Lessons from a Scandalous Bride (3 page)

Chapter Four

L
ord 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, refusing 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.

The “perfect savage” nodded in acknowledgement and Cleo wondered if he would deign to speak. The lights dimmed and everyone lowered into their seats.

Hamilton dropped back to sit beside Blackwell, so Lord McKinney took the vacant seat beside Libba. It could not have been arranged any better. Libba did not bother to hide her ear-to-ear smile. Unable to contain her excitement, her hands shook upon her lap.

“How are you enjoying London?” Libba inquired amid the opening notes.

Lord McKinney opened his mouth to answer her, but she did not give him a chance, rushing ahead with her next question. “Have you visited Persephone’s Emporium yet? Or Haverty’s? You must stroll Bond Street. The most splendid shopping in the world. It’s simply brilliant. I’m certain you’ve never seen the like. Certainly not in Scotland. That is where you are from, is it not? I’ve heard of you, of course . . .”

McKinney nodded, shifting to face her better as she prattled on and on about shopping, of all things. A glazed look fell over his eyes.

Cleo couldn’t help herself. A smile twitched her lips. He was probably reconsidering the wisdom of accompanying his brother-in-law.

His gaze caught sight of her as she fought down laughter, that same speculative look on his face as before.

Thankfully, the curtains lifted at that moment and the performance began, snaring everyone’s attention and silencing Libba.
A blessing
, Cleo couldn’t help but think. Especially for Lord McKinney.

Cleo soon lost herself in the music and drama unfolding below. She did not even immediately notice when the old earl’s hand crept upon her shoulder.

She started at the realization, glancing sideways as though a spider rested there. His thin, cold fingers brushed her flesh before settling upon the curl of hair draped there. He stroked her hair until she was quite certain the curl had unwound itself. Her throat tightened and she struggled to swallow. Her pleasure in the opera quickly vanished. For being defunct in matters of intimacy, he was certainly fond of touching her, but then she supposed touching was the only thing left to him.

Hoping to subtly dislodge his hand, she angled her head as though she needed to stretch her neck—or perhaps better see the corner of the stage. The action turned her body, and she found herself locking eyes with Lord McKinney.

His eyes gleamed darkly in the shadows, but even in the dim lighting she didn’t miss the knowing look there. The barest smirk tainted his well-sculpted lips.

She’d seen the look before, scorn the moment someone realized that she and the earl were more than passing acquaintances. The judgment was always evident once they comprehended he was her beau. They deemed her a greedy social climber, after the earl for his title.

She quickly faced forward again, her spine an unyielding rod. Lord McKinney’s stare burned into the side of her face. Her hands knotted in her lap. The intermission couldn’t come quickly enough. As soon as the curtain lowered, she hastily stood and murmured her excuses. Lifting her skirts, she fled, gaze averted.

The corridor was not yet crowded. Fortunate for her, she reached the sanctuary of the retiring room before it was invaded by too many other ladies and claimed a seat.

As it filled up with chattering women, she pretended to fiddle with her hair in front of one of the gilded mirrors, feigning great concentration and using this time to compose herself.

“Did you see him? McKinney? Sitting bold as you please up in one of the boxes?”

Cleo blinked hard at the mention of the Scotsman. Could she not escape him even here, in the ladies’ retiring room?

“I don’t care if he is some savage, he’s the most delicious-looking specimen to ever set foot in Town,” a young woman uttered, readjusting her generous bosom inside her snug-fitting bodice.

“He’s on the hunt for an heiress, you know.”

A sigh followed this remark. The lady released her breasts and puckered her lips for her reflection, angling her head as though seeking the most flattering pose. “Aren’t they all? One of four girls, I’m certain my dowry couldn’t tempt him. I must look to my other assets.” She and her friend giggled at this. Cleo rolled her eyes. Ninnies.

Lowering her hands from her hair, Cleo rose to her feet more abruptly than she’d intended. The girls paused in their ministrations, sending her curious looks. She pasted a vacant smile on her face and departed the retiring room. In the corridor, she struggled through the mad press of overly perfumed bodies. In these moments, she missed being able to step outside and inhale the salty sea air.

Arriving at the entrance to their box, she hesitated, reluctant to rejoin the group within. She closed her eyes in a slow blink, only to find McKinney’s scornful gaze in the dark of her mind. Blast! The fact that such a brief encounter should trouble her was utter absurdity. Who cared what a single stranger thought of her?

Lingering in the threshold, she glanced inside. Thrumgoodie was nowhere in sight. Or Libba. Only the three gentlemen remained. She stared at their backs, on the verge of gathering her nerve and stepping across the threshold when she heard Hamilton mutter, “Blasted female. She’s got blunt enough of her own, so we know she’s only after his title . . .”

She registered no other words as anger shot through her. How dare he gossip about her? Mortifying heat swept through her. She stared at the long line of McKinney’s back, trying to gauge his reaction. Not that it should matter. Not that it did.

From the look he’d sent her earlier, she knew he’d already begun to form an ill opinion of her. This no doubt cemented it.

“Come, move now, Cleo, you’re blocking the way.”

At the sound of Libba’s voice, the three men turned around.

Even if she wanted to flee, she couldn’t any longer. Not without looking like a weak-hearted girl ready to collapse beneath the first strong wind. She couldn’t let Hamilton know he got beneath her skin. If she was to marry into his family, he’d best learn now that he held no power over her . . . that he failed to affect her.

After all, she was Jack Hadley’s bastard. The past year had toughened her skin. She’d endured the ugly whispers of the
ton
. What was he but another ugly voice on the wind?

