The Viscount's Vendetta Page 4

  “Good morning, Lady Alymer.” Irene’s watchful vigilance never wavered from her charge, who was crawling from the bottom corner of the bed to the other.

  Nathan tumbled over and out of sight.

  Irene’s terror-filled cry, and Lady Alymer’s horrified gasp, stopped cold when Rory’s monstrous hand lifted with Nathan sprawled on his stomach, kicking his feet and laughing uproariously. He handed Nathan off to Irene. “Mayhap he’s ready for a rest, milady,” Rory said to her.

  “If he is not, I certainly am,” Irene retorted tersely. “Come, you little terror. You are far worse than Celia.”

  “Good day, Lady Irene. Nathan,” Lady Alymer said to Irene’s disappearing head. She glided in the room, with ever the confident bearing he’d witnessed the day before. She glanced at Rory. “Good heavens, sir, you must be dead on your feet.” She frowned at Harlowe. “He is a human being, my lord. Everyone needs food and rest.”

  “How remiss of me. Rory, you are hereby dismissed until you are fed and well-rested,” Harlowe said with a smirk.

  The man ignored him, inclining his head as he made his escape past the indomitable lady.

  She turned back to him, smiling, and took up the chair she’d occupied in the wee hours of the morning. She pointed to his emptied plate of coddled eggs and toast he’d devoured before Irene’s visit. “No ill-effects I take it?”

  “None. Though, perhaps you’ll allow jam for my toast on the morrow?”

  She grinned.

  The sight stunned him momentarily.

  “I’ll inform Mrs. Woods of the concession. Now, tell me, how are you truly feeling today?”

  “Admittedly, the throbbing in my head would drop me to my knees if I attempted to stand at this moment, but, since I’m already abed, perhaps I could use a dash of laudanum—”

  The Aegean-colored eyes speared him.

  He closed his own against her suspicions. Yes, the remark was flippant, but… did he really feel he needed another dose of hell? He breathed in through his nose, and the subtle scent of rose teased him. He exhaled slowly through his mouth. No, he had no such desire for laudanum, just a desire to locate the spot of origin of her enticing scent.

  Slowly, he took stock of his body. His one leg was sore from the cramp the night before but, other than that, there was no nauseousness, and much of his agitation had abated. The flu-like symptoms were dissipating daily, though he still experienced chills on occasion, along with the muscle cramps. All in all, positive signs.

  “Lady Alymer? A missive for you.”

  With a covert glance to the door, Harlowe observed a woman who was as tall as Lady Alymer but twice her weight, and dark blonde hair secured tightly at her nape. Her lips were pinched in a firm disapproving line.

  Lady Alymer took the note from her outstretched hand, opened, then scanned it. The expressions flitting across her face told an unguarded story. One she was not happy about.

  “Will you pardon me a moment, my lord?” She didn’t wait for an answer and stepped in the hall, pulling the door closed behind her, blocking any possibility to eavesdrop.

  Maeve’s foot tapped the thick carpet beneath her, her fury barely leashed. “It appears my mother just cannot contain herself.” She snapped the missive.

  Parson didn’t speak, just waited with her hands clasped before her, yet her disapproval emanated from her in droves.

  “Go to Ingleby House and retrieve my green ballgown. I wore it last year to—never mind. You know the one I mean,” Maeve bit out, incensed with her mother. “Bring the entire ensemble. I will not step foot in Ingleby House before the Oxford ball.”

  “Are you certain, my lady? The green one?” Parson had no business judging Maeve’s actions.

  Maeve’s anger spiked to outrage. “Parson, let me make one thing clear. I’m a widow. If you have no need of my service, please inform me now. You are my maid, not my mother’s appointee.”

  “Yes, my lady.”

  “Take all the time you need retrieving my gown. The ball isn’t for another two days. I’m sure the Kimptons will be attending as well. I’ll check with Lorelei. That will be all.” Maeve spun on her slippered heel and stalked back into Harlowe’s chamber, slamming the door with a thud.

