The Viscount's Vendetta

by Kathy L Wheeler

  Harlowe was surprised how jittery he was. He couldn’t help feeling he was in a waking dream. That he would jar to consciousness and he would be in his chamber at Lore’s. But, of course, that was not the case. Across the formal parlor, Kimpton waited with Lore. His brother-in-law would stand by Harlowe’s side, and Lorelei for Maeve.

  Harlowe did his best to block out the hum of chatter cluttering his thoughts. In most instances, Maeve had a calming effect on him. He was ready for the quiet. But she’d been furious with his machination in manufacturing this wedding. He had a Regent’s Park worth of ground to make up.

  He tugged at his collar for the third or fourth time; he’d lost count. What he needed was air. He pulled out his watch. Twenty more minutes. Clearly, Lady Ingleby was using this wedding to her own advantage. He glanced over to the woman in question. She stood speaking with Oxford and Lady Parther, hobnobbing with the best. The lady never wasted her opportunities.

  “Lord Harlowe?” The soft voice came at his elbow.

  He glanced down. For the first time in a week he felt a smile from the depths of his being. He bowed. “Lady Irene. How delightful to see you.”

  “Are you quite all right, sir? You appear pale. Much like Celia when she is coming down with the auge.”

  So old, she was. He smiled. “Admittedly, I could use some fresh air.”

  “’Tis cold out.” She studied him with her unnerving intensity. “I expect it was the ship’s hold. I feel an affliction of suffocation myself on occasion.”

  “I expect you’re right. Where on earth did you learn such a phrase?”

  “My grandfather. Addis told me he suffered from an affliction of horrid nightmares when my Aunt Rachel disappeared. He said he still has bad dreams but not as often.”

  Harlowe remembered bits of Brock’s younger sister having been kidnapped. The outcome had not been one of satisfaction. As he considered Irene’s words, he thought of all the nights he woke drenched in sweat. “Do you still have nightmares?”

  “Not as I used to. I, too, require vast amounts of air.” Her small body quivered and she wrinkled her nose. “That windowless room smelled horribly. Do you remember?”

  “I do indeed.” Again, smiling, he held out his arm. “Perhaps we could take a turn in the garden, my lady.”

  “That would be lovely, my lord.”

  Harlowe led Irene to the terrace doors and they slipped out. The cool air instantly soothed him.

  “Do you suppose there will be dancing later? After the wedding breakfast?” she asked him.

  “I have a feeling Lady Ingleby is counting on the fact.”

  “Oh, that is excellent, don’t you think? I should love dancing. Addis tells me I’m too young to attend balls and soirees.”

  “I would have to agree with him,” Harlowe said.

  She let out a winded sigh. “Yes, I suppose so.”

  “Do you think it would be all right for today? Not too improper?”

  “If there is dancing today, then perhaps I’ll throw my lot behind you. But only with certain gentlemen. I expect Brock and Addis will give their say on approved partners as well. You will, of course, save me a place on your dance card, my lady?”

  A grin lit her face, showing the child she indeed was. “Certainly, my lord.”

  The rector cleared his throat. “You may kiss your bride.”

  Maeve could feel her face flame in the long moment it took Harlowe to release her lips with God and all of sundry watching. “Just a couple more hours, my sweet. I fear your mother has grand plans,” Harlowe whispered, then pulled away.

  “Please welcome Lord and Lady Harlowe.” The rector’s voice boomed.

  Harlowe turned her to face the guests, and she almost fainted. She’d been so nervous when she’d walked between the two sections created for seating, she hadn’t noticed who’d bothered to attend their intimate gathering. It appeared her mother had outdone herself. Two dukes, two marquesses, and a number of earls and viscounts, along with their counterparts, countesses and viscountesses and the like.

  Lady Ingleby moved quickly to the rear of the room. “The wedding breakfast will commence in moments. Please proceed to the ballroom. Causey shall lead the way,” she said with an unnatural modesty, making her unusual restraint all the more admirable.

