Lessons From a Scandalous Bride

  “Very well. I came to Town looking for an heiress. You’re the first one I’ve met who so much as piques my interest.” He swallowed, the cords of his throat working. “I’ll have you, Miss Hadley.”

  I’ll have you.

  Her skin prickled. As though she were a possession to be claimed. A female to be conquered and crushed beneath his will. Not just once but every day of her life. The words were just what she needed to hear to regain her senses and shake free of her mother’s curse.

  “You can’t have me.” No man ever would. Even as she worked to fulfill her arrangement with her stepfather, she would still see to that.

  “Why?” he asked, his voice maddeningly calm. “Give me one reason.”

  Her mind searched, grasping for anything but the truth. She wouldn’t confide that to him and risk him empathizing with her plight. His wanting her was bad enough. She didn’t need for him to like her. Then he might pursue her with more fervor than he already was. “I can’t do that to Lord Thrumgoodie.”

  His look turned skeptical. “Oh, you care about him that much?”

  “Of course. I wouldn’t want to crush him.” She bit her lip at the lie. “He means a great deal to me.”

  He snorted. “You can come up with a better excuse than that.” His lips quirked in a half smile. “Come now. A blood oath, is that it? He’s holding your kitten hostage?”

  She started to smile and then caught herself. “Just take my words to heart. You and I can never be.” Wrenching free, she hastened away, experiencing the strongest sense of déjà vu. She was fleeing him again, the weight of his stare heavy on her back. She hardened her heart and didn’t stop. Didn’t look back.

  If she must, she would keep repeating this moment. However many times necessary, she would run. She’d never stop running from him.

  Eventually he’d give up. He had too much pride to chase her forever. And she wouldn’t be free that long anyway. If all went her way she’d soon be married to Thrumgoodie. A bitter taste rose in her throat that she fought to swallow. McKinney needed money. He needed an heiress. He’d have to find that in another female.

  Logan watched her flee with a curse hot on his lips. That hadn’t gone as he’d hoped. He dragged a hand through his hair. A boy of ten and five could have handled that with more finesse.

  He’d never fumbled with the fairer sex before. Cleopatra Hadley was the first. He clasped his fingers behind his neck and looked up at the ceiling. Like Antony, he intended to win her heart, too. Hopefully, it wouldn’t take him as long though—nor would it end as tragically.

  His every instinct told him the best way to go about winning her was to seduce her. Or perhaps his mounting desire for her pushed him in that direction. Either way, it was a strategy he would very much enjoy employing.

  Feeling refreshed with purpose, he strolled from the gallery, hands locked behind his back, whistling an old ballad from home under his breath.

  He wouldn’t be nearly so confident if he weren’t positive she wanted him, too. Only fear held her back. A fear he was going to have to defeat . . . once he figured out what provoked it.

  So intent on his next move with the complicated and fascinating Miss Hadley, he never noticed the shadowy figure watching him from the corner of the gallery, or that those eyes glowed with an unholy light, the calculating purpose there unwavering and determined enough to rival his own.

  Chapter Ten

  Over Cleo’s protests, Jack insisted on entertaining Lord Thrumgoodie and his family. It wasn’t an evening spent with Thrumgoodie that bothered her so much—she’d already determined to increase her efforts with him and garner that proposal she so desperately needed—but rather the prospect of an evening with the others on her father’s list of guests. She supposed she couldn’t get around Hamilton—he was Lord Thrumgoodie’s houseguest after all. But Lord McKinney?

  “He is a nobleman,” her father had explained when she’d asked why they must invite him. “And he’s courting Lady Libba. Why should you care one way or another if he attends, Cleo?”

  She held her tongue in the face of her father’s inquisitive stare. How could she explain that the man provoked her? That, incredible as it seemed, he wanted to marry her?

  She couldn’t. And that’s how she found herself in her father’s drawing room, suffering through a musicale. Normally, she would have enjoyed such a diversion, but not sandwiched between Thrumgoodie and Hamilton. Nor with McKinney’s warm gaze heating her back.