  “I take it the news was unsatisfactory? If not by the force of the door, then the harsh red of your complexion would be a dead giveaway.”

  “How gallant of you to say so.”

  “Who was that?”

  “Who?”

  “The woman you escorted out?”

  “My maid, Parson.”

  “Did you sack her?”

  “Not yet,” she said through clenched teeth.

  “Perhaps you’d like to talk about it?”

  Maeve put a hand to her face. “I sent her to Ingleby House to pick up my ballgown for the Oxford Ball, two nights hence.” She balled her fist and looked down. She still held her mother’s now crinkled note.

  “And you don’t wish to attend?”

  “She has aspirations of the Duke of Oxford offering for me.” Her face grew hotter.

  He lifted a brow. “Didn’t you already marry one man twice your age?”

  “Exactly what I told her.” The air whooshed from her body. “She didn’t care. I asked for my green ballgown. I have my doubts that is the one with which Parson will return.”

  “Surely not.”

  Her head shot up, eyeing him suspiciously. “I would wager Ingleby House on the fact.” She snapped the note against her thigh. “All to impress the mighty duke, of course. It will be a miracle if it’s something I don’t spill out of—” The feverish heat returned in a rush at realizing what she’d just said.

  Harlowe’s eyes moved over her modest soft olive day gown. “That is a sight I wouldn’t mind seeing.”

  Maeve decided in that very moment to set about locating different lodgings, something miles from Ingleby House. She stilled her tapping foot. She was not without funds of her own. Perhaps it was time to utilize them to their fullest extent.

  Harlowe’s gaze fixed on her. “What is going through that sharp brain of yours?”

  “I need a new place to live.” She reached for the water pitcher and glass.

  Frowning, Harlowe said, “He left you no place to live?”

  “A place in the country, miles from anywhere or anyone.”

  His gaze sharpened as if he read her very mind. She motioned for him to sit forward, then handed him the glass and fluffed his pillows. He gave a short nod, allowing her to assist him.

  “So, tell me about your late husband. I’m trying to remember him, but all I can come up with was he loved his books and moved from town once he married. I take it that was after his nuptials to you?”

  Maeve took the emptied glass and set it on the table, shooting him a smug smile. “It was indeed, to my mother’s abject dread. She was determined I marry that dandy, Shufflebottom. Even Baron Welton would have served her purposes, but when Alymer offered, I pounced.”

  “And what made Alymer so appealing to such a lively personality as yours?”

  “His genuine respect,” she responded softly.

  Six

  H

  arlowe leaned back against the pillows and let the sultry velvet of her voice roll over him. He was safe, he was warm, and there was a soft cool wind touching his face. He should ask her if she was cold, offer to have the window closed. “Respect, eh?” he said. “That is indeed a worthy reason. Shufflebottom and Welton aren’t worth your time,” he mumbled, unsure whether or not he was coherent, and again surprised as another snapshot of memory popped in his mind. Something to delve into later. “Tell me of Alymer’s respect.”

  “He was a great scholar. His study of ancient civilizations was short of brilliant. Secret societies, in particular. I assisted him with his research. Drafted letters for him to other accomplished minds. There were instances he never changed a word of what I’d written for him.”

 
; “Didn’t you miss the social events in town?”

  “Not in the least. My life was quite full.”

  It may have been full, but Harlowe detected the minutest wistfulness. He hoarded the information and would examine it further within the depths of night.

  “Alymer was finishing up a text for publication when he grew ill with the auge. He never recovered.”

  “So it was never published?”

  “Of course not. He died. I spent months caring for him.”

  “Which civilizations?”

  He heard rather than saw her hand flitting about. “Atlantis. The meaning of the Pyramids. Athens. Jerusalem.”

  “And what of you?” Harlowe opened one eye, gauging her reaction. It was as he suspected. She was shocked.

  “What about me?” she snapped.

  “What periods interest you? You must have one or two. Otherwise, I suspect you would never have survived the country.”

