Lessons From a Scandalous Bride

  “I’m ready,” she announced, not imagining she would have a need for her only other dress. It already bore too many patches to count. There was nothing she needed to bring with her. Again, the forlorn faces of her siblings drew her eye. Not yet at least. “Let us go.”

  With a final farewell to her mother, she turned and left the cottage, determined never to set foot inside again.

  Chapter Two

  Eleven months later . . .

  Logan McKinney stormed down the corridor and burst through the drawing-room doors.

  His sister blinked up at him from the letter she penned at the dainty rosewood desk. “Feel better?”

  “No,” he growled, dropping down onto an equally dainty settee much too small for his frame. The furniture groaned in protest, earning him a frown from Fiona. He glared back.

  Nothing could make him feel better. Not if he had to abide another moment in this fog-ridden, overpopulated city. The only thing that made this visit tolerable was spending time with Fiona. She scarcely visited since she’d married. He supposed he understood. As was customary in his family, children soon followed the wedding vows. Three babies in five years made travel to the Highlands difficult.

  Fiona set down her quill and pointed to the still shivering drawing-room doors. “Might I remind you that this isn’t McKinney Castle, with its five-hundred-year-old oaken doors?”

  “Aye, puny English wood.”

  His sister arched a carrot-colored eyebrow. “Might I remind you that I’m English now?”

  He waved a broad hand. “Speak not such sacrilege. You’re not English. You’ve simply married an Englishman—a fine man even by that account, I’ll grant you, but an Englishman nonetheless.”

  If possible, his sister cocked that eyebrow higher and leveled him a reproving glare.

  “Don’t give me that look, Fiona Rosalie,” he said. “I’m still three years yer elder.”

  “And I’m married with three children and a fourth on the way. Until you’ve accomplished as much, you’ll not be chiding me, dear brother.”

  He sank a little lower in his seat, suddenly feeling like a lad again dressed down by his mother for one of his many boyhood mischiefs. With her snapping amber eyes, Fiona was the very image of Mary McKinney.

  “May I remind you,” she continued, her faint brogue thickening, “that you’re here to find a bride? An English bride? Unless you know of any Scottish heiresses?”

  Smug wench. She knew there were no Scottish heiresses to fit his pressing financial needs. He snorted. “Reminder unnecessary. You remind me every chance you get.”

  She thinned her lips until they practically disappeared and shook her head in disapproval. Holding out her hand, she began counting off on each of her fingers. “Abigail’s come-out is in one year. Josie’s in four. And Simon needs funds for university next year. I’m also certain Niall would like to join him there soon. He is the most scholarly among us, after all . . . and only at the tender age of fourteen. Or did you not wish your brothers to take their studies beyond what the governess can provide?”

  Logan scowled. “I’m well aware of the situation. This is what brought me to your doorstep, after all.”

  She nodded, sending the carroty sausage curl draped artfully over her shoulder bouncing. Since she’d married, his sister had become quite the fashionable lady. Her husband, the owner of a shipping line, provided her with a beyond-comfortable existence. “Now. Shall you get about the business of finding a dowered bride instead of finding fault with every candidate thrust before you? Honestly, Logan, you’re running out of choices.”

  He bit back the retort that burned on his tongue. Every heiress he had met was as appealing as Nan’s day-old porridge. All were vapid girls who pelted him with silly questions about his castle in the Highlands.

  Is there a drawbridge? La! And a tower? I always imagined myself a princess in a tower.

  If he could find a bride who at least made his pulse race, then he could perhaps overlook a less than scintillating personality. Or simply a lass with something more substantial than feathers in her head would be palatable. If he had to live with the female for the rest of his life, could she not at least possess some aspect he found desirable? Was that asking too much?

  Fiona stared at him, waiting, her expression one of forbearance.

  Logan gave a terse nod and sighed. His desires bore no significance. He had a duty. And little time in which to perform it. He’d tried to find a bride he wanted. Now he simply must select the bride he needed.

  Using her husband’s connections, Fiona had gone out of her way to see he was properly introduced to the ton. He couldn’t blame her for being so vexed with him.

