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Crane swore. “Damn it, Towne, I want no tea! I’ll find some port if I have to search every cupboard in the house! Drink the tea yourself.”

“Yes, sir.” He ought to follow him. Crane was exposed, surrounded by dozens of people in strange surroundings. His duty was to stick closely to the old man in public circumstances, no matter how prickly Crane was and no matter how pointless or unwanted his presence might seem.

Instead, Harry remained where he was, silently replacing the dishes on the tray, barely registering the clink of china on china. Mariah and her companion had disappeared. Even if they hadn’t, he couldn’t have done anything. There was no explanation he could give, no excuse, that would pardon his actions, even had there been any way he could have spoken to her.

And the devastated betrayal on her face... He deserved to suffer, for having caused that.

With a great effort, he picked up the tray and straightened his shoulders. He still had a job to do. A job that did not, and never would, involve Lady Mariah Dunmore. And he had never been more heartily sick of it.

Chapter Thirteen

That night Mariah went to bed late. Not wanting to spend any time awake in her room, she waited until she was dropping with exhaustion. She hated her room now, where she’d lost her silly, naïve heart to a liar, bared her soul to a common scoundrel who never had any intention, or hope, of marrying her. No wonder he had sneaked around! Papa would have set the dogs on him for approaching her. She should have known better than to trust any man who would slip into her room... after climbing a thirty-foot wall... at midnight!

She dismissed her yawning maid. She didn’t need anyone tonight, not Sally and certainly not Harry. The cad. The bloody blighter. She called him every bad name she could think of, even as her heart twisted in her chest.

With a snort that drifted into a sigh, she flopped into bed, deliberately turning her back on the windows. If it weren’t so hot, she would close them. She wished it were winter. She wished her room faced the street. She wished the gardeners had never planted ivy. Why couldn’t they have planted climbing rosebushes, with plenty of thorns? That would keep any lying, sneaking imposter from disturbing her peace.

And yet... She sniffled a little, then scrubbed one hand across her face. It wasn’t entirely Harry’s fault. She did tell him to come in, that first night he appeared at her window. She did ask him to come back when he left. If he had been guilty of an overreaching presumption, she had been equally guilty of recklessly accepting and encouraging his advances. If she had behaved with the circumspection proper in a young lady, this might not have happened at all.

But the worst part was, she wasn’t even sure that would make her happy. Would she be better off if she had never known him? Perhaps she would have met someone else, someone more suitable and just as interesting and charming... and perhaps not. After all, she had spoken to nearly every other gentleman in London while looking for Harry, and many of them had called on her. Not one had captured even half as much of her interest as he had. She heaved another sigh, rolling over and trying to find a comfortable position. Deep down, she suspected, part of her would always treasure the memory of her mysterious, romantic suitor. If only...

She sat up and pounded her pillow, wildly annoyed that it would be so lumpy tonight of all nights. Then she lay back down and closed her eyes, determined not to open them again until morning. A small drop leaked from one eye and slid down her cheek. She refused to move, even to wipe it away, willing herself to sleep. Finally, after several more tears had followed that one, she drifted off.

* * *

Harry melted into the deep shadows of a hedge that surrounded the Doncaster House gardens. He really ought not to be here. He could only make things worse, after all, either for her or for himself or, most likely, for both—and yet, here he was, unable to listen to his own good sense and stay away.

As usual, the gardens were deserted. He had never encountered a gardener or other servant, and the gate was a child’s game to open. For a man supposedly in danger of his life, Doncaster seemed strikingly unaware of how easy it would be for someone to walk into his gardens, climb a wall of his house, and... and fall hopelessly in love with his daughter.

Harry scowled. He was the fool, not Doncaster.

All right, he decided grimly. He wouldn’t be able to stop thinking about her until he saw her one last time, saw how she turned up her nose at a lowly secretary and heard her scathing dismissal of a man with neither title nor fortune to his name. Once he felt the lash of her scorn in person, he might recover from the madness that had gripped him since the first moment he saw her. At least he wouldn’t be able to deceive himself any longer.

Taking a deep breath, he strode across the lawn, ducking into the shadows of the towering ivy. With one last glance around to make sure he was as unnoticed as ever, he took hold of a vine and scaled the wall.

He slipped through the window, bracing himself for a scream, a curse, a vase thrown at his head. The room was silent. She obviously wasn’t waiting up for him. That was probably for the best, he thought with a silent sigh. He took a step into the room. “Mariah?” he whispered.

There was no response, and then he saw she was asleep. She had kicked off the bedclothes, her legs bared to the knee. She lay on her side facing him, one hand tucked under her cheek. Something wrenched at his heart. She looked exhausted, and for a moment he thought he should just leave her in peace.

But that would only prolong the agony. Mariah deserved a chance to tell him how despicable he was. He deserved to hear it, too, for he had known all along this had no future. He had known, but selfishly came back again and again, letting her believe a lie because... He cursed under his breath. He had let her believe it because he wanted to believe it, too.

Not that it excused his actions in any way.

Quietly, he crossed the room. The moon was full tonight, and the sky cloudless; silvery light filled the room, revealing the luxurious furnishings more clearly than ever before. Inside, he laughed mockingly at himself. Had he truly believed, for one moment, he could win a lady who lived in such splendor? He could never provide her with half this much elegance, and was a fool even for wishing he could. Ladies like Mariah didn’t marry scoundrels like him.

At her bedside he stopped, greedily watching her sleep. God above, but she was the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen. He reached out and lifted a stray curl from the pillow, letting the silky lock slip through his fingers. The pillow looked damp beneath her cheek, another sign of the harm he had done her. Oh, yes, he was every kind of fool for ever speaking to her. Brandon had been right from the beginning: she was not for him.

“Mariah.” He went down on one knee next to the bed, hoping she didn’t wake with a scream and scratch out his eyes, and touched her shoulder. “Mariah.” Her nose twitched, and a thin line appeared between her brows, as if she was annoyed that her rest was being disturbed. Harry smiled in spite of himself. “I’m so sorry, love,” he whispered. He touched her cheek, his fingertips barely skimming her soft skin, and felt the full force of his folly.

Slowly her eyes opened. She blinked twice, not moving. “Harry?” she murmured thickly.

He snatched his hand away. “Yes.”

“Oh, Harry,” she gasped, lurching upright to fling her arms around him. Caught completely off guard, he fell against the side of the bed, instinctively throwing his arm around her. “I’m so glad you came!”

Harry froze. Was she truly awake? That was not the greeting he had expected. “Why?”

“Because I missed you!” she said against his shoulder.