His Scandalous Kiss: Secrets at Thorncliff Manor: 6 (13 page)

He shook his head. “I feel as though it would be wrong of me to remove it from here. We can come back tomorrow, preferably
at an earlier hour if you can manage it.” Turning toward her, he forced her back a step. “But if your aunt discovers that
you are not in your bed where you are supposed to be—”

“I claimed a headache like you suggested and insisted upon a good night’s rest,” Mary said, determined to argue his point.
“She will not disturb me.”

“Nevertheless,” he insisted, already pulling her toward the door. “If she finds you gone, then you can forget about coming
back here any time soon or of ever seeing me again.”

Knowing how right he was, Mary reluctantly followed him out of the room, surprised to discover that it was almost two o’clock
in the morning by the time she returned to her bedchamber. She’d spent over three hours in Richard’s company, yet the time
had flown by, making it feel like no time at all.

Careful not to make a sound that might wake Amy, whom Mary had insisted should go to bed, Mary snuck inside her room and closed
the door gently behind her. It didn’t take too long for her to undress, thanks to the gown she’d selected, which wrapped across
her front and fastened at her sides. Letting down her hair, she then pulled on her nightgown, attended to her toilette and
climbed into bed before retrieving the book that she’d brought up earlier in the day from the library:
Debrett’s Peerage and Baronetage
.

Fluffing up her pillow, she leaned back with the book in her lap and opened it, determined to get a better idea of who Richard
might be. He’d mentioned siblings, and the way in which he’d spoken of his parents suggested that they were still alive. Considering
all the people she’d seen at dinner since her arrival at Thorncliff, Mary looked up each family in turn, checking to see if
any of the peers had a son, or even a nephew, named Richard.

Of course, there was every possibility that he might have given her another fake name. In fact, the thought had just occurred
to her by the time she reached the Earl of Oakland’s family. Her index finger trailed below the fine print listing the earl’s
name, his date of birth, title and parentage, along with other relevant information. Next was a mention of his wife, with
similar details attached, followed by their
issue
: Christopher Maxwell Heartly, Viscount Spencer, born, 1790. Below him, Mary found Spencer’s sister, the Duchess of Stonegate’s
name, along with a mention of her previous marriage to the Earl of Newbury, and then . . . Richard Anthony Heartly.

Her breath caught and she sat up straighter, leaned forward and continued to read. Born, February 27, 1795, at Oakland Manor
in Wiltshire near Swindon. Fought at the battle of Waterloo, 1815. Reported missing in action.

It had to be him. The coincidences were just too great.

Setting the book aside, Mary scooted down beneath her blankets and turned down the light. Her heart felt jittery. No wonder
Lady Duncaster had been willing to vouch for him. She’d been right. Richard . . . Mr. Heartly, that was . . . did indeed come
from a very good family. And if she married him . . . Good lord, she could scarcely breathe at the very thought of such a
possibility.

She bit her bottom lip, not wanting to ruin her excitement with thoughts of her brother and the duty that she had toward him.
Wincing, she turned on her side. Mr. Heartly worried that she would not care for his appearance, but at least his actions
were commendable. She, on the other hand, was a scandal waiting to be discovered. And yet, he had approved of her singing,
so perhaps he’d understand? Perhaps he might even be willing to help her deal with her brother’s difficulties? It would be
so much easier to share the burden with someone, but would he be open to the idea or would he judge her harshly for what she’d
chosen to do?

One thing was certain: she wouldn’t know until she told him the truth.

“Are you feeling all right, my dear?” Mary’s aunt asked. The two of them were sitting in the zoological salon where wildlife
murals of exotic animals and plants graced the walls.

“Perfectly so,” Mary said, a little surprised by the question. “Why do you ask?”

“Because it has not escaped me that you have been rising later than usual for several days now.” Lady Foxworth peered at Mary
from behind her spectacles. A maid arrived with a knock at the door, bustling in with the tea tray the ladies had ordered.
As soon as she was gone, Lady Foxworth said, “I fear you might be ill.”