  Her features softened. “Logan, perhaps you need to simply adjust your . . .” her nose wrinkled as she grasped for the right word, “expectations?”

  He shook his head. His sister married for love. He knew she felt guilty that he could not consider his own heart in the matter of matrimony. But then he’d never been a romantic. When he’d considered marriage—a rarity, to be sure—it had always been with practicality in mind. A female he respected . . . who would be a good mother to their children. He’d never wished for more than that. No point in getting sentimental now.

  “What is tonight’s agenda?” he asked, clapping his hands once and forcing an air of efficiency.

  He’d suffer marriage to an Englishwoman he felt nothing for just as he’d survived everything else in his life. The deaths of his parents and eldest brother. The sudden obligation of finding himself The McKinney, responsible for countless lives.

  After all that, he could easily stomach wedding a woman for whom he cared nothing.

  With a considering look, Fiona murmured, “You and Alexander are attending the opera with Mr. Hamilton. Alexander bumped into him at his club. They attended school together as boys. Mr. Hamilton was kind enough to invite us to join him for the evening.”

  “You’re not joining us?”

  “There are only two additional seats.”

  Logan eyed her as she patted her barely budding middle. Shrouded beneath her gown, the bulge was beyond notice except when she called attention to it. “Alexander shall merely explain that I was not feeling quite myself, but he decided to bring his delightful brother-in-law instead.”

  Delightful. Logan snorted and crossed his long legs. “In the time I’ve been here, members of the ton would hardly agree with your description.”

  Fiona sniffed and straightened where she sat—as though the suggestion affronted her. The sunlight filtering into the room lit her hair afire. “Then you shall prove them wrong tonight.”

  “All in one night? Indeed? What is so special about tonight that so much shall be accomplished?” he asked suspiciously.

  A glint flashed in her eyes and she suddenly took on the air of a general entering battle. “Listen well. The box is already occupied by Mr. Hamilton’s cousin, Lady Libba, and her grandfather, the Earl Thrumgoodie. And there are two other guests, I believe.” She waggled her fingers and shrugged as though those were of no consequence. “Lady Libba is your quarry. She is quite the lauded heiress. “And”—she paused for emphasis—“quite looking for a match.”

  “Ah.” He sighed with understanding. “And yet that does not mean she will take a liking to—”

  “Oh, Logan. Posh!” Fiona cut him off, waving a hand in his direction. “Be serious, will you?”

  He shook his head, mystified.

  She gave him a sobering look, motioning to his person. “You’re every girl’s dream. Every inch of you is a feast for the female eye. How many village maids did you bed back home? I can’t recall a time Mama wasn’t on her knees praying for your wretched soul.”

  “Er, thank you?” he murmured wryly. “Yet I wouldn’t take it as a certainty that she’ll fall at my feet.”

  “Oh, she’ll happily fall.
Trust me. They all would . . . if you would only choose one.” Fiona pinned him with her gaze, her amber-hued eyes direct and faintly accusing. “ ’Tis the reason you came here, after all. Let’s not dally about it further.”

  He gave her a sharp, two-fingered salute.

  She returned her attention to her letter. “I’ll send Alexander’s valet to help attend you this evening. I’ll not have you looking like the barbarian everyone claims.”

  “Simply because I was the only gentleman present bearing a knife at the last soiree.” He grinned, recalling the scene. “A certain marchioness was much grateful I was present to rescue her when she swooned.”

  Fiona snorted and shook her head. “By slicing open her gown and stays.”

  “Anyone could see she was blue from lack of air.”

  “Laugh all you like, that story now precedes you everywhere you go. It’s not a story that requires embellishment, but somehow it manages to sound worse with every retelling.”

  “If your faith in me has any merit, I’ll win over this Lady Libba withstanding all the prattling from the dames of the ton.”

  He did not care for the notion of people—strangers—discussing him as though they knew a single thing about him. Especially a bunch of over-privileged English aristocrats.

  Fiona smiled in satisfaction. “Of course. I have utter faith in your prowess.”

