“No, ma’am.” Her awe was touching.
Maeve patted her hand. “Penny adores it. Tomorrow, we shall see about ordering you a new dress. Penny asked for pink. Do you like any specific color?”
“Yeller. It’s reminds me of the sun.”
“Then yellow it is.”
The door to Rowena’s office was standing wide. Harlowe peered around the doorjamb. He hadn’t been inside the suffocating room since the night he’d stayed over before letting the house to Maeve. To his irritation and surprise, a candle sat on the desk, burning bright as you please. Maeve must have been in here when he hauled in the screaming Mellie. He went over to blow out the candle, but the flames danced and shimmered against shiny bits of glass.
Harlowe rounded the desk, and his insides dipped at the sight. Brilliant gems of all varieties winked up at him. One piece in particular struck him in the chest. The large ruby ring.
“I’m to paint your portrait, my dear. Rowena is right. The red of this stone rivals the red of your lips.” Harlowe strolled over to the table and placed Corinne’s elbows atop, arranging her hand just so. Then her bonnet. “You look exceptionally beautiful today.”
“Meaning, I don’t normally.” No one could pout better than Corinne Radcliff, the new Lady Harlowe.
Brandon couldn’t quite fathom how Rowena had instigated, and brought, his marriage to Corinne to fruition. Despite having been raised by the most notorious whore in London, Corinne’s upbringing had been extremely sheltered. A child who’d never have crossed his path, if not for the Widow Chancé.
The compromising situation he’d found himself in with Corinne had been orchestrated with brilliant precision. He couldn’t quite quell his resentment at being so manipulated. But he knew full well, Corinne had been played just as he had.
“Corinne is not the daughter of a whore, my lord. She is the offspring of Lord Maudsley’s first wife. A woman he murdered, Lady Hannah, right before my eyes.” Rowena had said. “Please, don’t hold my machinations against her.”
Displaying her guilt was a nice bit of acting, he thought, watching her fingers twist and her pacing to and fro. Rowena never paced. The woman was a block of control.
“She’d just given birth to Corinne. Corinne was her third child,” she said with a desperate edge. “Her two previous births ended in stillbirths, both of which were male. Maudsley was furious. You must believe me.”
Harlowe flinched at the venom emanating from her.
“You could not fathom it, my lord. He hit her.” She swiped a tear away. “She died instantly. Only the midwife and I were present. I stole the child and hid.” She smiled. It was harsh and bitter. “I’ll admit, I’m partial to Corinne’s name, as I was the one who selected it.”
Harlowe dropped into the chair behind him, stunned by her story. Rowena was renowned for her coldblooded calculations, but her words rang true.
“So you see, you would not be marrying a whore. You shall be marrying a proper young lady.” She faced him then, the resolution in her expression unyielding. “But make no mistake, my lord. You shall marry her.”
“Brandon?” Maeve’s voice was a violent slap to his face.
Harlowe jerked and found himself back in the present, sitting behind Rowena’s desk with a pile of beautiful jewelry worth thousands of pounds heaped before him. Next to the jewels was a journal and a stack of banknotes. “What is all this?”
Maeve froze, her hand flew to her neck. “Oh dear. I believe I forgot to mention how Agnes kept the house running with no one living here but her, Mary, and Stephen.”
“Might I suggest you start at the beginning?” he said calmly, while fury seethed just below the surface. He couldn’t quite understand why he was so angry. Circumstances perhaps? Feeling his wife had kept jewels from him? Or that Maeve had likely learned the truth of how he’d ended up marrying Corinne?
There was no logical reason to be annoyed with his wife. If anything, her pragmatic ways were a soothing balm to his frayed senses.
It was a good two hours before the children quieted and the household settled.
Maeve paced the thick rug in Harlowe’s chamber as hers was apparently occupied by Melinda and Penny. “I don’t understand your anger, sir. I’ve told you repeatedly, the fact I didn’t mention the contents of the safe was just an oversight. And a good portion of that fault is yours.”
