She raced for the corner, but the girl had caught wind of her and darted from sight. Maeve came to a halt, panting. Where could she have gone? Shop doors were shut, and she glanced about. None of the polite world were anywhere in sight. Why should they be? They’d all been on Rotten Row for the fashionable hour. At the least, they’d been in their carriages blocking traffic.
When had she become so impulsive? Oh, yes, that was when she’d lost her senses and offered to undertake the Viscount of Harlowe’s state of health.
Uneasiness slithered through her. If anyone of her set had seen her dashing down the street like a hellion or spotted her without her maid, she’d be ruined. Her heart pounded in her breast, but she lifted her chin and, wrapping her cloak of dignity around her, turned back in the direction of her waiting hack… only the man was driving away. She shot a helpless glance around and barely managed to hold back her groan.
“Lady Alymer, how pleasant to see you.” The gaze Shufflebottom raked over her sent another shiver of dread through her. Thank heavens Welton was with him. “We hear congratulations are in order.”
“Congratulations?” Dear heavens, they were at the Martindales’ that night. She was at a loss for a plausible response.
“I say, Lady Alymer. ’Tis late for shopping, don’cha know?” Welton said.
“Yes,” she said on a nervous breath. “I-I thought to reach Boucher’s before she closed for the day, but I missed her… by moments it appears.”
She wouldn’t dare. But, of course, she did dare. She was Maeve Pendleton, Lady Alymer. Hard-headed, stubborn, pragmatic, independent woman without the slightest care for her reputation. Harlowe jumped from his own carriage, stormed down the road, tossed her driver a coin, and growled at him to move on. “The lady is with me.”
Maeve marched down the street with her shoulders back and her head held high, her carriage determined and proud.Any other time and place, he’d stand back and watch the production that was worthy of Drury Lane. She was a vision in her day frock of bright blue. Hell, it was a beacon, and as no other shoppers were about, she was sure to be seen.
Unfortunately, Shufflebottom and Welton had seen her and had stopped, blocking her path. Harlowe picked up his pace. How was he supposed to salvage this situation? Pieces of her ginger hair had worked free beneath that blue confection she’d call a hat. He would catch the very devil for all his effort to salvage her reputation. He let out a sigh. There was only one thing for it. Plenty of time to face the consequences later. He firmed his resolve.
“Boucher’s?” Shufflebottom said with a narrowed gaze. “They’ve been closed for hours.”
“Er, yes, I suppose I lost track of time…”
“Dammit, Maeve,” Harlowe said, startling her. “That temper of yours will be the death of me.”
“What—”
A knowing grin slid over Shufflebottom’s features. “Harlowe. Appears as if your betrothed has lost track of time.”
The flush in Maeve’s face told Harlowe what he would be facing to clear up this little matter. A matter of her own making, he reminded himself, and ploughed ahead.
“You do look flushed, Lady Alymer,” Welton chipped in. “Surely it’s something that can be fixed without too much trouble. Harlowe and me, we go way back. He’s an easygoing bloke, leastways, he used to be.”
“Lovers’ spat?” Shufflebottom asked. She didnotappreciate the sly look in his eye.
Neither did Harlowe. He pulled himself to his full height and leaned forward. His bicep flexed beneath her fingers on his arm.
She squeezed. “Certainly not,” Maeve huffed.
The calculating glint in Shufflebottom’s eye spiked Harlowe’s temper. “I hear Lady Ingleby is thrilled,” he said, sounding to his ears around the rushing blood, pleasant.
“We were hoping to wait a bit on making the announcement,” Maeve said through gritted teeth.
“Fascinating, since it was Harlowe himself who delivered the news to half the ton at the Oxford’s ball,” Shufflebottom said.
“That cat is out of the proverbial bag now, isn’t it, darling?” He bowed to the gentlemen. “If you’ll excuse us, we still have a few things to iron out.” He casually turned her about and led her to the carriage.
“Like the iron I shall bash in your skull with.” She spoke with a sweetness that promised her retribution would not be kind. “Is that my rig?” she asked.
“It is indeed.”
“Who is that driving?”
“Your gardener. Baird.”
“My gardener’s name is Baird?” She took in a deep breath. “How nice to have a gardener. Does he know how to garden?”
One could only hope.He hid a grin.
