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Slowly, almost tentatively, her hands crept up his chest. “I thought—I began to suspect you weren’t real,” she whispered.

Harry stripped off his gloves and took her face in his hands. A wry smile curled his mouth. “And now?” he murmured, his lips brushing hers.

A tremor went through her, and she tugged on his clothing. “Kiss me again, so I might know for certain.”

Harry kissed her, deeply and desperately, then gentled the kiss. Mariah clung to him, vowing this would not be the last one. He tasted like tea and cherries, sweet and crisp and delicious. Until the day she died, she would remember this kiss, when he held her as if she were the most important thing in the world. As if he couldn’t bear not to kiss her.

She was far beyond infatuation.

“Call on me again,” she whispered as his mouth moved over her cheek, her jaw, her neck. “Come as yourself...”

Harry groaned. “I can’t.”

“Please,” she begged. “Tell me your name, I swear I will receive you.”

“No.”

“Then come to me as you usually have...”

He hesitated.

“Please,” she whispered. “Tonight.”

He placed his hands on the wall on either side of her head, and leaned in to kiss her once again. “No.”

“Mariah? Lord Wroth? Mariah, are you here?”

Mariah’s horrified gaze flew to Harry’s. In a flash he shrugged into his padded coat, his chest slumping back into Wroth’s usual posture, and slid the spectacles on his face. “Fix your dress,” he breathed, yanking his gloves back on. She tugged at her skirt with one hand, patting the bodice with the other to make certain she was all in order. “Now tell me about something,” Harry ordered as he seized his cane and stepped away from her.

Mariah obligingly turned, her eyes flying about the small alcove. “This painting is of the first Earl of Doncaster,” she began in an overly loud, bright tone. “He was elevated to the earldom by Edward the Third, who was in fact a cousin of his.” They could hear footsteps now, coming closer. Mariah took a deep, ragged breath, and forged on, blurting out everything she could remember about her ancient ancestor. It rather surprised her she could pull anything from her brain now, with her blood still pulsing hot and fast from Harry’s kiss. “There you see his coat of arms, chosen in honor of Edward, with the lion for England and the lily for purity. Lilies have ever since been the badge of the Dunmores⁠—”

“There you are.” The countess stood in the doorway.

“Yes, Mama.” Mariah turned and smiled at her mother. “I was just showing Lord Wroth the first earl’s things.”

Her mother smiled back politely. “Of course. Do you also have an interest in landscapes, sir? There are a fine pair of Wilson landscapes in the dining room.”

“Eh? Ah, right.” He pulled out a handkerchief and coughed into it. “Landscapes,” he said, and coughed again. Mariah waited, too relieved at the close escape and too excited about their stolen moment to say much of anything. Her mother shot her a questioning glance as Lord Wroth kept coughing into his handkerchief. “Pray, excuse me, madam,” he croaked. “I think I must go.”

Mama bowed her head graciously. “Of course. It was good of you to call, sir.”

“The most delightful call I’ve made this Season. Your daughter has been so kindly attentive to an old man. You must be very proud of her.”

Mama’s smile seemed painted on her face. “We are indeed.”

Slowly they walked through the house. Harry didn’t look at her again until they reached the front door, where he bowed over her hand and said a polite farewell. She didn’t let herself watch him leave, but turned away at once.

“I believe I would like to take some air. May I walk with Joan in the park, Mama?”

Her mother gave her a severe look. “Come with me a moment.”

She knew a terrible scolding awaited her, and she couldn’t have cared less. Obediently she followed her mother back into the drawing room, where a maid was clearing away the tea tray. Once the servant left, Mama closed the door and turned on her.

“What on earth has come over you?”

“Oh—nothing, Mama.” She shrugged. “I find Lord Wroth amusing, more so that Lord Whitting and Lord Carteret.”

“I could see that, from the way you all but insisted he tour the gallery. Mariah, he is old enough to be your grandfather!” Her mother’s face was taut with concern. “You have had offers from some of the most eligible men in England, and rejected them all. What makes you prefer Lord Wroth?”