The Viscount's Vendetta Page 6

  No answer came forth.

  He felt sick all over again. He pushed away a plate of food Mrs. Woods had placed before him, despite his protestations at not being hungry. He wanted to smash something. He shoved away from the table, went to the wall and drew back his fist, trembling with frustration and fury—

  “Lord Harlowe?”

  He froze. “Lady Alymer.” He lowered his arm to his side. Her dress, the color of a rich cabernet and square neckline, drew his gaze to the swells of small enticing breasts. The most shocking aspect was that the dark red shade did not contrast violently with her bright hair.

  “Are you well, sir?”

  He pinched the bridge of his nose, swallowing back bile at the utter irrationality of the situation.

  “What is this?” she asked in that seductive, captivating sonance that was now haunting his nights.

  Harlowe dropped his hand, and with a wary gaze, watched her move into the room. “What is that in your hand?”

  She grinned and held up a pair of tattered slippers.

  The sight stole his breath. “Good God. You danced your slippers off.” In an instant, his tension lifted.

  She let out a long-winded sigh and dropped into the nearest chair. “All my mother’s doing, I assure you.” Her eyes lighted on the plate of scones and finger meats. “Do you mind?” she said, fingers poised above. “I missed the late supper.”

  Shaking his head, he lowered in the chair at the end of the table which put him within touching distance of her.

  Her gaze sharpened on him, her brows meeting in a concerned frown. “You’re trembling.” She reached over and clasped her hand over his. “What is it?” Her gaze moved around the chamber as if searching for the source of his discontentment. It stopped on the painting, framed by the four candles. She inclined her head to the picture. “Corinne. She was a lovely girl.”

  He jerked his hand from her, flinching. “Was she?”

  “You don’t remember.” She stated it as fact.

  “No,” he said harshly. “I don’t remember. I have no memory of where I met her or if I loved her. Was she a model and I desired her? Why would I marry her? It makes no sense, she was not of my class.”

  Those full lips of hers curved into a small smile. “Ah, but she was.”

  That took him aback. He stared at her, speechless.

  Her eyes dropped to the plate of food. “I, ah, don’t know all the details, of course.”

  “Perhaps you wouldn’t mind sharing those you do know,” he said, hoping he didn’t sound as angry as he felt.

  She blew out a pursed breath. “Corinne was the late Earl of Maudsley’s daughter from his first marriage. His wife before Lady Brockway.”

  That statement alone made his head ache for all the confusion she wreaked over him.

  “The first Lady Maudsley, Hannah was her name I believe, was Corinne’s mother. She had a young companion who disappeared with the child when Hannah perished giving birth to Corinne. There was also a rumor that Maudsley killed his first wife.”

  “Why would he kill her?”

  “I’ve no idea.” She shrugged. “He was terribly abusive. Lady Brockway can attest to that. The man had once set his attention on me, but Brockway happened to walk in and intervened, thankfully.” A shudder shook her shoulders.

  Harlowe’s fist tightened until the blood showed white.

  “In any event, Maudsley is dead now and, I for one, could not be more thrilled. I suppose that is not a terribly nice thing to say.” She plucked up a scone, breaking off a piece, and put it in her mouth.

  He forced his hand to relax, flexing his fingers, and for the first time that night, a smile tugged at him. “From all accounts, I shall not hold that against you. I do remember some things, and Maudsley’s abuse was as notorious as his desire for very young women. Forgive me for saying so.”

  “Not at all, my lord. It was quite common knowledge.”

  “Did you know her, Corinne? Personally, I mean?”

  She looked down at her hands. “A little. She was…very reserved.”

  A sense of desperation to learn surged through him. To learn something. Anything about the woman in the picture. “In what way?”

  She glanced up at him, but he couldn’t read her eyes. Not in the low light.

  “Tell me,” he growled.

  “She was… quiet.”

  He leaned back in his chair and folded his arms over his chest. She was being deliberately difficult. “That would go with the reserved.”

  “Well, yes. Nor did she give a care for going about in society.”

  “She was reclusive?”

  “It looked that way to me.”

