His Scandalous Kiss: Secrets at Thorncliff Manor: 6 (14 page)

Fastening his cape at the nape of his neck, he slid the mask into place and pulled the hood over his head. He then gave the
wall panel next to his bed a gentle push and slipped out into the passageway beyond.

It was later than Mary had hoped by the time she was able to sneak out of her bedchamber and make her way to the room where
Richard would be waiting. After dinner, her aunt had insisted that she join her for a game of cards—an invitation that had
been difficult to turn down without raising any questions. Especially since Mary had claimed to be feeling perfectly fine
earlier in the day.

The soles of her shoes tapped lightly against the stone steps as she made her way down through the hidden stairwell at the
far right corner of the house, her stomach already forming a complicated knot at the thought of the man who awaited her arrival.
He
would
still be there, wouldn’t he? It was an hour later than they’d discussed, so she couldn’t be certain. She could only hope.

With rising excitement, she hurried forward, the glow of her lantern preceding her arrival.

A deep rumble greeted her. “I was beginning to worry that you might not come.”

Mary breathed an instant sigh of relief upon seeing Richard, his shoulder resting casually against the wall as he leaned up
against it. He’d waited.

“I apologize for being so late,” she said, her eyes following his every movement as he straightened himself and came toward
her. “My aunt—”

“You need not explain.” Reaching for her hand, he turned it over and pressed the inside of her bare wrist to his lips. “I
am sure that you have a good reason for not arriving sooner.” He released her hand, producing an inexplicable flutter in her
chest. “It cannot be easy for you to get away unnoticed. At least not until your aunt has retired for the evening.”

“Thank you for understanding.”

“Think nothing of it.” He dropped his gaze. “How is your ankle?”

“Much better. It no longer hurts me to walk, so you won’t have to carry me anymore.” Her words were softly strung with silken
strands of regret.

Raising his gaze, the shimmer in his eyes plucked at her skin, the pull between them so achingly hard to resist. “A pity.”
She held her breath, her heart like a caged bird inside her chest longing to be set free. The moment stretched until he turned
away, picking up a case that Mary hadn’t noticed before. “I have brought my violin with me. I thought perhaps you might like
some accompaniment.”

“Your violin?” She looked down at the case he was holding, then returned her eyes to his. “I was not aware that you played.
You never mentioned it.”

He shrugged one shoulder. “I am not the sort of man who believes in pressing his achievements upon others. On the contrary,
I generally disapprove of such tactics.” She could only stare at him, puzzled by the fact that he’d said absolutely nothing
before. Not one word even as he’d encouraged her to sing. “But I am letting you know now,” he added.

“By bringing your violin with you,” she murmured.

He gave a curt nod. “Precisely.”

In a peculiar way, she understood. She wasn’t one to tell others about her singing either. An easy moment of silence passed
between them, and then she smiled and asked, “Are you any good?”

“I think I will let you be the judge of that.”

His voice held a note of humor, which led her to believe that he was smiling too. A pleasant thought, that—the idea that she
was able to bring some joy to a man who’d clearly lived without it for a very long time.

He offered her his arm, which she accepted, her hand slipping comfortably into place, just as it had done the evening before,
and the evening before that. And as was always the case whenever they touched, Mary’s stomach trembled a little while heat
rose to her cheeks, her heart rate accelerating just enough to leave her feeling breathless. Of course, it didn’t help that
she’d decided to tell him the truth about herself, and by the time they reached the cave, her nerves had become a tangled
mess.

“What is the matter?” he asked when they reached the place that amplified her voice the best. “You seem distressed.”

She pulled her arm away from his, simply because she could not seem to think very clearly when he was that close. “Do you . . .”

“Do I what?” His voice was strong but gentle.

Mary focused on her breaths. Slow and steady. “Do you remember when I told you that you are not the only one with secrets?
That I have mine as well?”

“Of course.” Some of the softness left his voice, cooling it a fraction. “You said you would tell me what it was as soon as
I was ready to show you my face—one secret in return for another.”

