ou hurt your sister’s feelings by not coming inside, Lord Harlowe.” Maeve rubbed her gloved hands over her arms in the December chill. It wasn’t even the coldest part of the night.
Harlowe slipped off his coat and draped it over her shoulders, leaning in for a breath of hot-house rose scented hair. “I’m sadly aware of the fact, Lady Alymer,” he retorted, matching her aggravating formality. “At the risk of sounding too vain, after watching from my shadowed perch, I realized how ill-fitting my suit is.”
She stilled. “Oh. Yes, I hadn’t thought of that.”
He took her hand and tugged her out of the light streaming through the window and into his chest. Lady Ingleby had the most uncanny ability to sniff out her daughter’s whereabouts, and if she found them, well, all would be lost for the fiercely independent lady’s liberty. “Seeing you in Dorset’s arms on the dance floor drives me mad,” he whispered against the softness of her cheek. “And Oxford? Well, I’d just as soon put a ball through his chest.”
“Never say you are jealous, my lord.” Her breath heated his jawline and sent a shot of fire straight to his groin.
“I would never say that, my lady.” He brushed his lips against her ear.
She turned and tilted up her head. There was only so much resistance a man could practice. He settled his mouth over hers, tasting her lips. They were sweet as berries, her breath crisp as mint. He moved over her mouth slowly. Just as if she lay beneath him and the two of them had all the time in the world. For all her experience, Maeve Pendleton, Lady Alymer, kissed as if she’d never been kissed before.
The noise from the ballroom faded, and all Harlowe could hear past the rush in his ears was the rapid beating of her heart. He felt it through the layers of both their clothes, as if they lay naked and alone within the depths of his bedchamber. He slipped his tongue between her parted lips. She tasted delicious. He swirled and dipped and stroked. His hands moved beneath his coat that draped her, pressed her closer, then he moved one hand over her buttock and squeezed.
Her sharp gasp shocked him back to his senses.
Harlowe groaned, pulling back. He looked down into her desire-glazed eyes. Oh, this would not do at all. The whole world reflected back at him in eyes filled with… hope. What was a discreet affair between friends? He drew them deeper within the darkness and took her mouth again.
She didn’t resist.
His hands slipped beneath his coat she wore, exploring her back, her waist, the curve of her hips. Her body melded into his as if she became a part of him. His lips moved along her jaw, down the column of her neck, trailing the edge of her dress. A dress that barely covered her nipples. He worked one breast free and took a beaded peak in his mouth and bit down gently.
She gasped.
He smiled against the silk of her skin. With concerted effort, he pulled away and, sadly, tugged her bodice back into place. “I forget myself, my lady.” His voice came out as salt-crusted gravel.
“Oh my,” she whispered.
“We shall have to find a better, more private place to complete this business,” he said. He tugged her gently from their alcove to remove further temptation.
A bright silver moon showcased her plump and wet lips. Her tongue slid across the bottom one. This was a treacherous situation. Still dazed, she hadn’t even blinked.
“Will you marry me, Brandon?”
He reveled in the sultry-velvet caress until her actual words penetrated his lust-crazed fog. “What?” Reality hit him in the face with a slap.
Her eyes shifted into focus, and she stepped out of his hold. The light coming from the ballroom showed the freckles on her face the powder couldn’t hide, making them stand out starkly. “I—” She licked her lips again. “I-I’m sorry.” Her eyes turned unreadable as she pulled herself together.
At once the violins seemed too screeching, the chatter from the ballroom, overpowering.
His head fell back. “Maeve, I—” He reached for her hand, but she jumped away.
She patted him on the shoulder, her lips curving into a slight smile. “But of course, my lord. You’ve no notion of my dry wit. You must pay me no mind, sir. I was jesting.”
He barely caught the slight tremor in her, but it was there. The lighting was too low to tell if she spoke the truth or not.
His coat was whipped away and thrust in his chest. Before he could get his bearings, question her further, explain how broken he was, she was disappearing inside. He was in no shape to be a husband now. Maeve Pendleton, Lady Alymer, was more deserving of someone like… Dorset.
Harlowe knew he was a selfish bastard. His own sister had never denied him a thing. Yet he’d lost a year of his life. Wasn’t he deserving as well? This called for drastic measures. He dragged on his coat, straightened his waistcoat, and adjusted his cravat, then moved inside the terrace doors. A ripple swept through the crowd. He ignored the curiosity seekers and scanned the area but didn’t see Maeve anywhere.
He found himself standing at the base of a grand staircase.
“There you are, darling, I’m so glad you came in.” Lorelei grabbed his hand and squeezed. “This was a monumental step you’ve taken. I’m proud of you.” She spoke softly, but it irritated him that she still treated him as if he were that nine-year-old child he’d been when they’d lost their parents.
“Lorelei, please do not speak to me as if I’m Nathan’s age,” he growled. He looked up and caught sight of Lady Alymer on the balcony landing, talking to Oxford and Lady Parther as if she hadn’t a care in the world. As if she hadn’t shot him with a round of musket balls in an ambush for the ages.
“Truly, Bran, there’s no need to snip at me.”
