They pulled into the drive at Cavendish, and Harlowe stepped down and took her hand. McCaskle met them at the door.
“Would you care to stay for tea, my lord?” Maeve asked him.
He took her cloak and handed it off to McCaskle. “I would be delighted.”
She led him into the parlor just off the foyer. She was too restless to sit. “I shall go mad with nothing to do.”
“Perhaps it’s time to dredge out Alymer’s scripts. How long do you think it will take you to complete them?”
“I’m not certain. I would have to go through them to refresh my memory. But you raise a good point. That is an excellent way to pass the time.” She rubbed her hands over her upper arms. “And what of your memoirs, Brandon?”
“I think we can put them on hold until you complete Alymer’s works. Bits and pieces of my memory are returning. I think it comes from being with you. There is something about you that… calms me, for reasons I cannot explain.”
His words unfurled a warmth in her chest.
Mrs. McCaskle entered with the tray.
“I’ll pour, Mrs. McCaskle. Thank you.” Maeve started to pick up one of the pastries and paused. “Er, who made the scones?”
“Me sister, ma’am.” She couldn’t quite contain her smirk.
“Thank you, Mrs. McCaskle. You’re excused,” Maeve said.
Brandon lowered his voice, even though she’d closed the door behind her. “She can’t be that bad a cook, can she?”
“The sister? No, she’s quite fabulous. Have I thanked you for the servants, my lord?”
“Has anyone ever mentioned how cheeky you are?”
Maeve poured a cup of tea, added sugar, and handed it to him. “I believe you are the first.”
He set the cup aside, then took her hand and pulled her to him. He leaned in until their mouths were inches apart. “I shall definitely be the last.” His lips slanted over hers, infusing her with a ferocious heat that took the chill right out of the room.
Truly, he was much skilled in this arena, she thought, as she wound her arms around his neck and kissed him back with all her worth. His tongue mingled, meshed, dodged, and teased hers, sending her spiraling into a whirlwind of mounting desire as one message kept dancing about her head: kissing Harlowe was something she could definitely live with.
Thirty
One week later, the first day of February, brought an unusual bout of snow. Maeve was beside herself with worry. Despite her and Harlowe’s daily drives around Soho Square, she hadn’t spotted the girl she believed was Melinda a second time. Penny’s nightmares were growing worse by night. It was safe to say that no one in the house was getting much sleep.
The streets were a mess of slushy muck. And it was cold. She refused to sit inside the warmth of the carriage when Melinda likely wore rags for clothes. Every day, Maeve clutched a new wool cloak in the event they located her. “We’re never going to find her,” she told Harlowe.
“I’m sorry, darling. I wish I could reassure you absolutely, but that would be unfair.”
He was right, of course. She rested her cheek against his shoulder in a small gesture of thanks.
“Wouldn’t you prefer to sit inside?”
A soft smile touched her. “You say that every day. You should know the answer by now, my lord.”
“It hadn’t been snowing every day up to now. I fear you’ll catch your death.”
“Sitting inside would wrack me with guilt.”
He let out a long-winded sigh, drawing another smile from her.
“I think we should put off the wedding.”
His jaw tightened. “I’m willing to do anything you ask… but that.”