  Harlowe led Maeve from the room and pulled her into the library for a private moment. In a heated rush, his mouth covered hers. She tasted desire, lust, and… tenderness.

  “I have half a mind to take you right here.”

  “You wouldn’t,” she breathed, half tempted to let him. No! She was angry with him. This marriage was all his… “It’s tempting,” she admitted.

  “No, but it would serve your mother right for pulling this stunt. As it happens, should there be dancing, I have promised my attendance upon one young lady.”

  Maeve frowned. “I told you, I would not be made a fool—”

  His grin was most wolfish. “Do I detect jealousy, Lady Harlowe?”

  Warmth swirled through her, tension easing from her shoulders as she studied his confident mien. He desired her. He wanted her. Then it hit her. “Ah, I see. You’ve promised yourself to Lady Irene, I take it?”

  He dropped another quick kiss on her. “I did indeed. But the minute that dance ends, we shall be taking our leave.”

  Unable to help herself, she smiled against his lips, hoping against hope, theirs would be a happy union. “Granted, my lord.”

  Dorset spun Maeve in a sharp turn on the parquet. He gripped her side so tightly, she had to concentrate to keep from wincing.

  “You should have said something. You shouldn’t have been forced to marry the bastard—”

  “Lord Dorset,” she hissed. “Lord Harlowe is my husband. No one forced me into anything.”

  “Never say you married him of your own free will. I won’t believe it.”

  “Well, believe it, sir.” She spoke sharply. Maeve had every intention of giving her new marriage her whole heart. No one would ever learn the truth from her, she vowed silently. “He is my husband, and you shall not speak ill of him.” Maeve glanced across the ballroom where Harlowe gallantly led Lady Irene in her first waltz. It was ridiculously sweet. And honorable. And… adorable.

  Once Harlowe got to know his son, he would be a wonderful father.

  “My apologies,” Dorset said stiffly.

  Maeve let out a sigh. “Lord Dorset. Rest assured, I did not marry Harlowe under duress.” At least once she got used to the idea.

  “I see.” He cleared his throat. The music ended, and Dorset took her arm and led her off the floor. “Has Harlowe mentioned his visits to the Chancé Salon?”

  His words infuriated her, yet she stumbled. “How dare you speak to me of Chancé’s Salon. And yes, he did tell me,” she bit out. This was beyond humiliating, but at least she’d been forewarned.

  In a quick move, she was righted. “I see.” Of course, he didn’t believe her. Well, that couldn’t be helped.

  “Mention what?”

  Maeve spun around. “Brandon!”

  “My felicitations, Harlowe. You have a lovely bride.” Dorset’s hands fell from Maeve, and he stepped back.

  “I’m a lucky man,” Harlowe said, taking Maeve’s gloved fingers and bringing them to his lips.

  Her face heated and likely turned an unbecoming shade of scarlet.

  He leaned in and whispered in her ear, “What was that all about?”

  “Your calls to the Chancé Salon,” she murmured. “I realize this is not the place but we shall revisit this conversation.”

  “Dorset is determined to create dissonance where there is no need,” he retorted softly. “You are all I need, my love.”

  “So, after tonight…”

  “We shall be pleasantly occupied.” He brought her gloved hand to his lips. “Shall we retire home?”

  She was charmed but did her best to keep her voice tart. “Don’t think I shall
not hold you to that, my lord.”

  Thirty-Two

  The ride back to Cavendish Square was quiet. Maeve was exhausted. Molly sat across from Agnes in the tight confines of the barouche. Harlowe was next to Agnes, and Maeve was situated next to Molly. Nathan sat on Molly’s lap with his head on her shoulder, facing Maeve with sleepy eyes doing their best to stay open. He had his thumb in his mouth, watching her. She resisted the pull to take him from Molly and hold him herself, and dragged her gaze to Harlowe.

  He was reclined back against the velvet squab with his hands splayed out on either side of him. He might appear relaxed to Molly, but to Maeve he was coiled tight as a viper poised to strike.

