His Scandalous Kiss: Secrets at Thorncliff Manor: 6 (9 page)

“I think it also helps you clear your head,” Amy noted.

“Yes,” Mary agreed. She crossed to the wardrobe and pulled the door open, searching for her dark green velvet spencer. Finding
it, she began slipping her arms through the sleeves while Amy helped hold it in place. “I need to sing,” she repeated.

“Allow me to accompany you, my lady.”

Mary shook her head. “We have been over this before. If my aunt comes looking for me, then you must be here to offer an excuse
on my behalf.”

“I doubt that she would do such a thing, given the late hour.”

“It is not that late—only ten o’clock—and when I came upstairs, she had not yet retired.”

Amy blinked. “It seems her schedule has changed since coming here.” She helped Mary button up her spencer, then handed her
a pair of kidskin gloves. “Nevertheless, I dislike the idea of you venturing out alone like this, in the dark, no less.”

“I have done so before without issue.” Since accidentally discovering a cave during her first few days at Thorncliff, Mary
had practiced her singing there a couple of times already. Granted, that was before Rotridge had shown an interest in her.
She’d deliberately avoided telling Amy about her encounter with him the previous evening.

Amy did not look convinced. “I tried to dissuade you then as well, and I shall continue to do so until you see reason. What
if something were to happen to you? What do I tell your aunt then?”

Placing her hand against Amy’s shoulder, Mary told her seriously, “If anything were to happen to me, then you must tell her
the truth.” She retrieved her hand. “But you must not worry. I will be perfectly fine.”

Amy sighed with resignation. “If only you would enjoy needlework and poetry like other young ladies.”

“I find such activities far too tedious, and besides, I am not like other young ladies.”

“No, you certainly are not.” Crossing her arms, Amy said, “Your aunt will have both our heads if she ever finds out.”

Mary nodded. “Yes. She will.”

“And yet you still insist on going through with this?” Amy shook her head. “It is unwise.”

“It is necessary!” Softening her tone, Mary said, “Besides, she has not discovered what I am up to yet, and it has already
been two years.”

“I hope you are right,” Amy said as she helped Mary put on her cloak, “because in my experience, secrets always have a way
of surfacing.”

Unwilling to argue the point, Mary wished her maid a pleasant evening, accepted the lantern that she offered her, and slipped
out of the room and into the dimly lit hallway beyond.

Sipping a cup of coffee that Spencer had brought up to his bedchamber a short while earlier, Richard stood, surrounded by
darkness, and looked out at the silhouetted shapes of the garden. He hadn’t been able to sleep during the day, his mind consumed
by thoughts of Lady Mary, of what she’d said about appearances and character . . . of her beauty.

Seeing Rotridge so close to her, against her will, nonetheless, had put him in a rage. Perhaps because of her innocence—the
knowledge that she was untouched by any man—pure, but with great passion simmering beneath the surface. He hadn’t thought
twice about tossing the earl aside, barely resisting the temptation to pummel him. Discipline had helped keep him in check.
That, along with the disturbing thought of allowing Lady Mary to witness such brutality.

So he hadn’t slept as he usually did during the day, though not for lack of trying. Eventually he’d tossed the sheets aside
and risen, allowing himself the luxury of peering out at the garden from between a thin parting in the curtains, only to see
her in Belgrave’s company.

Even now, the anger he felt at the memory of it was acute. More so now that he knew her true position on marriage—that the
right man might stand a chance. God help him if he didn’t want to be that man. For although they’d met only twice before,
they had been two remarkable times. And the letter . . .
I could not help but feel a certain connection with you.
She might not have made any promises, but with that comment, she’d bound them together anyway. Surely she wouldn’t say such
a thing only to encourage another gentleman’s favor?

He thought back. Belgrave had made her laugh. Richard felt his shoulders tense. He gritted his teeth. What the devil had Belgrave
said that she’d found so amusing? Closing his eyes, he leaned forward, setting his forehead against the cool glass of the
window and expelling a deep breath. He couldn’t even compete for her hand on equal terms. Not looking the way he did. Not
when he didn’t want anyone to know that he was even at Thorncliff. In England. Alive.

Her hand . . . In marriage
.

Impossible.