  Instead of humoring such rot with a response, he rose smoothly to his feet, all the more determined to find a wife and return home.

  Chapter Three

  “Have I said how lovely you look tonight, my dear?”

  Staring into the earl’s rheumy gaze, Cleo couldn’t help wondering whether he could actually see her clearly. “Thank you, my lord.”

  Lord Thrumgoodie lifted a shaky, beringed hand and unerringly confiscated her gloved hand. Not too blind, she supposed. She watched in dread as he pressed his chalky-dry lips to the back of it.

  Cleo smiled thinly. “You are really too kind, my lord.”

  Beyond the earl’s shoulder, his great-nephew glared. It was simple enough to read the contempt in Hamilton’s stare. She quickly averted her gaze and turned her attention to Lord Thrumgoodie, vowing to ignore the wretch.

  As the earl’s heir, Mr. Hamilton often accompanied them. Fortunately, he primarily occupied himself at his estate outside Town. When he did visit, he at least feigned to like her in front of the earl and others. The contemptuous glances were for her eyes only.

  The earl patted her hand with his trembling one, still clinging to it. “I speak only the truth, my dear.”

  Cleo stifled her cringe. If she was going to marry the man, she really needed to learn to better abide his touch. It wasn’t often that he made overtures—and she knew on good authority that the old earl’s nether parts were not in working order. She wasn’t above listening to servants’ gossip, and her maid had turned out to be most garrulous. With no prodding, Berthe had become well acquainted with the earl’s servants, gleaning all she could about the man Cleo was considering marrying.

  That Thrumgoodie had fathered only one child with his first wife nearly fifty years ago was common enough knowledge. Since then there had been four more wives, all unable to produce offspring. Two of those wives even had children from previous marriages. All of which pointed to the earl’s inability to sire further children. Less common knowledge was that in recent years the old earl had attempted to ravish a few maids in his employ. All to no success. Berthe had put it crudely: The ol’ man’s cannon is cracked.

  As far as Cleo was concerned, he was the perfect candidate for matrimony. The last thing she wanted was some young, virile male to inflict upon her all the misery her mother had endured.

  Thanks to Jack Hadley’s newfound interest in his daughters, she had a dowry to rival Croesus himself. Yet in exchange she was expected to wed someone titled. Someone to help elevate her father’s social standing among the ton. That was the trade-off.

  After her half sister Grier married the Prince of Maldania, Cleo had thought Jack’s ambitions for her might lessen somewhat. One of his daughters had married a prince, after all. But she wasn’t off the hook. Her father still wanted an English nobleman for a son-in-law.

  “I’m so excited.” Lady Libba bounced her generous frame upon the theater seat.

  Cleo glanced down at the program in her hand, nodding. “Yes. I’ve heard several good things about the score.”

  Libba slapped her with her fan. “Not the opera, you silly hen. McKinney.” She quickly glanced around as if uttering the name alone might set the hounds of hell upon them.

  Cleo blinked. “Who?”

  “Oh, Cleo! Have you been living under a rock?” She inched her chair closer, bouncing even more as she did so. “McKinney will soon be joining us.”

  Cleo glanced at the two remaining seats, still vacant. Presumably the mysterious McKinney would occupy one. “I thought a Mr. and Mrs. Blackwell were invited to join us.” She’d overheard Hamilton mention that he’d invited his old school friend.

  Libba bobbed her head in agreement. “They were, but Mr. Hamilton sent a letter around explaining that Mrs. Blackwell was not feeling quite the thing, so his brother-in-law, Lord McKinney, is joining us.”

  “I see.” Cleo stared at Libba, seeing nothing at all. Apparently this McKinney should be known to her—at least in reputation.

  Libba fluttered her fan as if suddenly overheated. “I’ve been fairly panting to meet him. He’s all everyone is talking about—ever since he drew a sword and sliced Lady Chesterfeld’s gown to ribbons.” Libba made a motion across her dress that looked as though she were fending off bees. “Left her stark naked on the ballroom floor. He’s a perfect savage.” Her eyes danced with delight, attesting that this was not a mark against him.