  The conversation with her stepfather replayed itself over and over in her head, and she knew she must extend every effort at encouraging Thrumgoodie. Not an easy task with Hamiltion there, interrupting and insinuating himself between them at every turn.

  Cleo looked up as Berthe slipped inside the room and motioned for her to step outside. She eagerly rose and murmured her excuses, skirting around Thrumgoodie and Hamilton.

  The soprano her father had engaged for the afternoon sang beautifully, but Cleo was not sorry to leave. It was altogether draining, pretending to ignore Hamilton’s scathing looks . . . pretending the sound of Libba fawning over McKinney didn’t nauseate her.

  “Berthe?” Her slippers fell silently over the marbled floor as she approached the maid. “What is it?”

  Berthe smiled anxiously. “This missive came for you, miss.” She extended the letter toward Cleo. “It’s from your mother. I knew you would want to read it at once.”

  Cleo grinned. “You know me well, Berthe.” Clasping the missive to her chest, she hurried into the neighboring library for a private moment, the smell of books and leather comforting.

  As often as she wrote home, her mother had only managed a few letters. Cleo hadn’t let it dismay her, well understanding how busy her mother must be—especially without Cleo’s help.

  Excitement pumped through her as she settled onto the settee before the fire and tore open the missive. Her mother’s familiar scrawl leapt off the page. As she scanned the parchment, the smile slipped from her face. Her excitement vanished. Cold washed over her, prickling her flesh.

  She pressed a hand against her chest, over the sudden painful pounding of her heart.

  “No.” She shook her head and read the words again, hoping, praying she’d read them wrong . . . that she misunderstood somehow.

  Pain blossomed in her chest and spread throughout her body as the letter fluttered to the ground. She pressed her chest harder, pushing against the tightness at its center. Her breath came fast and hard and she still couldn’t breathe, couldn’t take enough air inside her constricting lungs.

  She slid on her side onto the settee, gazing blindly into the crackling flames until they blurred in front of her.

  This couldn’t have happened. It didn’t happen. Bess wasn’t gone. She wasn’t dead.

  Logan watched the doors, waiting for Cleo’s return. As the minutes ticked by, he began to suspect that she wasn’t coming back.

  The soprano finished yet another song. As everyone erupted into applause, Logan excused himself, lifting Libba’s clinging hand from his arm and freeing himself. Libba was a taxing creature, and he could only feel sympathy for the man that married her. Thankfully that would not be him. As soon as he persuaded Cleo to marry him, he could dispense with this farce of a courtship.

  Free of the drawing room, he expelled a deep breath. He leaned back against the wall and rubbed his forehead. Hopefully, he’d win over Cleo soon.

  A small sniffling sound caught his attention. He looked to the right. The double doors leading to the library were cracked. Firelight spilled out into the corridor. He turned and stepped into the path of light, pushing the doors open wider with the flat of his hand.

  Cleo lay curled on the settee, her face buried into a cushion. He approached silently, the sound of his steps deadened on the carpet. Her shoulders shook, heaving with silent sobs. Her hair had fallen partially undone, the rich da
rk waves falling down her back.

  He blinked and looked around him, as though he might find the answer to her present condition somewhere within the room. She always came across so composed, prickly and invulnerable. The sight of her weeping left an uncomfortable feeling in the pit of his stomach. He’d been around females before. All his life. His sister, even his mother, the strongest woman he’d ever known . . . all had cried on his shoulder at one time or another.

  He cleared his throat. That didn’t seem to have any effect on her.

  “Cleo?” He lowered a hand to her shoulder and gave a gentle squeeze. “What happened?”

  She muttered something unintelligible. He sank down on the settee beside her. Something crinkled beneath his shoe. Bending down, he grasped a wrinkled sheet of parchment. He looked from her to the letter, guessing it had something to do with her present mood.

  Scanning the letter, his heart sank. Lifting his gaze back to Cleo, he asked, “Bess? Your sister?”