Leaning back, he set his coffee cup aside. He didn’t know her well enough to entertain such thoughts, had not so much as kissed
her yet. But he wanted to. Desperately. And the idea of forming a more permanent attachment sent a thrill through him. Perhaps
because it had been so long since he’d been with a woman? No. It wasn’t just that. It was her—the kindness she emitted, the
intelligence brimming in her eyes, her openness and the way in which she responded to him. There was an attraction between
them that stirred his blood, tempting him to forget his plans and all that he’d worked for these past five years. If he was
wise, he would keep his distance from her so he could focus on what still remained to be done.

The terrace door opened below and Richard watched as a woman stepped out, light flickering from the lantern she carried. It
was her. He knew it even though she’d pulled the hood of her cloak up over her head. Mesmerized, Richard watched as she crossed
the terrace to the right as if she were heading toward the same place where she’d invited him the previous evening. But she
hadn’t invited him tonight, which made him wonder about where she might be going and, more to the point, whom she might be
planning to meet. Belgrave, perhaps? The thought rankled.

Letting the curtain slide back into place, Richard spun away from the window and grabbed his mask and cloak from the wardrobe,
putting them on as he crossed to the wall-panel next to the bed. A slight nudge was all it took for it to spring open, revealing
the passageway through which he always found his way in and out of the house.

Snatching the lantern that stood on his bedside table, he stepped inside the narrow passageway and closed the wall behind
him. It didn’t take long for him to exit into the stairwell he’d shown Lady Mary, descending at a pace that quickly led him
through the small antechamber and into the garden beyond.

Taking a moment, he glanced around, hoping for a hint of Lady Mary’s whereabouts. Met by nothing but darkness, he started
in the direction of the Greek folly, his hasty footsteps grating against the graveled pathway until he stepped onto the lawn.
Hidden behind a row of trees, this part of the garden had been divided into long walkways, interspersed by neatly trimmed
grass quadrants. The folly stood to the right, but further along, to the left of it, a tiny dot of light acted like a beacon—there,
then gone, then there again, according to Lady Mary’s movements.

She shouldn’t be out here like this, late at night and alone. It wasn’t safe. He hurried after her, eager to know her purpose.
If Belgrave was involved, he was not as honorable as Richard had thought him to be, but an irresponsible cad, luring her so
far away from the house. Richard clenched his fists. But if he
wasn’t
involved . . . some of the tension eased from Richard’s body as he considered that possibility, even though he couldn’t fathom
what else might have prompted her to show so little regard for her own safety, let alone her reputation if someone happened
to see her.

The light disappeared through between some bushes toward a part of the property that Richard had never visited before. Drawing
closer, he realized that there wasn’t even a proper path here, just a narrow gap that led him through to a wide slope. Glancing
down, he saw the light some distance below, moving off to the right. He muttered a curse. The woman was clearly mad to risk
coming here in the dark. If she were to fall and hurt herself, nobody would even hear her calling for help.

Careful of his own steps, Richard had no choice but to move more slowly than before as he descended toward the flat ground
below. His chest was tight with concern for the lady by the time he reached it. Was she not aware of the peril she placed
herself in by venturing this far from Thorncliff? Having vanished from view, Richard could only continue in the general direction
that he’d seen her go, his lantern casting a steady glow against the slope as it grew in height by his side. The grass upon
it gradually disappeared, giving way to the jagged outlines of rocks. His heart beat faster. This was no place for any woman.
He considered calling her name and letting his presence be known. If this
was
Belgrave’s doing, Richard would have no qualms with letting the viscount know that he thought him an ass and an utter scoundrel
for suggesting such a hazardous location for his midnight rendezvous with her.

A faint sound drifted toward him, carried upon the breeze like a boat upon a wave. Holding still, Richard listened as it hummed
through him, heightening each sensation. A melodious tune that couldn’t be mistaken for anything else:
Singing
. His stomach contracted with pleasure. It couldn’t possibly be her, could it? And yet he knew, before he found the parting
amidst the rocks, before he stepped between them, and before he rounded the corner to discover the vast cavern that awaited . . .
he knew without a doubt that it was her. And so it was; her voice loud and clear, filled with light and goodness as it soared
through the air—a creature released within this secret place beneath the ground where no one else would ever hear it.

