Warmth swirled through her, tension easing from her shoulders as she studied his confident mien. He desiredher. He wantedher. Then it hit her. “Ah, I see. You’ve promised yourself to Lady Irene, I take it?”
He dropped another quick kiss on her. “I did indeed. But the minute that dance ends, we shall be taking our leave.”
Unable to help herself, she smiled against his lips, hoping against hope, theirs would be a happy union. “Granted, my lord.”
Dorset spun Maeve in a sharp turn on the parquet. He gripped her side so tightly, she had to concentrate to keep from wincing.
“You should have said something. You shouldn’t have been forced to marry the bastard—”
“Lord Dorset,” she hissed. “Lord Harlowe is my husband. No oneforcedme into anything.”
“Never say you married him of your own free will. I won’t believe it.”
“Well, believe it, sir.” She spoke sharply. Maeve had every intention of giving her new marriage her whole heart. No one would ever learn the truth from her, she vowed silently. “He is my husband, and you shall not speak ill of him.” Maeve glanced across the ballroom where Harlowe gallantly led Lady Irene in her first waltz. It was ridiculously sweet. And honorable. And… adorable.
Once Harlowe got to know his son, he would be a wonderful father.
“My apologies,” Dorset said stiffly.
Maeve let out a sigh. “Lord Dorset. Rest assured, I did not marry Harlowe under duress.” At least once she got used to the idea.
“I see.” He cleared his throat. The music ended, and Dorset took her arm and led her off the floor. “Has Harlowe mentioned his visits to the Chancé Salon?”
His words infuriated her, yet she stumbled. “How dare you speak to me of Chancé’s Salon. And yes, he did tell me,” she bit out. This was beyond humiliating, but at least she’d been forewarned.
In a quick move, she was righted. “I see.” Of course, he didn’t believe her. Well, that couldn’t be helped.
“Mention what?”
Maeve spun around. “Brandon!”
“My felicitations, Harlowe. You have a lovely bride.” Dorset’s hands fell from Maeve, and he stepped back.
“I’m a lucky man,” Harlowe said, taking Maeve’s gloved fingers and bringing them to his lips.
Her face heated and likely turned an unbecoming shade of scarlet.
He leaned in and whispered in her ear, “What was that all about?”
“Your calls to the Chancé Salon,” she murmured. “I realize this is not the place but we shall revisit this conversation.”
“Dorset is determined to create dissonance where there is no need,” he retorted softly. “You are all I need, my love.”
“So, after tonight…”
“We shall be pleasantly occupied.” He brought her gloved hand to his lips. “Shall we retire home?”
She was charmed but did her best to keep her voice tart. “Don’t think I shall not hold you to that, my lord.”
Thirty-Two
The ride back to Cavendish Square was quiet. Maeve was exhausted. Molly sat across from Agnes in the tight confines of the barouche. Harlowe was next to Agnes, and Maeve was situated next to Molly. Nathan sat on Molly’s lap with his head on her shoulder, facing Maeve with sleepy eyes doing their best to stay open. He had his thumb in his mouth, watching her. She resisted the pull to take him from Molly and hold him herself, and dragged her gaze to Harlowe.
He was reclined back against the velvet squab with his hands splayed out on either side of him. He might appear relaxed to Molly, but to Maeve he was coiled tight as a viper poised to strike.
Heated anticipation shot through her, and the skin at the base of her neck tingled. She couldn’t look away from the fire in his eyes. Maeve couldn’t move. If Molly and Agnes hadn’t been there, Maeve wasn’t certain she couldn’t have kept from throwing herself on her new husband. These thoughts were not comfortable in the least. She would never countenance such loss of control. But as her… herhusbandwatched her with his hooded and unwavering gaze, the atmosphere grew thick.
The horses clopped to a stop, and the carriage shook with Niall’s decent and the steps dropping into place. The door opened, bringing Maeve back to her stunted senses.
