The Viscount's Vendetta

by Kathy L Wheeler

  Maeve studied the area with a critical eye, though her abdomen dipped with an onslaught of uninvited butterflies. “I don’t know what you are talking about.”

  “You’ve garnered that cavalier air to perfection, haven’t you?”

  She felt Brandon’s stare through to her soul. If she dared to look at him, she’d be lost. “I have no notion of what you’re talking about.”

  The sudden silence grew thick with anticipation. Slowly, she chanced a peek over her shoulder—and was… lost.

  He stalked over to her, grabbed her by the upper arms, and shook her. “God Almighty, if you aren’t the most irresistible—” he said on a huff, then covered her mouth with his. Her lips parted with her surprise, and he took full advantage. His tongue swept in her mouth in a shocking intimacy she’d never before experienced.

  The act stunned her. She stiffened beneath him. Then, breathing in through her nose, she was instantly intoxicated by the strength of his hold, the molding of his lips on hers, and the utter scent of his masculinity. She was inundated by the heat of his tongue swirling about hers. She wound her arms about his neck and pulled him tighter to her, and he jerked her away from his body, somehow keeping her on her feet.

  It was not a gentle motion. “Please tell me no.”

  “For what?” she said on a breathless gasp.

  Groaning, Harlowe kissed her again. He would never get enough of her. He tasted her spiciness, her curiosity. They dragged him into a mindless stupor. Her arms locked behind his neck, and her fingers gripped his hair, pulling him to her. She seemed to return his kiss with reckless abandon. He moved his hand over her breast and gently squeezed. Despite the perfection of her height, she was not overly endowed. She was slender, and just thinking of tasting their sweetness had him sucking at her tongue as if her nipple were already in his mouth. He jerked away from her, adrenaline surging, and in a swift motion, he swept Maeve off her feet and strode to one of the larger couches, lowering her to the cushions.

  “Brandon?” she said on a breathless whisper.

  He went down on one knee. He hadn’t been with a woman in over a year. He shook from the effort to remain calm. “Hush, darling. I must have you. Do you understand what I’m saying?”

  Her guileless blue eyes of stared back as she swallowed with an audible gulp. Yet she never looked away from him. It was an interminable amount of time before the tip of her tongue dabbed at her lips and she nodded. He positioned himself over her, resting on his forearms. Her arms crept around his neck.

  Harlowe was desperate to toss her pretty, striped skirts over her head, but it had been likely longer for her than him. Alymer had been dead for three years if memory served. He almost laughed at the thought of his memory being served. He couldn’t laugh now if his life depended upon it. He lowered his mouth to hers and reveled in its feel. How her lips mimicked his.

  His entire body burned with need, a heat so intense it could melt glass. Her lips parted and his tongue dove in, seeking hers. Her fingers knotted in his hair, pulling him closer, creating an invisible binding from her to him. He relished it. He broke from her and trailed his mouth to her neck, down to the swell of her breast.

  Brandon slid his hand down her waist and tugged at her skirts until he reached her stockinged calf. The farther up he moved, the more rapid her pants became. He moved his mouth up to hers once more and hovered there. He’d reached the bare skin of her thigh. “Spread your legs, my darling. Let me in.”

  Slowly, she did as he asked.

  He cupped her mound and his hand fairly singed with the fire emanating from her sex. She was wet, but he wanted her begging. He ran his thumb over the cleft, searching for the hidden jewel within. He touched it and caught her scream with his mouth as she exploded in his arms.

  Refusing to relinquish his hard fought kiss, he fumbled with the placket on his trousers then shoved them over his hips. His erection was heavy and fierce. Painful and desperate for release. He drew up alongside her, fitted himself between her legs and worked himself inside. “You’re so tight, so exquisite, so—” Unable to help himself any longer, he surged to the hilt, breaking past an unexpected barrier.

  Maeve’s gasp of pain stilled him as another memory came rushing back.

  “Please, stop. You’re hurting me. No. No. Quit.” Corinne’s voice filled his head.

  “I’m sorry, darling. I won’t hurt you ever again,” he growled. But he couldn’t pull away. The slightest move, and all would be lost.

