The Viscount’s Vendetta by Kathy L. Wheeler

Thirty-One

The next morning, Maeve sat at her vanity in her old bedchamber at her mother’s house awaiting her nuptials to Viscount Harlowe. Her status as countess, downgraded to viscountess, had her grinning at her reflection in the mirror.

In retrospect, she wondered if she should be angry with Harlowe’s machinations in getting her to the altar. But no one had forced her to take off down the street after a child like a lunatic. That was on her. And neither had he set Shufflebottom and Welton on the street to find her. She was a pragmatic person. She’d been worried—was still worried—for Melinda’s safety, for Penny’s fear.

The question that continued to plague her: would she react the same in the same situation? The answer was yes. The thought that perhaps she needed a keeper was both irritating and humorous.

“I’m thrilled to see you happy, my lady,” Agnes said, putting the finishing touches to her hair, to the outrage of her mother.

Was she happy? Except for her worry over Melinda and Penny, Maeve could honestly say she was. “Thank you. I think my mother is not thrilled that most of ton has left the city for the country.” A fact that didn’t bother Maeve. The most important people were to stand with her and Harlowe. Only the Kimptons and the Brockways had remained, and that was fine by her.

A smile curved Agnes’s lips. She didn’t speak, just poked more pins into Maeve’s hair.

A tap rapped at the door, and Lady Ingleby’s flushed face peered in. “The guests are arriving, Maeve. You should let Parson do a final inspection of your toilette.”

“Agnes is perfectly capable, Mother.”

Rather than argue, as was her norm, Lady Ingleby huffed out on an aggravated breath. “Don’t be late. You’re always late.”

Actually, Maeve was never late. She considered her reflection in the mirror. Agnes had outdone herself with Maeve’s unruly curls. Not a single braided coil wrapped her head. Instead, fantastical ringlets framed her face with most of the locks pulled back and up with other, softer tendrils draping down. Agnes poked another few pins in, dotted with pearls and sapphires. They glittered throughout, matching the bishop blue of the simple gown she was to wear.

Maeve had never felt so beautiful. “You do outstanding work, Agnes,” she said. “I believe you are due for a raise.”

“Ye are much too generous, milady.”

Her mother poked her head around the door again. “Don’t forget to use enough powder for those unsightly freckles.”

“Yes, my lady.” Agnes’s utter calm irritated her.

“Good heavens, Maeve. Let the girl earn her keep.” Lady Ingleby’s agitation shouldn’t have come as a surprise. Harlowe was only a viscount, not a marquis or a duke.

Maeve turned from the mirror to her mother. “Mother, you are wound more tightly than a spool of thread. This ceremony is very intimate—” A thought hit her. Her mother had likely invited the whole of the haute ton back to town. She pinched the bridge of her nose and took a deep breath. “You didn’t.”

“Didn’t what, dear?”

“You know Harlowe and I wished to keep our ceremony small. Only the Kimptons and the Brockways.”

“Maeve, you are truly the most selfish of daughters. Why, I only included a few others. How often does my only child marry?”

“One time too many,” she muttered under her breath.

“We really do need to talk about your ridiculous notion in residing at Cavendish Square. It’s unseemly for you to live in a famous courtesan’s home. I don’t care if the woman is dead. That house is forever tainted.”

“That’s enough, Mother. We’ve had this conversation before and the matter is settled. The house belongs to Harlowe and it’s a lovely home. I refuse to listen to another word about it.”

Maeve was surprised her mother didn’t stomp her foot. “It’s too far away.”

“Hardly that, Mother.”

“But, darling, what if you have children?”

Children. Maeve stopped herself from touching her stomach. She could be carrying right that moment. “We shall survive the scandal.”

Her mother dabbed at faux tears. “You are an ungrateful child.” She sniffed.

“How many are here—”

“I cannot abide talking to you a moment longer.” Her mother flittered out on a timely exit. She should have trod the boards.

Agnes leaned in. “Fergive me fer sayin’ so, milady,” Agnes whispered, “But his lordship doesn’t seem put off in the least by yer freckles.”

No. Just my street urchin running tendencies.Maeve refrained from commenting. “Hmm.”

“Have you any idea who she invited?” Maeve asked Agnes.

“I think I saw Lord Dorset.”

Maeve groaned.

