Lessons From a Scandalous Bride

  She chuckled lightly.

  “Marguerite,” she growled. “Why are you laughing now?”

  “I met a man who irked me once, too. Extremely so. I may have even fancied that I loathed him.”

  Sighing and expecting a lesson was coming, she asked wearily, “And? What happened to him?”

  “Oh, Ash? I married him.”

  No words could have more effectively stolen her breath. It took her a moment to recover her speech. “Well, I can assure you that that will never happen. The notion is absurd. It’s too disturbing to even contemplate. I’m quite satisified with Thrumgoodie. I’m hoping for a proposal soon.”

  “If you say so,” Marguerite agreed in an aggravatingly amiable tone. She sent another glance over her shoulder. “Only if one compared him and Thrumgoodie side by side . . .”

  “If one were superficial enough to do that,” Cleo inserted pertly.

  Marguerite giggled. “Have you seen my husband?” She smiled in rapt memory. “Never underestimate the appeal of virility in a man.”

  Oh, Cleo never had. Which is why she was determined to choose Thrumgoodie over gentlemen like McKinney.

  By the time Logan reached the front of the store with books in hand for Fiona’s little ones, Miss Hadley was nowhere to be seen. For the best, he resolved.

  She had done a brilliant job getting beneath his skin. With their every encounter, she only buried herself deeper and deeper. Claiming they were both great pretenders was vexingly true. Courting Libba, fawning over her and plying her with empty compliments . . . it was a torment. But he had to.

  He couldn’t fathom what drove Miss Hadley into the arms of a relic like Thrumgoodie. The allure of a title? Was it that simple? From all accounts, she didn’t require Thrumgoodie’s money. Shaking his head, he told himself he would probably never know what drove her. And why should he bother trying to find out? They weren’t even friends. Once he was married to Libba, he might see her at the occasional function—if she married Thrumgoodie, of course—but no more than that.

  He nodded at the shopkeeper behind the counter and murmured an appropriate farewell as he took his parcel of books and left the shop, more determined than ever to put Cleopatra Hadley from his mind.

  Chapter Eight

  Cleo knew the moment she accepted the invitation to Lady Doddingham’s garden party that she would come face to face with Lord McKinney again. Hopefully, preparing herself for the encounter would make it less . . . less. A dull conversation with the Scotsman would not be remiss. Or even no conversation at all. As she stared out at the sea of manicured lawn, she caught no glimpse of him. For the time being, she breathed easier.

  Lady Doddingham was Libba’s godmother. Those close ties to Lord Thrumgoodie explained why Cleo had earned an invitation to what was customarily the first event of the season and a most coveted affair. As Libba explained, anyone who was anyone attended.

  She had Thrumgoodie to thank for most of her invitations about Town. Jack’s wealth only carried so much pull, she’d learned. Her sister marrying a prince didn’t benefit him as greatly as he would have hoped. Not when the first thing Grier did was pack up and move to Maldania.

  If her father chose to relocate to the country of Maldania, he wouldn’t have to grease any palms to see that he was invited to the best soirees. Here, however, was another story . . . and why he still craved a highborn English son-in-law.

  She sipped from her crystal flute and continued to scan the garden, searching for a dark-haired man who would stand a head taller than other gentlemen present. Just as Cleo was invited, she knew Libba would have insisted upon McKinney’s inclusion. Indeed, Libba would have seen that his name was on the top of Lady Doddingham’s list.

  “What a perfectly lovely day,” Hamilton remarked as he came up alongside of her.

  She forced a bright smile and blinked, blinded by his garishly bright purple cravat. Apparently the ton dressed more colorfully for garden parties. He wasn’t the only one present wearing colors to rival a peacock’s plumes.

  “Indeed,” she agreed with stiff politeness.

  “Even if you are here,” he returned.

  She congratulated herself when her smile didn’t falter at his jab. “The day is remarkably warm. I so feared it would rain.”