  Heated anticipation shot through her, and the skin at the base of her neck tingled. She couldn’t look away from the fire in his eyes. Maeve couldn’t move. If Molly and Agnes hadn’t been there, Maeve wasn’t certain she couldn’t have kept from throwing herself on her new husband. These thoughts were not comfortable in the least. She would never countenance such loss of control. But as her… her husband watched her with his hooded and unwavering gaze, the atmosphere grew thick.

  The horses clopped to a stop, and the carriage shook with Niall’s decent and the steps dropping into place. The door opened, bringing Maeve back to her stunted senses.

  Harlowe stepped out and assisted Agnes, then Molly with the baby. “Get her to the door, Niall. Don’t let them fall.”

  “Yes, milord.”

  The cold, wet night air clashed with the heat on Maeve’s face. Still, she hadn’t been able to make herself move.

  Harlowe’s head appeared inside. He was so handsome and talented and kind. In the past few weeks, his pallor had garnered color, he was regaining strength, and some of his memory seemed to be returning. “Let us go, then. We’ll catch our death. Is something wrong?” Along, apparently, with his tendency to issue orders.

  Hiding a smile, she spoke primly. “Of course not.” She took his outstretched hand. Rather than setting her to her feet, he swept her up in his arms. “Oh. You shouldn’t—”

  “And why shouldn’t I? I’m perfectly capable. Besides, you shall ruin your slippers.”

  The ground was covered in a wet, slushy mess. “All right,” she said softly, realizing her face must match the reddest roses, and was as hot as the hothouse in which they were grown. No one was likely to see them once they crossed the threshold. “You may set me down under the portico.”

  His chuckle rumbled against her ribs. Of course he didn’t do as she said. The door swung back, and McCaskle’s balding head gleamed in the foyer’s chandelier of candles, along with his beaming smile.

  And his wife, Ina.

  And his son, Niall.

  And his sister-in-law, Cook.

  And his daughter, Bitsy.

  The group stood in a line. Behind them was Baird. In front were the children. Agnes, Stephen, Molly, still holding Nathan, Mary, and Penny.

  Harlowe dropped her to her feet inside and took her cloak from her shoulders.

  Maeve looked at the group’s expressions that ranged from knowing smiles to excitement at being out of their beds at the late hour. Her glance moved to Harlowe.

  He gave her a sheepish smile. “They wished to congratulate us.”

  The cacophony broke out in well-wishes and excited chatter.

  “Take yourself off to bed, Agnes,” Maeve said. “I can take care of things from here.”

  Agnes stood at the wardrobe, holding the dress Maeve had just gotten out of. “But your hair, my lady.”

  Harlowe stepped inside the bedchamber. “I’ll assist the lady with her hair, Agnes. You may go.”

  The maid draped the dress on a peg and quickly disappeared.

  “You are an expert on hair?” Maeve asked him after the door latched softly on Agnes’s exit.

  “I plan on being the expert on your hair.” He led her to her vanity and pressed her to sit, then began pulling out pins. “You know, the first time I saw you, I thought I was dreaming of fire.”

  The locks fell past her shoulders, tickling the skin at her upper back. She met his gaze in the mirror and shivered.

  “You put a hand to your head and said, ‘Frightful, isn’t it?’ But I didn’t find it frightful at all.” His voice was all that was deep and drugging to her normally pragmatic senses. He pitched the jewel-tipped pins atop the vanity and ran his fingers through the depths of her tresses.

  She closed her eyes and sank into his touch.

  “I’m glad you forewent powder.”

  If he kept massaging her skull like that… His fingers moved to her neck. Her petticoat loosened and fell to her waist. Her stays came next. His lips brushed below her ear. “Sweet and spicy,” he whispered.

  Her head fell to one side, and she let him nibble to his leisure. But one touch of his tongue and she started.

  He pulled her to her feet. Her petticoat and stays slipped to the floor, leaving her in her sheerest chemisette, silk stockings, and garters.

  His hands came up with her chemisette, baring her to his hungry gaze. He tossed the silk to the wayside and fell to his knees.

