Thrumgoodie’s voice droned on. “Most gentlemen spend more time picking out a cravat than a wife. I could never understand that. A potential wife should be weighed with the same consideration a man employs while selecting his steed.”
Logan blinked at the oddness of this conversation. Strange consul indeed, considering he was presumably here to court Thrumgoodie’s granddaughter. The strangeness was even greater if one knew Logan’s true motives—that he was intent on wooing Miss Hadley. As he sat beside her decrepit beau, listening to him dole out advice on matrimony, he focused on how he might steal Miss Hadley out from under him. The irony wasn’t lost on him.
He wasn’t above taking advantage of the situation. Not just for himself but for Miss Hadley, too. She deserved more than an old man who, by his own admission, could never be a real husband to her.
The silence stretched and he stared at the double doors in the distance where she’d departed, longing to give pursuit. “You’ve known Miss Hadley long?” he asked.
Thrumgoodie broke into laughter that ended in a horrible hacking cough. Regaining his breath, he gasped, “Do you ever really know a woman?”
Logan cocked an eyebrow and stared again in the direction where Miss Hadley had disappeared. He supposed there was some truth to that. Except he felt like he knew her. Comforting her as she wept over her baby sister, her grief over not being there to carry her to the churchyard . . . he had learned everything he needed to know about her in that moment.
Logan rose to his feet. He didn’t have time to squander—not with Thrumgoodie so very close to proposing.
Cleo finally narrowed her selection to a volume of romantic poetry. Thrumgoodie had, after all, suggested she choose something she would enjoy, too. She perused further, in no hurry to return to the lawn where she’d left him with Lord McKinney. She need wait only a little while. As determined as she was, Libba would doubtlessly override his protests and claim him.
“Have you found a book that meets your satisfaction?”
She whipped her head around, struggling to keep her expression cool and composed. “What are you doing here? I thought you needed to relax.”
“I feel quite invigorated actually.” He leaned against the wall just inside the library, arms crossed over his chest. He looked very masculine and formidable—definitely not like a man in need of rest.
She feigned boredom, sliding the book she’d been perusing back on the shelf. “Interesting. You should play croquet with the others then.”
He pushed off from the wall and began walking toward her, his long legs quickly covering the distance between them.
Something about his gait—his very appearance—struck her as predatory. Not the first time. The gray of his eyes seemed dark, almost charcoal . . . and intense in a way that made the tiny hairs at the back of her neck prickle.
“Games are fun,” he agreed, inclining his head in a partial nod. His dark stare held her for a long, tense moment. He took a final step, stopping himself directly before her. Only a scant inch separated his chest from hers. Her neckline was modest, but the exposed flesh above her breasts tingled. His gaze scanned her face before dropping to her throat, her chest. “But I’m not playing at anything when it comes to you.”
She held her breath, riveted by his eyes, his face, the movement of his lips as he spoke.
She swallowed and recovered her voice. “No? What do you call proclaiming your intent to court me one day, and then showing up here the next day to woo Libba? Sounds like a man with a penchant for games to me.”
A slow smile curved his mouth. “You sound jealous.” He splayed one hand against the bookshelf above her shoulder. She glanced at the strong length of that arm before looking back at his face.
He arched a dark brow at her in that infuriating way of his.
She snorted. “I’m not jealous. I’m merely pointing out your duplicitous nature.”
“Have no fear, sweetheart—”
“Don’t call me that.”
He continued as though he hadn’t heard her speak. Leaning in closer, his arm brushed her cheek. “I’ve not changed my mind.”
She ignored the small thrill his words created in her. “I really couldn’t care one way or another, Lord McKinney.”
He drew in a deep breath. The motion lifted his broad chest, grazing the front of her dress. Her breasts tightened, the tips hardening in the most treacherous manner.
“You’re a horrible liar. You care.” He brushed her cheek with the back of his fingers. Her heart seized at the touch. “And I really think you should start calling me Logan.”
“That wouldn’t be appropriate.”
“After all we’ve shared . . . the least we can do is address each other by our Christian names.”
Her face burned at the reminder of her past transgressions.
“I’m a breath away from gaining a proposal from Thrumgoodie. I don’t think you should be touching me like this . . . or continuing engaging me in these private discussions.”
His hand stilled on her face. “You’ll not do it. You’ll not marry that old man.”
“You think not?” She lifted her chin, cursing that her voice shook.
He nodded. “You won’t go through with it.”
“I wouldn’t wager on that. For months now I’ve been working toward that very goal.”
“Why?” he demanded, his voice hard. “You don’t care for him.”
“Cast no stones here,” she charged. “You were pursuing Libba, a girl you don’t care for—“
“And I’ve come to my senses. I want you.”
“Merely because I’m the more tolerable choice,” she sneered. “You wouldn’t be standing here if not for my bridal settlement.”
“What do you want me to say?” he asked, his words a growling rush. “That I’m not in need of funds? I am. Yes, you have the money my family desperately needs. But you also have my undivided interest. You fill my thoughts. I ache for you. More than any female I’ve met since leaving home. Hell, even before then. What more can I say?”
