Page 69

But she was. Whatever chasm of propriety and rank divided them, he knew without a shadow of doubt that he would die for her.

He shouldn’t have kissed her, nor even touched her. He had to take her back to the house, before he forgot himself entirely. “You should return,” he repeated once more, to himself as much as to her. “Your parents will be missing you.”

She nodded. When he put out his hand, his desire once more in check if not diminished, she gave him hers.

He led her around the wisteria path, pausing to pick up the walking stick he had dropped. With his blood racing and his heart still pounding, it was hard to fall back into the slow, shuffling gait of Wroth, even had the source of his arousal not been hanging on his arm. He stabbed the stick into the ground with more force than necessary. God, he was tired of this masquerade.

“Why are you here?”

He almost missed Mariah’s whisper, he was so caught up in his thoughts. As it was, he barely remembered to speak in Wroth’s voice. “Eh? Why, ‘tis a rare privilege to hear a soprano of Mrs. Campbell’s quality,” he replied, leaning on his cane. “And she’s a fetching lass, as well.”

“Oh.” The sound was soft with disappointment. “I see.”

Harry hesitated, then lowered his voice and dropped Wroth’s accent. “Just watching out for someone—and keeping my eyes open, should any ladies need rescuing.”

Her eyes shone. “Have you rescued many ladies tonight?”

“No.” He could get lost in those eyes. “But I was only watching one.”

Her next breath was shaky. Her body swayed toward his. Their progress had slowed to a halt, and Harry forced himself to start moving.

“There, you’re not overset from your tumble into the shrubbery, are you, Lady Mariah?” He watched until understanding filled her face. She had been in the garden a long time, and someone would ask her why. She would have to explain the dirt on her gown, as well as any scrapes or marks Dexter might have left on her, and Harry offered her a reason that didn’t require a rescuer. For both their sakes, his part in the evening must remain unknown.

“No,” she murmured. “But it was so very fortunate you happened along at that moment, sir. I was never so happy in all my life to see anyone as I was you.”

Harry nodded as lust swelled and surged within him. Keep going, he told himself. They had reached the steps of the garden. Light from the mansion spilled out onto the grass, and anyone could see them. He stumped doggedly forward, right to the edge of the small terrace, and stopped. He turned to her and bowed. “I am relieved to hear it. I hope you are able to enjoy the rest of the evening.”

“Yes, thank you.” She released his arm and stepped away.

Harry lowered his head, and she bobbed a quick curtsy. Over her shoulder he could see her father striding toward them.

“Come to me tonight,” she breathed.

Her words went straight to his groin, and Harry forced a grim smile, groping in his pocket for a handkerchief and hoping no one noticed his state. “I am always pleased to be of service. Ah, good evening, sir.” He looked up into the earl’s stony face.

“Wroth.” Doncaster barely acknowledged him as he took his daughter’s hand. “Mariah, where have you been?”

“I stumbled over a tree root, Papa, and fell into the shrubbery. Lord Wroth was kind enough to walk me back to the house.”

Doncaster glanced his way again, a measuring look. “My thanks, Wroth.”

Harry inclined his head. “I could not overlook a young lady in distress. I was delighted to be of some slight assistance.”

The earl nodded once. “Indeed. We shan’t detain you any longer, sir. I shall see to my daughter now.”

Harry bowed to Mariah. Then he excused himself and shuffled away, saying a prayer of thanks that Doncaster obviously still saw him as an old man and nothing more.

That ought to be the end of his work tonight. He’d watched Doncaster carefully, noting whom he spoke to and even lingering close enough to know of what he spoke. He hadn’t seen anything exceptional in the earl’s words or actions—but that was proof of nothing. He would still have to get inside the house and look, unfortunately, or persuade Brandon to do it. So far he hadn’t dared speak to his fellow agents about Stafford’s true purpose, but he was forced to admit he was making no progress on his own.

He left without taking leave of the host. Stafford continued to procure invitations to events that Doncaster, Crane, and Bethwell attended, but Harry felt free of his obligation to shadow them as he had before. He found a hackney and gave the Fenton Lane direction. Phipps could pay for the long drive back across the river. Besides, tonight he was sure it would be fatal to go near Doncaster House, where Mariah would be waiting for him...

Harry balled up his fist and rapped himself on the forehead. No matter how desperately he wished it, he had no right to go to her, no right to hold her close and soothe her fears, no right to promise her that he would never let anyone else hurt her ever again. He had no right to kiss her when she raised her lips to his, no right to touch her with the possessiveness he had almost killed Dexter for attempting.

No right at all. And it was killing him.

* * *

“Mariah, are you hurt?” her father asked in concern.