Maeve couldn’t possibly tell him what her mother had conveyed through Parson. That if Maeve didn’t attend the Martindales’ rout, she would spread tales regarding Harlowe. How he’d been confined to an asylum near Colchester. The only way her mother could have learned of that fact was through Parson. Maeve felt a sense of helpless fury. It was emotional blackmail through and through. She’d wager her entire inheritance from Alymer that her mother had gotten wind of Maeve’s Rotten Row drive and was prepared to exploit it to the fullest.
She wouldn’t hurt Lorelei to save her life. Nor Ginny, Lady Brockway. Maeve hadn’t grown up with many friends, giving her insight to how valuable having friends was. And Lady Ingleby was not her friend. Was one’s mother ever truly one’s friend?
“Lady Alymer? Maeve?”
Maeve started. She blinked, and Harlowe came into focus. He really didn’t need her care. Not any longer. Seeing him as he was now compared to a week ago told the story she could no longer deny.
“Don’t fret, my lady. Lorelei can certainly take care of herself. Nothing your mother could say can hurt my sister.”
Maeve wasn’t so sure. Words hurt people. Many times words were a woman’s only weapon.
There was something about Harlowe that sent her pragmatic nature scattering with a swift wind. Made her want to throw herself into his large and capable arms. That thought was so incongruous and foreign to Maeve’s nature, she was momentarily stunned to stone.
She lifted her eyes to him. What she saw there confused her, and she backed away. What would it be like to lay her head on his shoulder, let him carry some of her fears, her worries, her frustrations? That more than anything frightened her. She hadn’t depended on anyone in years. Even with Alymer, Maeve had been younger, sharper, stronger.
“I should go,” she said. “If I’m to make the Martindales’.” She didn’t wait for a response, instead darting out the door for the safety of her chamber.
She fell back against the door, her eyes closed. God, how she’d wanted to… to kiss him.
Parson appeared from the adjoining sitting room. Concern marred her brow. “What is it? Are you ill?”
“No.” Maeve drew in a deep breath.“No,” she said again. “Call for a bath, please.” Anything to calm herself down, when all she wished to do was rush back in Harlowe’s chamber and throw herself into his arms. She’d probably knock him flat.
Fifteen
T
he hour grew late, and Harlowe grew restless. Maeve had left hours ago for the Martindales’, and he couldn’t seem to do anything but pace. He was quite aware of Rory’s eyes following his every move. If he didn’t get out of this chamber, out of this house, he would go mad. “I need to take a look at Rowena Hollerfield’s home,” he said.
“Huh.” Rory didn’t appear so surprised, which also drove him mad.
Harlowe slammed out of the room and down the stairs to Kimpton’s study. Brock was there, and the two were sharing a brandy. “Is there enough for one more?”
“You sure your nurse would approve?” Kimpton said.
“She’s not here to stop me, is she?” Harlowe accepted the ribbing and a tumbler. “I heard Lady Ingleby storm the house this afternoon, and I barricaded myself in my chamber.”
“Adept of you. I was forced to assist the woman up the stairs with all sorts of fripperies and such.”
Harlowe smiled. “Had I known that, I would have stepped out and offered you my assistance.”
“Yes. You’re helpful like that on occasion,” Kimpton shot back. “Lady Alymer was forced to ride with her mother to the Martindales’. Lorelei and Ginny took the Kimpton carriage.”
“Perhaps you should attend,” Brock told him.
He briefly entertained the idea. He wouldn’t mind taking a turn about the dance floor with Maeve. She was the perfect height for him; her body melded perfectly with his, as he’d so conveniently tested that afternoon. He shifted in his chair, shoving out thoughts that were poised to reveal his innermost desires in a most embarrassing manner, and skipped to another item on his building agenda. “Er, I was wondering if you learned whether or not the Hollerfield house was occupied?”
“Ownership is still in her name. I haven’t heard that anyone else has taken over the property,” Kimpton told him. “Perhaps we could all take a look together.” He pulled out his pocket watch. “Shall we say nine o’clock?” His pronouncement left no room for argument.
Two hours later, dressed in his subpar finery due to loss of muscle, Harlowe mounted his horse and followed Rory, Kimpton, and Brock down Curzon Street in the direction of Cavendish Square off Bond Street. The path was as familiar as the back of his own hand. A thought that went far in reassuring Harlowe.
They stabled their horses a half block away.
Harlowe’s pulse beat erratically while his head suffered a surreal sense of déja vu. The walk to the front door hit him with a sharp pain in his chest.
The knocker was missing from a, surprisingly, recently painted door.
Brock stole around back, Kimpton pounded on the door, while Harlowe moved off to the side of the house and peered in the windows. The memories assaulted him, confiscating his breath.