Their gazes locked, clung. She searched his face, both reveling in and frightened from his stark declaration. In his expression she thought she read a small measure of discomfort . . . as if the declaration had surprised him, too.
She ignored the slight softening of her heart and pushed the echo of his words from her mind.
“I don’t want you to say anything,” she whispered. “Again.” Please, no more words like that. “I-I don’t care,” she stammered.
“Do you want me to profess my love?”
She choked and jerked as though slapped. “N-no! I would not believe you if you did.”
At his decidedly relieved look, she rolled her eyes. Apparently he believed in the sentiment of love as much as she did.
Desperate to end this, she shoved past him, but he grabbed her arm and turned her back around. “You feel something for me. I know it.” His hand flexed and she felt the imprint of each of his fingers like a brand.
She exhaled thinly through her nostrils. “Again, your high opinion of yourself staggers me.” She jabbed a finger dead center in his chest. “You and your smoldering looks and your impressive—” She motioned wildly to his person, biting back the word body, refusing to reveal how much she had made a study of him. “It may work on every other lady within sight—”
“You find me impressive?” He smiled again and she yearned to wipe the smirk from his handsome face.
“I’m not some wee lass from the local village ready to swoon at the mere sight of you.”
He scowled at her mocking imitation of his slight burr, but she didn’t allow herself the smallest stab of guilt. She couldn’t relent when it came to him. He was too tempting by far, and she could never let him suspect that she found him appealing.
He shook his head as if her words finally penetrated.
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She didn’t want what other girls wanted. She didn’t want some young swain, virile and strapping and handsome of face. He had to understand that. Those were merely superficial trappings. Attraction never lasted. It only plunged a woman into degradation and pain. In the complete loss of one’s self.
“Are you beginning to understand? Your energies are best served elsewhere.” She hadn’t the time for this. For him. Roger’s wretched face and words flashed across her mind.
His gaze narrowed. “I think perhaps I know you better than yourself.”
She opened her mouth to let him know precisely what she thought of that outrageous claim when his head suddenly dipped toward her, smothering her words.
His mouth took hers completely, roughly. He crushed her against him, trapping her hands between them. His lips devoured hers. His tongue slid inside her mouth, tasting, possessing. She was helpless against the onslaught. She sagged against him, incapable of standing without the support of his solid length holding her up.
His hands cupped her cheeks, positioning her for him. The rasping sensation of his broad palms on her face made her knees tremble.
She moaned, sagging against him, sinking into his kiss, drowning in the deliciousness of the moment.
He broke away with a shuddering breath. His hands slid from her face as he stepped back.
She swayed, on the verge of collapsing. He quickly reached out a hand to grasp her elbow and steady her. She hissed at the touch. He dropped his hand as if he felt the sting of contact, too.
“There. You see,” he murmured. “You didn’t expect that of yourself, did you?” He paused a beat. “I did. You’ve passion in you.” A corner of his mouth lifted. “A passion for me, it would seem.”
Shaming fury swept over her. Blast him!
“You have no bounds,” she growled. Yanking her arm free, she hugged the book she still clutched in her hands to her chest. “Don’t look so smug. A kiss proves nothing. It’s an animal urge. Nothing more. Fortunately I’m more than a base beast. I possess the power of logic and reasoning.” She tapped the side of her head to illustrate her point. “And there is no reason beneath the heavens that I should entertain the notion of marrying you.” Not with Roger’s threat hanging over her head. She’d already lost Bess. She couldn’t risk anyone else.
With a swirl of her skirts, she stalked away. As her heart hammered like a drum, she brushed her fingers over her lips and wondered why her hand should tremble so much. She knew what she was about—she had since she first accepted her father’s bargain. Especially since Roger’s visit. And what she was about did not involve the likes of him. Losing Bess only drove that home.
Once outside, she crossed the lawn toward Thrumgoodie, pasting a smile on her face. The sooner the earl proposed, the sooner she said yes. And the sooner Lord McKinney ceased to torment her.
Chapter Thirteen
Following dinner that evening, Cleo tucked herself away in the back of the drawing room as Libba banged away on the pianoforte. Abiding one of her stepfather’s drunken rampages would prove more enjoyable than such a racket. From the painful fidgeting of the others, she knew she wasn’t the only one suffering.
Logan maintained a perfectly neutral expression, staring at Libba with polite interest. The man belonged on stage.
“Let’s take a walk,” Thrumgoodie suggested, struggling up from his chair. “Can only abide so much of that claptrap for one evening.”
She blinked at the unusual request. The man wasn’t one for casual strolls. For obvious reasons. They tired him greatly. Still, she quickly rose and accepted his arm, although she was more or less the one to guide him toward the balcony doors.
A glance over her shoulder revealed Logan still gazing faithfully upon Libba. Perhaps he’d finally listened to her and accepted that she would never return his interest. A heaviness settled deep in her chest and she hastily looked away from him—only to clash gazes with Hamilton standing near the fireplace.
He glared at her from across the room, his stare flickering from her to his uncle and back again. It didn’t take a grand intellect to understand that her presence here upset him. She resisted the childish urge to stick her tongue out at him.