  A perfect savage. Cleo’s lips twisted in a sardonic smile. Seemed rather a contradiction to her but she didn’t bother pointing that out. Instead, she said most soberly, “If that were true—”

  “Oh it is!” Libba stared crossly at her, evidently resenting that her tale should be doubted.

  “I’m sure it didn’t happen quite like that. He would have been tossed in gaol, certainly, and not about to join us in an opera box.”

  Libba readjusted her plump figure on the chair with a sniff. “You shall see.”

  With an indulgent smile, Cleo lifted her opera glasses and eyed the crowd pouring into their seats below. She was so engrossed in appreciating the ladies in all their finery—and musing how much her mother would love to witness such a sight—that she did not take heed of the newcomers entering their box until Libba slapped her with her fan again.

  “Come now, stop your woolgathering,” Libba called out in an overly loud voice. “We’ve company!”

  Cleo resisted the urge to rub her bare arm where the fan struck her. Libba really could be an annoying creature. The girl nodded her head meaningfully toward the back of the box where two gentlemen stood, exchanging greetings with Hamilton.

  She assessed the new arrivals, her gaze sliding over a nice-looking fellow with sandy-brown hair and smiling eyes. When her attention turned to the man a step behind him, her breath caught in her throat.

  There was no mistaking him. Libba’s perfect savage had arrived.

  Chapter Four

  Lord McKinney stood a head taller than the other gentlemen. He was a veritable brick wall with impossibly broad shoulders. He filled out his jacket to perfection—no padding necessary. No wonder the ladies of the ton were all atwitter. The image of him cutting away some lady’s gown with a sword was rather easy to envision.

  His smoky gaze swept over the box, briefly appraising Libba before moving on—to her. Too late, she didn’t have time to look away. Their gazes collided. His eyes reminded her of a storm rolling in off the sea.

  The air trapped in her lungs. She locked her jaw and tightened her lips, refusi
ng to so much as smile lest he mistake the gesture for interest.

  Her resolve only deepened as those gray eyes turned speculative. He evaluated her where she sat, ramrod straight in her seat, hands folded tightly in her lap. She felt stripped of her gown, exposed and vulnerable as he scanned her features, lingering on her mouth for a long moment before dropping to survey her décolletage, modestly displayed in her heart-shaped bodice.

  She resisted the urge to press her hand there like some squeamish schoolgirl. Heat flooded her cheeks, and by the time his gaze lifted back to her face, she was certain her cheeks were the color of the red velvet drapes. His dark hair, in need of a trim, fell forward on his brow, begging for a woman’s hands to touch . . . caress. She damned herself for the fanciful notion.

  Her gaze snapped away at the sound of Lord Thrumgoodie’s jarring tones. “Eh! Who are these two gents?”

  Hamilton edged closer to his uncle, explaining, “This is the old school friend I was telling you about, Blackwell, and his brother-in-law, Lord McKinney.”

  The earl nodded, but Cleo was unconvinced he had heard—or understood. Thrumgoodie possessed far too much pride, however, to beg his nephew to repeat himself.

  “Ladies, allow me to present Mr. Blackwell and Lord McKinney. Gentlemen, my cousin, Lady Libba.” There was a weighty pause before he introduced Cleo, as if she were an afterthought. “And Miss Cleopatra Hadley.”

  Cleo stifled the wince that always followed when she heard that dreadful name her mother had chosen for her spoken aloud. Given the life she had lived up until now, it was a mockery.

  The gentlemen took their turns bowing over first Libba’s and then Cleo’s hands.

  “A pleasure,” Mr. Blackwell murmured. “Thank you for including us. My wife is abject over missing such a delightful evening. She adores the opera.”

  “Indeed,” Hamilton replied, all graciousness. “We are sorry to miss her lovely company, to be sure, but glad you could join us. We shall rehash our youth with stories of our days at Abernathy Hall.” Hamilton clapped Blackwell on the back. He nodded cheerfully at Lord McKinney, as if that pardoned his exclusion.