  Her mouth snapped shut. Apparently stunned by his estimation. He would go so far to say speechless. Those blue eyes took on a distant glow. “Mythology. I—”

  He waited, his heart beating erratically. “You?” he whispered.

  “I was attempting to write a fictional account of members of the ton using traits of the mythological archetypes.”

  Harlowe couldn’t restrain himself, his laughter erupting. How absolutely rich, and utterly creative.

  Her hackles immediately rose. She sputtered. The very ruffling of her skirts told of her impatience.

  He stopped her with one hand. “Why don’t you finish it for him? Alymer’s texts? You’re able minded, aren’t you?”

  “Finish?” She stared back at him as if he’d told her she could fly to the moon.

  He shut his eyes once again, curious at her reaction. The soft rose scent he was beginning to associate with her flooded his senses, and he concentrated on her voice. He wanted to smile but bit the inside of his jaw to stave off the urge. He was quickly learning that her sense of humor rivaled Lady Irene’s. Nil.

  Harlowe chanced another covert glance and watched as her mouth worked. Opened, then closed, then opened again. The sight did something to the nether regions of his body he’d thought long dead, but was, in fact, very much alive. And starving.

  Finally, she said softly, almost under her breath, “Yes, of course. Why shouldn’t I finish it for him? Who is there to stop me?”

  Maeve sat quietly at Harlowe’s bedside as he drifted off into a solid slumber. A thick lock of chestnut hair rested on his brow. She lifted her hand to brush it away—then froze, her gaze going to the door, her cheeks suffusing with heat.

  Neither of the men Kimpton hired to help take care of Harlowe had returned, and Maeve was in no hurry to leave her charge’s side. She took comfort in the quiet of the chamber but for his steady breathing.

  Parson was out for the afternoon and would likely be detained by Lady Ingleby until dusk, grilling Maeve’s maid for the slightest tidbit of information, she was certain Parson would happily provide. Parson had been in her mother’s employ since Maeve’s debut appearance six years prior.

  When Maeve had married Alymer, she hadn’t needed Parson, instead taking a local girl from Alymer’s county to assist Maeve with her needs as she and Alymer spent all their time in the country. Maeve would be the first to admit her astonishment at not missing town in the least. But when Alymer’s heir showed up to take possession of the estate, she couldn’t very well stay with that lecherous old goat.

  Most men, in her opinion, thought much too highly of their supposed self-excellence, cognitive abilities of which were usually substandard at best, and self-mastery. Though mastery-of-what left much to the imagination. She, for one, didn’t have that much imagination.

  She turned her eyes on Harlowe and studied the hardened jawline and proud nose. He was young, she knew. Four years Lorelei’s junior, only a year older than Maeve, if she remembered correctly. She pulled her hand away, appalled at having forgotten herself.

  He rolled to his stomach, twisting himself in the coverlets. The sleeves on his night shirt pushed up, revealing strong forearms and… scars circling his wrist. The muscle in one arm spasmed then moved to his jaw. Maeve reached over and gripped his arm, dug in her fingers to seize the muscle.

  Harlowe jerked, flipped on his back and the next instant she was lying atop him, flattened against his chest.

  “You think you can kill me?” The lethal husky resonance sent chills down her spine. He crushed harder until her ability to draw a breath grew impossible. “You understand, Markov?”

  Markov? He was insensible. “Lord Harlowe? It’s me, Maeve. Maeve Pendleton. Lady Alymer.” Each syllable came out a panted breath.

  “Maeve… Pendleton?” he breathed. His eyes fluttered open. One hand’s hold loosened and molded the back of her head.

  To her astonishment, his mouth closed over hers in a bruising, overpowering kiss. Something shifted in the interim. A low groan from his chest vibrated through her. His lips softened against hers, and against her will, her own lips parted for him.

  Her stomach turned into a riot of chaos at the invasion of his tongue. Each swipe against hers was a closer moment of swooning to her very death. Alymer had never kissed her in such a way. No man had ever kissed her in such a way. This was the reason the matrons of society hoarded the innocents. The exhilaration soaring through her must be akin to flying above the stars with nothing to catch her were she to let go and fall from the safety of his arms. She never wanted to move—

  Suddenly, she was pushed back, staring into eyes of a green-gold hue, stealing her breath, the drowning sensation swamping her. Panic banded her chest as if she’d truly fallen into a deep vat of… water.