  “Get off. Get off.” She was screaming. “Don’t touch me.” Her tears were uncontrollable.

  “Oh dear. W-we don’t quite fit, do w-we?” she stuttered on a panicked whisper.

  “Maeve?”

  She froze. “Brandon? Look at me.” Her voice sharpened. Her fists hit his shoulders. “Brandon!”

  “Don’t… move,” he bit out, amazed at his stupidity. How could he not have realized? Alymer had been an old man.

  She wriggled a little. “Yes. It’s, ah, better… now—”

  “Stop—” But it was too late. He pumped, once, twice—and flew over the cliff. He lay there, his trousers barely down, stunned and panting.

  She shoved at him, but he was unable to move. “Damn you, Brandon Radcliff. How dare you make love to someone else using my body?”

  Harlowe planted his palms, one on each side of her, and lifted away. Angry tears glittered in her eyes.

  “You should have told me.”

  “Don’t you dare lecture me.” She shoved at his chest, knocking him to the floor in a tangled heap. He rolled to his back, yanked his pants up over his arse, and bent his arm over his eyes.

  Her skirts rustled, and he felt her climb over him in her rush to escape.

  He shot out an arm, and he grabbed her by the ankle before she could get away. “One minute, my love, we have a few things to discuss.” He jerked, and she stumbled back. He caught her before she hit the floor, using his body as a shield.

  Her eyes flashed fire. “You thought I was Corinne, didn’t you?”

  “You were a virgin.”

  “Well, I’m not any longer, am I? Quit trying to distract me and answer my question. You thought I was Corinne.”

  His body deflated with defeat. “I’m sorry. It’s difficult to explain. On our wedding night, she screamed as if I were taking her against her will. She hated intimate relations. It never got better.”

  The tension in Maeve seeped through to him, stilling her to an unnatural calm. “She thought you took her against her will?”

  A familiar bleakness saturated him. “I don’t remember touching her again.”

  “You mean she became with child after… after one time?” Her voice shot up an octave on a squeak.

  Amusement hit him for the first time in… forever. “It only takes once, my dear.”

  She appeared truly puzzled by the phenomenon. “Is that possible?”

  Harlowe took her face in his hands, his bleakness momentarily lifting, and smiled at her. “Actually, I couldn’t be happier about this new development.”

  She struggled to sitting, smoothing her skirts down, flags of scarlet dotting her cheeks. “I don’t know what you mean.”

  He sat up, holding her on his lap. “You will,” he said. He gave her a quick, hard kiss. “Now tell me. Why were you a virgin?”

  “What was I supposed to do? Go about spouting Alymer was… was…”

  “Impotent?” he suggested.

  “Yes.” Her voice vibrated against his chest as though nothing out of the ordinary had happened, even as she sat sprawled across his thighs in an undignified heap. The fight went out of her in a rush, and she lifted her gaze to his. Her eyes blinked in a rapid flutter with the slightest glistening. This was a woman who did not cry easily.

  She bolted up, nearly kneeing him in the nether regions. “Oh my God. It just occurred to me—some of your memory has returned.”

  “That’s what I adore about you. Your optim
ism.” He was sorely tempted to take her again, but he’d been too rough, and kissed her soundly instead. “Come. The one servant in this house is liable to return and explore our unusual thumping about. We have a wedding to plan.”

  “Oh no, we don’t.”

  “Damn it, Maeve.”

  “Enough!”

  She was wrong, but Harlowe let it go for now.

  Twenty

  M

  aeve started down the stairs as she pulled on her white kid gloves. One thing she could attribute to Rowena Hollerfield, the house was splendid. At the bottom of the stairs, she glanced at the long clock. She was scheduled to meet Lorelei and Ginny within the hour for shopping at Trotter’s Bazaar. Trotter’s was located on a corner of Soho Square which, thankfully, would only take twenty minutes depending on the carriage traffic. Meaning, if she didn’t leave soon, she would be late. She wished to talk to Agnes regarding their evening meal first.