  A long moment passed before she rolled to face him. Her face was wet from crying, her eyes red-rimmed and . . . haunted. “Yes.”

  He shook his head. “I’m so sorry.”

  “I should have been there.” She wiped at her face with both hands.

  “How old was she?”

  “Three.”

  He cursed low beneath his breath.

  She shook her head, sending loose tendrils flying around her face. “I should have been there.”

  He waved the letter. “Your mother said it was consumption.”

  “Doesn’t matter,” she said quickly. “It shouldn’t have happened. She was healthy when I left.” She beat a fisted hand to her lap.

  “You can’t blame yourself.”

  “Can’t I?” She wet her lips and looked at him rather desperately, her eyes alive with a wild light. “I should have wed by now. Then I could have saved her.”

  “How does your marrying have anything to do with Bess getting sick?”

  “You don’t understand.”

  His hand tightened on her. “Then explain it to me.”

  She released a deep, shuddering breath. “My stepfather did this. Roger barely kept us in clothes. Or warm. Or fed. He certainly would never see that we received the care of a physician.” Her lip curled in disgust. “He agreed that I could take the children once I married. As long as I paid him, I could have them.” Her face crumpled then. “Not my mother though. He won’t let her go.” Tears swam down her cheeks.

  He pulled back in horror at what she described. “He’s holding them hostage?”

  “In essence, yes.” She sucked in a deep breath and shook her head as though trying to stave off the tears. “I’ve dragged my feet . . . left them in his care for too long.” Her fist beat in her lap with renewed vigor. “Stupid, stupid. He’s never cared if any of us lived or died before. It’s my fault.”

  He cupped her face, letting the warm wet of her tears soak into his palms. “She died because she was sick. That wasn’t your fault. Nor is it your fault that you’re at the mercy of an animal.”

  Tears shimmered in her eyes as she gazed up at him. The sight clawed through him. “I wasn’t there to carry her.”

  “Carry her?” He frowned, angling his head, his thumbs gently stroking her cheeks. “Where?”

  “To the churchyard. It’s my responsibility. I always carry them to the church. I always carry them.”

  “What do you mean, you . . .” His voice tapered off, suspicion sinking its teeth into him, making him dread her next words.

  “Rose, James, Lottie, and Helen. I carried them all. I should have carried her, too. I wasn’t there for her.”

  He could only stare at her, speechless for a long moment, struggling to comprehend what she was saying. “Wait. You mean you . . . take the bodies away?”

  She nodded once and his gut clenched thinking about her walking to the churchyard holding the dead bodies of her siblings. His throat tightened up on him, but he still managed to say, “That should never have been your burden.”

  “Should it have been my stepfather’s? He wouldn’t waste his time with such a task. Nor would I wish him to.” Her eyes glittered passionately. “They deserved someone who cares to walk them to their final rest. I’m the one who’s supposed to carry them.” Her head bowed and she choked out, “Oh, Bess. I’m so sorry.”

  He hauled her into his arms, unable to stop himself, unable to stand her suffering for something that was out of her control. He knew her pain was inescapable. He’d lost both his brother and father. He understood grief. She’d just lost her sister. Nothing would ever take away that ache. But he’d be damned if he’d let her think any of it was her fault. “Don’t blame yourself. You loved her. She had that love . . . she always will.”

  Her body trembled against him and he held her tighter as if he could somehow take her anguish inside himself. She pulled back enough to look up at him. He scraped the loose tendrils of hair back from where they clung to her damp cheeks.

  “Thank you,” she whispered. “It means a lot to hear that . . . to be reminded of that.”

  Noses practically touching, he nodded, his gut suddenly clenching tightly in a way that he’d never felt before. Staring down into her tear-filled gaze, he felt like he was drowning. One thing for certain, he’d never met a woman like Cleopatra Hadley. She was stronger than he could have ever known . . . and he wanted her for his wife with a fierceness that stole his breath.

