Rehearsal of the boys' band having concluded for the afternoon, Harold was in his office handling some paperwork when he heard a soft knock at the door.

He grinned. "Come in, Madame Curie," he called out playfully, turning to face the librarian as she entered the room.

Marian looked at him with stricken eyes.

Harold's smile disappeared. "Darling, I was only teasing," he said contritely.

"It's not that," she replied, taking out a handkerchief and pressing it to the corners of her eyes. "It's just – today's the anniversary of my father's passing."

"I thought Winthrop seemed a little subdued at rehearsal," Harold mused. He regarded the librarian with a gentle smile. "Would you like to take a raincheck for this afternoon? We can look at music for the Christmas concert another time."

Marian shook her head. "No, Mama says it's best if we carry on with our lives – that's what Papa would have wanted. She's right, of course, but" – her tears started to fall faster – "I miss him so much."

"Oh, darling," Harold said sympathetically. If anything undid him, it was the sight of his beloved in tears. Without even thinking about it, he broke his cardinal rule of maintaining an appropriate distance when they were alone together in the music emporium, and took her in his arms.

When Marian had finally cried herself out, she lifted her head from his shoulder. Her eyes widened when she saw the sodden fabric of his suit-coat. "Harold, I'm so sorry!"

Harold chuckled. "It's only water, darling. It'll dry eventually."

But she frowned. "Papa once had the loveliest silk dinner jacket that I ruined in a similar manner – though I was only six at the time, and didn't know any better." She slipped her hand inside Harold's suit-coat to assess the extent of the soaking. "I do hope I didn't leave a permanent stain. This green jacket of yours was always one of my favorites."

Harold's heart skipped a palpitation or two at this most intimate of gestures. He willed himself not to respond to her touch – he didn't want to frighten Marian, as she had innocently committed this act out of genuine love and concern – but when their eyes met, he couldn't mask the desire in his gaze.

Marian immediately pulled her hand away and moved to a more respectable distance. "Forgive me," she stammered, mortified. "I should have thought… "

"Darling, it's all right," he reassured her. "And don't worry about this old thing; it's seen a lot of wear and tear in its day."

A spark of curiosity lit up her eyes, as always happened when he alluded to his past. "How long have you had that coat, Harold?"

Harold gave her a mischievous grin. "How long have you had your brother?"

He was gratified to see that his ploy to lighten her mood had succeeded; Marian laughed and gently swatted his arm. "You can't be serious! That suit-coat would be in tatters, by now – especially given the life you must have led in it."

Normally, Harold would have fired back another lighthearted retort, but her choice of words made him pause. Even in jest, she was reminding him that she still knew virtually nothing about his past. He had told her bits and pieces of things, but he always spoke vaguely, and was quick to turn the conversation to other matters.

Marian also paused, and gazed at him with a thoughtful expression. "Harold – do you ever miss your parents?"

Harold stiffened. He knew the day would come when she would start to ask questions, but he was still reticent to discuss such topics in detail. "Not everyone was fortunate to have such a loving family as you, Miss Marian," he said, deliberately making his tone a touch cool in the hope she would display her usual tact and change the subject.

But it seemed she was in an inquisitive mood. "Well, what about your mother?"

"What about my mother?" Harold asked, hiding his surprise. He had not once referenced her in any of their conversations; how could Marian have known?

The librarian hesitated, but then a firmness took hold of her expression. Harold had seen that look before, when she had been determined to destroy his credibility – he knew she was prepared to press on until she had achieved satisfaction. "Ethel Toffelmier mentioned you were devoted to your mother."

Harold immediately went on the offensive. "I thought you knew better than to listen to idle gossip – especially considering your own experience, Miss Marian."

He saw from the hurt look in her eyes that he had discomfited her, but she wasn't stymied for long. "It wasn't idle gossip. Mr. Washburn told Miss Toffelmier that until you met me, the only woman you showed such devotion to was your mother. Miss Toffelmier kindly related this piece of information when we were in the kitchen that day you were busy laughing it up with Miss Harper at the Events Committee meeting – she was only trying to cheer me up."

