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“I long to touch you,” he told her. His fingers brushed her cheek, lightly, then trailed over her jaw and down her throat. She shivered. “I long to kiss you,” he murmured. “Every inch of you.” And he pressed his lips to the side of her neck, ending any chance that she might have protested.

She had never guessed a man could be so overwhelming. He seemed to envelop her completely, even taller and bigger than she had thought before. His mouth moved up her neck, setting her skin tingling and sending sparks through her entire being, and his hands moved down her body, stroking the length of her arms, the curve of her waist, and the plane of her belly. She gasped for breath. Her knees threatened to give way, and she clutched at him to keep her balance.

As if Harry knew, he pressed her against him until she could feel every solid muscled inch of him—his chest against her back, his arms around her, his thighs behind hers. She wore only her nightgown, and the fine lawn might as well not have been there for all the barrier it provided. He was hot, so hot; surely that must be why she felt as if a sudden fever had overtaken her as his hands continued to move over her in leisurely purpose, stroking that stretching, writhing creature inside her into life.

“You drive me mad,” he whispered, dropping kisses all along her shoulder. With one tug of his fingers he pulled the ribbon at her neckline loose, and her nightgown drooped, sliding off her shoulder. Mariah looked down, shocked anew, and watched his fingers steal inside. If she could breathe, she would say stop, surely... But then she didn’t breathe or speak as his hand cupped her breast, his thumb stroking over her nipple. She tried to say his name, and only managed a small, strangled moan.

Harry laughed under his breath, a dark and wicked sound. “Do you see? Do you see now why I came back?” His hand flexed and tugged, holding her against him as he tilted his hips forward, and a disquieting burst of heat seemed to dissolve between her legs. He moved again, his breathing strained, and released his grip on her hip to draw up her nightgown.

The air felt cool on her heated skin. In some dim recess of her mind, she knew she should protest, but Harry kissed her shoulder again, and so instead she whimpered, leaning more of her weight against him and not making the slightest effort to stop anything he did—no, she wanted him to continue. This was why young ladies were warned never to be alone with a gentleman, she realized; if the young ladies knew what could happen, there would be a dozen new scandals every week.

And then—oh heavens—his fingers brushed her thigh, his palm smoothing over her skin. She arched her back, gripping his arm that circled her waist and digging her toes into the carpet to push against his touch as his fingers dipped tantalizingly between her thighs. The blood rushed to her skin, and the feverish heat ignited in her belly. The lustful creature within her purred and surged against the inside of her skin. Her head fell back against his shoulder in abject surrender, her knees fell apart, and he stroked one long finger through the soft folds between her legs.

He pressed his lips just below her ear. “I want you to burn for me,” he murmured as he stroked her again and again.

“I do,” she gasped , shamelessly abandoning all pretense of modesty or outrage. No one else had ever touched her there—and she herself had only done so a few, furtive times—but already he had brought forth that hot dampness between her legs, the dark illicit hunger that was almost frightening. Her blood hammered through her veins, burning with longing. She didn’t know quite what to make of that yawning ache inside her, nor what to do about it, but she was desperate for Harry to show her.

“No,” he said. “Not yet.” His hand shifted, turned, and then—she made a choked sound of shock—he pushed his fingers inside her body, without stopping the maddening, marvelous stroking on that one exquisitely sensitive spot. And it felt even more excruciatingly good.

“What—What else do you want?” Her voice was a breathless quaver.

He only laughed quietly in reply, nuzzling aside her braid to lick the back of her neck. His mouth moved along the back of her neck, over her shoulders, nipping at her skin. His fingers began a hard, pulsing slide in and out of her. His other hand still played with her breast, rolling her nipple between his thumb and forefinger. Mariah felt light-headed as her hips jerked and her spine undulated in time with his wicked fingers. Her heart beat as though it would leap out of her chest. She twisted and strained against his hold, not to get away but to catch her breath and clear her head of the sensation of drowning, but he held her tightly, moving against her and pressing his cheek to hers.

