The closer Brock, Kimpton, and Harlowe drew to the Martindales’, the greater the sense of anticipation that thickened Harlowe’s blood. What was the staid Maeve Pendleton wearing? He hadn’t caught sight of her before she left due to Lady Ingleby’s overbearing presence. He wondered if Lady Ingleby was hovering about Maeve now, directing her every move, her every dance, her every word. The thought had a smile tugging at his lips until he remembered Lady Ingleby was the one who had sent Oxford to the Kimptons’ in search of Maeve against Maeve’s explicit instructions.
Once Kimpton, Brock, and Harlowe reached the Martindales’, they left their horses at the mews. Harlowe forewent the front door and being announced. He had no desire in having the entire ton judging his appearance, leaving that chore to his companions. He stole around the side of the large house to the gardens behind, striding past several couples meandering the path, but the cool air kept the less hardy of those indoors. The gate was open, and globe-encased candles lighted his path to a large stone terrace. In the darkness, his ill-fitted garments were less conspicuous.
Once there, he decided he couldn’t resist peering in an open window, being careful to stay out of the full light, and decided wild horses could not drag him inside. He required a visit with his tailor first.
He located Maeve immediately, her hair a striking beacon. Irritatingly, the orchestra queued up a waltz and Dorset stepped up and held out his arm.
The smile Maeve offered up grated over Harlowe like his rusted, unused voice. Dorset swept her out onto the parquet floor, his gait smooth, his smile proper and practiced. They made an annoyingly striking pair. Harlowe hated it. Yet he could not pull his eyes from the rich forest green of her gown, billowing out around her. The soft glow of light gleaned off her slender arms. She wore elbow-length gloves, and it was those gloved fingers on Dorset’s shoulder that sent his blood into a simmering boil. The worst part was that he couldn’t tear his eyes from her sheer gracefulness and amiable allure.
Good God. He needed release. It had been much too long. Talk about unnatural for one’s constitution.
Dorset swung Maeve in another turn. “You dance divinely, Lady Alymer. I’m ashamed that I let you talk me out of the supper dance at Oxford’s ball.”
“As do you, my lord. I’m sure my mother is quite pleased.”
He groaned. “Not exactly the praise I was looking for.” The music stopped. He took her hand, placing it on his arm, and escorted her off the floor.
She laughed, even as an odd awareness lifted the hair at her nape. She stole a look around, then leaned in. “If you wouldn’t mind, my lord, I’m not quite up to my mother’s interrogations. I believe I’d love a visit with my friends, Ladies Kimpton and Brockway. I see their husbands have arrived.”
“Of course, my dear.” In a smooth shift, he diverted their course, depositing her with her friends and bowing over her hand. “Thank you for the dance, Lady Alymer. Until later.”
She shot Dorset a mischievous grin, fully aware of a certain someone spying from his not-so-covertly spot near the terrace windows. She kept her smile firmly in place as Dorset made his way from the ballroom. She turned slowly back to her companions.
“Nice gentleman,” Ginny said.
“Yes. Yes, he is,” Maeve said. Unfortunately, he was no Lord Harlowe, as frustrating as that man continued to be. Hiding on the terrace, no less.
Lorelei leaned in and spoke softly, “Not to put a pin in your balloon, dear, but Lady Ingleby is making a—”
The snap of an ivory fan sounded like a slap. “Lady Kimpton, Lady Brockway. How lovely to see you. Might I steal away my daughter a moment?”
“No, Mother. You may not. They’ve just arrived, and it would be extremely rude of me to desert them now.”
Lady Ingleby cleared her throat. “I see. How is your brother, Lady Kimpton?”
“Better, Lady Ingleby. Thank you for asking.” Lorelei was the most gracious person Maeve had ever met. How did she do it?
Lady Ingleby’s sharp gaze scanned the room. “Where is he?”
Lorelei’s smile never wavered, though something about her straightened. “He’s been quite ill, my lady. He thought he might try to make an appearance but perhaps he thought better of it.”
Lady Ingleby swiveled to Maeve. “Well, daughter-dear, I understand you drove out with Dorset yesterday afternoon.”
