“Good morning,” Lady Duncaster said as she slid into a chair across from Mary and beside Lady Foxworth the next day at breakfast. “I trust you both slept well?” She gazed directly at Mary as she spoke, which resulted in a sudden wave of discomfort.

“Indeed we did,” Lady Foxworth said, taking a sip of her tea.

Lady Duncaster’s eyes remained on Mary even as she ordered a slice of cake from one of the footmen standing nearby. “Good.” She seemed to relax against her seat, which in turn put Mary at greater ease. “Any plans for today?”

“Mr. Thomas Young has offered to show me one of his experiments,” Lady Foxworth said. “I am supposed to meet him in the rose garden at ten o’clock.”

“But, Aunt Eugenia, that is in only ten minutes,” Mary said.

“Oh!” Lady Foxworth’s teacup clattered against its saucer as she set it down. Pushing her chair back from the table, she rose. “If you will excuse me, I really must not keep him waiting.”

Mary hid a smile as she nodded her agreement and wished her aunt a good day.

“I do believe that she is smitten,” Lady Duncaster said as soon as Lady Foxworth was out of earshot. “It’s very much like watching a young debutant in the middle of her first Season—all giddy and such.” She stirred two lumps of sugar into her tea.

“It would be nice for her if she could find someone to make her happy,” Mary murmured.

“I agree,” Lady Duncaster said as her cake arrived. She dipped her spoon into it, denting the cream. “Love, marriage, courtship, and romance can be such a complicated business. In my opinion, everyone deserves a chance at happiness.”

Mary kept silent, aware that Lady Duncaster was referring to the brief marriage that Lady Foxworth had entered into in her youth. It had been a love match, but sadly, her husband had died only one month after the wedding. She’d shown no interest in any man since. Until now, that was, though Mary suspected her interest in Mr. Young had more to do with the man’s intellect than with his looks and that any potential relationship between the two would be based on a common interest in science more than anything else.

“How are things progressing with Lord Rotridge?” Lady Duncaster asked, her expression serene as she looked at Mary.

The unexpected question caught Mary off guard. “They are not,” she said without thinking.

The edge of Lady Duncaster’s mouth tilted. “Not your type?”

Scrunching her nose, Mary shook her head. “Not in the least.”

The countess nodded. “It is unfortunate. After all, he is both handsome and terribly wealthy. A woman could do far worse than him.”

Mary wasn’t so sure about that last part. The inexplicable insistence with which Rotridge was trying to pursue her, coupled with the fascination that he seemed to have with her hair, was far too unsettling for Mary’s liking. “Looks and fortune are not the most important attributes,” she found herself saying.

Lady Duncaster popped a large spoonful of cake into her mouth, visibly savoring the delicacy while studying Mary closely. Too closely. “Does this opinion of yours have something to do with a certain masked gentleman, by any chance?”

Lowering her gaze, Mary stared down at her empty plate. “Not at all.” A second passed before she chanced a look at Lady Duncaster from beneath her lashes and asked, “Why would it?”

Setting down her spoon, Lady Duncaster reached for her teacup and took a sip. “Because your interest in him has not diminished since the night of the ball. Rather, it has grown.” And then, “You went against your aunt’s wishes and indirectly asked me to deliver a note to him on your behalf.”

Heat washed over Mary’s entire body. “I am sorry, but I could think of no other way in which to contact him and”—casting a wary look at some of the other guests present, she lowered her voice to a whisper—“leaving things as they were seemed wrong.”

“While I appreciate your honesty, I do not like being taken advantage of,” Lady Duncaster told her crisply. “You know that your aunt is a longtime friend of mine and that it is my duty to support her wishes, yet you deliberately forced my hand.”

“I needed to see him again.” At least she was being honest about that.

Something in the old woman’s eyes shifted. “And did you?”

Mary nodded. “But he was wearing the mask again, so I have yet to see his face.”

“In other words, you are curious.” Laughter from the other end of the table caught Lady Duncaster’s attention. She looked away for a second, then smiled and said, “I suppose that is only natural.”

