Lessons from a Scandalous Bride
Page 10

As the callow Reginald retreated, freshly rejected, Libba spun to face her. “Oh, where is he?” She stamped her foot in a fit of pique. “I know he received an invitation. I made certain of it.”
“Then I’m sure he’ll be here,” Cleo replied.
“He’s changed his mind about me.” Her eyes stared abjectly ahead.
Cleo’s pulse stuttered at her neck with treacherous hope. “W-why do you say that?”
“He hasn’t called upon me in two days.”
Since the day of our kiss.
“Perhaps he’s ill,” she offered lamely, her mind spinning.
Libba gazed at her desperately. “Nor has he sent word. This is so unlike his previous behavior. What if he’s met someone else?”
Cleo coughed, her face suddenly hot. “I find that unlikely.”
“Perhaps someone with a larger dowry—”
“Whose dowry could compare to yours?”
Libba waved a hand. “It’s not impossible. Yours surpasses mine from all accounts I’ve heard.”
At this comment, Cleo strangled on a breath. “I haven’t your grace or charm or social standing . . . no one could compete with you on those points.”
Libba shrugged. “Ah, well. That’s true. I do have a great deal to offer.”
Cleo nodded.
“Perhaps he is ill and just didn’t want me to worry.” Libba cocked her head as though considering this doubtful explanation.
“Yes, I’m sure that’s it,” Cleo lied.
Cleo spied another of Libba’s young swains weaving his way toward her, his face flushed with eagerness. “You really should dance. The last thing Lord McKinney would wish is for you to wallow away during his absence,” she suggested.
“Perhaps.” Her lips pulled into a little moue. “And it would do me good if word got back to him how popular I am.”
“Oh. Naturally.” Cleo nodded. And perhaps another gentleman might catch her fancy and turn her off from Lord McKinney. Not a bad thing, however small the chance. Especially as Cleo was beginning to fear that he had in fact experienced a change of heart regarding his pursuit of Libba. A fact for which she felt heartily to blame.
Could their one kiss have persuaded him to forget Libba?
Of course not. She scoffed at the absurd notion. It was one kiss. She wasn’t so egotistical to think her lips possessed the power to change one man’s matrimonial plans.
She watched in satisfaction as Libba finally accepted a partner and was swept away on the dance floor. Cleo inhaled, at peace for the moment with a respite from Libba. Her gaze scanned the room, looking for her father even as she assumed that he was still in the card room with Lord Thrumgoodie. When it came to whist, the two were a pair. They could play for hours.
Her gaze suddenly halted amid its survey of the room. There, in the threshold, stood her McKinney.
She blinked and silently cursed the mental slip. Not her anything!
His gray eyes scanned the room and she spun around before he could see her. So much for her determination to face him. She fled, hoping he hadn’t spotted her—or that he couldn’t recognize the back of her.
She wove her way through bodies. Holding up her skirts, she disappeared down a corridor, telling herself she needed but a moment alone to gather her nerve . . . to regain her composure before she issued her warning that he keep his hands—and lips—to himself.
She passed the buzzing card room. A glance inside revealed the crowd of gentlemen—even a few ladies. Not a very good hiding place.
She pushed ahead. Feeling very much like a panicked hare, she hurried forward without direction, no destination in mind. She couldn’t imagine McKinney staying too long. He always seemed to possess an air of ennui in large gatherings—like he’d rather be somewhere, anywhere, else. Or perhaps that was simply wishful thinking. He’d arrived late. Perhaps he intended to stay a good while.
Perhaps if he can’t locate you, he’ll leave.
She shook her head at the arrogant thought. If she believed that, then she believed his reason for coming here tonight was because of her. For all she knew that kiss meant nothing to him and he was here to continue his courtship of Libba. That seemed the most logical conclusion.
She soon found herself in the portrait gallery. She strolled down the long length, gazing at several stern faces staring down at her—a long line of proper-looking aristocrats. She snorted, thinking of her own ancestors. Peasants, all. None could have imagined any descendant of theirs ever strolling the floors of such a grand house. A year ago she would not have thought such a thing possible.
Steps sounded in the distance, echoing off the marbled floor. She started, looking swiftly to the left and right. Her first thought was that he was coming after her.
Even as she recognized this as foolish and unlikely, she dove behind a potted fern. It was a rather large specimen. Even so, she doubted she was totally hidden to the discerning eye. Her peacock blue skirts peeped out from around the fern. And yet, she held herself utterly still.
It only sounded like one pair of feet. A man’s tread. Her heart thudded in her chest. She bit her lip and turned her face away from the offending branch poking near her eye. Probably just someone wandering through to view the gallery.
Even as she reasoned this, she held her breath, listening. The steps rang out with an echo as they entered the gallery.
And then they stopped altogether.
Too many leaves obscured her view, and she didn’t wish to rustle them with her fingers. She imagined some innocuous soul standing there, studying one of the portraits. Just as she was counting herself ten kinds of fool for concealing herself behind a fern, a voice rumbled across the air.
“Are you going to hide there forever?
She jerked, the wretchedly familiar voice with its velvet burr like a slap.
He spoke again, “I can see your dress. Come now. Show yourself.”