“Yes, and a pleasant drive it was too, Mother.”
A cat-with-the-canary smile lit up her face. “I’m very proud of you, my dear. By the by, how did your visit with Oxford fare?”
Every muscle in Maeve’s face tightened, though she was able to keep her lips turned up, hoping they didn’t come across as a sneer. “Very well, Mother. I offered up some excellent motherly candidates for his daughter.”
Lady Ingleby’s gasp could be heard across the ballroom. “You didn’t!”
No. Maeve hadn’t, and while she didn’t bother to correct the assumption, she had a feeling Lady Parther had designs on the duke.
Maeve moved her gaze to the terrace window. Harlowe had shifted deeper within the shadows, but she could still see him. She turned her smile up a notch. She made small talk with her friends, resisting the urge to rush out to the terrace to check on Lord Harlowe. The night air was cool, he might take a chill. She was being ridiculous. The man had spent the last couple of nights wandering the streets of London. He was fine. Still, it was the night air…
This self-perpetuating argument would not quit if she didn’t just see for herself. Anticipation curled through her. “Ladies, Mother, please excuse me a minute. I see someone I need to speak with—”
“Maeve,” her mother started.
Maeve caught sight of Oxford standing by the terrace doors. He was the perfect decoy.
Sixteen
Y
ou hurt your sister’s feelings by not coming inside, Lord Harlowe.” Maeve rubbed her gloved hands over her arms in the December chill. It wasn’t even the coldest part of the night.
Harlowe slipped off his coat and draped it over her shoulders, leaning in for a breath of hot-house rose scented hair. “I’m sadly aware of the fact, Lady Alymer,” he retorted, matching her aggravating formality. “At the risk of sounding too vain, after watching from my shadowed perch, I realized how ill-fitting my suit is.”
She stilled. “Oh. Yes, I hadn’t thought of that.”
He took her hand and tugged her out of the light streaming through the window and into his chest. Lady Ingleby had the most uncanny ability to sniff out her daughter’s whereabouts, and if she found them, well, all would be lost for the fiercely independent lady’s liberty. “Seeing you in Dorset’s arms on the dance floor drives me mad,” he whispered against the softness of her cheek. “And Oxford? Well, I’d just as soon put a ball through his chest.”
“Never say you are jealous, my lord.” Her breath heated his jawline and sent a shot of fire straight to his groin.
“I would never say that, my lady.” He brushed his lips against her ear.
She turned and tilted up her head. There was only so much resistance a man could practice. He settled his mouth over hers, tasting her lips. They were sweet as berries, her breath crisp as mint. He moved over her mouth slowly. Just as if she lay beneath him and the two of them had all the time in the world. For all her experience, Maeve Pendleton, Lady Alymer, kissed as if she’d never been kissed before.
The noise from the ballroom faded, and all Harlowe could hear past the rush in his ears was the rapid beating of her heart. He felt it through the layers of both their clothes, as if they lay naked and alone within the depths of his bedchamber. He slipped his tongue between her parted lips. She tasted delicious. He swirled and dipped and stroked. His hands moved beneath his coat that draped her, pressed her closer, then he moved one hand over her buttock and squeezed.
Her sharp gasp shocked him back to his senses.
Harlowe groaned, pulling back. He looked down into her desire-glaz
ed eyes. Oh, this would not do at all. The whole world reflected back at him in eyes filled with… hope. What was a discreet affair between friends? He drew them deeper within the darkness and took her mouth again.
She didn’t resist.
His hands slipped beneath his coat she wore, exploring her back, her waist, the curve of her hips. Her body melded into his as if she became a part of him. His lips moved along her jaw, down the column of her neck, trailing the edge of her dress. A dress that barely covered her nipples. He worked one breast free and took a beaded peak in his mouth and bit down gently.
She gasped.
He smiled against the silk of her skin. With concerted effort, he pulled away and, sadly, tugged her bodice back into place. “I forget myself, my lady.” His voice came out as salt-crusted gravel.
“Oh my,” she whispered.
“We shall have to find a better, more private place to complete this business,” he said. He tugged her gently from their alcove to remove further temptation.