He sat in a Hepplewhite chair near the open window. He propped his bare feet on the matching hassock and crossed his arms over his chest. “My fault! This I’ve got to hear.” Which he did want to hear. He adjusted his robe over his lap to hide his growing ardor. God, how this woman affected him.
She stopped in front of him, her eyes full of accusation. “Certainly. What with our hasty wedding. Finding Penny. Meeting servants I didn’t know I’d hired.” She let out a long exhale. “Frankly, it’s been a little overwhelming.” She pulled herself back up, spearing him, her eyes flashing fire. “How the devil did you find Melinda? And how dare you not tell me where you were off to after… after…”
“After making sweet love to you?”
“In a chair!”
“What’s wrong with a chair?”
“It doesn’t seem… natural.”
Harlowe swallowed his laugh. Oh, the future held wonderful possibilities.
“And leaving like that. I didn’t even have my clothes on.”
“I helped you don your dress. Besides, there wasn’t time to tell you. If I had, you would have insisted on coming along, and that was unacceptable.”
Her lips tightened.
He’d hit that nail on the head. He let out a sigh, his head falling back. “Isn’t the important thing that we found Mellie?”
“Her name is Melinda,” she snapped. “Yes, it’s important. But—” Her pacing started back up.
He waited until she was on her second pass then grabbed her by the wrist and, with a sharp tug, she landed on his lap. “Is she going to stay?”
“Who?” The word came out in a whispered huffed.
“Me-” He kissed her forehead. “Lin-” His lips touched the tip of her nose. “Da.” This, he whispered against her lips in a soft feathered brush.
“Yes,” she whispered back. “But she was most suspicious.”
“And now they’re asleep in your bed.”
“Yes.”
“So you are… bedless tonight?”
Her lips twitched. Another thing he adored about his wife—she had the inability to remain annoyed for long stretches of time. “It’s quite the dilemma,” she said.
He tugged her more snuggly into his body and breathed in her skin at the crook of her neck. Nipped.
She let out a tiny, most feminine, squeal.
“What is in the diary?” He kissed the spot he’d bitten.
“The diary?”
“Rowena’s journal.” He ran his tongue along the lacy edge of her night gown at the swell of her breasts.
“Oh, yes, the, ah, journal.” Her breaths came in rapid takes. She bolted straight. “Oh, goodness. There might be something there to further jar your memory. How could I have forgotten such a thing?”
He kissed her neck, felt her shiver beneath his touch. He moved his hand up her bare leg. Paradise. “Give me the synopsis.”
She fell back against his chest. “Miss Hollerfield—Rowena—worried you were falling in love with her. That distressed her immensely, because she wanted you to marry Corinne. It appears you were trapped into the marriage.”
He stiffened. Trapped. The memories rushed in.
Rowena’s hysterics. Some crisis at Corinne’s school.
Rowena begging him to accompany her to the school to retrieve Corinne.
Corinne’s locked bedchamber with him inside.
Corinne’s schoolgirl attempts to seduce him.
His laughter at the absurdity.
Corinne’s hurt feelings.
The door bursting open.
Rowena’s outrage. All witnessed by the headmistress and another teacher or two.
His and Corinne’s stiff wedding. His fury. His mission.
His mission? What had been his mission?
Maeve’s palm cupped his jaw. “Oh God. You’ve remembered, haven’t you?”
“Almost everything.” He moved his mouth over hers to distract her. He should know by now that trying to distract Maeve usually ended with a contradictory result.
Except right now he couldn’t make himself care. Grinning, he took her mouth again.
“So. Were you in love with Rowena Hollerfield?”
“Certainly not. She was Kimpton’s lover before he married Lorelei. The very idea is appalling.” Harlowe shifted Maeve around to face him. He pulled her head to him and kissed her lips.
She pulled back, her breaths coming in rapids intakes. “Oh.”
Harlowe took his time kissing her, tasting her, sating her until he thought he would explode under her sweet ministrations. Her tentative touches, on his chest, his cock, grew more confident, until he was tossing her on the bed, determined to have her beneath him using the entire bed as their playground.