  He waited for more, but it didn’t appear she was going to elaborate. He let out a breath then strove for something to lighten the heaviness of the atmosphere. “Tell me about Oxford’s ball.” Perhaps hearing her speak about some of her acquaintances would trigger other memories.

  In the low candlelight the Aegean blue of her eyes appeared midnight, if not outright black. Disgust covered her pert features. “Well, the moment I walked in, my mother informed me she had secured both waltzes of the evening for me.”

  There was a tightening in Harlowe’s chest he rubbed a palm over. He remained quiet, deciding to revel in the dulcet, well-modulation of her voice.

  “The first, and thankfully so, was the Duke of Oxford.”

  “That blackguard. But why ‘thankfully’?”

  “Because it was not the supper-set,” she said loftily.

  He hated to ask, but couldn’t resist, knowing the answer would keep him awake the rest of the night. “And the supper-set belonged to?”

  “The Marquis of Dorset. He was blessedly more pleasant. We didn’t dance. By then my shoes were practically threads. We sat and talked instead.”

  “How pleasant for you.” His sarcasm floated over her head.

  “Yes, it was.” The dreamy quality in which she spoke was a knife in his ribs.

  Harlowe’s jaw tightened. Damn. He remembered Dorset. The man was five years older than Harlowe and was nothing like the usual popinjays of Welton or Shufflebottom. Dorset cared about his position in society, followed through on his responsibilities in Parliament. He probably remembered every blasted thing that had ever happened to him, too. He was everything Harlowe wasn’t. Whole.

  What the devil was Harlowe thinking? He certainly had no designs on Maeve Pendleton, Lady Alymer, yet he didn’t care for the notion of anyone else fancying her either.

  “He asked to take me driving,” she said, then snapped out of her reverie, her eyes gaining focus. “Forgive me, my lord. It’s late.” She rose from the table, snatching up her ruined slippers. “Until tomorrow, my lord.”

  Maeve stepped out of the formal dining chamber into the darkened hall with a pounding heart that was not showing any signs of slowing a whit. She peered in the dark looking for one of Harlowe’s caretakers. Harlowe’s ennui disturbed her greatly. It didn’t bode well for one’s success in desisting an addiction to laudanum. Unfortunately, she had some idea of what the viscount was feeling. She, herself, had almost been caught up in its snare after Alymer passed. Having to return to her mother’s home almost did her in.

  Maeve turned in the direction of the entry hall and found Rory seated on a low bench. She touched his shoulder, startling him.

  His head jerked up.

  She took a step back. “I think your master requires your services,” she said gently.

  He gave a sharp nod. “Thank you, milady.”

  Maeve ran for the stairs in her stocking feet, nodding at Oswald who hovered in a dark nook. The man could be a ghost himself. She reached the sanctity of her chamber to find Parson standing at the windows.

  “You’ve been back for some time.” Her sibilant, withering tones were reminiscent of Lady Ingleby’s, straightening Maeve’s spine as if it were nailed to a stake.

  “I’m sorry, are you my m
other?”

  “No. No, of course not, my lady.” Her stance stooped the minutest fraction.

  “I should like to make something abundantly clear, once and for all, Parson. I will say this only once. I am a widow. Not a child for you to report my comings and goings to my mother. Do you quite understand?”

  “Yes, my lady.”

  Parson couldn’t quite mask her disdain and Maeve’s resolve in replacing her maid renewed. Along with her strategy to move from her mother’s dwelling as soon as humanly possible.

  The next half hour passed in an awkward silence as Parson took down Maeve’s hair and unfastened her gown. Once Maeve stepped out of the beautiful frock and it pooled at her feet, she said, “Send it to the resale shop.”

  The comment made its mark with Parson’s sharp gasp filling the room.

  That should be then end of the matter, Maeve told herself as Parson excused herself, her hands overflowing with burgundy silk.

  Nine

  M

  aeve Pendleton, Lady Alymer.