  He smiled tightly, no doubt annoyed she hadn’t risen to his bait. “Would rain have kept you away then? Perhaps I should issue forth a quick prayer for a downpour so that I may be delivered from you.”

  She snorted, doubting the good Lord even heard this devil’s prayers. Even as she thought this, she held her tongue and glanced around, hoping for rescue. There wasn’t a friendly face anywhere amid the elaborate flower arrangements and yellow-striped linens.

  “Looking for my uncle? I believe he had an accident.” His voice dropped on the last word and he motioned near the front of his trousers so that she had no confusion to what he was referring. Mortifying heat crept over her face. “He has those problems, you know,” Hamilton continued with a tsk of his tongue. “A man his age . . . he has a great many . . . ailments. Incontinence. Impotence.”

  If possible, the heat in her face only intensified. “How dare you speak of such matters to me? You go too far. Your uncle would not appreciate it.”

  In the distance she spotted Thrumgoodie walking in his wobbly gait along the buffet table and her anger only burned hotter. “I see you were making sport. Your uncle is over there.”

  “Oh, so he is.” Hamilton shrugged. “Doesn’t alter anything I told you. Marry him and you’ll only be getting half a man.”

  “I realize you’re only speaking out of concern.” Her voice dripped sarcasm. “You’re such an altruist.”

  At her tone, his mocking smile vanished to be replaced with a very nasty sneer. “Oh, make no mistake. I’m not a nice man. Heed me well. Stay away from my uncle. Go sniff after some other title. If you think we don’t rub on well now, just wait and see what happens if you actually marry my uncle.”

  Cleo sipped from her flute before saying, “Hmm, let me consider this scenario. Me . . . marrying the earl. What would happen? Oh, I remember,” she exclaimed with false brightness. “I get half of your inheritance.” Smiling sweetly, she whirled away. But not before a muttered bitch stung her ears.

  She fought to keep the smile on her face until she was certain he could no longer see her. Lifting her skirts, she descended the stone steps into the garden, past the milling guests. She walked until the chatter, clink of crystal and harp strings were but a distant song.

  She bypassed a maze of hedges and veered off the pebbled path into a press of trees that crowded one side of a pond. Doddingham’s estate was only just outside the city, but it felt as though she were lost amid the country. Far away from the city. The ton and all its watching eyes. She inhaled a deep breath, smelling the leaves and loamy earth. Some of the tension ebbed from her shoulders. Until that moment, she hadn’t realized her eyes stung. She rubbed at them until the sensation faded.

  Heedless of the snags it might give her gown of buttercream silk, she expelled a great breath and leaned against a thick oak tree. Staring out at the pond’s glassy surface, she wondered if she should not heed Hamilton’s warning and focus her attentions elsewhere. Although finding another man to meet her criteria might prove a challenge.

  The words she’d uttered to her mother—the vow she’d made to herself—weighed on her. She’d dallied long enough. She needed to see her mother and all her siblings properly cared for. Roger had made it clear she was short on time. No more gnawing hunger. No wretched sickness. No miserable squalor. Marrying Thrumgoodie would see to that. It would grant her the freedom and independence to live her life and use her money as she wished without sacrificing her body and heart to a man who would use and abuse both.

  Thrumgoodie was the one. She might never find a gentleman so perfectly suited to her needs. He was safe and un
threatening.

  The sting was back in her eyes again. She blinked several times as the doubts pressed in on her. Blast it. Moisture built in her eyes and she wiped at them furiously, marveling at her sudden emotion. Because of Hamilton? She snorted. He hadn’t aggravated her to such a degree before. Maybe the tenor of his threats had altered today and frightened her?

  She shook her head, quickly dismissing that. No. She wasn’t afraid of him. Living beneath her stepfather’s roof, she’d tasted the bitterness of fear before. When she was a girl, Roger’s alcohol-laced voice had spit angry words that shadowed every moment. Those days had been a haze of unrelenting dread.

  Fear didn’t make her doubt herself now. But something else—someone else—did.