She writhed under his mouth, his hands, his body. He spread her legs and drove deep. Pulled back, and took her again. Over and over until she was clutching his shoulders. Until her muted screams singed his chest. Only then did he allow himself the painstaking release he’d been withholding, falling atop her, their chests heaving in unison.
He moved aside, drawing her into his arms. He gazed down into her upturned face and knew a moment of panic even as his heart swelled. He loved her. And it was nothing remotely similar to what he’d felt for Corinne or Rowena. The very idea was ludicrous. The realization that he loved Maeve was a sharp dagger to his heart. He would kill to keep her, and those she held dear, safe, including every single rapscallion she brought into their home. He had no doubt there would be many more in their future.
Harlowe touched his lips to her forehead and held her until she fell into the depths of sleep. He rose from the bed, widening the window and leaning out into the icy February night.
The comprehension of his mission hit him. He had been hired to infiltrate the Althenaeum Order. A group of debauched betters who took their pleasure at the demise of those unable to fend them off. Children and women. The shadowy figures in his memory still remained unknown. It took a moment to remember… they’d worn masks.
Another image infiltrated—
“Quiet now.” Harlowe counted the heads as he ushered them before him through the underground tunnel. One, two, three, four, five. Three girls, two boys, ages five to seven. All accounted for. Yet so many he’d had to leave behind. They were scheduled for delivery. He’d no choice but to act. The Slavs were a dangerous lot.
They reached the end of the tunnel. Harlowe turned to the eldest child. Harriet was almost eight. She’d been the most dangerous to the order. Not so easy to eradicate her memory.
“Harry”—her preferred name. Harlowe didn’t object. It was far safer for her that way—“You remember the plan?”
“Yes, sir.” She clutched the coins he’d given her in the event of disaster. “Hide first, then find Lord Dorset.”
The name jolted Harlowe to the cold pouring in the window over his skin.
Dorset. Friend or foe? What had the man been saying the night he’d been so soused at the widow’s salon? Something about harms and brothers? Brothers… brotherhood… arms… Brotherhood of Arms?
Harlowe turned around and slid down the wall to the floor, holding his head between his hands. The Brotherhood of Arms was a consortium of do-gooders who worked for the crown.
Was Dorset part of the Brotherhood? Was Harlowe?
Either way, Harlowe’s instincts were sound. His family was in danger.
Thirty-Five
I
t had been a week since Melinda had joined the household, and Penny had not had a single nightmare. It was quite remarkable. Maeve had her bed back. Disappointingly, her husband had not joined her. Well, he had, but he usually left before morning. It baffled her. And hurt. But she had too much pride to complain. She kept her days full by assisting Miss Bristol in the schoolroom and visiting the shops with Lorelei and Ginny. She spent time in the nursery with Nathan to give Molly breaks. The girl worked diligently and was much deserving of them.
Ginny was generous with Irene’s and Celia’s castoff clothing. Mary, at ten and Melinda, at nine were near the same in size.
Dressed for the day, Maeve left her bedchamber ready to break her fast. Voices and hammering sounded from the floor above. She glanced up at the ceiling. She had energetic plans for the day.
The children were not the only ones who needed a reprieve from the construction of turning the open salon into a studio for Brandon. After their studies, of course. To her surprise, or perhaps not, Penny and Mary had taken to their letters with great enthusiasm and aplomb. Stephen at the dignified age of four and ten took exception to being forced in the schoolroom, as did a much sophisticated Melinda. But Maeve insisted. As she told them, “Knowing how to read and calculate sums can only help you in life, not hurt.”
She would not force Stephen to accompany the group to the park. He preferred the stables. Which she allowed as long as he kept up his studies. The system seemed to work.
Famished, Maeve passed the maid, holding a bucket of coal. “Good morning—” She stopped and turned around. “Who are you?”
“Mornin’ ma’am.” She dipped a quick curtsey. “Me name’s Bitsy.”