A bright silver moon showcased her plump and wet lips. Her tongue slid across the bottom one. This was a treacherous situation. Still dazed, she hadn’t even blinked.
“Will you marry me, Brandon?”
He reveled in the sultry-velvet caress until her actual words penetrated his lust-crazed fog. “What?” Reality hit him in the face with a slap.
Her eyes shifted into focus, and she stepped out of his hold. The light coming from the ballroom showed the freckles on her face the powder couldn’t hide, making them stand out starkly. “I—” She licked her lips again. “I-I’m sorry.” Her eyes turned unreadable as she pulled herself together.
At once the violins seemed too screeching, the chatter from the ballroom, overpowering.
His head fell back. “Maeve, I—” He reached for her hand, but she jumped away.
She patted him on the shoulder, her lips curving into a slight smile. “But of course, my lord. You’ve no notion of my dry wit. You must pay me no mind, sir. I was jesting.”
He barely caught the slight tremor in her, but it was there. The lighting was too low to tell if she spoke the truth or not.
His coat was whipped away and thrust in his chest. Before he could get his bearings, question her further, explain how broken he was, she was disappearing inside. He was in no shape to be a husband now. Maeve Pendleton, Lady Alymer, was more deserving of someone like… Dorset.
Harlowe knew he was a selfish bastard. His own sister had never denied him a thing. Yet he’d lost a year of his life. Wasn’t he deserving as well? This called for drastic measures. He dragged on his coat, straightened his waistcoat, and adjusted his cravat, then moved inside the terrace doors. A ripple swept through the crowd. He ignored the curiosity seekers and scanned the area but didn’t see Maeve anywhere.
He found himself standing at the base of a grand staircase.
“There you are, darling, I’m so glad you came in.” Lorelei grabbed his hand and squeezed. “This was a monumental step you’ve taken. I’m proud of you.” She spoke softly, but it irritated him that she still treated him as if he were that nine-year-old child he’d been when they’d lost their parents.
“Lorelei, please do not speak to me as if I’m Nathan’s age,” he growled. He looked up and caught sight of Lady Alymer on the balcony landing, talking to Oxford and Lady Parther as if she hadn’t a care in the world. As if she hadn’t shot him with a round of musket balls in an ambush for the ages.
“Truly, Bran, there’s no need to snip at me.”
Kimpton strolled up and took Lore by the hand and led her out on the dance floor. God. His day would be filled with all the apologies stacking up.
Welton and Shufflebottom, who were apparently attached at the hip, appeared at Harlowe’s side.
“Hey, Harlowe. Missed your last appointment with your tailor?” Shufflebottom, of course, was turned out in an attack of ruffles and lace.
“It would appear so,” Harlowe said. “What is that contraption wrapped about your neck? You look as though your head turns just so, you will strangle yourself.” Not that Harlowe wouldn’t have stood there and watched.
“It’s the latest thing. The Gordian Knot. Dashing, don’t you think?”
Harlowe met Welton’s eyes, and for the first time since they were children, they rolled their eyes heavenward in a shared kinship. The man was a coxcomb.
Harlowe let out a sigh. “Whatever happened to something simple, like the Hunting?”
Shufflebottom’s nose lifted. “Good God, man. That knot is what those in the stews wear, if they bother to wear one at all,” he said with conceited disgust.
Harlowe glanced up at Maeve. Why not marry her? The idea held appeal. Nathan needed a mother. She was pragmatic, not prone to jealous fits—at least as far as he could determine. But then again, he was fortunate he could remember his own name.
“Fascinating woman.”
Harlowe’s gaze snapped back and narrowed on Shufflebottom. He was tugging and adjusting his lace cuffs. Which had Harlowe tugging on his own, making certain the scars on his wrists remained hidden. He stole a glance at Shufflebottom. What was the man’s interest in Maeve? Harlowe’s insides screamed “danger.” “Yes, she is. We’re to be married soon.”
“That so?” Welton chimed in. He clapped Harlowe on the shoulder. “Congratulations, old chap. Hadn’t heard a word.”