“There were one or two others I recognized but can’t remember by name.” Agnes patted Maeve’s hair. “There, milady, I’ve done all I can.”

Maeve turned to the mirror and checked her appearance, stunned by her reflection. Though her stomach was a flutter of nerves, she’d never felt more confident than she did in that moment. She was about to acquire a husband and a child, and she couldn’t have been more miserable…or happy. This wasn’t how a new bride in her second marriage should feel.

Harlowe could break her heart, and there was nothing she could do about it.

 

Harlowe had half a mind to file a complaint with Parliament on the use of cravats. They should be declared instruments of torture. Ingleby’s formal parlor was packed. Besides the Duke of Addis, the Kimptons, and the Brockways, the only invitees he and Maeve had approved mind, Lady Ingleby had seen fit to invite the Duke of Oxford, Lady Parther, Lexum, and his new bride, Felicity. And of course she hadn’t dared left out the Faulks, Martindales, Peachornsbys, Lady Dankworth, and Dorset. Harlowe stifled his sigh. The only people missing were Welton and Shufflebottom for God’s sake.

Irene was the only child in attendance, though anyone who spoke with her had to realize she was really a grown person in a child’s body. Her sister, Cecilia, was supposedly socked away in the nursery with Nathaniel. He would have loved shaking things up by bringing Penny and Mary, but having Lady Ingleby faint would have taken away the spirit of his own wedding. One he had every intention of remembering. Regardless, he had his own surprise for his new bride when they arrived home.

Harlowe was surprised how jittery he was. He couldn’t help feeling he was in a waking dream. That he would jar to consciousness and he would be in his chamber at Lore’s. But, of course, that was not the case. Across the formal parlor, Kimpton waited with Lore. His brother-in-law would stand by Harlowe’s side, and Lorelei for Maeve.

Harlowe did his best to block out the hum of chatter cluttering his thoughts. In most instances, Maeve had a calming effect on him. He was ready for the quiet. But she’d been furious with his machination in manufacturing this wedding. He had a Regent’s Park worth of ground to make up.

He tugged at his collar for the third or fourth time; he’d lost count. What he needed was air. He pulled out his watch. Twenty more minutes. Clearly, Lady Ingleby was using this wedding to her own advantage. He glanced over to the woman in question. She stood speaking with Oxford and Lady Parther, hobnobbing with the best. The lady never wasted her opportunities.

“Lord Harlowe?” The soft voice came at his elbow.

He glanced down. For the first time in a week he felt a smile from the depths of his being. He bowed. “Lady Irene. How delightful to see you.”

“Are you quite all right, sir? You appear pale. Much like Celia when she is coming down with the auge.”

So old, she was. He smiled. “Admittedly, I could use some fresh air.”

“’Tis cold out.” She studied him with her unnerving intensity. “I expect it was the ship’s hold. I feel an affliction of suffocation myself on occasion.”

“I expect you’re right. Where on earth did you learn such a phrase?”

“My grandfather. Addis told me he suffered from an affliction of horrid nightmares when my Aunt Rachel disappeared. He said he still has bad dreams but not as often.”

Harlowe remembered bits of Brock’s younger sister having been kidnapped. The outcome had not been one of satisfaction. As he considered Irene’s words, he thought of all the nights he woke drenched in sweat. “Do you still have nightmares?”

“Not as I used to. I, too, require vast amounts of air.” Her small body quivered and she wrinkled her nose. “That windowless room smelled horribly. Do you remember?”

“I do indeed.” Again, smiling, he held out his arm. “Perhaps we could take a turn in the garden, my lady.”

“That would be lovely, my lord.”

Harlowe led Irene to the terrace doors and they slipped out. The cool air instantly soothed him.

“Do you suppose there will be dancing later? After the wedding breakfast?” she asked him.

“I have a feeling Lady Ingleby is counting on the fact.”

“Oh, that is excellent, don’t you think? I should love dancing. Addis tells me I’m too young to attend balls and soirees.”

“I would have to agree with him,” Harlowe said.

She let out a winded sigh. “Yes, I suppose so.”

“Do you think it would be all right for today? Not too improper?”

“If there is dancing today, then perhaps I’ll throw my lot behind you. But only with certain gentlemen. I expect Brock and Addis will give their say on approved partners as well. You will, of course, save me a place on your dance card, my lady?”