  A certain gentleman’s taunting voice and derisive remarks suddenly had her questioning herself. Absurd. Leaning her head back against the tree, she listened to the thoughts warring inside her head. She wasn’t hurting anyone. Lord Thrumgoodie would be thrilled for her companionship . . . thrilled to call her wife. Why did a certain cad have to give her second thoughts?

  Steps sounded on the path and she jerked her gaze up, spotting Hamilton advancing down the path. Had he followed her? He hadn’t noticed her yet. With a small gasp, she dove into the press of shrubbery edging the pond. Drastic perhaps, but the last thing she wanted was to be cornered alone by the vile man.

  Holding her breath as though that would somehow make her quieter, she lifted her skirts and moved deeper into the undergrowth, hoping her gown wasn’t detectable from the path.

  She glanced over her shoulder, making sure she wasn’t being followed. A branch snagged her hair and she winced, attempting to free herself without ruining her coiffure.

  “Allow me.”

  She froze at the sound of the deep voice. Her stomach dipped as strong fingers delicately freed the strands of her hair.

  She quickly stepped back several paces, surveying who else hid in the shrubbery alongside her. “Lord McKinney,” she greeted.

  “Miss Hadley.” He motioned to the tight press of trees and undergrowth surrounding them. “Seeking a moment alone?”

  “You could say that. And you?”

  He smiled, but there was no humor in it. “Likewise.” His cool gray gaze flitted over her.

  She evaluated him in turn. He wore a deep blue jacket with tan trousers. Apparently he’d eschewed the vivid colors that seemed requisite at a garden party.

  They said nothing more, simply considered each other thoughtfully. After a moment, he moved. She watched warily as he closed the space between them, his booted feet crackling over twigs and fallen leaves.

  “I’ve been giving some thought to what you said,” he finally announced.

  “Have you?” She tried to reveal none of her surprise that he should be thinking about anything she said. “And what was it I said requiring such reflection?”

  “That we are both great pretenders, fooling poor souls into thinking we care about them for our own agenda.”

  “Ah, yes. That.”

  “And you’re right. We’re both playing at this game of securing a spouse.”

  She angled her head. “Game?”

  A rueful smile curved his lips. “Hunting for a wife, or in your case a husband, is nothing more than a game.”

  He continued, “That being the case, we shouldn’t be sniping at one another. It serves no purpose.”

  She crossed her arms awkwardly. “No. I suppose not.” What was he suggesting? That they actually be friends? Warning bells rang in her ears.

  “Splendid.”

  She nodded, feeling like an awkward schoolgirl. It was easier before this truce. Silence descended and her heart beat a loud rhythm in her ears.

  “Well. I suppose I should get back.”

  That muscle feathered his jaw again, and she knew she’d displeased him. “Want me to check and see if Hamilton is gone?” he asked idly.

  “Why? I’m not hiding,” she lied.

  His lips curved in a slow, seductive smile that she was certain got him most anything he ever wanted. “Indeed?” He leaned back against a tree, the picture of a relaxed gentleman, totally at ease, without a care in the world. “I am.”

  From Libba? Of course he was. Not about to commiserate with him regarding the need to hide from one’s beau, she nodded and strode past him, heedless of her step. Her foot caught on a root, and she went flying, narrowly escaping a hard fall as he caught her.

  Strong hands flexed around her arms. “Are you all right?”

  “Fine,” she replied breathlessly.

  Something flared hotly in his eyes as they gazed at each other. “You’re always running from me.”

  “Apparently not very gracefully.”

  “This time, no. But I sense that worked for the best.”

  A shudder traveled through her. “Why is that?”

  He angled his head. “I have my hands on you.”

  Her hand fisted in his jacket, alerting her to the fact that she even touched him. Everything else faded—who she was, where she was. It all happened in a blur, too fast to process. A haze clouded her mind. She was out of control, past considering propriety and how vastly dangerous the situation had become.