  “Lady Alymer?” Harlowe growled. “Would you care to explain?”

  The rose fragrance hit Harlowe with the force of a natural disaster. He held her fast against his chest. Unable to count the freckles on her nose for the sheer number of them. They were stark as something in her expression had shifted from her initial desire to anxiety.

  She seemed on the verge of an attack of some sort.

  He moved his hands to her upper arms and shook her slightly. It was a desperate move on his part, short of flipping her to her back and taking her right there as the hardened length of him dug into her thigh through the thinness of her olive-colored day gown.

  “Not particularly, my lord,” Lady Alymer said in breathless dignity.

  He held her in place until the reality of his “nature” registered. The tactic worked. Whatever attack she’d suffered had her freckles standing out beneath the stark pallor of her skin.

  All was not lost, despite the circumstances saying otherwise. Defiant to the bitter end, that was the woman he was coming to know.

  “What are you doing, my lady?”

  Her body atop his reminded him how long it had been since he’d had a woman. And a woman such as her… well, he couldn’t remember anyone so forthright. Granted, there were the memory lapses. The tightening in his loins grew more painful. He was hard as the limestone found at Stonehenge.

  She cleared her throat. “At the moment, I’m helpless in your, er, grip, my lord.”

  A smile tugged at him, he strived to conceal. “So you are.” They were in the center of his large bed. Slowly, he set her aside, noting his dampened brow and rose to sitting. “If you don’t wish to gain another husband so quickly, madam, I would suggest your immediate removal from my bed.”

  “Oh, dear heavens.” She scrambled away, giving him an excellent view of slim, silk covered ankles. She stood and adjusted her skirts, never looking his way. Her face turned to the closed door.

  “Again I must ask.”

  She turned in his direction.

  He couldn’t drag his eyes from the fire in her face.

  “You, uh, had a muscle spasm and I thought to work it out…”

  “A muscle spasm. Similar to that of last night?”


  She nodded. “But in your arm. I fear it’s a side effect of the laudanum withdrawal process, you see.”

  He considered her words. “Along with being so thirsty, I suppose.”

  “Yes,” she whispered.

  “You appear quite versed in the ways of opium addiction.”

  She lifted her chin and lowered stiffly into her vacated chair but didn’t answer.

  He let that slide as another thought occurred to him. In as calm a sonance as he could muster, he said, “Did I say, ah, anything?”

  She smoothed her hand over her tightly coiled coiffure. One of the braids had escaped its pins, and she groaned.

  “Er, you called me Markov.”

  That brought him up. “Markov? Are you sure?”

  At the sharpness of his tone, her eyes shot to his. She drew herself up. “I’m certain I wouldn’t fabricate such a thing,” she said in her haughtiest tone, likely learned at the knee of her mother. If anyone could shoot down a member of the nobility with the bullseye of an arrow, it was Lady Ingleby. Her barbs were considered lethal. It was one of those random things he remembered but wished he could forget.

  The human brain was indeed a conundrum.

  Seven

  L

  ock the door, Rory.” Harlowe didn’t trust his caretaker, Maeve Pendleton, Lady Alymer to not burst in at her whim. She had the ears of a bat. Not that she resembled one in the least. No, if he had to compare her to anything it would be to a spotted, sleek feline, a leopard. The freckles.

  It was two in the morning and Rory had been assisting Harlowe in working diligently at rebuilding his strength. There was so much he couldn’t recall.

  Yet when Maeve told him he’d called her Markov, a significant piece of his memory snapped into place. Only he couldn’t recall why it was significant. It took another twenty minutes to drag out of her that he’d thought she was there to kill him. He could have killed her. The thought horrified him. As a result, he and Rory had devised a plan wherein he would be rarely alone with the lady. Still, he had questions. Many questions.