Lessons from a Scandalous Bride
Page 6

“Never mind.” Cleo rolled her eyes. The girl was hopeless.
“Oh, Cleo.” Libba nudged her shoulder roughly. “Haven’t you any trust? Any faith? Sometimes you have to trust your instincts about a person.”
Cleo sniffed. Like her mother had trusted? First Jack Hadley. And then her stepfather. Not Cleo—not a chance.
Libba continued. “I’m fairly certain he means to offer for me. Perhaps even this week . . .”
Cleo blinked. “So soon?”
“Oh, yes. You’ve been hiding away with that headache of yours for the last two days so you wouldn’t know, but he called on me the day after the opera with a bouquet of hothouse roses.
“Of course he did. He knows a good catch when he sees one,” Cleo replied wryly, but Libba missed her sarcasm and continued talking.
“ . . . And the day after that he took me for a ride in the park. Tomorrow we shall stroll Bond Street. I do hope he will propose soon,” she rushed to say. “Grandfather’s health is so precarious. The last thing I want is Hamilton acting as my guardian . . . or having to delay my wedding because Grandfather died.” Comprehension suddenly broke across Libba’s features. “Oh, how dreadful of me. I did not mean to imply that Grandfather might soon die. I know you’re very . . . fond of him.”
Cleo smiled weakly and patted Libba’s hand. The girl meant well. She just couldn’t be accused of keen intelligence. She could never fault Libba for being unkind. Unlike Hamilton, she was tolerant of Cleo’s budding relationship with her grandfather. “No worries, Libba.”
Libba clutched Cleo’s hand in each of her own. “And he is exceedingly fond of you, too. You’ve brought new life into him.”
Cleo’s smile grew pained.
Libba’s head dipped closer as she whispered conspiratorially, “I believe he intends to offer for you very soon.”
At this confidence, Cleo’s stomach sank. Foolish, of course. They’d been courting for months. This was what she’d been working toward, after all. An easy, uncomplicated match. Safe.
Above all safe.
“W-wonderful.”
“Isn’t it?” Libba’s head bobbed happily. “He swore he would never wed again after his last wife died. Sorry luck, that.” Libba gave her hand another squeeze. “He’ll likely outlive us all. Wait and see.”
“I dearly hope so,” Cleo returned. Not a lie. She truly did not yearn for widowhood . . . as the gossips were fond of declaring. She simply wished to keep her body to herself—and not lose her spirit under the grind of some man’s boot heel. The earl’s days of grinding his boot heels were long past. He was unthreatening in that regard . . . spending most of his days in a prolonged nap.
She need only envision her mother’s haggard face, or recall one of the tiny corpses she’d carried to the churchyard, to know the kind of life she wanted.
Still, the thought that she might soon have to finalize her decision and accept Thrumgoodie’s proposal knotted her stomach.
“Pardon me, Libba. I’m in need of some air.” She rose to her feet and slipped out the drawing room’s balcony doors.
She shivered at the sudden plunge into chilled air. She wished she’d brought her shawl but wasn’t about to go back into the house to fetch it. She moved away from the door. The feminine chatter from within faded as she strolled along the verandah that wrapped around the side of the house.
Chafing her arms, she stared up at the night and squinted, wondering where the stars had vanished. She’d always been able to see them at home. She and her mother were fond of picking out the constellations.
“Can’t see a thing through all the smog.”
Cleo gasped and spun around.
Standing several feet away, the Scot propped a lean hip against the stone railing, his booted feet crossed at the ankles.
“What are you doing out here?” she demanded.
“Could ask you the same.”
She crossed her arms, suddenly unsure what to do with them.
It dawned on her that they’d never even spoken at any length. Just a brief two- or three-worded greeting. For as much as he’d filled her awareness . . . occupied her thoughts, this struck her as strange.
She shivered anew. It was too dark to see his eyes but she imagined they still looked at her with that cold disapproval.
“Tired of the chatter?” he asked, his dark head nodding toward the drawing room.
She soaked up the sound of his voice. The faint brogue rolled through her like warm honey. She shook her head for thinking such a way, angry at herself for letting his voice affect her.
“I needed some fresh air,” she murmured, her voice a tight squeak.
“Bracing yourself for the earl’s cold touch?”
She sucked in a sharp breath, his words as shocking as a dousing of water. “Pardon me?”
“You heard me well enough.”
“Surely not. My ears must be mistaken to have heard you say something so unconscionably rude.”
He chuckled and the sound grated. Suddenly, his laughter stopped and silence stretched between them until he asked, “How old are you?”
She hesitated, but ultimately answered him. “Three and twenty.”
“That young?”
“You thought me older?”
“You must confess there aren’t many girls of your tender years who would consider a man in his eightieth year a prime candidate for a husband.”
She pulled back her shoulders. “You know no bounds, my lord. I’m not sure why anything about me should interest you.”
He shrugged. “You’re a curiosity, I confess.”
“Perhaps I look beyond the superficial shell of a person.”
He chuckled and the sound rippled though her like dribbling honey. “Oh, indeed? Then do tell. Share with me what it is about the old earl that you find so endearing?”
