The Viscount’s Vendetta by Kathy L. Wheeler

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-glazed 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.

Heavy drops of rain plopped on his shoulders by the time she wrenched it open. “Is aught amiss, m’lord?”

“No. I’m going to stay here tonight.”

“Are ye turnin’ me out, yer lordship?”

“No, Agnes. I appreciate your adeptness at keeping the house in working order. Is there a runner about for me to send off a message?”

“Just Stephen, m’lord.”

Blast.“All right. Never mind. Don’t worry breakfast for me. But you best prepare the house for occupants.” The idea just hit him, not yet fully formed. Nothing to worry over, he was quick thinker on his feet. Er, leastways he used to be. He was almost positive.

She dipped a short curtsey and disappeared down the stairs.

Harlowe flipped the lock on the door and made his way to Rowena’s office beneath the stairs on the ground level. It was much too small, reminding him of the windowless hold on the ship he’d been tossed in and left for dead. But he had questions, and this room seemed the most likely place to find them. He lit a candle and raised it above his head. It was devoid of dust. Agnes seemed to have kept the ground level of the floor in tiptop condition, ignoring the upper levels.

It made no difference to him.

The top of the desk was now devoid of papers. He went around and sat down, then pulled out drawers. Just the usual strips of papers, receipts, and the like, dated the year before. Mostly for clothes for her and Corinne. He found a couple of books on the household accounts, but they hadn’t been updated in over a year either. Agnes likely couldn’t read. He wondered briefly how she’d managed to keep food on the table for herself and her two charges, and he surely couldn’t forget about the newly painted door.

He spun around in an American swivel chair, checking out the space behind him. A cabinet door to his right was ajar. Harlowe pulled it back and found a safe that wasn’t closed all the way. He poked around inside and found a few more papers that didn’t appear to have much significance. He pushed the door to, not latching it, since he had no notion the combination should he happen to have need of its contents.

He took a moment, letting the notion sink in that this was now his house. That he had servants of his own, young though they were. And resilient. He best not forget that.

He wondered how Maeve would take to living in a famous courtesan’s highly fashionable abode. Shaking his head with a small chuckle, he surmised she wouldn’t care a fig what anyone thought as long as she didn’t have to live with her mother.

The enclosed space began to suffocate him. He took the candle and went toward the stairs to find a place to sleep but was stopped by someone tapping at the door. No one knew he was there, and his instincts for danger kicked in. He went to the door. “Who goes there?”

“Rory, milord.”

Harlowe let out a relieved breath and opened the door. “What are you doing here?”

“The Kimptons and Lady Alymer returned home. I figured you must o’ come ’ere, and decided to check.”

Harlowe stood back and let him in. “Excellent. There wasn’t anyone one but a boy to send a message so I opted not to. Come in. I was just about to locate a place to sleep.” He secured the lock on the door and as they walked up the stairs, he relayed the information of the shot in the park.

Rory let out a savage oath. “Ye’ve no idea who it could be?”

“None.” Just thinking about it had Harlowe’s pulse spiking.

“P’rhaps I should take a ride through the park.”

“Not tonight. It’s raining. You won’t find anything at this hour. Hell, it might have just been some miscreant up to mischief.” But Harlowe was blatantly aware he was kidding himself with that thought.

Rory nodded.

Somehow Harlowe couldn’t make himself sleep in the bed he and Corinne had shared and briefly wondered why. He went past her door to another and found what had to have been his own chamber at the time. “Take the other room,” he told Rory. He stripped off his clothes and crawled beneath the blankets.

There was a draft in the room so he didn’t open the window, but he lay awake, listening to the rain pattering against the glass panes. Maeve Pendleton, Lady Alymer, was going to be furious with him. It was a challenge he looked forward to.

He fell asleep with an unexpected sense of joy curling through him.