“Hiding?” She stepped out from behind the fern and smoothed both hands over her skirts. Lifting her chin, she adopted an even tone and blinked innocently. “How absurd. Why would I hide?”
“Because you’re avoiding me.”
“I’m not avoiding you. Why would I even bother to do such a thing?” She snorted lightly, applauding herself for how calm and unaffected she sounded.
He angled his head and swept her a hot look that brought everything back. His mouth on hers. His hands moving over her back. That impossibly broad chest pressed against her.
Heat crawled up her face. With a look like that, he clearly wanted her to remember.
“Oh. Because of that?” She waved a hand dismissively. “A mistake to be sure, but it won’t happen again.” It was the closest she could bring herself to discussing what had happened.
He stepped closer, his boot heels clicking on the floor. His gray eyes were as stormy as a night sea and she felt a stab of alarm that only intensified at his next words. “I would very much like to kiss you again.”
Her eyes widened. She hadn’t expected such bluntness—nor the way those very direct words made her belly flutter.
Her breath fell faster. “That’s quite impossible.”
“Why?”
She shook her head, baffled that he should even have to ask. That she should need to explain. “You know why.”
He shook his head slowly. “I’ve considered it, and no. I don’t know why we cannot. We’re both marriage-bound and obviously suited.”
“Because of a mere kiss you think we are suited?”
“Mere?” His dark eyebrows winged high. He was close enough now. Too close. He reached for her and she knew instantly he meant to prove her wrong, to take her in his arms again and show her there was nothing mere about their kiss.
She danced out of his range and held up a hand to ward him off. “Very well!” she quickly admitted, hoping to avert the disaster of his lips landing on hers again. “It was . . . nice.”
That stopped him. “Nice?” he demanded.
Her heart flipped as she gazed at his face—so handsome in his indignation that the sight made her chest ache.
“More than nice,” she amended, taking a sliding step backward.
His gray eyes darkened and she knew she’d annoyed him. “Liar.”
She flinched.
“I want you,” he declared, stepping nearer again. “And you want me, too.”
She shook her head. “You’re making too much of this.” She took another step back and bumped into a bust of some long-dead ancestor. It wobbled dangerously and she quickly turned, grabbing it and steadying it with her shaking hands.
She exhaled with relief and turned to find him there, practically on top of her. She gasped. Unable to back up a step again without sending the bust careening to the floor, she held her ground. Her hands wobbled uncertainly between them before surrendering and coming to rest on his splendidly broad chest.
His heart thudded strong and deep against her palms, and she was achingly reminded of his words—could hear them in her head. I want you.
There was no mistaking his intent even if he hadn’t said such an outrageous thing. She could see it in his eyes . . . smell it on the musky, intoxicating aroma of him. In the way he held his body against her, all tense muscles ready to spring.
She moistened her lips and asked, grasping at straws, “What about Libba?”
“Come now.” His stare searched her face, missing nothing. “I’ve promised her nothing.”
“Formally, yes, no proposal has been issued, but the expectation is there all the same.”
“Everyone has expectations. Disappointments are a way of life. She’ll forget me in time and favor someone else.”
Cleo shook her head, her heart thundering in her chest. She doubted that. He was quite unforgettable. She glanced at his too handsome face and then looked away. But too late. The strong lines, the dark slashing eyebrows and steel gray eyes were there, permanently etched in her mind.
God, she was her mother’s daughter, to lose her head over the first handsome man to pay her such attentions, to pursue her as a hungry predator might.
He reached down to caress the fat sausage curl draped over her bare shoulder. “Like satin,” he murmured. “Molten chocolate.”
“I don’t understand.” The words rasped slowly from her lips, her thoughts churning sluggishly through her head. His nearness, his touch did that to her—addled her head. “You’re saying you no longer wish to court Libba because . . .” She stopped, unable to put it into words.
His lips curled in a half smile, crooked and enticing. “I’m a pragmatic man.” His hand turned so that his fingertips stroked the bend of her throat, where her neck and shoulder connected.
“Uh-huh.” She struggled to focus, something exceedingly difficult with his velvet touch on her. Was this seduction then? This sensation of sinking deeply, inexorably into a pool of sensation.
“There’s only one lady I’ve met that fires my mind and blood. How can I turn from her?”
She gazed up at him, feeling utterly bemused. “Who’s that?”
He smiled that devilish grin again. “You. It only makes sense that you and I should court.”
Court? He wanted a legitimate relationship with her? She blinked, some of the fog dissipating as reality fought its way to the surface.
“You’re mad,” she whispered, and then reminded him. “And I’m no lady. Just a bastard. You can’t mean to entertain . . .”
He frowned, looking rather disappointed with her. “I don’t care about the circumstances of your birth. We’re both seeking the same thing. Why not choose each other?”
No words could have struck terror to her heart with more speed. She wiggled free of him, heedless of the delicious friction it created between their bodies.
With a growl, he grabbed hold of her wrist and forced her back around to face him. If possible, they now stood even closer than before. His arms came up to wrap around her, his hands warm and all-encompassing against her spine. The temptation to soak up his touch, lean into him like a purring cat was cruelly beguiling.