“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 mother?”
“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.”