“As well as a sign of complete devotion and trust.” Stepping toward the ledge, she glanced down toward the river below, the
water barely visible, like a flat piece of glass in the dim tones of gray that surrounded it. “You might not be ready to share
your secret with me. Indeed, it is possible that you never will be. But I am ready to share mine with you.”

“Mary, you—”

“It is important,” she said, cutting him off as she turned back to face him. “Because until the truth is out in the open,
until we are each given the choice that we deserve, then we cannot possibly try to move forward.”

“I know.”

He did not approach her, but remained exactly where he was, for which she was grateful, because if he held her in his arms,
she’d likely lose her resolve. “I do not want what we have to change, Richard, and I am terrified that it will. But you deserve
to know the truth about me, for the one simple reason that I do not want you to fall in love with a lie.” The words were out
in a rush before she could think about what she was saying. A gasp followed, and then, “Forgive me. I did not mean to imply
anything. I just—”

“You should not apologize. Not when you are right.” He watched her for a long time before setting down the case he’d brought
with him and snapping it open. Wordlessly, he pulled out his violin, set it against his chin, and started to play.

In that moment, it was as if Mary’s world stopped spinning before gradually reversing its rotation. “You play beautifully,”
she said as soon as the song drew to an end. “But I did not recognize it.”

“Perhaps because you have never heard it before?” When she didn’t reply, he quietly confessed, “I wrote it myself. A couple
of years ago.”

“You are a composer?” She could scarcely believe it.

He chuckled slightly. “I would hardly call myself that.”

“Why on earth not?” She shook her head, dismissing the question and asking instead, “How many pieces have you written? Is
this the only one?”

“No,” he admitted. “There are five in total.”

“Well.” She could not think of what to say, she was so surprised, except, “I should like to hear them all!”

“Some other time perhaps.” He started to play again, but this time Mary knew the melody instantly. It was by Rossini, written
for one of his more recent operas,
La Cenerentola
. It wasn’t one that Mary had had the opportunity to sing many times, so the words came a little hesitantly at first, though
with increasing strength and certainty as she gained confidence.

She realized something as she sang, listening to the sound of her voice flowing alongside the tune of the violin, like two
souls engaging in an elaborate dance. The music was closing the space between them, creating unity and understanding on a
level that she’d never thought possible. It was like magic, in a way.

“Perfect,” Richard whispered, mirroring her thoughts as the final notes drifted off into the darkness and the song came to
a close. He sounded just as awestruck as she felt—as if they’d somehow been joined together on a higher plane of existence.
Carefully, he returned his instrument to its proper resting place before walking slowly toward her, his arms extending until
they found their way around her in a tight embrace.

They stood like that for what seemed like forever, but it was the most wonderful version of forever that Mary could possibly
imagine. “I need you to know,” she began, her voice breaking the silence. He would understand. She was certain of that now.
More certain than she’d ever been about anything else before. “I am not just Mary Bourneville. I am also Lucia Cavalani.”

Inhaling sharply, he leaned back so he could look down at her, his eyes narrowing as he did so. “The most famous opera singer
in England? That cannot be.” But in spite of what he said, his words held an edge of doubt, as though he wanted to believe
it, but couldn’t quite figure out how it might be possible.

“Why not?”

He shook his head, his arms still holding her as he seemed to puzzle this over. “How?”

Encouraged by the fact that he hadn’t let her go and that he wasn’t sounding horrified, but rather curious, she said, “I developed
a fondness for opera, for the passion that it embodies, after my parents invited me to watch
The Marriage of Figaro
for the first time. At first, I did not allow my voice full range because I didn’t want to be found out, but then one summer,
while visiting our family home in Leicestershire, I discovered a private spot in the woods where I could practice properly.”

“That does not explain how you got onto the stage—an impressive feat, by the way, considering your station.”