Mary shook her head. The strangest need to make Lady Duncaster understand, filled her. “No,” she said. “It is more than that.”

Lady Duncaster tilted her head. “Go on.”

“I feel a connection with him.” Staring into her teacup, Mary idly thumbed its edge. “It is difficult to explain.” Behind her, she could sense the footmen moving about, their precise footsteps vibrating through the floor and up the legs of the table. She watched as ripples formed in her tea, so faint they were barely visible at all.

“You do not have to,” Lady Duncaster said. “I believe I know precisely how you feel.”

“Really?” Surprised, Mary looked up, her hand jolting the cup and causing some of the tea to spill.

Lady Duncaster smiled warmly. “My husband had a similar effect on me when we first met. It always felt as though my stomach was turning itself inside out whenever he glanced in my direction.” She chuckled lightly before turning serious. “The trouble with your situation is that too many secrets are involved and in order to keep them, too many promises have to be made.” Reaching across the table, she took Mary’s hand in her own. “The masked gentleman you met at the ball does not wish for his identity to be revealed. He has his reasons for that. Your aunt, on the other hand, has a responsibility toward you. It would be terribly careless of her to allow you to associate with a man who refuses to offer her even his name. How can she know that you will be safe in his company when she has no idea of who he is?”

“I understand her reasoning perfectly, but—”

Lady Duncaster snorted. “You think you know better, because you have taken a liking to him.”

Mary knew how silly it sounded. “You said yourself that he comes from a highly respectable family with whom an association would prove beneficial.”

“So I did, and I stand by that statement. It was, however, meant to alleviate your aunt’s concerns, not prompt you into having secret meetings with the gentleman in question behind her back while making me a party to your betrayal of her trust.”

Put like that, Lady Duncaster made Mary feel as though she’d just committed a terrible crime. “I am sorry,” she said again. What else could she say? Her explanation seemed to have had little effect.

Lady Duncaster sighed. “You may not be aware, Lady Mary, especially not based on this particular conversation, but I am a big advocate of love matches. It is my fondest wish that everyone should be afforded a chance at a happily-ever-after, but in this case, I am too concerned that you might end up getting hurt.”

“Because Signor Antonio,” she said, refraining from disclosing her knowledge of his actual name, “might look different from what I expect? Because I will likely be disappointed that he is not as handsome behind the mask he wears as I might have hoped? I am not that superficial, my lady. It is his character that draws me. Nothing else.”

“And so it should be, if your feelings for him are genuine. But that is not what I am worried about.”

Mary blinked, surprised that there could be any other reason. After all, Lady Duncaster knew his identity and had been willing to vouch for him the night of the ball. Something must have changed. “Then what is it?”

“I have my doubts that he is ready to form a deep attachment with anyone. If you were to fall in love with him, there is a good chance that he may break your heart. Not deliberately, of course, but . . . a man like him is bound to have other secrets as well. Until he is prepared to reveal them to you, you will only see what he wants you to see.”

“You know something about him,” Mary murmured. “Something that makes you think that he may be hiding more than his identity.”

Lady Duncaster pressed her lips together before confessing, “All I have are a few suspicions—nothing concrete.”

“So you could be wrong.” When she didn’t reply, Mary said, “As grateful as I am for your advice, I am inclined to follow my own instincts.”

“In that case, I hope that he will be wise enough to place his faith in you.” She glanced past Mary’s right shoulder and smiled. “Lady Spencer, what a lovely surprise!”

“Good morning to you both,” Sarah said as she came to stand beside Mary’s chair. Glancing down, she addressed Mary. “Lady Foxworth has asked my husband and me to introduce you to some of his friends.”

Mary’s mouth dropped open. It took a moment for her to recover and say, “Really?” Just one single mention that morning about her disinterest in Rotridge, and now this.

“Viscount Belgrave has expressed an interest in making your acquaintance,” Sarah added. “If you will join me for a walk, we can meet with him and Spencer down by the lake.”