“Well, if you will recall, I have had a headache almost every evening for close to a week,” Mary said, reaching for the teapot
and beginning to pour. “And then of course there is my ankle to consider.” Much to her annoyance, she’d sprained it three
days earlier, preventing her from exploring the villa any further. The only positive outcome had been Richard’s insistence
on carrying her to and from the cave so she could at least continue singing.

“My point exactly.”

“But I feel much better now.” Eying her aunt, Mary slid one of the teacups across the table in her direction. “I have had
to socialize a great deal more than usual since coming here so the rest required by my injury was not completely unwelcome.”

Sipping her tea, Lady Foxworth nodded. “Yes, it can be quite exhausting, having to speak to other people all day, though I
must admit that I do enjoy the change. It is a departure from our otherwise tranquil life.”

Mary didn’t argue, though she did momentarily wonder how her aunt would react if she knew that Mary’s life was far from tranquil.
“How are things progressing with Mr. Young?” she dared ask. “Has he shown you any of his experiments?”

Lady Foxworth’s eyes lit up. “Oh, indeed he has! Truthfully, he is such a kind man, Mary. I have enjoyed his company immensely
these past few days and shall hope to continue doing so.”

“I am pleased to hear it,” Mary said, and then she added, “You should invite him to Dunholm in the fall. I am sure Vicar Brinsley
would be happy to have him stay at his home for a week so that Mr. Young can call on you at Foxworth House during the day.”

“I . . . I really don’t know,” Lady Foxworth hedged, her cheeks flaming as she dropped her gaze to her lap. “I am not so sure
that we know each other well enough yet for me to suggest such a thing.”

“Perhaps not yet, but I do believe that you will by the time we leave Thorncliff.” Mary paused a moment before adding, “Imagine
showing him your telescope, Aunt Eugenia. I daresay he would be quite impressed!”

The smile that graced Lady Foxworth’s lips belonged to that of a young girl fresh out of the school-room. Raising her gaze,
she looked at Mary. “I think you might be right about that.” She reached for a sweetmeat and turned a little more serious.
“But what about you? How are you progressing with the young gentlemen here? Do you find either Rotridge or Belgrave pleasing?”

Suppressing a shudder, Mary sat up a little straighter and proceeded to tell her aunt the truth. “Belgrave has proven himself
to be most agreeable—a true gentleman through and through.”

Lady Foxworth inclined her head. “This sounds promising.”

“Except for the fact that there is no spark.”

“No spark?”

“Precisely. In fact, I fear a marriage between the two of us would be somewhat bland and . . . lacking any degree of passion.”

Lady Foxworth’s eyebrows rose. “Have you been reading fanciful novels recently?”

Mary shook her head. “No, but if I marry—”

“
If
you marry?” Lady Foxworth’s eyes widened with horror while her voice conveyed her alarm.

Mary bit her lip. “What I meant to say was
when
.” Her aunt breathed a visible sigh of relief, as did Mary. The fact that she’d seriously been considering spinsterhood until
recently wasn’t a conversation that she wished to endure at present. “When I marry, I would like for it to be for love. Mama
and Papa have both allowed me to try and do so.”

“And how much longer do you suppose that will take?” Lady Foxworth raised an eyebrow. “In my estimation you are extremely
fortunate to have gained Belgrave’s attention. To receive an offer from him would be quite splendid.”

Mary was aware. But her heart could not be controlled by the promise of a title. Instead she found herself increasingly drawn
to a man whose face she’d not yet seen, though she knew it to be scarred. He didn’t know that she’d discovered his true identity
and she had made no further mention of any desire that she might have to see his face. Instead, she allowed him the time that
he needed to accustom himself to the idea of her knowing him so well.

“Mary?”