“Thank you, Welton. The question was just posed tonight.” Now he just had to inform Maeve before someone else did.
Maeve had never been so humiliated in her life. What had possessed her to propose marriage to the viscount? A man who had more shadows than a cemetery at midnight, under a full moon.
“This plan will work, your grace,” Lady Parther was saying to Oxford. “Felicity just needs time. You mark my words.”
Maeve let the words roll over her. She had no interest in Oxford’s and Lady Parther’s machinations for his daughter, Felicity. She resisted the urge to rub her temples. Instead, she moved to the railing that overlooked the ballroom below.
“Lady Parther, I’ve heard quite enough,” Oxford said from behind her. He moved beside Maeve and leaned against a column. While Oxford was adept at hiding his frustration, Maeve detected it quite distinctly.
“Are you sure you won’t marry me, Lady Alymer?” The duke sounded as resigned as Maeve felt.
She conjured up a weak smile. “As tempting as your proposal is, your grace, I’m afraid not.” From the corner of her eye, Maeve caught the distinct tightening of Lady Parther’s jaw and smothered a small smile.
“His grace is just too impatient.” Lady Parther pointed her fan toward the dance floor where her nephew, the Earl of Lexum, was taking a turn about the floor with Oxford’s daughter. The music stopped, and Maeve watched Lexum grab Felicity’s hand.
A smile touched Maeve. “I sense love in the air,” she teased Oxford.
Lady Parther gave a disdainful sniff. “My exact thoughts, Lady Alymer.”
Felicity said something to Lexum, and they did an about-face in the opposite direction. “Lexum is the perfect antidote for having Felicity face her fears of Christmas, your grace,” Lady Parther said.
The duke let out a snort, showing his feelings on the matter.
“Lady Felicity doesn’t care for Christmas?” Maeve asked.
“There were extenuating circumstances,” he said, somewhat defensively to Maeve’s ears. “And that is all I shall say on the matter.”
With a slight smile, Maeve turned her attention back to the ballroom floor below while Oxford and Lady Parther kept up their mild bickering. Lexum and Felicity disappeared near the refreshment table, which put them out of sight from Maeve’s vantage point on the balcony. She sensed a future wedding in the works, whether Oxford wanted it or not.
Maeve tuned them out and had started to turn when another movement caught her eye. She was careful not to shift her head. There was a stirring in the crowd below, and Harlowe appeared at
the base of the stairs with Lorelei at his side. After a few moments, his sister moved away, frowning. Welton and Shufflebottom moved beside him, and Maeve moved back from the railing.
What a pickle she’d placed herself in. She might as well have announced her stupidity to the entire ton. Clearly, she couldn’t stay at the Kimptons’ much longer. How was she supposed to face Harlowe again after her smashing faux pas?
Maeve couldn’t tolerate the festive air about her one more minute.
Harlowe left the Martindales’ without a specific destination in mind. He couldn’t face his sister or her husband or Maeve Pendleton, Lady Alymer, another minute. He had to get out of the stuffy ballroom before he suffocated.
With no desire to return to his sister’s house, he guided his horse through Hyde Park. The cold night matched his insides, the realization hitting him square in the chest. He wanted to marry Maeve Pendleton.
Only, she deserved better.
Yet she enchanted him.
And he adored her.
He’d known her a matter of days. How was this possible? Back and forth his vacillating thoughts went, from harsh reality to a rose-colored future. A branch snapped nearby. Harlowe slowed his horse, his skin prickling with precipitous awareness. He leaned low over the base of his horse’s mane just as the blast sounded and the ball lodged in the bark of the closest tree.
Harlowe kicked his mount into motion, holding on for dear life. Fifteen minutes later, his pulse pounding, he found himself back at Rowena Hollerfield’s almost empty house on Cavendish Square. After stabling his mount the half block away, he made his way to the house at the servants’ entrance as not to terrify Agnes, his own pulse pounding erratically.
The door was locked, and he tapped lightly.
It took a few moments for her voice to sound through the heavy oak. “Who’s there?”
“Lord Harlowe, Agnes. Let me in.” It took every ounce of his control to sound calm.
The Viscount's Vendetta Page 11