Turning down the flame of his lantern, Richard set it aside and leaned into the darkness, fearful that she might stop her
song if she noticed his presence. He recognized the piece immediately. It was one of his favorites—
Porgi, Amor
, from Mozart’s
Marriage of Figaro
. He’d heard it a dozen times before he’d gone to war, though never with this degree of pure talent. It was so unexpected
that he practically forgot to breathe.

Turned slightly away from him as she sang, he could only see the profile of her face, partly concealed by shadows. Even so,
there was no mistaking the raw emotion that she shared through her voice. It filled the cavern, wrapping itself around him
as he stood there, confounded by her skill and her passion for the music. He’d noted it when they’d first met, but this . . .
he had no words for it. She was like a supernatural being descended from the heavens to convey a message from God.

Responding to each and every note—to the rise and fall of the song, his soul seemed to extend beyond the confines of his own
body, reaching out to share in the divinity of the moment. But then she turned, muted as she met his gaze, and he realized
that in his captivated state of awe, he’d stepped away from the darkness and gone toward her, like a sailor lured by a mystical
siren.

Mary caught her breath, her skin prickling with tiny bursts of heat the moment she saw him. “Why are you here?” She had to
say something in order to break the strange silence now hanging between them. Knowing that he’d heard her—that he’d spied
a part of her soul—unnerved her in the most peculiar way. Indeed, he might as well have caught her in a state of complete
undress for all the difference it made.

“I was worried about your safety,” he said as he stepped further into the light. She’d placed her lantern on top of a large
rock, the warm glow now casting him in yellow tones that shifted as he moved.

Swallowing, she gave a small nod, accepting his reply. “You saw me leave the house?”

“I did.” He stopped his progress and glanced around. “This place is quite a surprise. How on earth did you find it?”

She shrugged one shoulder. “I discovered it one day when I was out for my morning walk.”

His eyes met hers from behind his mask, their dark perusal sending a shiver down her spine. “And do you often go wandering
about on your own? Without a chaperone and far away from anyone who might be able to help you in case the need should arise?”

Her breaths quickened slightly in response to his censure. “You think me foolhardy for coming here alone at night.”

“Considering what happened yesterday with Rotridge, much closer to the house than this and in the open, you cannot be surprised.”
His tone was sharper than before.

“It is not the first time that I have come here,” she said, determined to show him that she knew what she was doing. “Nobody
has ever followed me before.”

“Until now,” he told her gruffly. “It was difficult not to notice you, Lady Mary. Anyone keeping a lookout would have done
so.” He dropped his tone to a softer one. “And if they had happened to be the malevolent sort, you might have found yourself
in grave danger.”

Her breath hitched a little as he stared back at her from across the distance, aware that a man did not necessarily have to
have ill intentions for him to be a threat. She swallowed the thought even as she wished for him to come closer. “This is
the only place where I can sing,” she said, hoping to direct his attention away from the danger she courted by coming here.

“And considering how well you do it, I daresay that you should be allowed to continue singing, undisturbed by anyone.”

“Thank you,” she whispered.

He tilted his head. “Does your aunt know about this . . . hobby of yours?”

She almost laughed at the idea of her singing being considered a hobby, reminded that although he’d witnessed her performance
just now, he had no idea of how vital it was to her life. “Of course not. She would think it scandalous. Anyone would, thanks
to the ill repute of opera singers.”

Richard grunted. “I am sure they simply do what they must in order to survive.”

Mary knew that wasn’t quite true. For some perhaps, but not for all. There were those whose salaries were high enough to allow
for a comfortable life without lowering themselves to the same level as a demimondaine. But she chose not to argue, saying
instead, “You are probably right, but that does not change the
ton
’s
view on the matter.”

He took a step in her direction. “Perhaps not. So I shall make a bargain with you.”

“What?” Hidden away beneath her chest, her heart thrummed away at an increasingly rapid pace.

Another couple of steps brought him closer still. “I will promise to keep your secret safe on one condition.”

He halted before her, just a few feet away, and she sucked in a breath. Panic struck her unawares at the realization of the
power he now held over her. Was he aware of it? Squaring her shoulders, she tried to appear confident—unperturbed by his proposal—praying
that it worked. “What are you suggesting?” Thankfully, her voice showed no signs of distress.