She stared at him in mutinous silence and she was quite certain that he was enjoying himself. At her expense. His eyes gleamed in the gloom and she felt the overwhelming urge to strike him.
He continued in that rolling burr of his, mocking, “Is it his scintillating conversation?”
“Go to hell.” The words exploded from her lips before she could stop herself. Immediately, she regretted them. She regretted the hot emotion he’d roused within her . . . the unreasonable urge to lash out. She’d never been like this before . . . so defensive, so hostile. Not even with Roger, and he’d justifiably earned her ire on countless occasions. Daily.
He chuckled, seemingly delighted with her outburst. “You’re the first woman I’ve met in this godforsaken city to utter anything quite so . . . honest. It’s a welcome bit of fresh air.”
This declaration bordered on a compliment. Decidedly uncomfortable that he might actually admire her in some fashion, she turned to go. “We shouldn’t be out here . . . alone together.”
He chuckled anew, this sound lower, deeper. It slid seductively along her spine. She stopped, shooting a glance over her shoulder at the dim shape of him. “What’s so amusing?” she queried, the annoyance in her voice crisp and sharp.
“You did not strike me as the type to worry about what others might say.”
His comment hit its mark—no doubt as he’d intended. Her annoyance flared. She stepped closer. Closer than comfortable, but she couldn’t back down after he’d waved a flag like that before her face.
“Because if I did care what others think or say about me I would what?” Another step. “Conduct myself differently?”
Even in the gloom, she detected a bend to his lips. He was smiling. “Your words. Not mine.”
She inhaled thinly through her nostrils. “You really shouldn’t listen to gossip, Lord McKinney. It’s usually untrue.”
“Usually,” he returned. She could hear the smile in his voice. “But you know what they say.”
“And what would that be?”
“There’s always a kernel of truth to every rumor . . .”
Meaning he believed Hamilton’s scathing words about her—that she was naught but a title chaser.
She squared back her shoulders. “I hear you are quite good with a knife. Is that gossip or truth?”
He chuckled again. “I know my way around a blade.”
“You’re incorrigible.”
“I’ve been called worse.”
“I’m certain of that.”
He pushed himself off the railing and advanced. In a few softly thudding steps he was directly in front of her. “You’re a familiar story to me, Miss Hadley.”
Her skin tightened warily. She dropped her head back to peer up at his shadowed features. She should turn and walk away, but she couldn’t resist the bait. “What do you mean by that?”
Shivering, she hugged herself tighter, telling herself it was the chill in the air and not his proximity—or the way his eyes glimmered down at her. “Wasting yourself on someone you can never care about . . . I understand that all too well.”
Her breath seized for a moment at his words . . . at what sounded like regret in his voice. She finally breathed again. “I’m wasting nothing.”
He lifted one shoulder in a half shrug. “Not yet. But you’re on the cusp. Like me.”
“You don’t know me. We’re nothing alike.” With that, she spun around and marched away, her slippered feet moving quickly beneath her skirts.
His voice followed her. “Run along, Miss Hadley. I’m sure Lord Thrumgoodie is missing you. He needs someone to guide him about the furniture, after all.”
She swallowed down an epithet, but kept walking, refusing to believe that any part of him was like her, that he might know her or see inside her.
Logan watched her flee, aggravated with himself. What was he doing needling her? He all but admitted that he cared nothing for Libba. Not a smart move on his part. What if she persuaded Libba of that fact?
He dragged a hand over his face and stared blindly out at the night. She brought out the worst in him. He couldn’t explain it. She wasn’t doing anything he wasn’t doing—simply looking for the best match possible—but she stirred feelings inside him, made him unaccountably angry . . . made him feel.
He shook his head, reaching for the cool calm of indifference. Nothing had changed. She had her agenda. He had his. They’d both marry people they felt nothing for.
Chapter Seven
The following morning Cleo set out on a walk through the park.
Berthe accompanied her. Rather silly considering all the solitary walks Cleo had taken in her life. But that was all in the past—as Jack had reminded her the first time she tried to step outside unaccompanied.
Country bred, Berthe did not mind her brisk pace—or the early hour. A still, windless air draped the park—as if the world had not yet woken, and Cleo could almost pretend she wasn’t in the bustling city at all.
Berthe puffed beside her, the cheeks in her narrow, angular face flushed a ruddy red in the chill morning. “A mite fast today, aren’t you, miss?”
Cleo nodded to a nearby bench. “Feel free to have a seat.”
She shook her head. “Just pondering your need for such haste. No more than that.”
Cleo smiled. Berthe had come to read her well. There was an undeniable parallel between Cleo’s moods and her urge for brisk walks.
They continued on, the only sound their rasping breaths. An occasional rider streaked along a bridle path, reveling in the freedom of the park in the early-morning hour.
The path wound, cutting into a heavy cluster of trees. A twig snapped behind them and Cleo glanced over her shoulder. Leaves scuttled across the path, but nothing else moved. Shrugging, she faced forward again . . . only to stop and glance behind them again several moments later, an uneasy feeling sweeping over her.