“This is what I feel,” he whispered as his fingers seemed to delve deeper within her. “A burning craving inside that threatens to drive me mad. It tempts me to throw aside every propriety, every modicum of sense and restraint because I can’t not risk it. Do you know? The feeling that you would risk everything you have for the chance to find what comes next?”

“Yes—no,” she gasped. A blistering tautness was spreading through her belly, agonizing in its intensity. Tears sprang to her eyes. “I can’t bear it, Harry...”

“You can.” His breath was ragged. “Let yourself...”

“How—yes—oh—!” Abruptly she stiffened. The tautness strained and then broke, and her entire body convulsed about his fingers. A moment of shimmering, sparkling darkness engulfed her and she cried out against the hand Harry clapped over her mouth at the last second.

Mariah sagged in his arms. If he hadn’t held her, she would have slid to the floor in a helpless puddle. She would swear her heart had almost stopped for a moment. Never in her life had she felt anything like that. This is but a dream, she told herself numbly. It could not be real... but it was. She clutched at Harry’s arms, still tight around her.

“Oh,” she breathed, rubbing her cheek against his shoulder. She couldn’t think coherently enough to ask anything. “Oh, Harry.”

He didn’t answer, but moved against her as his embrace tightened, clutching her closer—and she had a searing desire to turn in his arms and move against him that way, again and again. To pull aside his clothing, as he’d done to hers, and feel his skin. He must want it, too, and she waited, nerves newly alive and tingling...

But his hold loosened, and then he swept her up into his arms. She curled her arms around his neck and kissed his neck, which was damp with sweat. He carried her without any sign of difficulty, but when he gently set her down on her bed, she felt him tremble.

So this was why he kept coming to see her. He wanted her, as a man wanted a woman. He made her burn, made her ache, and then showed her a pleasure she never suspected existed. She suspected he hadn’t found a comparable pleasure. Joan once stole a book of naughty poetry from her brother, and Mariah had giggled with her over the rhymes that said a man found his greatest pleasure when his—she blushed just thinking the word—his cock was inside a woman.

The thought of it made her heart pound; Harry had only put his fingers inside her, and—wicked creature that she was becoming—she wanted him to do it again. Perhaps even—perhaps even his cock. If he could affect her so much with just his fingers, what would it be like with more? And now that he had pleasured her so thoroughly she couldn’t stand upright, she felt the most wicked desire to do the same to him, to leave him shattered and breathless and utterly enthralled.

“You can’t mean what you said earlier,” she whispered, catching his wrist as he started to rise. “Not after that. When will you come to me again?”

Slowly he sank to one knee and cupped her face in his hands. He rested his forehead against hers and she closed her eyes, her throat tight. She knew what he was going to say.

“Never,” he breathed. “I cannot, my darling.” With unbearable gentleness, he kissed her cheek and left, leaving behind a hollow silence in the room that only magnified her booming thoughts.

Would you still comb all of London for your beastly suitor? Joan had asked.

He’s not beastly at all, Mariah thought with a pang. No, it was worse than that.

She supposed she had known all along, even though all the times he’d asked if his name mattered, she’d said no. Had she lied? She suspected Harry hadn’t been fooled, but she herself... Ah, that was a different matter. She had never faced the fact so plainly: Harry was not what he appeared to be, no matter which appearance he gave.

The real question Joan should have asked was, what if he isn’t a gentleman? What if he were a rogue or a scoundrel, and she fell in love with him anyway? She stared at the open window, curtains stirring in the breeze. How much did his rank and station matter to her? What of his secrecy and vagueness? And did that outweigh the way he kissed her and made her laugh and stirred such feelings in her?

Mariah squeezed her eyes closed and tried to summon his face to mind. She had seen him, after all, as clear as day at Lady Plympton’s, and the moon had been full tonight. And yet, no matter how hard she tried to recall his image, what she remembered was the face she touched in the darkness.