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Mariah leapt from her chair. She couldn’t let him go before she discovered if she’d been right—or wrong—about his real identity. “Oh, no! But you’ve only just arrived, sir!” Her mother looked at her in astonishment. “Perhaps you would care to see some of my father’s collection,” Mariah said, trying to sound calm when her heart was beating furiously. Every moment of his visit had been agony for her as she waited for an opening to suggest a stroll in the garden, a viewing of the gallery, anything to get a moment alone with him.

Slowly, Lord Wroth turned to her, his hazel eyes keen over those dreadful spectacles. “What’s that? What’s he collect?”

“Why—why, many things,” she blurted, suddenly forgetting what was in the gallery. It was amazing, how he made her wits go wandering so easily.

“My husband has a fine collection of antique arms,” provided her mother, with a veiled stern glance. Mariah knew she was running on like a blathering idiot, and would have to account for it later, but that was later. He was sitting here now, and Mama had wasted nearly his entire visit asking about plants.

Lord Wroth nodded his shaggy gray head. “Now that’s⁠—”

He was trying to leave. “But you must at least see the Reynolds portrait of my grandmother. I recall you mentioned a fondness for his art,” she lied in desperation.

This time Lord Wroth seemed caught. He hesitated, his gaze shifting back to her mother. The door opened to admit the butler, with Lady Goddard in tow.

“By all means, sir. It is a fine portrait,” her mother said with a gracious smile that didn’t fool Mariah at all. Mama would never correct her in front of others, but Mariah knew she would have her ears blistered later. Later.

Slowly, Lord Wroth turned back to her, his expression almost grim. “Thank you, Lady Mariah. That would be very kind.”

The walk to the gallery had never seemed so long. Mariah was acutely aware of every scrape of his cane on the floor, every labored breath he exhaled. He was such a good actor, she could see why all of London believed wholeheartedly in his masquerade. But why? The unknown reason hammered at her; she had to know.

After an eternity of walking, they passed through the wide double doors of the gallery where portraits of her ancestors hung. Mariah managed to give the door a little push behind her, so it swung slowly closed. For the first time in hours, it seemed, she let out her breath, alone with him at last.

“Where is this Reynolds?” He peered around the room, his humped back seeming more pronounced. “Mustn’t hang too near the window. Fades the paint, don’t you know.”

Suddenly tongue-tied, Mariah indicated the portrait.

His cane tapping loudly, he hobbled over to peer at it closely, studying it for just a few moments before nodding. “Excellent work. Fine eye for light, Reynolds.”

“There are some miniatures in the case there, also by Reynolds, I believe.” She wasn’t sure of any such thing, but he was already turning toward the door. At her words he stopped as if curbing his eagerness to leave, and went to the case.

Mariah gathered her courage in both hands. This was it. If she didn’t speak now, she might not have another chance.

“Harry.” She said it softly, still somewhat fearful that she could turn out to be wrong. “Do you not know me any longer?”

Lord Wroth remained bent over the glass display case. “I think it’s you who don’t know me,” he returned in his scratchy voice.

Mariah wet her lips and made one last effort. “I think I do know you. I think you are posing as an old man to move about town without drawing much notice. I think you must be a—a spy, of sorts. Not that I think you are an bad spy,” she hurried to add as he darted her a shocked glance. “I trust you, truly I do. And I will never, ever say a word to anyone, not even to my parents⁠—”

He turned and started walking away from her, his cane making a loud tap on the floor that echoed through the gallery—not not not, it seemed to say.

Mariah hurried after him, on the verge of tears. He was refusing to admit who he was, which meant he didn’t really want her to know. “Please don’t run from me,” she begged. “I’m sorry for what I said. I’ve missed you so, please don’t go just yet...”

He stopped. Mariah stopped, too, wringing her hands and waiting in agony. He gestured toward a small alcove. “What’s this?”

“It’s—it’s some things which belonged to the first Lord Doncaster, five hundred years ago,” she said. “But will you⁠—?”

“Show me,” he interrupted. “I do love something older than myself.”

And that was when she admitted defeat. Either she was wrong, or he was simply determined not to tell her. Either way, Harry was lost to her forever, keeping to his promise never to return. The thrilling lover scaling her ivy-covered wall was gone, and she didn’t even know why. She wanted to turn and storm away, leaving him to play at being Lord Wroth without letting him break her heart. She had brought this on herself, but would not show how much it hurt.

Head held high, she swept past him into the alcove. “This sword belonged to my ancestor William More,” she said coolly. “He was known as the ‘dun More’ because of his dark colored armor⁠—”

Abruptly she was yanked back, against the wall and almost behind the drape that partially shielded the alcove, keeping the light off the most fragile portraits. Lord Wroth crowded close to her, one hand over her mouth and one arm around her waist, holding her in place.

“As God is my witness, you’ll be the very death of me,” he whispered. Mariah made a muffled squeak—it was Harry!—and then his mouth replaced his hand on her lips, and everything else vanished.

“It is you,” she sighed when she had caught her breath. Her arms tightened around his neck. “I thought I would never see you again!”