  Strolling through the luxurious townhome thrilled her. She’d been in residence less than a sennight, but the sense of freedom exhilarated her with every step. From the entry hall, she turned to the back of the house and went down another set of steps to the kitchens. She had yet to hire an experienced cook, but Agnes did a wonderful job despite her youthfulness.

  As Maeve neared the bottom, Parson’s voice came from the kitchens in a scathing hiss. “Her ladyship requires perfection when it comes to her morning fast.” Maeve had experienced Parson’s condescension on more than one occasion.

  Heat-filled fury crawled up her neck. In her estimation, Agnes had managed the house stupendously. She reached the kitchens and found Agnes standing as rigid as a pole, even with Parson’s larger form angling over her with intimidating purpose. “And her toast, lightly browned.”

  “I ain’t heard her complainin’ yet,” Agnes said in a low, steel voice.

  Maeve half expected Agnes’s fist to swing up. “Parson,” Maeve snapped. “A moment please.”

  “But—”

  “Now.” Maeve swiveled on her heel and went up the stairs to the morning room. Like all rooms in this beautiful townhome, it was a large chamber with a huge window that looked out over a garden that at one time was probably breathtaking but now sadly neglected. The dining table was small for the space—a heavy round oak that would seat no more than six. There was a blazing fire in the grate that softened chill. The walls were papered with gold-threaded silk. The hanging pictures were of art rather than people. Landscapes and stills of different varieties. Maeve even ventured to think she recognized one or two original Harlowes. She would have smiled if not for the unpleasant task ahead.

  Parson followed her, as Maeve knew she would. Maeve took a seat on a comfortable settee near the fire but didn’t offer the same to her maid. “Please explain yourself.”

  “I’m sorry, milady. The girl is quite insolent.”

  “In what way?”

  Parson’s thin lips disappeared in her displeasure.

  Maeve considered her for a long moment until Parson shifted her feet under Maeve’s scrutiny. It wasn’t in Maeve to be cruel. “Does it bother you?”

  “What, milady?”

  “Living in this house?”

  The red in her face darkened. “Well, it did belong to a famous…”

  “Demimonde?”

  She gave a short nod.

  Maeve’s gaze went to the window as she drummed her fingers on her knee, choosing her words carefully. “I should hate to lose you, Parson. But it’s clear to me that this relationship has been doomed since my return to London after Alymer’s passing.” She let out a sigh and faced Parson. “This is not an easy decision for me. Please pack your things. I’ll write you a reference.” Maeve stood. “I’m sure my mother will be thrilled to have you back at Ingleby House.”

  Parson’s shock, despite her silence, seem to reverberate through the room.

  Maeve watched her with a steady, unblinking gaze. “That will be all.”

  Agnes stood at the door, eyes wide, with her fist poised to knock. Right in Parson’s path.

  “Parson, your reference will be contingent upon how congenial you conduct your departure,” Maeve said with an intractable calm. Maeve was known for her intractable calm. “Come in, Agnes.”

  Agnes stepped quickly in the room and out of Parson’s way.

  “Now. What can I do for you, dear?”

  “There’s a man at the door, ma’am. Says he was sent by Lord Harlowe. He be our new butler.”

  He would not dare. The utter gall of the man. “I’ll take care of it,” she bit out.

  “Ma’am?” Agnes still stood there.

  She wasn’t up for much more, but she didn’t wish to take out her irritation with Harlowe on Agnes. “What is it?”

  “Thank you, ma’am. Ain’t no one ever took up fer me b’fore. Not since Miss Hollerfield.”

  Some of the tension in Maeve’s neck eased. “Not at all, Agnes. Now, run along and do me proud.”

  Maeve stormed the ground level, her heels clipping on the marble, to the entry hall. “There’s no one here,” she said to the room at large.

  A towering, beefy man with no neck, no hair on his face or head, and watchful green eyes stepped out from a coat wardrobe. “I’m McCaskle,” he said.

  Maeve put his age around forty, but she’d never have the courage to ask. She also detected the slight hint of brogue in his vernacular. She barely kept from gasping at the sight.

  “Harlowe sent me.”

  “So I heard.”

  “Are ye going t’ be difficult about this?”