“I . . .” What could she possibly say without being rude? Glancing back and forth between Lady Duncaster and Sarah, she noted their expectant faces. “I would be delighted,” she said, swallowing her annoyance with her aunt as she excused herself to Lady Duncaster and left the dining room with Sarah.

As it turned out, Belgrave was not as dislikeable as she’d feared, following her experience with Rotridge, who’d thankfully refrained from approaching her that morning when they’d crossed paths in the hallway. Apparently his altercation with Richard the night before had had the desired effect. But Belgrave was nothing like Rotridge. Indeed, he was not only handsome, but courteous and well-educated as well. Of course he was not the sort of man who would ever be willing to accept Mary’s scandalous career choice, but at least he proved to be good company.

“Perhaps we can ride out for a picnic tomorrow,” he suggested as he, Mary, and the Spencers, enjoyed their afternoon tea together a few hours later. The terrace had seemed a little too crowded so they’d asked a couple of footmen to set up a table and chairs on the grass down by the lake.

Mary met his gaze, warm and inviting—so different from Richard’s, which was genuinely dark and so much more powerful. A small shiver traced her spine at the memory of it, and for a second she hesitated, wishing that he would have asked her to go for a picnic instead. But he hadn’t. In fact, he’d made no promise that they would ever see each other again. So she smiled back at Belgrave and said, “That would be lovely, if the weather permits.”

He returned the smile and offered the use of his carriage. “I will ask Lady Duncaster to recommend a good location.”

“We actually happen to know of one,” Sarah said, looking at Spencer. “Remember that hill we visited a couple of weeks ago?”

“The one with the church ruin behind it where Lady Fiona lost her bonnet?” Spencer asked as he swatted away a bothersome fly.

Sarah nodded. “The very one.”

Belgrave looked intrigued and when he asked Mary if she thought the place would suit, she realized that she felt the same way. There was just something adventurous about the idea of picnicking on a hilltop close to a church ruin.

“It is settled then,” Belgrave announced as he emptied his teacup.

The fact that the Spencers shared a knowing look did not escape Mary. If they would only realize that they were completely wasting their time in the matchmaking department.

That evening at dinner, Mary glanced from one gentleman to the next. During the course of the day, she’d concluded that Richard was not an uncommon name. In fact, from what she’d discerned, there were no fewer than six gentlemen present at the dinner table who bore that exact same name. Two were too old, however, which left four, none of whom seemed to fit the man that she imagined to be hiding behind the mask. Their faces were far too perfect.

“I need a distraction,” she told Amy later when she returned to her bedchamber.

“It sounds to me as though you may have found it in the form of Lord Belgrave,” Amy said as she located Mary’s nightgown, laid it on the bed, and came toward Mary with the intention of helping her undress.

“No,” Mary said, stepping away from her. “Lord Belgrave is kind, but he does not affect me in any way.” Turning, she looked Amy straight in the eye. “I need to sing.”

“I heard you sing tonight in the music room after dinner. It sounded lovely, as I am sure all the guests will agree.”

“You know that is not what I mean,” Mary said. “That kind of song is supposed to showcase a lady’s finer qualities. It is more about me being put on display than it is about conveying any kind of emotion.”

“I know.” Amy sighed. “You enjoy the passion that the other kind of music provides.”

“It is more than that,” Mary said. It was never easy, describing the cravings of her soul, knowing that whatever she said, it would likely fall short. “When I really sing, Amy, it does not matter how many people surround me. They all fade away until it is just me and the music thrumming through me, clasping at my heart. One moment I am filled with joy, the next with great sorrow.” She paused before speaking the truth that clung to her heart. “It is in these instances that I feel most alive.”

Amy nodded. “You feel every nuance of emotion that the composer was trying to convey through words and music, and you impart that emotion to your audience with incredible skill.”

“It means a great deal to me that you understand.”

“How could I not when I have helped you practice before every concert? I know the lyrics to every song just as well as you do, which is why I know how important it is for you to continue doing what you are doing.”

“It comforts my soul in a way that nothing else ever will.”

“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.