She’d known that even when she’d suggested it. Her mother would track her down like a hound to a fox and drag her by the hair. It had become her own private jest. But by the looks of Harlowe’s expression, he didn’t quite see it the same way. She supposed it didn’t help when one didn’t laugh. “I’m sorry. My witticism isn’t going over well, is it?”
“No.” But he squeezed her hand. “I know you are frightened for Melinda. I am as well, and I promise we’ll do our best to find her.”
“I know. I don’t wish to sound ungrateful. I’m not, you know.”
“I’m thrilled to know it,” he said.
“It just seems wrong for us to be happy when Penny has such horrendous nightmares. I’m glad we are keeping the ceremony small.”
Again, he squeezed her hand. He understood how she felt, and it warmed her through. She glanced about at the tree limbs bared of leaves and lined with snow that glistened. Their path past Soho Square was devoid of the normal bustling crowds one could find on a sunny or rainy day, and the reality of the situation hit Maeve with despair.
“We might as well head back. She’s not going to show herself. Not with the two of us…” Her voice trailed away.
Harlowe’s sense of helplessness went bone-deep. At least when he’d been confined to the asylum, he’d been plied with opium to dull the impression. He found Maeve’s powerlessness profoundly distressing. He feared she was right. A street-savvy child was very adept at not being seen if they so chose. There was no way to reassure her. If the outcome was unfavorable, his words would come across as placating and not respecting of her intelligence. And if there was one thing about Maeve Pendleton, soon-to-be Lady Harlowe, her keen perspicacity could not be faulted.
He turned the horses toward Cavendish, taking great comfort with Maeve at his side. It felt… right. He pulled in the drive, and Niall promptly appeared. Harlowe tossed him the reins and turned to assist Maeve. He ignored her hands, taking her by the waist and setting her on her feet. He held her as close as the cloak she held between them allowed.
She lifted her eyes. He stared into their depths, wondering how he’d come to this place, this moment with her. Time suspended as need surged through him. Need to please her. Need to protect her. Need to have her.
If only he could assure himself she harbored the same.
Snowflakes landed on the hood of her cape, on the tip of her nose, on her lashes. Her lips parted, and her breath frosted on the cold air. “I think we should turn the upstairs salon into an art studio,” she said softly.
His breath hitched at the meaning behind her words.
Her brows furrowed. “We shall have to have a lock put on the door. Too many chemicals about.”
The weighted iron he’d carried in his chest since he’d woken in Lorelei’s house burst free. He couldn’t speak. Instead, he lowered to his mouth to hers. Hers parted beneath his. He swept his tongue into depths of molten fire, held her fiercely to his chest despite the cloak she hugged, and reveled in her response. It was too cold to linger long, and he forced himself away. “Come. We’ve a wedding to attend to,” he said gruffly.
“Yes,” she whispered.
Thirty-One
The next morning, Maeve sat at her vanity in her old bedchamber at her mother’s house awaiting her nuptials to Viscount Harlowe. Her status as countess, downgraded to viscountess, had her grinning at her reflection in the mirror.
In retrospect, she wondered if she should be angry with Harlowe’s machinations in getting her to the altar. But no one had forced her to take off down the street after a child like a lunatic. That was on her. And neither had he set Shufflebottom and Welton on the street to find her. She was a pragmatic person. She’d been worried—was still worried—for Melinda’s safety, for Penny’s fear.
The question that continued to plague her: would she react the same in the same situation? The answer was yes. The thought that perhaps she needed a keeper was both irritating and humorous.
“I’m thrilled to see you happy, my lady,” Agnes said, putting the finishing touches to her hair, to the outrage of her mother.
Was she happy? Except for her worry over Melinda and Penny, Maeve could honestly say she was. “Thank you. I think my mother is not thrilled that most oftonhas left the city for the country.” A fact that didn’t bother Maeve. The most important people were to stand with her and Harlowe. Only the Kimptons and the Brockways had remained, and that was fine by her.
A smile curved Agnes’s lips. She didn’t speak, just poked more pins into Maeve’s hair.
A tap rapped at the door, and Lady Ingleby’s flushed face peered in. “The guests are arriving, Maeve. You should let Parson do a final inspection of your toilette.”
“Agnes is perfectly capable, Mother.”
Rather than argue, as was her norm, Lady Ingleby huffed out on an aggravated breath. “Don’t be late. You’re always late.”
Actually, Maeve was never late. She considered her reflection in the mirror. Agnes had outdone herself with Maeve’s unruly curls. Not a single braided coil wrapped her head. Instead, fantastical ringlets framed her face with most of the locks pulled back and up with other, softer tendrils draping down. Agnes poked another few pins in, dotted with pearls and sapphires. They glittered throughout, matching the bishop blue of the simple gown she was to wear.
Maeve had never felt so beautiful. “You do outstanding work, Agnes,” she said. “I believe you are due for a raise.”
“Ye are much too generous, milady.”
Her mother poked her head around the door again. “Don’t forget to use enough powder for those unsightly freckles.”