  Harlowe couldn’t seem to separate her name out. It all went together. He was reclining against a stack of pillows in one of the smaller parlors with his eyes closed, listening to her sensual and melodic timbre. She would stop her reading periodically to pour each of them water, at which time he would steal glances of her in her soft blue frock, the tendrils of hair at the base of her neck teasing him unmercifully. Then she would take up where she left off in Shakespeare’s The Merchant of Venice.

  He was shocked to realize he hadn’t experienced a muscle cramp in several days.

  A knock sounded at the door and Oswald swept in. “Your escort for today’s drive has arrived, Lady Alymer,” he said in his droning monotone.

  Her nose wrinkled adoringly. “Dorset is not due until tomorrow.”

  “’Tis the Duke of Oxford, my lady.”

  “What?” Her outrage had Harlowe biting the inside of his cheek. “Forgive me, Oswald. Show him in the formal parlor—”

  Harlowe cut her off. “Show the duke in here, Oswald.”

  “Very good, my lord.”

  “And stay nearby,” Harlowe added.

  “Of course, my lord.” Oswald backed out of the room.

  “What do you think you’re doing?” she hissed. She jumped to her feet and paced to the open windows. “My blasted mother sent him here. I just know it!”

  “What makes you say that?” he drawled. Secretly, he was thrilled with her reaction.

  “Her parting words to me last evening—”

  The duke strolled in with all the hauteur his title lauded. “Ah, Lady Alymer.” His gaze was sharp and swept over Maeve Pendleton, Lady Alymer.

  Harlowe sank back deeper in his chair and watched the unfolding scene with more than idle curiosity. A slight breeze stirred escaped ginger strands of her hair.

  The duke’s gaze lifted to her face. “I see you are not dressed for our outing.”

  She drew herself up and spun slowly, eyes glittering with fire—whether anger or pride, was debatable. “I fear you are mistaken, your grace. I told my mother I was unavailable for a drive this afternoon.” Her voice and stance, however, was resplendent.

  “I see.” Oxford clasped his hands at his lower back. His gaze cut to Harlowe and back to her, frowning. “Where is your maid?”

  “I’m a widow, your grace, not a debutante, despite my mother’s aspirations to portray me as such.” She threw her shoulders back and speared him with a direct and fiery gaze. “I am unavailable for a drive today or tomorrow. Oswald will be happy to show you out.”

  A little of Oxford’s reserve seemed to give way. “I meant no disrespect, Lady Alymer. If you don’t mind my asking, however, why are you camped out at Kimptons rather than Ingleby House?”

  Her gaze shot to Harlowe, touched with panic. She gathered herself quickly. “I’m assisting Lord Harlowe—”

  “—in penning my memoirs,” Harlowe interrupted smoothly. He felt her smile but kept his focus on the duke. “I’m also assisting her with her late husband’s scripts. Having them published was his dying wish.”

  “Ah, yes. Dorset mentioned as much,” his grace said. “How very admirable of you, my dear.”

  Harlowe swallowed his groan. Things were taking an unexpected twist, one Harlowe was certain he would not be thrilled with.

  The duke speared her with a sharp glint. “Forgive my bluntness, but you should do something about your mother.”

  “Would that I could,” she muttered.

  Oxford chuckled. “Yes, er, well, mothers will be mothers, I suppose.” His demeanor softened. “I just wish the same for my Felicity. An arrogant duke for a father can’t take the place of a loving mother.”

  And just like that, Harlowe lost his edge for Maeve Pendleton, Lady Alymer’s attention as the scorching glint in her eye morphed to a gentle sweetness. “No, I suppose not.”

  Excellent. If this went on much longer she was liable to ask him to—

  “Would you care to stay for tea, your grace?”

  The duke speared Harlowe with amusement. “Perhaps a drop of whiskey would not go amiss.”

  Harlowe rose on surprisingly steady legs and pulled on the bell cord, demanded whiskey, and a tray of refreshed tea.

  The duke settled into another chair. “Now, tell me about this text on ancient societies. I happen to have shared an interest in the subject as a boy. Alymer and I schooled together, you know.”