  “Brandon?” Her voice didn’t sound like her own.

  He answered by setting his lips on her abdomen. It fluttered violently. His hands spanned her lower back and hips. “You smell of desire.”

  She wasn’t so sure what desire smelled like, only that she was damp between her legs. He used his tongue to blaze a trail to the crease of her pelvis and the top of one thigh. Her hands gripped the back of his head, intending to push him away, yet they held him to her. He moved to the other side, and she whimpered. Her legs shook.

  His tongue moved lower and touched the top of her sex. Her legs buckled, but he held her in a tight grasp. “This will not do at all,” he said. He licked her. Once. He moved back and raised his head. “You’re mine,” he said. “Don’t ever forget that.”

  As if she could after this.

  “Hold on to my shoulders.”

  She did as he asked.

  He slipped her stockings free and rolled one down, then the other.

  Her flesh throbbed where his tongue had touched.

  He lifted her foot and stripped her stocking away but didn’t set her foot down right away. He leaned in and licked her sex until she gasped and found her hands on the back of his head again. “This can’t be normal,” she stuttered out in a shocked whisper.

  He raised his eyes, his lips curved into a sly grin. “No?” He rose to his feet, keeping her steady.

  Her other stocking fell away when he lifted her and carried her to the bed. Her bare body felt strange against the wool of his coat. He still wore his cravat, though it was no longer starch-stiff. He set her on the edge of the bed, but when he went to move, she stopped him with her hand on a loosed edge of his cravat. “If I attempt to dislodge this, will I choke you to death, I wonder?”

  “That is a distinct possibility,” he said in a low, gravelly, thoroughly enticing growl.

  Her fingers moved to his waistcoat. “Then you deal with that. I think I can handle this.”

  They worked in tandem, his tie falling away the same moment his waistcoat parted. He tore off both and whipped his shirt over his head. She’d seen his chest once before—the day she’d burst into his chamber during his bath—but hadn’t felt the privilege to look so openly. Even now, the differences were stark in how he’d filled out. She licked her lips.

  He kicked off his shoes and stripped out of his pantaloons and stockings, his erection standing proud. His hand landed on her shoulder, and he gently pushed her to her back. He lifted her feet to the bed with her knees bent and finished what he’d started moments ago—his mouth on her sex. Her hips jerked upward, embedding his tongue deeply within her.

  She exploded in a burst of sensation.

  He kept his mouth in place, riding out the wave. Seconds later, he placed his knees between her legs and crawled up her body. “I can wait no longer,
my love.” He seated himself deep within her. It was a snug fit, but there was no pain, just pure need rebuilding within her.

  Maeve locked her feet behind him and clenched him within her. She clutched at his shoulders, which were now damp.

  His mouth found hers, his tongue chasing and catching her own. He suckled it, moving in her. He started slow, but seconds later, his mouth pulled from hers, and he was gasping for breath.

  Maeve couldn’t think about that, though, because he brought his thumb up and pressed at the top of her sex, and she flew into another million pieces, gasping herself.

  Harlowe let out a harsh growl. The tendons in his neck were so taut they looked on the verge of breaking. His shaft throbbed within her sensitized flesh as he fell on top of her.

  A burst of song that felt completely unnatural unfurled in her chest. But she couldn’t seem to keep her cheeks from pinching at a grin filling her from the inside out.

  Slowly, he lifted away. “Are you all right? Did I hurt you?”

  “N-no.” Her voice came out breathless and smiling.

  He looked into her eyes, and she stared back, unable to do anything else. “Thank you for marrying me, Maeve Radcliff, Lady Harlowe.”

  Thirty-Three

  G

  uilt warred with the thrill of having Nathaniel with Maeve. She’d missed him horribly. He was an adorable, sweet natured child, and Penny and Mary loved having him about. Having Nathan underfoot certainly helped in keeping Penny from fretting so much over her missing sister.

  Lorelei must be heartsick at not having Nathan in her house. That was the source of Maeve’s guilt.