Harold wasn't too pleased to hear Marcellus was telling stories about him to Ethel Toffelmier. "And what other 'pieces of information' did Miss Toffelmier 'kindly relate'?"

Marian's frown deepened. "Not a thing. You're so skilled at being evasive that not even your own partner in crime was certain of his knowledge of your prior history – at least, that's the impression I took away from that conversation."

"Good," he said tersely. "My prior history is nobody's business but my own."

At his brusque dismissal, her shoulders slumped, and she sighed. "Harold, I'm not asking these questions out of idle curiosity. I'm asking because your past is starting to become a wall between us. Almost every day, we seem to stumble upon another subject that we cannot talk about, because it stirs some ancient memory." She gazed entreatingly at him. "How can we have any sort of relationship if you won't let me into your heart?"

"Won't let you into my heart?" Harold exclaimed, incredulous. "Marian – a single word or even just a look from you affects me deeper than a physical blow. Because of you, I have a permanent address and a legitimate business. Everything I do now is centered on you; consideration of your needs guides my every action. What more proof of my love and regard do you need?"

Marian took a step closer. "I want to know you, Harold… to truly know you. I understand your past isn't savory; I came to terms with that fact a long time ago."

"Well, they aren't stories fit for a maid's ears," he said sullenly.

"Perhaps not," the librarian conceded. She gave him a piercing look. "But how about a friend's?"

At that, Harold almost lost his temper. No matter what he said, Marian always had a response. And once again, she had rendered him speechless – he could find no retort. As he looked into her eyes, he was struck by the sensation that he wanted to knock that self-assured gleam out of them.

"A friend, Madam Librarian?" Harold asked, raising an eyebrow. With an impish grin, he approached her. At first, Marian shyly backed away, but it wasn't long before the wall arrested her retreat. Once Harold had her cornered, he let his smile fade into a smoldering expression. "I thought we were a little more than that, Miss Marian," he said in a low voice, his face inches from hers.

Harold had achieved his aim; Marian looked flustered and apprehensive. Both his mind and heart were urging him to back off, but he had become ensnared in his own trap: Intoxicated by her nearness, he cupped her cheek in his hand. "I hope we're more than that," he said earnestly.

When Marian closed her eyes and tilted her head into his caress, Harold took this as an invitation to proceed further. But alluring as those crimson lips of hers were, he didn't dare kiss them – he knew he wouldn't be able to keep things from getting too heated. Instead, Harold let his fingers trace a delicate line from her cheekbones to her throat. As he moved downward, he tugged the collar of her high-necked gown lower.

Marian gasped and opened her eyes. "Harold… "

But even as she protested, he could see the dreamy haze stealing into her expression and rendering her speechless as he lightly stroked the side of her neck with his thumb. As her eyes closed again, Harold's gaze wandered back down to her throat. Unable to resist the sight of such gleaming, pristine skin, he leaned in and brushed his lips against the throbbing vein in her slender neck.

Marian gasped again, and Harold felt her pulse start to race even faster. When he pressed his mouth harder, her breathing sharpened and increased in its intensity. Harold had often wondered what Marian would sound like in the midst of passion, and was so mesmerized by this tantalizing preview that he continued his ministrations, hoping to turn those gasps into full-fledged moaning.

It wasn't until Marian gave a cry of pain that his conscience reasserted itself; horrified by his indiscretion, Harold immediately pulled away. But it was too late: Marian's delicate neck was now marred by a bow-shaped welt. Inwardly cursing himself for his lack of self-control, he raised her collar to its proper height and carefully smoothed the creases out of the fabric – as if this simple gesture could permanently conceal his misdeed.

As they stared breathlessly at each other, Marian gingerly reached into her collar. When her fingers discovered the mark he had made, a myriad of emotions clouded her countenance – shock, dismay, shame, fury. She started to tremble, and her eyes grew wet with tears.

Harold shifted uncomfortably. "I'm sorry."

Marian raised her hand and delivered a sharp, stinging slap to his face.

"I'm sorry," he said again.

She still didn't speak, but there was no mistaking the cold reproach in her eyes. Before Harold could say another word, Marian turned and left.