Closing the distance between them with two swift strides, he brought his hand to her cheek, tilting her head until she was
staring up at him, her composure failing in response to his touch. Her heart quickened as the comforting warmth he provided
flowed through her, contorting her stomach and weakening her knees. “You touched my soul with your voice.” He spoke with wonder,
then blinked as if the words surprised him.

The sincerity in them—the importance—filled her with undeniable pleasure. “You know my secret now.” Though far from all of
it. “Will you share yours with me?”

He drew away. Distance fell between them. “I doubt that either one of us is ready for that just yet.” He didn’t have to say
that he wasn’t sure they ever would be for her to know that the thought was there, at the forefront of his mind. “As to my
condition for keeping yours . . .”

Apprehension made her stiffen. “Name it,” she told him boldly.

He eyed her for a moment before saying, “You may come here as often as you like, but only with my escort.”

The idea of keeping his company on a more regular basis, whenever she required it, sent a thrill straight through her. “I
accept,” she said, unable to keep from smiling. He stared at her in silence. A long drawn-out moment followed, until she had
to struggle not to fidget beneath his gaze. Eventually he nodded, and she expelled a deep breath, startled not only by the
fact that he was willing to accept her for who she was, but by how relieved she was by that. “Shall I sing some more?” She
felt completely exposed now, as if he knew too much about her while she knew next to nothing about him. The knowledge brought
a degree of awkwardness with it that she desperately wished to escape from. Singing would allow her to do precisely that.

Inclining his head, he took a step back. “Are you familiar with the Queen of the Night’s second aria from
The Magic Flute
?”

“Indeed, I know it very well.”

“Then that is what I should like to hear, if you would be willing to oblige me.” He moved toward some large rocks protruding
from the ground at the base of the cavern wall, away from the light. Taking a seat, he leaned toward the shadows, cocooning
himself until he blended into the background.

Mary took a few breaths, her nerves now rioting with the knowledge of his presence. Her heart was beating furiously against
her chest while her hands had long since grown clammy. For the first time ever, she felt as though she might be sick from
the unease roiling around inside her stomach. Which of course was silly. It wasn’t the first time that she would be singing
in front of another person, though it would be the first time that she would be doing so as herself.

Clasping her hands together before her, she turned away from where he sat and where her lantern stood, and stared into the
darkness. The first few notes were hesitant—too soft and tremulous for her own liking. She closed her eyes, gave herself up
to the music . . . listening, as her voice grew stronger, rising and falling with flawless clarity as it resonated around
her. Gradually, everything fell away, including herself, until all that remained was the song.

It wasn’t until it drew to a close, dying upon her lips, that she became aware of the tears pooling behind her eyes and the
ache that filled her chest—a common occurrence whenever she allowed the music to take control of her senses. A second of silence
followed. She drew a breath, and then, the sound of clapping, reminding her that she wasn’t alone.

“Remarkable,” she heard him say from somewhere close behind her, informing her that he’d come toward her once more. What surprised
her the most, however, was the sound of his voice. It was raw with emotion, as if he too had been brought to tears by the
song.

She prepared to turn, to face him with the hope of somehow returning to some sense of normalcy. But before she could manage
to do so, she felt the warmth of him against her back—the hard contour of his chest, just before his arm came around her,
securing her in place. A gasp escaped from between her lips, and she instinctively stiffened against him.

“Shh . . .” His voice was tender against her ear. “You know that I mean you no harm.”

Her body relaxed and she allowed herself to lean back against his strength. “You should not be touching me like this.” And
yet she wanted him to, even as she heard herself say, “It is not proper.”

He chuckled—a low rumble that coiled its way around her. “Indeed, it is far from it, but I cannot seem to stop myself.” He
spread his fingers against her waist. “You are the light to which I am drawn.”

“And you are the darkness that lets me shine,” she whispered. His mask was cool against the side of her neck, but his body
was all heat, cascading through her and making her want things she’d never wanted before. “I cannot seem to escape you.”

“Do you wish to?”

A simple question, the answer to which she sensed would direct their future. “No.” His hold on her tightened. “I wish to know
you.”