  “Miss!” A maid rushed into the room. “Are you all right?” She eyed Logan suspiciously—as if he were the cause for her distress.

  Cleo pulled away, sniffing loudly and wiping indelicately at her nose. He hated to leave her, but knew his presence here, with her, was vastly inappropriate. He read as much in the gaze of her maid. Cleo wasn’t his to comfort, as much as he might like her to be. At least not yet.

  And yet a new purpose consumed him. Whether she ever belonged to him or not, there was something he could do for her.

  Cleo watched Logan depart, staring hungrily at the broad expanse of his back. The gnawing ache at the center of her chest only intensified as he moved away from her. Somehow when he’d held her, talked to her . . . her pain had felt . . . less.

  “Miss?” Berthe brushed a tendril back from her face. “Did he hurt you?”

  “No, Berthe,” she whispered. “He didn’t hurt me.”

  Quite the opposite. Shaking her head, she told herself that she shouldn’t let herself feel this way. Because she was now more determined than ever to marry Thrumgoodie. She lost Bess. She would not lose anyone else.

  Chapter Eleven

  Logan stared grimly at the man sniveling in the carriage across from him. Cleo’s stepfather clutched both hands over his nose, trying to staunch the flow of blood.

  “What do you want from me?” he asked in a nasal whine. “I have money in my vest pocket. And I can get more . . .”

  From Cleo, no doubt, after he sold her his children. Logan’s hands clenched and unclenched at his sides.

  “Easy,” Alexander advised from beside him, well aware of the hostility pumping through him . . . and his overwhelming urge to do more than land the two punches that it took to haul Roger out of the brothel and inside their carriage.

  With Alexander’s help, it hadn’t taken long to track him down. Apparently Roger spent most of his time at a seedy brothel in St. Giles. What better way to spend the money Jack had given him than on women of ill repute?

  “Who are you? What do you want?” Roger demanded as they rolled to a stop in front of one of Alexander’s ships.

  Logan grabbed him by the front of his jacket and dragged him from the carriage. The briney dock air immediately washed over him, mingling with the stench of rotted trash.

  “We have a mutual acquaintance,” he growled, cutting through the fog and following Alexander up the rickety ramp, hi
s hand clamped around the cuff of Roger’s coat.

  “Who?”

  Logan shook his head, unwilling to even mention Cleo’s name to this bastard—as if that would somehow sully her.

  Reaching the ship’s deck, he spun Roger around so that they stood face to face. “You like to sell children.”

  His eyes widened, and the understanding was there . . . mingled with fear. “What? No! What are you talking about. I never—”

  “Your family. You haven’t done a very good job taking care of them, Roger.”

  “What business is it of yours?” he railed. “They’re mine!”

  “Too many have died on your watch. They’re not yours anymore. Do you understand?”

  “Go to hell!”

  Logan hauled back and struck him in the face, punctuating his words with the pound of his fist. “Not your children. Not your wife. Understand?”

  Roger moaned and nodded, his head lolling before he managed to straighten his neck and focus on Logan. “What are you going to do with me?”

  Logan released him. Roger staggered and fell. “You’ll take this ship to South Africa. Stay there. Go somewhere else.” He fished a pouch of gold from his pocket and tossed it on the deck beside the man. Roger dove for it. “I don’t care as long as you never return here. Never set foot in England again.”

  Roger nodded jerkily, clutching the pouch close.

  Logan bent down and hauled him up by his mussed cravat. Roger fixed unblinking eyes on Logan’s face. “If you ever show your face here again, I’ll see you never draw another breath. Nothing will stop me from making that happen. Is that clear?”

  If possible, Roger’s eyes widened further. Understanding glimmered there . . . and defeat. “Yes.”

  Logan released him and wiped his hands on his breeches as if he could rid himself of the feel of the man that brought such misery on Cleo and her family.

  He looked up at Alexander, who stood beside the ship’s captain. The pair watched grimly. He nodded to them both. “I’m done here.”