  “I expect I will,” she said on an exasperated huff. “But I am meeting friends at Trotter’s, and I’m running late. Perhaps you’ll be so good as to hail a hackney.”

  “That’s impossible.”

  “Now see here, Mr. McCaskle—”

  “Just McCaskle. Harlowe was good as to send me over in his coach.”

  “What coach?” she demanded.

  “The one awaitin’ you. Just outside. Complete with footman.”

  “Footman?”

  “His name is Niall.”

  “Does this Niall happen to be a relative of yours?”

  “Matter o’fact, he’s me son, milady.”

  Maeve accepted Niall’s assistance from her shiny new conveyance. “You may return to Cavendish Square,” she told him. “Lady Kimpton’s coach will see me home.” She pointed to a rig close to the center of the street, lifted her hand, and waved at Andrews.

  “Are ye certain, milady?”

  “I’m very certain, Niall. Thank you for the ride. Lady Kimpton and Lady Brockway just disappeared in the modiste’s. See? Andrews is parked just out front. Now go. And tell McCaskle not to get too comfortable. I’ve an appointment to make with Lord Harlowe regarding his high-handedness.”

  Niall shot her an engaging grin and flicked the reins.

  Maeve watched him disappear around the corner. Shaking her head at the absurdity of her morning thus far, she started in the direction of the modiste’s. She’d just reached the Kimptons’ horses when she stumbled forward from a slight push. She clutched her reticule to her chest, her gaze darting around. Nothing amiss struck her, but for the extra-sensory sensation tearing through her. Lorelei and Ginny had already disappeared into the Boucher’s Cuts—a curious name for a modiste’s shop—but Maeve had a feeling the robust woman meant the name literally. She glanced about to see a fierce looking man bearing down on her. She took comfort in the fact that he could do nothing to her here. Not on the street in front of the modiste’s shop. She squared her shoulders. While an urge to save herself and dash inside threatened to overcome her, she dared not move. Fortuitously, she’d worn one of her larger skirts today. Unfortunately, not that large.

  “Where is she?”

  “I beg your pardon, sir?”

  “The gel. Where is she? I demand me rights as her… her papa!”

  “Who, sir?”

>   “The gel who attempted to lift yer purse, madam!”

  Maeve screwed her features into a puzzle. “Someone attempted to steal? From me?” She glanced about, then affected her haughtiest Lady Ingleby outrage upon the ruffian. In her mind, Harlowe could take him at his lowest. Not that she’d allow such a thing. “I believe someone took off around the corner, sir. But no one would dare attempt to “lift” my reticle from me.” She could feel the heat from the child crouched behind her. Maeve pointed to the corner. “Perhaps she disappeared into the park. Now. Take yourself off before I call for the constabulary.”

  His stare at her seemed to go on forever. He finally grunted and stormed off. Maeve maneuvered around, watching him, carefully and hopefully, concealing the imp behind her. When he reached the corner, he turned back to her. She held her ground, though her heart threatened to pound from her chest onto the cobbled walk. He finally moved from her sight but she waited another minute before swinging about and found herself facing a very dirty, very small, very young child. “What is your name?”

  “Penny, milady.”

  “How old are you, Penny?”

  She held up her splayed palm, showing all five fingers.

  “Good heavens,” Maeve breathed. She crouched down to eye level. “Will you come with me, Penny? I won’t let that man near you.”

  Tear-filled blue eyes held Maeve’s. “He took-ed me sister, ma’am. I were only tryin’ to find her.”

  Maeve couldn’t swallow. “What is your sister’s name, my dear?”

  “Blinda.”

  Maeve nodded, thinking quickly. “What of your mother?”

  “She be dead, ma’am. ’Long side the babe.”

  “I see. And who was that man?”

  She scowled. “’is name be Jervis.” She wrinkled her nose. “Me an’ Blinda don’t like ’em none.”

  And Blinda was missing. “Will you come with me… to my home?”

  Her gaze turned to the park then back, and she pierced Maeve with unusually shrewd eyes, her lips compressed with distrust.

  “I won’t hurt you, Penny. I have a maid. Her name is Agnes. She will feed you and give you a bath—”