Dorset swung her in an expert turn. “How are your new lodgings, Lady Alymer?”
“Excellent, sir.”
“I wonder that you would take a drive with me in the park on the morrow, my lady?”
Panic welled up. “A drive?”
His lips tipped. “Er, yes. An event where I appear at your door at an agreed upon appointed time, assist you into my fashionable phaeton and proceed to Rotten Row. We converse—I speak of the weather, you ask about the Chancé Salon, I stop you from ruining yourself, you’re aghast and threaten to speak to the woman yourself… You know. A drive.”
Maeve couldn’t help herself, she laughed. “I should be honored to take a drive with you, Lord Dorset. I’m beyond flattered by your asking.”
“It ismyhonor, my lady. Will four o’clock meet with your schedule?”
“I believe it will, my lord. Thank you.”
The music ended, and Dorset escorted Maeve to the refreshment table.
“There you are, Maeve.”
“Hello, Mother.”
“Lady Ingleby,” Dorset said. “Lady Alymer. Until tomorrow,” he said softly, then melted into the crowd.
“When will you be moving from that harlot’s house?” Her low voice and darting gaze spoke volumes.
Maeve leaned in, matching her tone. “I shan’t be leaving. I love the house.”
“This is outrageous, Maeve Pendleton. That house is… iscursed.”
“Don’t be ridiculous, Mother.” Exasperation crawled over her skin.
“I want you home. I can hardly show my face for the tittering behind fans when I meet with my friends.”
Heat crawled up the back of Maeve’s neck, although crawl might not describe the trail of fire racing to her head. Not an encouraging sign. And at the Oxford rout. “Then perhaps they are not your friends.” Maeve tried drawing in a deep breath but there was blockage in her throat, preventing the effort. For one thing, there was the decided lack of air. The space around her was crushing, and white amoebas crowded her vision.
Her mother’s voice echoed from a valley. “Maeve, you listen to me…”
She couldn’t listen. She didn’t want to listen. Black was chasing the white. She swayed.
A strong arm banded her shoulders. “Lady Ingleby, permit me to escort your daughter for a bit of air.” The deep resonance, etched in steel, was familiar, and comforting. She wasn’t going to disgrace herself—not if they made it outside in time.
She leaned into his side, and in moments, she was gulping the cold night air.
“You looked as if you were about to faint,” Harlowe said. He led her—actually, had moved his arm around her waist—and carried her down stone steps to a bench in damp grass. Her second pair of slippers were not destined to survive another useless event. “When I first spotted you, I thought that temper I hadn’t had the pleasure of witnessing was about to erupt full force.”
“Very observant of you, sir.” Her voice cracked as if she hadn’t spoken in days, yet he was correct. Her body was flashing cold and hot—it could not seem to decide which.
Harlowe wanted Maeve Pendleton with a painful intensity. He could hardly stand being apart from her. The wild ginger-colored hair, the Aegean blue eyes, her tall slender body that fit his in perfect proportion. It took every ounce of his common sense to fight back Rory’s idea of ruining her. But the man had planted a seed that refused to be washed away. She was strong, independent, capable. She would hate him, and with good reason. Besides, it wasn’t sporting.
Such thoughts triggered questions. Why wasn’t it sporting? Men ruled all. He was in Oxford’s garden alone with her. All he had to do was lower the shoulder of her gown; tug it below one breast; take a plump nipple between his teeth. All it would take was one person to see them. Preferably, Lady Ingleby…
She shivered.
Harlowe quickly removed his coat and dropped it around her shoulders.
There was something in the back of his mind, manipulation, more shadows. He shoved them aside. This was not the time.
“Thank you.”