She blinked, her mind abandoning the memory of the time that she and Richard had spent in each other’s company these past
few days and the pleasure that she felt when she sang for him. Instead, she forced herself to return to the conversation that
she was having with her aunt. “You are right, Aunt Eugenia. But I need to know that I am making the right choice before I
commit to spending the rest of my life with someone. And frankly, if I am to be honest with myself, none of the eligible bachelors
I have met since my debut has been able to hold my interest. Not even Belgrave.”

Lady Foxworth snorted. “If you ask me, they cannot all be lacking, Mary. Are you sure the problem does not lie with you?”

Mary sat back. “With me?”

Lady Foxworth nodded sharply. “You are too picky.”

Of course she was, but she wasn’t about to admit that. Instead she countered with, “I liked Signor Antonio well enough. A
pity that you would not allow me to spend more time in
his
company or I might have been on my way to the altar already.” A stretch perhaps, but a valid argument nonetheless. At least
to Mary’s way of thinking.

“You must understand why I could not allow for you to continue associating with him.” Lady Foxworth paused a moment before
adding, “Although, if he is a guest here, as he surely must be, then you must have crossed paths with him since the night
of the masquerade. He has to be one of the gentlemen among us, which means that unless he happens to be Lord Belgrave, then
he has yet to approach you without wearing his costume. The fact that he has not done so only confirms the fact that he is
not deserving of you.”

Mary felt her lips flatten in a tight smile. As always, her aunt’s thought process was logical, even though it happened to
be completely wrong in this instance. But Mary couldn’t tell her that. Not without the risk of being prevented from seeing
Richard again. So she simply nodded her head in agreement and said, “You are probably right.” Determined to return to their
initial topic, she said, “As for Rotridge, however, please don’t ask me to spend more time with him.”

Lady Foxworth frowned. “Has he done something to displease you?”

Mary didn’t want to talk about how disturbed she was by the earl’s strange advances, but she didn’t want to lie any more than
necessary either, so without answering the question, she said, “He has made it clear to me that he requires an heir.”

“So . . . not the love match you were hoping for?” Mary shook her head. Lady Foxworth raised her chin and studied Mary closely.
“It is not an uncommon reason though, for marrying someone, that is. Perhaps there is something else that I ought to know
about?”

Mary’s shoulders slumped. She averted her gaze. “He enjoys sniffing my hair.”

A brief silence clung to the air between them. “How positively peculiar,” Lady Foxworth eventually said.

“I did not enjoy it in the least,” Mary admitted. “In fact, there was something horribly unnerving about it—like being forced
to sit still while a large spider crawls all over you.”

“An unpleasant experience indeed,” Lady Foxworth murmured. “I shall have a word with Lady Duncaster, but I doubt she can ask
him to leave unless there were witnesses.”

“There were not,” Mary said. Richard wasn’t an option.

“Nevertheless, I will make every effort to ensure that he keeps his distance from you from now on. A pity since you would
have ended up spending part of the year as your grandfather’s neighbor. I know how fond you are of him.”

It was true. Mary had always been close to her paternal grandfather—perhaps because she’d been her father’s only child. “I
would rather visit him a bit more often than marry Rotridge in order to become his neighbor.”

Lady Foxworth nodded sadly. “And to think that I was encouraging you to spend more time with him!”

Seeing the distressed look in her aunt’s eyes, Mary leaned forward and clasped her hands between her own. “Please, you must
not blame yourself, Aunt. You are not at fault here.”

Lady Foxworth nodded. “No, but apparently I have more work ahead of me than I had thought. Since neither Belgrave nor Rotridge
will do, we must consider other gentlemen if you are to leave Thorncliff with an agreeable offer.” She rose to her feet while
Mary tried not to look too dissatisfied by such an idea. “Not to worry though. I asked Lady Duncaster to make a list of the
most eligible gentlemen currently staying here, as well as those who plan to arrive before we depart. There are fifteen in
total.”

