The Viscount’s Vendetta by Kathy L. Wheeler

Fourteen

Harlowe lay stretched out on the bed, listening intently for any sound from the chamber next door. He glanced at the clock on the mantle. Maeve Pendleton, Lady Alymer, should have been back by now. Suddenly, the door slammed in her chamber. “What! How dare she.” It appeared Lady Alymer was furious, giving testament to that ginger hair of hers.

The other voice was muted, and he couldn’t make out the words.

“This is the last straw,” Maeve bit out. “The absolute last straw.” The volume of the words faded in and out, as if she were pacing to the wall and back. “That’s it, Parson. I will not be party to her machinations.”

Again with the muted sound from her lady’s maid.

“Then I suggest you go stay with her. I mean it, Parson. I’ve been patient, but—”

Muted.

An urge to grin trickled through him. He linked his fingers together behind his head and did his utmost to make out the words. In his mind, he pictured her irritation with her hands splayed on her hips. She didn’t strike him as a normally angry person. In fact, she seemed to keep her emotions well in check, overly so, if one considered her hair. Good God, he was obsessed with her hair. He closed his eyes, and his fingers tingled with the thought of pushing his hands through her hair, pins flying, locks free.

“No, I don’t want tea. No. I’ll not wear the lime-green gown. It barely covers my nipples.”

Oh, for God’s sake. Harlowe groaned.

The door opened and shut again, softly this time.

Harlowe’s heart sped up when a knock tapped at his door, and the beat inside him tripled.

The door cracked open. “My lord?” He didn’t think he would ever tire of hearing the music that was her voice. It defied reasonable logic. It spoke of luxury. Of sensuality. Of… lust.

There was no hiding his body’s reaction to Lady Alymer’s voice. He swallowed a groan. “Is there something you required… Maeve?” His own voice sounded as if it had been ground through rocks.

She slipped through the door but left it ajar. “I only wished to check on you, my lord.” She smiled a grim smile. “My mother is demanding that I show at the Martindales’ tonight.”

“Or what?”

“Or she will make things difficult for Lady Kimpton,” she said on a huff of frustration.

Harlowe rose to sitting and poured himself some water. “How on earth can she make things difficult for Lorelei?”

“Does it matter? She’s been a wonderful friend to me.” Maeve moved farther into the room. Something slammed in the room next door. She flinched, then her eyes narrowed on him. “Are you able to hear everything that goes on in my chamber?”

“Not everything,” he said, unrepentant, completely fascinated by the changing color in her face that clashed with her hair. Was it his fault the walls were paper thin? “Is it wise for you to be here, my lady?”

“No.” The huskiness of her tone set his skin afire.

He dare not move, lest he snag her by the wrist and pull her to the bed. The certainty of what would follow left him breathless.

“I came in to check on you—” She stepped closer. “Are you sure you’re all right? You seem flush. Where is Mr. Rory?”

“I’m not a child,” he ground out through the lust surging his veins.

“No. No, of course you are not.” She seemed at a loss as to what to do as she spun about in a slow circle.

“You don’t wish to attend the Martindales’ rout?”

Her cheeks stained red. Likely realizing exactly what he’d heard through the wall. “No.”

Harlowe stood and moved over to her. He ran his hand down her arm and linked his fingers with hers. “What is it your mother is threatening Lore with?”

“I’d rather not say,” she whispered.

He cupped her head and pulled her stiff body into his chest. “All right.” Even with her height, she felt slight against him. Feminine. Sweet and prickly.

After an interminably long few minutes, she pulled her hand free and stepped back. She cleared her throat. “You’ll be all right tonight?”

“I think you know the answer to that,” he said.

Yes. Yes, she did. The evidence poked her in the abdomen. Coming into his chamber had not been one of her wiser decisions. He smelled much too… delicious. The fire in her face blazed.

Maeve couldn’t possibly tell him what her mother had conveyed through Parson. That if Maeve didn’t attend the Martindales’ rout, she would spread tales regarding Harlowe. How he’d been confined to an asylum near Colchester. The only way her mother could have learned of that fact was through Parson. Maeve felt a sense of helpless fury. It was emotional blackmail through and through. She’d wager her entire inheritance from Alymer that her mother had gotten wind of Maeve’s Rotten Row drive and was prepared to exploit it to the fullest.

She wouldn’t hurt Lorelei to save her life. Nor Ginny, Lady Brockway. Maeve hadn’t grown up with many friends, giving her insight to how valuable having friends was. And Lady Ingleby was not her friend. Was one’s mother ever truly one’s friend?

“Lady Alymer? Maeve?”

Maeve started. She blinked, and Harlowe came into focus. He really didn’t need her care. Not any longer. Seeing him as he was now compared to a week ago told the story she could no longer deny.

“Don’t fret, my lady. Lorelei can certainly take care of herself. Nothing your mother could say can hurt my sister.”

Maeve wasn’t so sure. Words hurt people. Many times words were a woman’s only weapon.

There was something about Harlowe that sent her pragmatic nature scattering with a swift wind. Made her want to throw herself into his large and capable arms. That thought was so incongruous and foreign to Maeve’s nature, she was momentarily stunned to stone.

She lifted her eyes to him. What she saw there confused her, and she backed away. What would it be like to lay her head on his shoulder, let him carry some of her fears, her worries, her frustrations? That more than anything frightened her. She hadn’t depended on anyone in years. Even with Alymer, Maeve had been younger, sharper, stronger.

“I should go,” she said. “If I’m to make the Martindales’.” She didn’t wait for a response, instead darting out the door for the safety of her chamber.

She fell back against the door, her eyes closed. God, how she’d wanted to… to kiss him.

Parson appeared from the adjoining sitting room. Concern marred her brow. “What is it? Are you ill?”

“No.” Maeve drew in a deep breath.“No,” she said again. “Call for a bath, please.” Anything to calm herself down, when all she wished to do was rush back in Harlowe’s chamber and throw herself into his arms. She’d probably knock him flat.