  Blasted brilliant. Harlowe was certain the forced curve of his lips more resembled a sneer than a smile. Maeve Pendleton, Lady Alymer would make the man an excellent duchess. Just fucking… brilliant.

  Maeve strolled into her chamber, smiling, still stunned by the turn of events. Oxford was a very nice man. He mightn’t be the man for her, but he would make someone a very good husband.

  “Dare I say your visit with Oxford went well?” Parson said, stepping into the chamber via the attached sitting room. Her smile softened. “I’m glad. Your mother will be so pleased.”

  Maeve’s smile faded into a tight line. If she didn’t nip this tidbit, an announcement in the London Times and the Gazette would appear by dawn. Still, it would serve Lady Ingleby right if Maeve kept her mouth shut.

  A tap at the door brought her out of her reverie. Parson opened it to Rory.

  Somewhat stunned to see him there, Maeve rushed over and grabbed his monstrous hand. “What is it? Is Harlowe suffering a muscular cramp?”

  “No, milady.” Two bright spots of scarlet dotted the highest points of his cheekbones. “His lordship requests your presence for dinner.” His eyes cut to Parson, whose mouth hung open.

  “Oh. Yes. Of course, Rory. Tell him I shall meet with him directly.”

  “No hurry, milady. He said a half hour would suffice.”

  Maeve clamped her hand over her mouth to keep her laughter from bursting against the walls.

  Rory bowed his way out of the room, fortuitous the door did not hit him in the forehead and knock him silly with Parson’s slam.

  Again, Parson’s lips took on a mutinous line. “It’s not seemly,” she said in a nearly toneless strain.

  Maeve swung away, stalking to the wardrobe, her already feverish pulse beating harsh and exceedingly quick. “I’ll wear the deep violet.” There was nothing remotely inappropriate about the gown. It showed far less cleavage than the burgundy she’d worn the evening before to Oxford’s ball.

  “Lady Alymer, ’tis my greatest fear Lord Harlowe’s intentions are not honorable.”

  Maeve backed out of the wardrobe, flabbergasted at Parson’s sheer unmitigated gall. But catching sight of her expression, Maeve held her tongue. She appeared genuinely concerned. “Parson, there is no need to concern yourself. You know Lord Harlowe is recovering from a horrific ordeal,” she said gently.

  Parson didn’t respond, instead assisting Maeve silently with dressing for dinner.

  Maeve made a definitive point of being lat
e by twenty minutes with a short visit to the nursery. She would never admit she was dressed and ready by the appointed time to meet with Harlowe, but appearing too eager was the end-all of any summons by a titled man. No matter how much she might admire—

  Another level up, she stepped over the threshold into the nursery. “Hello, Molly. How is Nathan doing this evening?” Molly reclined in a large rocker, holding the one-year-old against her chest.

  He had a thumb in his mouth, and though heavy-lidded, his sharp familiar hazel-colored eyes cut to her.

  “He wore himself out, but good today, milady. Would you like to see him? He’s not asleep quite yet.”

  Maeve smiled down at the adorable cherub. “I don’t wish to disturb you.”

  His thumb plucked from his mouth with an audible plop, and his chubby arms reached up, thoroughly entangling her heart.

  There was nothing left for it but to take the lad. Maeve could no more have ignored him than she could his father’s distress. Nathan’s legs wrapped her waist, and he laid his head on her shoulder with blinding trust. She glanced at Molly. The girl was no more than ten and seven with a generous spirit and seemed to adore her precocious charge.

  She beamed Maeve with a bright smile. “He’s a happy child, he is,” Molly said.

  “He certainly is, and in largesse, thanks to you, I’d wager. Has he, um, seen his father much?”

  Molly’s expression transformed to one of blank passivity. Not that Maeve could blame her. It wasn’t a servant’s place to judge her master’s behavior toward his child. In most houses of nobility, children were tolerated and rarely seen. But holding this baby, experiencing the confidence he placed in Maeve’s hold, rallied her determination to see that Nathan would not be neglected by his father. Especially at having already lost his mother.

  Molly blinked, not giving an iota of emotion away. “Not since Lady Irene was here a few days ago,” she admitted softly.