Mary’s mouth dropped open as she followed her aunt out into the hallway.
Fifteen gentlemen for her to consider?
The fact that they might not be willing to consider
her
was apparently not a possibility worth mentioning. It was however a fact that was further compounded by the unexpected presence
of Lord Rotridge in the hallway. He was standing a short distance away, his eyes on the parlor door as Mary and her aunt made
their exit. Bowing his head toward Mary the instant their eyes met, he remained where he was while she and her aunt began
heading in the opposite direction.

“Come along,” Lady Foxworth said as she drifted toward the French doors leading out onto the terrace, her tone so light and
airy that Mary doubted she’d noticed Rotridge’s presence. “If you hurry, you ought to have enough time to take a walk with
Lord Toncham before luncheon.”

Knowing better than to argue, Mary bit back the immediate comment that formed on her tongue about Toncham rhyming with luncheon.
She tried not to smile and surrendered herself to her aunt’s incessant attempts at matchmaking instead, convinced that none
of the gentlemen Lady Duncaster had suggested could possibly be worse than the man who was currently staring at her back as
she hurried away, following her aunt.

“There is something different about you,” Spencer said as he studied Richard. Leaning back in his chair with his legs stretched
out before him, Spencer took a sip of his drink before adding, “You look suspiciously happy.”

Richard raised an eyebrow. “
Suspiciously
happy? What the hell is that supposed to mean?” He knew the answer of course. The fact that he’d actually been smiling for
the first time in five years, in spite of his best efforts not to, had apparently not gone unnoticed.

Spencer tilted his head to one side in a ponderous way that caused Richard to square his shoulders. “It means that I am extremely
curious to know the reason behind that ridiculous grin that you have begun wearing.”

“I am
not
wearing a ridiculous grin,” Richard protested.

“You were, just a moment ago. Now you look as though you might like to wring my neck.” Spencer frowned. “What is going on?”

Rising from his chair, Richard crossed to the sideboard and poured himself another drink—his third, that evening. “Nothing,”
he said with a shrug. Spencer did not respond to that, and when Richard turned with the intention of resuming his seat, he
found him staring at him. His brother was clearly not convinced. Expelling a deep breath, Richard made a noncommittal gesture
with his hand. “Very well. If you must know, I have been re-reading
The Dark Secret of Mistletoe Forest
.” He would not,
could
not, mention Mary.

Spencer gave him an odd look. “Really?”

Richard nodded, took a swig of his brandy and said, with the most serious expression he could muster, “Really.” And then,
“You should give it a try yourself. It is terribly amusing.”

Spencer looked increasingly uncertain. “I think I will take your word for that.”

Richard shrugged, took another sip of his drink and asked, “Have you and Sarah discussed a wedding trip yet? I suspect that
the two of you must be eager to get away and spend some time alone with each other.” And just like that, the conversation
changed course, directed away from Richard and his suspicious happiness.

When Spencer eventually left Richard’s room half an hour later, Richard leaned back against the door and breathed a sigh of
relief. Jesus, he had to be more careful about his facial expressions.

But it was difficult not to smile, considering how wonderful he felt. Mary was a godsend, her positive nature brightening
his nights, chipping away at the melancholy and the constant anger with which he’d grown accustomed. And her voice! She’d
sung for him these past few nights, and as she did, it was almost as if he could feel her reaching out and touching his heart
with her very soul. That part of him beat loudly now at the thought of seeing her again soon. He glanced toward the clock
on the mantel. Just another hour and they would be alone again, able to share each other’s company while hope blossomed around
them.

Passing the palm of his hand across his face, he considered what she’d told him a few days earlier:
take courage and trust that all will be well
. It was time, he realized as he pushed himself away from the door and went to retrieve his cloak and mask. Tonight, he would
show her his face and pray that she would indeed accept him for who he was. Sarah had been surprisingly unappalled when Spencer
had introduced her to him, but then again, she’d had no romantic aspirations as far as he was concerned, whereas Mary . . .
He feared that she was about to be terribly disappointed—that she imagined him to be something more than what he was, and
that she’d try to hide her shock as politely as possible while contemplating the number of ways in which she might escape
his company.