The Viscount’s Vendetta by Kathy L. Wheeler

Twenty-Seven

T

he next morning dawned with brilliant sunshine. It was February and cold. If the sunshine held, the park would be unbearably crowded.

Agnes marched in laden down with a tray comprised of a steaming pot of chocolate, cup, and plate of scones fresh from the oven. “I’ve a treat for you, milady.”

“Smells delicious,” she said.

“I ’spect the foyer smells even better.” Agnes set the tray on the bed and scooted it toward her then poured out a cup of chocolate.

How decadent. “Why would the foyer smell better?”

“All the flowers, milady. Bunches of them.”

Something unfamiliar fluttered in Maeve’s breast. She’d never been showered with bunches of flowers before, not even in her first, second, or third season. She drained her cup and hopped out of bed, curious—well, excited—to see what “bunches of flowers” looked like.

Under Agnes’s ministrations, Maeve was turned out for a day of morning calls, a ride in the park, or a visit to Lady Dankworth’s for tea with her pugs, Mr. and Mrs. Wriggles. She tripped down the stairs and, one third of the way down, was inundated with the fragrance of roses, lilies, pansies, rhododendrons, and daffodils. It was a little overpowering and... infinitely satisfying.

“Goodness.” She went the rest of the way down. At the first “bunch,” daffodils, she located the card. Baron Welton. She flipped it over. Nothing. She flipped it back. Just his name. She reached into her memory for what the meaning of a bouquet of daffodils signified: Regard. Then let out a relieved breath. Welton was not a complication she desired or needed.

The pansies were from Oxford, and she drew out his card.

Thank you for your presence last evening, my dear. I look forward to calling on you. There is still the little matter of Alymer’s scripts. I trust you haven’t forgotten.

Yrs. Oxford

Smiling she moved to the lilies—avoiding the roses—They were stargazers. The edges were a delicate white, their pink centers so rich, they deepened to red. Their strong sweet fragrance was cloying due to the sheer number. She found the note buried deep within the greenery.

Peering in your eyes is like a night beneath the stars. Until four. I shan’t be late.

Dorset, then. No signature. He was due at four. Lilies meant purity. She was not pure. Not any longer.

Another held a basket of lovely purple, pink, and white rhododendrons interspersed with more lilies of a different variety. These were also surrounded with rich greenery. Maeve was flabbergasted by its simplicity. And touched.

I shan’t sleep at’all until we dance again. S.

S? Smythe? Shufflebottom? Seward? Grinning, she replaced the card.

Finally, she looked at the roses. Ran a fingertip over the velvety soft petals. Their beauty was pure perfection. A mixture of red, pink, and burgundy. Passion, grace, sophistication, elegance, simplicity, beauty. Her insides quivered with… desire and need.

There was no card. But then, none was needed.

 

For the second time in as many days, Harlowe made his way into the nursery to visit with his son. Molly sat in the rocker with Nathan huddled in her lap. “Is he ill?” he asked her.

Nathan’s thumb plopped from his mouth. His half-drooped eyes flew wide, and his arms reached for him.

With only the minutest pause, Harlowe took the boy.

Molly rose from the chair, indicating he should sit. “He was just about to fall asleep.”

Harlowe frowned. “’Tis barely two in the afternoon.”

“Active children need their rest, milord. And he has been most active.” She pushed her white mob cap off her forehead where it had slipped. “He usually naps twice per day. But he hid from me for his ten o’clock.” She addressed Nathan with mock sternness. “You naughty boy.”

Nathan laid his head against Harlowe’s shoulder and looked up at him with his beguiling hazel eyes. He poked his thumb back in his mouth. “Were you naughty, son?”

Nathan grinned around his thumb, his eyes half-drooping again.

“Take a breather, Molly. I think I can handle a sleepy boy.”

She dipped a short curtsey. “Thank you, milord. I shan’t be long.”

Lowering down, Harlowe cupped the back of Nathan’s head and rocked. Back and forth. He wished Maeve could see him. He was calm, the baby was calm. All seemed right with the world—at the moment.

In the quiet of the nursery, he was able to garner his thoughts. Had she received his flowers? Had she discerned their meaning? He wanted her with an ache he feared nothing else could fill. He lowered his lips to Nathan’s head. His blond hair was but tufts. He smelled of trust and innocence. An innocence that would shatter once he learned his mother had taken her own life. Yet… what if she hadn’t? His heart pounded a little hard. Had anyone questioned the notion?

Weights of cast iron pressed down on his shoulders, pushing out the calm. How was he to keep Maeve and his son from harm? His sister? What of all the charges Maeve took upon her own shoulders? Whatever he’d been involved in before his abduction affected those near and dear to him. It was imperative to resolve the situation. How else was he to lead a normal life? As normal as one could without the benefit of a complete memory.

Nathan took a shuddering breath, then once again grew rhythmic as he seemed to settle more snuggly against Harlowe’s chest, crushing his starched cravat. A contentment fell over Harlowe, the likes of which he couldn’t remember since Lorelei had tucked him into bed not long after their parents’ passing. He must have been eight at the time. Another memory having sneaked up on him.

The extent of Lorelei’s attachment to Nathan was a twisted sword in his chest.

“Brandon?”

He glanced up and smiled. “Hello, sister-dear. I was just thinking about you.”

“I didn’t expect to see you here.”

“At the nagging of Ladies Irene and Alymer, I’m attempting to bond with my son and heir.” He glanced down. “He’s soundly sleeping.” He looked back up. “Just yesterday, I was initiated by him—right down the side of my body. Needless to say, I was forced to change before being seen or smelled in public.”

Her eyes glistened, yet her smile was one of tenderness and… pride. Blinking rapidly, she sauntered in. “I’m glad, Brandon. So very glad.” Her fingers brushed Nathan’s forehead.

“I know how much you care for him,” he said.

“Ah, but he is your son. Your heir. And he belongs with you.”

“Yes. Still, I don’t wish to hurt you, of all people.”

A small, secret smile curved her lips, her hand splayed her stomach.

His head fell back, and he knew a moment of divine and righteous thankfulness. “You’re carrying.”

“I am. I’ve yet to tell Thorne, so please be so kind as to keep the knowledge to yourself,” she said smartly, though the glow about her could light the night sky from London to Edinburgh.

Molly appeared in the arch. “Lady Kimpton, Lord Harlowe. I’ve returned, as promised.”

“Just in time too.” He rose from the chair. “Show me where to put him. I’ve a woman to pursue. A stubborn, temperamental beauty of my own. I’ve quite the task ahead of me.”