A grin lit her face, showing the child she indeed was. “Certainly, my lord.”

 

The rector cleared his throat. “You may kiss your bride.”

Maeve could feel her face flame in the long moment it took Harlowe to release her lips with God and all of sundry watching. “Just a couple more hours, my sweet. I fear your mother has grand plans,” Harlowe whispered, then pulled away.

“Please welcome Lord and Lady Harlowe.” The rector’s voice boomed.

Harlowe turned her to face the guests, and she almost fainted. She’d been so nervous when she’d walked between the two sections created for seating, she hadn’t noticed who’d bothered to attend their intimate gathering. It appeared her mother had outdone herself. Two dukes, two marquesses, and a number of earls and viscounts, along with their counterparts, countesses and viscountesses and the like.

Lady Ingleby moved quickly to the rear of the room. “The wedding breakfast will commence in moments. Please proceed to the ballroom. Causey shall lead the way,” she said with an unnatural modesty, making her unusual restraint all the more admirable.

Harlowe led Maeve from the room and pulled her into the library for a private moment. In a heated rush, his mouth covered hers. She tasted desire, lust, and… tenderness.

“I have half a mind to take you right here.”

“You wouldn’t,” she breathed, half tempted to let him. No! She was angry with him. This marriage was all his… “It’s tempting,” she admitted.

“No, but it would serve your mother right for pulling this stunt. As it happens, should there be dancing, I have promised my attendance upon one young lady.”

Maeve frowned. “I told you, I would not be made a fool—”

His grin was most wolfish. “Do I detect jealousy, Lady Harlowe?”

Warmth swirled through her, tension easing from her shoulders as she studied his confident mien. He desired her. He wanted her. Then it hit her. “Ah, I see. You’ve promised yourself to Lady Irene, I take it?”

He dropped another quick kiss on her. “I did indeed. But the minute that dance ends, we shall be taking our leave.”

Unable to help herself, she smiled against his lips, hoping against hope, theirs would be a happy union. “Granted, my lord.”

 

Dorset spun Maeve in a sharp turn on the parquet. He gripped her side so tightly, she had to concentrate to keep from wincing.

“You should have said something. You shouldn’t have been forced to marry the bastard—”

“Lord Dorset,” she hissed. “Lord Harlowe is my husband. No one forced me into anything.”

“Never say you married him of your own free will. I won’t believe it.”

“Well, believe it, sir.” She spoke sharply. Maeve had every intention of giving her new marriage her whole heart. No one would ever learn the truth from her, she vowed silently. “He is my husband, and you shall not speak ill of him.” Maeve glanced across the ballroom where Harlowe gallantly led Lady Irene in her first waltz. It was ridiculously sweet. And honorable. And… adorable.

Once Harlowe got to know his son, he would be a wonderful father.

“My apologies,” Dorset said stiffly.

Maeve let out a sigh. “Lord Dorset. Rest assured, I did not marry Harlowe under duress.” At least once she got used to the idea.

“I see.” He cleared his throat. The music ended, and Dorset took her arm and led her off the floor. “Has Harlowe mentioned his visits to the Chancé Salon?”

His words infuriated her, yet she stumbled. “How dare you speak to me of Chancé’s Salon. And yes, he did tell me,” she bit out. This was beyond humiliating, but at least she’d been forewarned.

In a quick move, she was righted. “I see.” Of course, he didn’t believe her. Well, that couldn’t be helped.

“Mention what?”

Maeve spun around. “Brandon!”

“My felicitations, Harlowe. You have a lovely bride.” Dorset’s hands fell from Maeve, and he stepped back.

“I’m a lucky man,” Harlowe said, taking Maeve’s gloved fingers and bringing them to his lips.

Her face heated and likely turned an unbecoming shade of scarlet.

He leaned in and whispered in her ear, “What was that all about?”

“Your calls to the Chancé Salon,” she murmured. “I realize this is not the place but we shall revisit this conversation.”

“Dorset is determined to create dissonance where there is no need,” he retorted softly. “You are all I need, my love.”

“So, after tonight…”

“We shall be pleasantly occupied.” He brought her gloved hand to his lips. “Shall we retire home?”

She was charmed but did her best to keep her voice tart. “Don’t think I shall not hold you to that, my lord.”