“This is the last straw,” Maeve bit out. “The absolute last straw.” The volume of the words faded in and out, as if she were pacing to the wall and back. “That’s it, Parson. I will not be party to her machinations.”
Again with the muted sound from her lady’s maid.
“Then I suggest you go stay with her. I mean it, Parson. I’ve been patient, but—”
Muted.
An urge to grin trickled through him. He linked his fingers together behind his head and did his utmost to make out the words. In his mind, he pictured her irritation with her hands splayed on her hips. She didn’t strike him as a normally angry person. In fact, she seemed to keep her emotions well in check, overly so, if one considered her hair. Good God, he was obsessed with her hair. He closed his eyes, and his fingers tingled with the thought of pushing his hands through her hair, pins flying, locks free.
“No, I don’t want tea. No. I’ll not wear the lime-green gown. It barely covers my nipples.”
Oh, for God’s sake. Harlowe groaned.
The door opened and shut again, softly this time.
Harlowe’s heart sped up when a knock tapped at his door, and the beat inside him tripled.
The door cracked open. “My lord?” He didn’t think he would ever tire of hearing the music that was her voice. It defied reasonable logic. It spoke of luxury. Of sensuality. Of… lust.
There was no hiding his body’s reaction to Lady Alymer’s voice. He swallowed a groan. “Is there something you required… Maeve?” His own voice sounded as if it had been ground through rocks.
She slipped through the door but left it ajar. “I only wished to check on you, my lord.” She smiled a grim smile. “My mother is demanding that I show at the Martindales’ tonight.”
“Or what?”
“Or she will make things difficult for Lady Kimpton,” she said on a huff of frustration.
Harlowe rose to sitting and poured himself some water. “How on earth can she make things difficult for Lorelei?”
“Does it matter? She’s been a wonderful friend to me.” Maeve moved farther into the room. Something slammed in the room next door. She flinched, then her eyes narrowed on him. “Are you able to hear everything that goes on in my chamber?”
“Not everything,” he said, unrepentant, completely fascinated by the changing color in her face that clashed with her hair. Was it his fault the walls were paper thin? “Is it wise for you to be here, my lady?”
“No.” The huskiness of her tone set his skin afire.
He dare not move, lest he snag her by the wrist and pull her to the bed. The certainty of what would follow left him breathless.
“I came in to check on you—” She stepped closer. “Are you sure you’re all right? You seem flush. Where is Mr. Rory?”
“I’m not a child,” he ground out through the lust surging his veins.
“No. No, of course you are not.” She seemed at a loss as to what to do as she spun about in a slow circle.
“You don’t wish to attend the Martindales’ rout?”
Her cheeks stained red. Likely realizing exactly what he’d heard through the wall. “No.”
Harlowe stood and moved over to her. He ran his hand down her arm and linked his fingers with hers. “What is it your mother is threatening Lore with?”
“I’d rather not say,” she whispered.
He cupped her head and pulled her stiff body into his chest. “All right.” Even with her height, she felt slight against him. Feminine. Sweet and prickly.
After an interminably long few minutes, she pulled her hand free and stepped back. She cleared her throat. “You’ll be all right tonight?”
“I think you know the answer to that,” he said.
Yes. Yes, she did. The evidence poked her in the abdomen. Coming into his chamber had not been one of her wiser decisions. He smelled much too… delicious. The fire in her face blazed.
