The Viscount’s Vendetta by Kathy L. Wheeler
Eighteen
M
aeve’s head dropped to Brandon’s shoulder.
His hands cupped her shoulders, and he squeezed. He then pulled away and, with a straight face, said, “It’s time to talk to your mother, my dear.” He couldn’t hide the mirth in his eyes, and Maeve was almost positive one corner of his lip twitched. He spun her about.
“Hello, Mother.”
Lady Ingleby beamed them with a bright smile. “You been holding out on your mother, you naughty girl. And here I thought you were after the Marquis of Dorset.”
Brandon’s fingers dug into her upper arms. She hid a wince. “Er, Lady Ingleby. Perhaps we can make our way to the drawing room.” His hands fell away, but he nudged Maeve none too gently in that direction.
“When did this come about?” her mother asked pleasantly.
“Last night, Lady Ingleby. Only, we’ve something to tell you.”
Her beringed hand splayed her generous bosom. Maeve always wondered where her own slender form had come from. Her father had been a tall, large man. “Oh my. Maeve, you should have said something. Now, about the wed—”
Maeve smoothly cut her off. “There’s to be no wedding, Mother.”
“I shall check on St. George’s. Six months—” her mother said. “I’m sorry, I don’t believe I heard you correctly.”
“She said there is to be no wedding.” There was a bite in his remark, but Maeve refused to let it bother her. She’d lost her head the night before. She had no desire to marry anyone. Right? In any event, she wasn’t about to sell herself in another marriage of friendship only. She had funds and independence of her own. A priceless situation.
Her mother’s face turned a horrendous shade of red. “You cannot be serious.”
“Oh, but I am,” Maeve returned.
“That is unacceptable, Maeve. We shall have the banns called for the required three weeks. You shall be married the week of the fourteenth of January.”
Maeve covered her laugh with a small cough. “You may call the banns, Mother. But neither I nor Harlowe will be there.”
Lady Ingleby clutched her chest, falling onto the nearest chair, gasping for oxygen. “You cannot possibly stay here.”
“As a matter of fact, Harlowe and I were on our way out. He knows of a townhouse that is perfect, and ready for me to move into.”
Her gazed narrowed on him.
“And just where is this perfect house?” her mother demanded.
“Cavendish Square,” he said.
She sniffed her disdain. “That’s a lovely enough area, I suppose,” her tone grudgingly acknowledged.
Maeve knew it wouldn’t take her mother long to puzzle out exactly why Brandon had a house in Cavendish Square. It was imperative Maeve put an end to this meeting immediately. “Mother, I hate to disappoint you, but we truly were on our way out. I appreciate your stopping by. Now, if you will excuse us.” Maeve went to the door and motioned to Oswald. “My cloak, please,” she said softly. She turned back around and, to her dismay, her mother stood up.
“Excellent. I shall accompany you.”
Panic surged through Maeve, and she shot Brandon a glance but managed to remain calm. “I am a widow, Mother. Not a debutante,” she said in her haughtiest tone.
But Lady Ingleby was not one to give in so easily. Her gaze moved over her then shifted to Brandon. Her eyes widened with mental horror. “You are not moving in with my daughter!”
Her words stunned Maeve momentarily speechless.
Brandon moved next to Maeve. “Certainly not. Your daughter would never allow me such liberties, Lady Ingleby. That being said, however, this is something your daughter wishes to approach independently. After all, she is the one who shall be living there.”
With a feral curve of her lips, Maeve turned to Brandon. “Are you quite ready, my lord?”
He escorted her out, took her cloak from Oswald as they passed, and draped it over her shoulders. “Is Kimpton’s coach available?”
“I took the liberty of having it prepared,” Oswald said.
“Please see my mother out,” Maeve told him. “After we are well and away.”
