her bedroom—no matter that he had asked her permission—but he hadn’t taken advantage of her, not really. Every time he touched her, she had wanted him to, allowed it and welcomed it. And perhaps he had known he was unacceptable and yet just couldn’t help himself because of his feelings for her...

Mariah leaped to her feet, appalled with herself for defending him, for still wanting him to be someone he wasn’t. She hoped he was madly in love with her, so her rejection would hurt him just as much as his deception had hurt her. She hoped he suffered a decline and wasted away and died of a broken heart. Then she would be happy again.

Tears stung the back of her eyelids. “I want to go home,” she said to Joan. “Now.”

“Of course.” Joan wrapped a comforting arm around her waist and they went into the house. Mariah refused to look back, not wanting to see the lying rogue again as he served old Crane his tea.

* * *

Only with great difficulty did Harry keep his attention on the tray he carried. He couldn’t allow himself to look back at Mariah, but he didn’t need to. Her shocked expression was branded on his mind, the hurt and betrayal in her eyes piercing him like a white-hot lance of guilt. He felt it eat away at him—the knowledge that he had hurt her by indulging his personal desires, desires he knew damned well were forbidden and ultimately doomed.

And at the same time, a part of his wicked soul exulted that she cared enough to be hurt. He ought to be flogged, he told himself in a fury of self-loathing as he arranged the tea and cakes on the table at Lord Crane’s elbow.

“You brought kippers,” grumbled Crane. “I detest kippers.”

“Of course, sir.” Harry moved that plate back onto the tray, sneaking another look in Mariah’s direction. She was huddled on a bench with another young lady. It hadn’t taken much effort to discover that the tall brunette was her cousin, Miss Bennet. Mariah’s face was pale, except for two spots of red in her cheeks, and from her expression, he guessed she was agreeing that he should be flogged.

“And I don’t want tea. There must be port somewhere in the house.”

“The physician says you should not have port,” Harry reminded Crane for the hundredth time.

“Ballocks,” snapped Crane. “I think I know what’s better for me than the leech knows. Fetch some port, Towne.”

“Now, sir, I cannot in conscience contribute to a decline in your health.”

Crane snarled some more. “I don’t pay for your bloody conscience.”

“No, sir, I believe my conscience remains in my own employ.” Harry barely noticed Crane’s peevishness. If only Tobias hadn’t persuaded his uncle to come to this garden party, where he had been required to go along and attend Crane. He’d known that Crane would dislike it and take it out on him. But he hadn’t known Mariah would be here, intent on seeking him out and confronting him.

“I want to move over there, into the shade,” Crane said, just as Harry had the table arranged. “The sun is too hot here. And where’s my nephew? That useless fribble. He cozened me into this party, and now he’s nowhere to be seen. No respect for his elders, no appreciation.” Crane got to his feet, clutching his cane. “I’m going inside,” he announced, and started in that direction.

“Will you want your tea there, sir?” Harry asked dutifully.