  And yet when he tugged her closer and trapped her arms between them, lifting her off her feet and against him, sanity returned.

  She caught a flash of gray eyes before his head dove toward hers. Determined to resist, the press of his lips on hers galvanized her, made her struggle.

  She bit down on his lip.

  He pulled back with a cutting curse.

  Locked in his embrace, chests squashed close, she glared at him. He glared back. For several moments their panting breaths mingled as they stared incomprehensibly at each other.

  She noted a change in his eyes then. They no longer looked so cold. The condemnation wasn’t there. None of the calculating judgment of before. It was as if he saw her. Now. For the first time.

  And there was fire in his eyes.

  His head descended and this time she didn’t move. Not the barest flinch. Her breathing ceased altogether as his lips claimed hers with a swiftness, a surety, and skill that she felt ripple through the whole of her body.

  His hands splayed against her back, each finger burning an imprint through her gown. Her body came alive as his lips moved over hers, caressing, possessing, melting her from the inside out. Her knees weakened and trembled. She clutched fistfuls of his jacket in her hands—to keep from falling, to pull him close. Both.

  Heat sprang in patches all over her. Suddenly her dress felt constrictive, too tight. She moaned against his mouth and he deepened the kiss, parting the seam of her lips—or perhaps she opened to him. Either way his tongue slipped inside her mouth. Warm and deft, smooth and skillful, he tasted her, sliding his tongue against hers.

  Her belly clenched and a twisting ache started between her legs. Just like that. One kiss and she was shattered and aching for this man. She never wanted it to end, and yet a voice worked its way through her, fighting its way to the surface as though from a deep, hidden place. A forgotten place where logic and her true purpose dwelled.

  Stop this! Stop this madness!

  She broke away with a shocked gasp. Unbelievably, she’d let passion seize her. A circumstance she would never have believed possible. She was nothing like her mother . . . like other girls who craved a man’s kisses.

  He held her, but not tightly anymore. Not as a prisoner. Standing in the circle of his arms, she blinked up at him, unable to leave just yet. She had to understand. Had to process for herself what it was that had just happened . . . and if he was as shocked as she was.

  His heavy-lidded gaze drilled into her with a relentless intensity, peeling away her layers bit by bit. At least it seemed that way. For a panicked moment, she felt certain those gray eyes saw her. Saw e
verything. That he read her fear, that he understood what motivated her. Likely because of her runaway tongue. She’d shared too much . . .

  Horrified, she stumbled free.

  She took several steps back, still gazing at him and confronting the knowledge that she wasn’t immune.

  He’d aroused her as she’d never thought possible.

  She lifted her hand and touched her lips. His gaze followed the movement. His eyes darkened, reminding her of a stormy night. The hunger there was unmistakable. She recognized it. Felt its echo inside herself.

  It seemed neither one of them could manage speech. He looked as astonished as she felt. She only hoped that his shock would soon translate into regret. Eventually. That his low opinion of her would return in full force and this moment would soon be a dim memory.

  Turning, she fled.

  She’d forget this ever happened. She’d forget him. Even if forced into proximity again, she’d treat him as she would a stranger. Because that’s all he could ever be.

  Chapter Nine

  Logan watched her go, his body throbbing and alive as it hadn’t felt in years. Certainly not since he’d traveled across the country and began courting vapid young misses who thrilled him about as much as a glass of day-old milk.

  “Cleopatra,” he murmured, his lips still tender and warm from the taste of her. For the first time he not only said her name, he allowed himself to think it. To feel it in his blood.

  In that moment, something turned, something shifted inside him as definite as a key turning in its lock. She moved from the category where she’d been residing in his mind.

  She wasn’t the cold, uninteresting female he’d first thought her to be. Far from it. He could still feel the delicious shape of her in his hands, against his body. And perhaps he’d known this all along. Why else had she consumed so much of his thoughts?

  He followed in her wake, moving slowly across the pebbled path bisecting the lush lawn, coming to terms with this new realization. And grappling with what it signified.