She pulled her hand from his. “I must speak with Kimpton. He’s promised to show me a couple of the townhomes on his list—”
“I know another place,” he quickly interrupted. “It’s almost perfect.”
She pierced him with another wary look, her brows furrowed. “Almost? That sounds ominous.”
“It’s in Cavendish Square.”
“What’s wrong with Cavendish Square? It’s a lovely area. It sounds as if it would work splendidly for my purposes.”
“Yes, well…”
“Well, what?” He had to bite back a grin. Her ginger-haired temper was fraying. She was not so flawless after all, which made her an excellent bride for him. It was too difficult living up to someone who was perfect, as his late wife seemed to be.
The best thing to do was to just blurt it out. Rip off the bandage. “The house belonged to Rowena Hollerfield.”
There was an audible swallow from her. “The, ah, infamous courtesan?”
“The infamouslatecourtesan. It appears I inherited the place after Corinne’s death.”
Several different emotions flitted across Maeve’s face. None that he could readily identify. She heaved in a deep breath. “Miss Hollerfield was said to have had excellent taste,” she said slowly.
Harlowe thought of the formal parlor he’d looked in that first night he, Kimpton, and Brock had searched the house. “Yes. She had exquisite taste. But you are free to change anything you deem fitting.”
A slow smile covered her lips. “Living there would drive my mother mad. I believe I should like to see it.”
He grinned. “We can leave this very minute, if you like.”
A scowl marred her expression, and he had the wildest desire to kiss it away. “Oh. Yes. That might be to our advantage.”
Harlowe stood, took her hand, tugged her into his chest, and rested his cheek to hers. It was downy soft and smooth as silk. “So,” he said softly against her temple. “What am I supposed to do while you take overmyhome?”
She stepped out of his arms. “That is a dilemma, isn’t it?” She shot him one of her brilliant, smug smiles. “You can stay here with your sister and get to know your son.” She looked at the note in her hand. After a long moment, she handed it to him.
He broke the seal and glanced through it and winced. “It appears Lady Ingleby indeed has had word of our betrothal.” Then he groaned. “And she wishes to see you—I’m sorry—she wishes to seeus. In”—he pulled out his watch fob—“thirty minutes.”
“What? Oh, I am not up for this.” Maeve dropped her face in her hands.
“Come. Let’s be off.”
“Ah, good. You’re both here.”
Harlowe cleared his expression and looked over Maeve’s shoulder. “Hello, Lady Ingleby. We just received your note.”
Eighteen
M
aeve’s head dropped to Brandon’s shoulder.
His hands cupped her shoulders, and he squeezed. He then pulled away and, with a straight face, said, “It’s time to talk to your mother, my dear.” He couldn’t hide the mirth in his eyes, and Maeve was almost positive one corner of his lip twitched. He spun her about.
“Hello, Mother.”
Lady Ingleby beamed them with a bright smile. “You been holding out on your mother, you naughty girl. And here I thought you were after the Marquis of Dorset.”
Brandon’s fingers dug into her upper arms. She hid a wince. “Er, Lady Ingleby. Perhaps we can make our way to the drawing room.” His hands fell away, but he nudged Maeve none too gently in that direction.
“When did this come about?” her mother asked pleasantly.