“Sister to—”
“Abby, m’lady. I’m lightin’ the fires.”
“Carry on,” Maeve said on a sigh. Shaking her head, she made her way down the stairs to the morning room, wondering how many more servants she employed of which she was unaware.
She entered an empty morning room and her appetite dimmed. Brandon was nowhere to be seen.
“Mornin’, m’lady, tea?”
“Thank you, Niall.” Steam rose from the chaffing dishes on the sideboard, and Maeve took a plate and filled it. “I have need of your services today. I’d like to take the children to the park. I thought Hyde Park would be a nice change from Cavendish. Have Cook prepare a luncheon. We’ll go early enough to be back before the fashionable hour starts. Say two?”
“Aye, m’lady.”
“Ah, there you are, Lady Harlowe.” Brandon strolled in, and her heart kicked like a flailing Mellie. He took her plate from her and set it on the table then held out her chair.
Once Maeve was seated, he leaned down and kissed her, full on the mouth. Heat rushed her face. “What was that for?”
“Can’t a man kiss his lady wife when the urge takes him?”
Maeve’s glance snapped to Niall, but thankfully the young man was retrieving a cup and coffee for Brandon. “To what do I owe the honor of your presence this morning? I’ve scarcely seen you in a week.”
He sent a pointed look at Niall. “Construction is going well,” he told her.
“It’s certainly noisy,” she retorted, fully aware that the idea of turning the salon into his studio was all her idea. She sounded completely unlike herself. “Leave us, Niall.”
After the door shut softly behind him, Maeve picked up her serviette and fiddled with it. “Apologies. I don’t seem to be myself these days.”
Concern filled the brown-green-gold of his eyes. “What is it, my dear?”
Pride flew for the window. The closed window. “It’s stuffy in here.”
“Ah.” He rose and let in some air. “Better?”
Her serviette twisted within her fingers. “I-I don’t understand why you never wish to wake up with me in the morning.” Her humiliation was complete. Her pride had just escaped out the now open window.
Brandon had picked up his coffee, was poised to sip, but his hand stilled.
“Am I that abhorrent?” To her utter dismay, her voice cracked.
&n
bsp; His cup clattered to its matching saucer. He was out of his chair and had her in his arms. “How can you believe such a thing?” His mouth crashed over hers. His kiss, possessive and deep. Desperate and reassuring. He broke away and smoothed loosened tendrils from her face.
She laid her head on his shoulder. “Oh, Brandon. I don’t know what is wrong with me. I fear every second for those girls upstairs. I know there are many others we can’t save and it sickens me.” Tears blurred her vision. “Every morning I’m casting up my accounts, worrying someone will attempt to steal them away. But they are children. They can’t be kept holed up here forever without fresh air and exercise.”
“Darling, the reason I haven’t stayed the night is because I’ve been reading Rowena’s journal. Things are coming back to me, just as Dr. Holks’ assured me they would. The memories cannot come fast enough. But wishing it so has not helped. He said they would come in time. Not to force them. And, by God, it seems to be working.”
“I’m so glad,” she whispered. “So very glad.”
He turned her body and pressed her into her chair. “Eat something and tell me what you have planned for the day.”
Like an obedient child, she did as he asked, knowing he wasn’t going to like what she had to say. “I’ve ordered a basket for lunch and have decided to take the children to Hyde Park. It will make a nice, much needed, outing.”
He frowned. “I’m not sure that’s wise.”
The children were not the only ones who needed fresh air and if she didn’t put her foot down now, she’d never win her way. She put her hand up to stay his argument. “The sun is shining, if a bit cold. The baby will stay home. Niall will drive us—”
“And Baird.”
“Who is Baird—oh, the gardener. Really, Brandon.” Her irritation spilled over her. “These unknown servants that keep appearing—”
He leaned over and kissed her to quash her rampage. It was an effective tactic he was using with regularity, she noted. Yet when the fragrance of soap and masculinity and fresh coffee hit her, her defenses melted away like finely spun sugar.
The Viscount's Vendetta Page 24
