The Viscount’s Vendetta by Kathy L. Wheeler
Thirty
One week later, the first day of February, brought an unusual bout of snow. Maeve was beside herself with worry. Despite her and Harlowe’s daily drives around Soho Square, she hadn’t spotted the girl she believed was Melinda a second time. Penny’s nightmares were growing worse by night. It was safe to say that no one in the house was getting much sleep.
The streets were a mess of slushy muck. And it was cold. She refused to sit inside the warmth of the carriage when Melinda likely wore rags for clothes. Every day, Maeve clutched a new wool cloak in the event they located her. “We’re never going to find her,” she told Harlowe.
“I’m sorry, darling. I wish I could reassure you absolutely, but that would be unfair.”
He was right, of course. She rested her cheek against his shoulder in a small gesture of thanks.
“Wouldn’t you prefer to sit inside?”
A soft smile touched her. “You say that every day. You should know the answer by now, my lord.”
“It hadn’t been snowing every day up to now. I fear you’ll catch your death.”
“Sitting inside would wrack me with guilt.”
He let out a long-winded sigh, drawing another smile from her.
“I think we should put off the wedding.”
His jaw tightened. “I’m willing to do anything you ask… but that.”
She’d known that even when she’d suggested it. Her mother would track her down like a hound to a fox and drag her by the hair. It had become her own private jest. But by the looks of Harlowe’s expression, he didn’t quite see it the same way. She supposed it didn’t help when one didn’t laugh. “I’m sorry. My witticism isn’t going over well, is it?”
“No.” But he squeezed her hand. “I know you are frightened for Melinda. I am as well, and I promise we’ll do our best to find her.”
“I know. I don’t wish to sound ungrateful. I’m not, you know.”
“I’m thrilled to know it,” he said.
“It just seems wrong for us to be happy when Penny has such horrendous nightmares. I’m glad we are keeping the ceremony small.”
Again, he squeezed her hand. He understood how she felt, and it warmed her through. She glanced about at the tree limbs bared of leaves and lined with snow that glistened. Their path past Soho Square was devoid of the normal bustling crowds one could find on a sunny or rainy day, and the reality of the situation hit Maeve with despair.
“We might as well head back. She’s not going to show herself. Not with the two of us…” Her voice trailed away.
Harlowe’s sense of helplessness went bone-deep. At least when he’d been confined to the asylum, he’d been plied with opium to dull the impression. He found Maeve’s powerlessness profoundly distressing. He feared she was right. A street-savvy child was very adept at not being seen if they so chose. There was no way to reassure her. If the outcome was unfavorable, his words would come across as placating and not respecting of her intelligence. And if there was one thing about Maeve Pendleton, soon-to-be Lady Harlowe, her keen perspicacity could not be faulted.
He turned the horses toward Cavendish, taking great comfort with Maeve at his side. It felt… right. He pulled in the drive, and Niall promptly appeared. Harlowe tossed him the reins and turned to assist Maeve. He ignored her hands, taking her by the waist and setting her on her feet. He held her as close as the cloak she held between them allowed.
She lifted her eyes. He stared into their depths, wondering how he’d come to this place, this moment with her. Time suspended as need surged through him. Need to please her. Need to protect her. Need to have her.
If only he could assure himself she harbored the same.
Snowflakes landed on the hood of her cape, on the tip of her nose, on her lashes. Her lips parted, and her breath frosted on the cold air. “I think we should turn the upstairs salon into an art studio,” she said softly.
His breath hitched at the meaning behind her words.
Her brows furrowed. “We shall have to have a lock put on the door. Too many chemicals about.”
The weighted iron he’d carried in his chest since he’d woken in Lorelei’s house burst free. He couldn’t speak. Instead, he lowered to his mouth to hers. Hers parted beneath his. He swept his tongue into depths of molten fire, held her fiercely to his chest despite the cloak she hugged, and reveled in her response. It was too cold to linger long, and he forced himself away. “Come. We’ve a wedding to attend to,” he said gruffly.
“Yes,” she whispered.