She turned her attention away, quite happy to forget both Hamilton and Logan. She needn’t let them cast a pall over her evening.
The French doors were partially cracked to allow some air to flow inside the stuffy room.
“A moment alone, at last,” Thrumgoodie sighed into the night as they cleared the threshold. “Libba was given all the best instructors, but I’m afraid some people are simply not born musicians.”
She slowed her steps to match his dragging pace.
“It’s a lovely night,” she agreed. “Even with a nip to the air, it’s far finer than the city. You can see the stars here.”
Thrumgoodie patted her hand as they neared the stone balustrade. “This fine evening is only matched by you, my pet. Such a delightful companion to an old goat like myself.”
“You mustn’t call yourself such things,” she protested with a smile, feeling strangely nervous. Odd that. They’d been alone before. And it’s not that she feared he would behave inappropriately. The man could barely walk unassisted. He wasn’t likely to pounce on her.
Several moments passed. Neither said anything as they absorbed the night humming all around them. A faint hint of rain rode the air and she wished it away, not looking forward to the prospect of staying indoors all day tomorrow with everyone. She’d go mad trapped in close confines with Libba, Hamilton, and Thrumgoodie. To say nothing of Logan and his effect on her.
She glanced toward the open doors behind them. Dull light glowed through the sheer curtains. Voices carried on the air over the discordant notes of Libba’s playing, and she thought she detected Logan’s deep voice among the others. Shaking her head, she chastised herself for such straying thoughts. She couldn’t afford to care about him.
She forced her attention back to Thrumgoodie, realizing he was speaking.
“ . . . it shouldn’t come as any surprise that I’ve grown fond of your company over the last few months. You’ve been a bright light into my fading days.”
She tensed and straightened, pulling back her shoulders. This was it.
The moment she’d been waiting for.
She focused on his face, but a movement over his shoulder attracted her notice. She peered, squinting, but could only make out a shadowed figure there.
“You’re far finer than I deserve. I realize you could have any of the young bucks about Town. And yet, I cannot resist stealing you for myself. I would be honored to call you my own, Miss Hadley.”
The shadow just beyond his shoulder took shape then, moving slightly closer to the light spilling out from the drawing room.
Cast in shadow, Logan’s face was even more inscrutable than usual. Only his eyes gleamed like twin torches of light.
“Cleo, my pet. Did you hear me? I’m asking you to be my wife.” He released a chuckle that sounded like a coughing duck. “Have I overwhelmed you, my dear?”
She shook her head before recovering her voice. “You’ve knocked me speechless, my lord.”
Again, that dying, hacking laugh.
And still Logan’s shadow watched, unmoving from a distance. Did he think she would not? She had told him. She had warned him.
Still, she had not imagined it would be this hard. Especially with her stepfather’s words hanging over her head. Nor had she imagined she would have a witness—especially not in the form of McKinney.
She moistened her lips. “I’m flattered and humbled by your offer.”
Blast him. She could feel the censure radiating off him. She’d done nothing—was about to do nothing for which she should feel any shame. Remember Bess. Think of the others.
She released a gust of air, unaware she’d been holding it inside
. “I’d be delighted to marry you.”
Even though the shadow did not move, she felt as though he had. Something passed over him—through him. A reaction of some kind. A ripple of emotion that reached out to wrap around her. Or perhaps she just imagined it.
Perhaps the reaction was simply hers alone.
Thrumgoodie grasped her hand and pressed cold, dry lips to the back of it. Her flesh puckered with goose bumps at the contact. “You’ve made me the very happiest of men. I cannot wait to proclaim from the rooftops that you’ve agreed to be mine.”
A lump clogged her throat. She looked down at the earl’s genuinely delighted face. He gazed at her expectantly and she realized she needed to say something. “Nor can I,” she murmured, disconcerted at the total emptiness she felt at finally reaching this moment.
Shouldn’t she feel something? Triumph at the very least? Possibly relief? She’d have marriage, security, limitless funds to rescue her siblings from Roger. They’d never have to know wretched poverty again.
Nothing. She reached inside herself and poked around, prodded carefully in all the places that should feel.
And still nothing. She felt only a yawning void inside.
Lifting her gaze from Thrumgoodie, she searched for Logan’s shadowy figure. Only he was gone.
His shadow no longer watched her, assessing in silence. He was gone. Her gaze scanned the parted French doors, searching for a glimpse of him. Her emptiness only seemed to stretch wider, yawn all the deeper until breathing suddenly became difficult, impossible with her too-tight chest.
And that wasn’t right. This sensation wasn’t part of the plan. Not part of the plan at all.
“Come, my pet. Let’s share the news with everyone.”
Thrumgoodie clutched her hand and leaned against her side as they made their way back into the drawing room.
Libba was rising from her seat before the pianoforte, her face flushed from her energetic play.
The earl waved an arm unsteadily in the air. “Attention, everyone!”
All heads swung in their direction. Cleo searched the half dozen faces present, seeking only one. Even Hamilton’s intent stare meant nothing. The anger glittering in his gaze did not even rattle her. She sought only for a glimpse of Logan, wondering where he had gone.