Without warning, he pulled away, leaving her cold. She turned, addressing his back. “Tell me about the war, your childhood . . .
anything that will allow me to form a clearer image of the man you are.”

He paused, considering her request before looking back at her over his shoulder. Their eyes met, and his body immediately
responded, recalling how good it had felt to hold her in his arms only moments earlier. She’d been so soft and warm, perfectly
molded against his firmer contours. It occurred to him that he would have liked to remain like that forever. Lord, it seemed
like a lifetime since he’d been that close to a woman.

Inhaling deeply, he tried to return to a more relaxed state of being. He blamed the song for his momentary lack of propriety—that,
and the beauty she exuded. And yet he’d chosen to use it against her, threatening her with her secret while she had accepted
his proposal without the slightest degree of anger or even irritation. He owed her something in return. “No man, who has ever
been to war, returns the way he was before he left. It changes you . . . affects you . . . in ways you cannot possibly imagine.”

A long moment of silence passed between them before she eventually asked, “Did you lose many friends?”

He turned more fully toward her. “When you witness the kind of devastation war causes, it no longer matters if they were your
friends or not. All you can think of is that they were living, breathing people; fathers, brothers, sons. Their loss was unacceptable,
even if I did not know them personally.”

She nodded as if she understood, even though she couldn’t. Not really.

“The truth is,” he found himself saying, “that none of us wanted to be there, even though we all pretended otherwise. At least
in the beginning, before the fighting started.” The memory of what had followed pulled him back into the past, flooding his
mind with images he’d rather forget.

“And then?” she prompted.

He blinked, startled by her sudden proximity. “Seeing men blown to pieces by canon fire, trampled to death by horses as they
lay wounded in the mud, wandering aimlessly about with missing limbs . . . horrifying does not come close to describing the
brutality of it.”

“I cannot imagine what it must have been like.”

“Nobody can. Not unless they were there.” A memory surfaced—blonde hair tied with blue ribbons. “There was a girl, perhaps
sixteen years old. She was French.” He could still hear her screams.
Laisse-moi! Je t'en supplie!
“Some British soldiers—my own countrymen—had captured her during an unsanctioned raiding party in Lille. They snatched her
from the street and brought her back to camp with them, almost eighty miles away from her home.”

“What did they want from her?”

He could tell from her voice that she dreaded the answer, so he decided to spare her the details. “Something they never got.”

Her eyes widened with understanding. “You fought your fellow soldiers in order to save a Frenchwoman?”

“It was the right thing to do.” He shook his head. “The war brought out the worst in those men. They deserved the beating
I gave them and the dishonorable discharge issued by Wellington after I told him of their actions.” A flash of bare limbs
twisted beneath the torn fabric of a gown shot through his mind. The girl had been bruised and battered by the time he’d found
her, but she’d muttered an almost inaudible,
merci
, when he’d set her down in front of her parents’ house the following day.

“Will you tell me how you sustained your own injuries?”

Blinking, Richard focused his mind on the present and on the woman standing before him. He’d known the question would come—had
suspected that she must have figured it out—and yet it still caught him off guard. His shoulders tensed and his heart rate
accelerated, as was always the case when he thought back to the moment when his face had been taken from him. “I was captured,”
he said, pushing the words past the knot in his throat. “It was a reconnaissance mission, ordered by the Duke of Wellington.
I volunteered along with a few others, but something went wrong and . . .” He winced, sensing the blind rage that threatened
to consume as he recalled the betrayal, forcing it back so she would not see. He took a deep breath, expelled it, aware that
his nails were digging into the palms of his hands as he clenched his fists. Willing himself to relax, he told her bitterly,
“The French wanted information. They decided to burn me in order to get it.”

Pain captured her features, twisting them with anguish on his behalf. “I am so sorry,” she whispered.

“You must not pity me!” The words whipped through the air, echoing around them.

“I do not,” she told him gently. “But I cannot help but feel a tremendous amount of sadness for what you have been through.
Nobody should have to experience such a thing.”

Soothed by the goodness she exuded, he felt his anger dissipate. “I agree.” Shifting, he took her by the hand. “Spending time
with you allows me to forget. When we are together, I feel like the man I once was.”

“Before the war?”

He nodded. “I used to be social. Now I choose to live alone, surrounded by no one.”