Page 48

Mariah didn’t hear the rest of his reply. Only a month. Then Mr. Crane would know nothing of real import. Fortunately they had reached her mother. “Thank you, Mr. Crane.” She curtsied.

“It was my pleasure, Lady Mariah.” He bowed again, leaning close with a private smile. “Until our dance.”

Mariah clenched her teeth and smiled. “Of course.”

Mr. Crane beamed and bowed some more, to her mother and then to Lady Arnold, who was standing nearby. Finally he had no reason to linger and excused himself.

Mama raised her fan and inclined her head toward Mariah. “A change of heart regarding Mr. Crane?”

“Not at all,” she whispered back, her gaze flitting about the room again. Was Lord Crane here? Had he brought his secretary for some bizarre reason? She had been so sure she’d heard Harry’s voice earlier. No doubt it would be merely another disappointment, but she still wished she could have known for certain. “He came upon me as I was looking for you.”

Her mother turned away from Lady Arnold and drew Mariah closer. “Dearest, what is wrong? You can hardly hold still tonight. I can see you aren’t attending to the gentlemen you dance with, and you always seem to be glancing over your shoulder. Is something troubling you?”

The concern in her mother’s voice made Mariah’s face grow hot. Of course Mama would notice. “I don’t know,” she confessed. “I feel as though I am missing something, something important.”

“Mariah, it is all here in front of you. You must look around and see it, and let yourself enjoy it.”

Mariah sighed. “I know.” And she did. It was just easier said than done.

Enough, she told herself. She would banish Harry from her mind. She would stop trying to discover him in every man who walked past, and she would stop listening for his voice. She was ruining her entire Season by brooding on him so much. For tonight, at least, she would pretend she had never crossed paths with her mystery man.

* * *

The Arnold soirée was a difficult test of Harry’s fortitude.

As expected, Mariah was there, stunningly beautiful in a green gown with silver lace that framed her bosom like a setting for a rare jewel. As expected, she danced with a number of gentlemen, each of whom carried her hand to his lips and smiled at her and held her close enough to know the scent of her skin. Harry hated them all, for having what he could not, and he hated that he had to be here to witness it.

Having made his resolution to stop seeing Mariah, he’d told himself to concentrate on his job. Unfortunately, Crane had not cooperated with this. The viscount had been particularly cross of late, and he’d stopped going out at nights. The Plympton party had been the last time he’d joined society, before tonight.

Harry, who had once cursed Wroth’s pinching shoes and hunched posture, had begun to long for them, for at least as Wroth he’d been busy at nights. A few times Angelique had sent him to shadow Lord Bethwell, and once he’d followed Lord Doncaster to his club, but too often he was left unoccupied, prey to feelings and wishes he was urgently trying to quell.

He almost leapt at this evening’s assignment, when Crane accepted an invitation at last. Ian had slipped around to one of the windows to warn him of some grim-looking guests just arriving, who turned out to be an austere Whig politician and his sons. That threat ruled out, Harry tried to resume his usual habits, but then Mariah strolled across his line of sight, and his heart swelled with such bittersweet longing that he found a chair with a good view and stayed slumped in it for most of the evening, ruminating on his well-deserved sufferings.

To his shock, Mariah herself came toward him after the second waltz. Harry tensed, bracing himself, but she wasn’t looking at him. She took a seat near him with only a distracted nod in his direction. Hard on the heels of his relief that she hadn’t recognized him came a fierce satisfaction. He was near her again, almost near enough to touch her. Of course, to her he looked tipsy, slightly unkempt, and old enough to be her grandfather. Only a fool, or someone driven mad by desperation, would be glad to see her now.

Harry, though, was a little of both. He ought to say nothing, or better yet, get up and move away. He meant to keep his vow to stay away from her. It might be a gift from heaven, or a temptation from the devil, he didn’t care which—she was here beside him.

“Tired of the dancing, are ye, miss?”

She glanced at him, startled. “No, sir, not at all.”

He persisted, leaning toward her. “Aye, well, their loss.”

She exhaled slowly and turned a polite smile on him. “How kind of you to say so.”

“It’s my pleasure to say so,” he retorted with a leering wink. “Never say Henry Wroth can’t tell the prettiest girl in the room.”

“You are too generous,” she said. Her gaze drifted back to the dancers.

Lord Wroth chuckled; deep inside, Harry laughed recklessly. “My compliments are rarely accused of being generous! But since I am so fortunate to find myself sitting next to you, I’ll not keep my own counsel tonight.”

The glance she gave him was half amused, half perplexed, as if she didn’t know what to say and would rather not have to converse with him at all. “What a rogue you are, sir.”

You don’t know the half of it, he thought, and cackled again. “There’s not much else left in life for me to be! Better a rogue than dead. But I can see you’ve a preference for better company.” He got to his feet, making a show of his supposed infirmities. This would be the last time he ever spoke to her, and she would never know. “I’ll leave you to these young gents—although mind you choose wisely, for there’s many a true rogue dancing there now.” He bowed, leaning heavily on his cane. “Good-bye, my lady. It has been my pleasure.”

* * *

Mariah stared at the old man. He was a strange character, no question, but there was also something vaguely familiar about him. He shuffled off into the crowd, and she watched him for a moment, puzzled. What was it about him? And why had he said good-bye instead of merely good night?