She drew away from him then, requiring freedom of movement as she told him of her greatest secret—the one that could ruin
not only her own reputation, but her entire family’s as well, by association. “When Mama and Papa left for India and I was
sent to live with my aunt, Lady Foxworth, she made every effort to introduce me into polite Society. I was to make a splendid
match, after all. But while her concern was in pairing me off with handsome dance partners, I took more interest in an older
gentleman who happened to attend a dinner party hosted by the Duke and Duchess of Pinehurst, to which my aunt and I were also
invited.”

“Let me guess. The gentleman in question was somehow associated with the King’s Theatre?”

She nodded. “His name is Mr. Taylor.”

“The manager himself? What a fortunate encounter that must have been for you.” He tilted his head slightly. “I assume that
you requested an audition?”

“Not exactly. At first I just told him that I was interested in taking a tour of the theatre and asked if such a thing might
be possible.” Richard said nothing in response to that but held silent instead, allowing her the time she needed to share
everything with him. “A meeting was arranged and my maid, Amy, accompanied me there.”

“And while you were there you asked if he would be interested in acquiring a new talent?”

“At the time, I did not consider my voice to be very spectacular.” Mary shrugged one shoulder. “What I initially hoped, was
that I might be able to receive some training.”

He nodded as if he understood. “And then what happened?”

Hesitating only briefly, Mary said, “Mr. Taylor was very reluctant at first and warned me of the risk to my reputation, but
then he heard me sing and . . . It did not take long for him to find a solution to the problem by suggesting that I wear a
disguise.”

“It must have been a very convincing one indeed since no one has ever suspected a thing.” His voice now conveyed a strange
mixture of admiration and concern. “You . . .”

He stiffened while Mary sucked in a breath, alerted by the crunching of pebbles, a scraping sound, and then the thud of retreating
footsteps. Spinning away from her, Richard snatched up his lantern and rushed toward the entrance of the cave. “Who goes there?”
Mary heard him call out into the darkness.

“Do you think whoever it was might have overheard our conversation?” she asked, coming up behind him.

“I am certain of it.” Without another word, he started back toward Thorncliff at a brisk pace while Mary hurried after him,
her skirts tangling around her legs now that the wind had picked up.

“So then my secret . . .” Panic began to rise inside her, tightening her chest at the thought of how reckless she’d just been.
“I should have been more careful.”

“And you were doing precisely that by confiding in me in a secret location,” he shot back angrily. “You did not know that
we were followed anymore than I did.”

Biting her lip as she reached the top of the slope and pushing past the bushes before stepping out onto the damp lawn, she
felt her heart pound painfully against her chest. “I am very much concerned that it might have been Rotridge.”

“It is a possibility,” Richard agreed, “but whoever it was, he or she is gone now, so we cannot be certain.”

They continued on in silence until they reached the door to the antechamber and he ushered her inside. “What should I do?”
She really had no idea. If Rotridge was aware of her secret identity, then there was every possibility that he might try to
use it against her. In fact, she was confident that he would.

“For now, there is no proof that you are also Lucia,” he whispered. “The best thing you can do is to refrain from returning
to the cave and from practicing your singing.”

Raising one hand, she started to reach for him, but changed her mind and hugged herself instead, too afraid of how he might
answer her next question. “What about us?”

“What you have just told me . . .” She looked away, but he caught her by the chin and angled her face toward his own. “It
changes nothing, Mary. If anything, I admire your courage.” Turning his hand, his palm met her cheek, cradling it softly while
his thumb caressed her skin. “Denying the world with the opportunity to hear your voice, would have been a tragic shame.”

Her eyes, so honest and pure, gazed up at him with transparent hopefulness. She lifted her hand, and Richard’s chest contracted
with the realization of what was to come. He wasn’t ready, but he was also acutely aware that he never would be.

“My secret in exchange for yours,” she whispered as she carefully drew his hood back, her hands skimming over his hair with
such fragile gentleness that his entire body ached. “I trust you, Richard, with my heart and with my soul. But can you trust
me?” Skimming the sides of his neck, her fingers found his shoulders and then his chest. “Will you let me see your face?”