Lifting her chin, she met Hamilton’s stare, hoping to convey how little she thought of him. He met her gaze with no regret, no shame. In fact, he looked quite pleased to have been caught in the process of disparaging her. Mr. Blackwell looked appropriately uncomfortable, tugging at his cravat as if it were suddenly too tight. Her gaze slid to Lord McKinney.

He stared back at her unflinchingly, his gray eyes as cool as fog coming in off the water. With features carved of stone. It was as if he saw nothing when he gazed upon her. Nothing worth seeing, at any rate.

Anger rose up bitterly in her mouth. In her first glimpse of him she had recognized warm interest in his gray eyes. He’d looked at her as though she were a lady of worth—a lady worth . . . well, considering. Now he looked at her like she was beneath his regard.

And it stung. Silly of her to care, she admitted. It’s not as though she could consider him. He was handsome, young, and virile—everything she wished to avoid. And yet, her eyes burned with a sudden sting of unwanted emotion.

With her chin still angled high, she strolled into the box and took her seat, staring straight ahead and telling herself she didn’t feel the gaze of the man sitting two seats over, coldly judging her.

He’d already made up his mind about her. Which was fine. She knew his sort. He’d probably gambled everything away at faro and needed an heiress to keep some decrepit estate from falling down around his ears. Once he secured his heiress, he’d stow her away there and keep her fat with his seed. Thank you, but no. Libba was welcome to him.

It was just as well he formed an ill opinion of her. She intended to cling to her poor opinion of him.

A
s Logan sat through the remainder of the performance two seats away from Miss Cleopatra Hadley, only one thought raced through his mind.

What a shameful waste.

It’s not as though she were the most beautiful woman he’d ever clapped eyes upon. Her midnight dark hair was fine enough—with a lovely glossy gleam to it. But it was her eyes. They shone with a sharp intelligence—a directness he had not seen in many a woman. It reached out and grabbed him, captured his attention as no lady had since he’d arrived in Town. There was something there at work behind her gaze.

His first hope had been that this was the Lady Libba he was here to court. He quickly discovered Libba was the garrulous chit wearing a profusion of peach ruffles. The fascinating Miss Hadley was courting the old man with one foot in the grave.

The longer he sat there with Lady Libba scooted close to his side, her nasal voice whispering inane remarks throughout the performance, the longer he mulled over the irony of finally meeting an heiress who intrigued him—and she happened to be intent on marrying an ancient English lord.

At the end of the performance, he wove through the crush with Lady Libba’s hand tucked into his elbow. At least he had gained the girl’s favor—precisely what he’d set out to do this night. He should be pleased with himself on that score and count the evening a success.

He glanced back to spot Miss Hadley following at a much slower pace on the arm of the earl. Her gaze briefly locked with his before narrowing and looking away. Her nostrils flared as though she’d caught wind of something unpleasant.

Shrugging, he faced forward. Dismissing the chit as beneath his concern, he glanced down at Lady Libba clinging to his arm and made his first tactical move in winning himself an heiress. “Have I mentioned how lovely you are, my lady?”

She blushed and tittered and swatted his arm. “Oh, la! Lord McKinney, you’re a terrible flirt!”

Chapter Five

C
leo brushed her hair vigorously until the dark mass crackled all around her like a brewing storm. The evening had left her disconcerted. She wanted to place the blame on Hamilton and his vicious tongue, but she’d only be lying to herself. He was only partly to blame for her consternation. The rest of the blame could be laid at the feet of him. The Scot. McKinney. That moment when those cool, gray eyes had looked at her with scorn was etched inside her mind.

She jumped as a gentle knock sounded at her bedchamber door. Setting down her brush, she bade entrance, assuming it was Berthe returning to see if she required anything else for the night.

Instead of the maid, she watched as the man who had sired her stepped inside her bedchamber. Jack Hadley. She felt none of her initial tension as she gazed upon the barrel-chested man. Over the months, they’d come to almost an accord. Not that she forgot or forgave him anything . . . but she acknowledged that he was a different man from that of twenty years ago. She saw regret in the worn lines of his face and longing in his eyes.

While it might appear that he longed for position and rank—which he ostensibly hoped to gain through marrying her to some titled lord—she sensed he longed for something else. Something more. A connection to others. Belonging. Money hadn’t bought him that yet. Even if he didn’t realize it, she suspected that was the true reason he had tracked her down. And not just Cleo, but two other illegitimate daughters. Jack Hadley wanted a family.

He nodded at her reflection in the mirror. “How was your evening?”

She turned to face him. “Fine, thank you.”

He looked as though he would like to say something more, but then shook his head as though thinking better of it. “Well, I won’t keep you. Good night.”

In the threshold, he suddenly stopped and turned. “You know . . . this courtship with the earl . . .” His voice faded away.

She nodded. “Yes.”

He rubbed a hand against the back of his neck. She’d never seen Jack Hadley discomposed like this. But then, she seemed to be constantly reevaluating him.

“Yes?” she prompted.

“The earl is older than I am.”

A smile twitched her lips. “I’m aware of that.”

He looked rather pleadingly at her. “You’re a young woman, Cleo. You don’t have to settle on him. I realize he’s titled, but—”

“I’m quite satisfied with the earl’s courtship.”

Jack looked at her rather doubtfully. “Are you? Truly? Because I don’t want you to feel I’m forcing—”

“No one can force me to marry anyone.” She smiled at him with an arched brow. “Not even the great Jack Hadley.”

He snorted. “Well, your sisters seem to fear that I’m bullying you into this.”

“I’ll talk to them.” Or at least she would talk to Marguerite. She’d have to post a missive to Grier in Maldania.

He looked somewhat relieved at this and she suspected that they must have been badgering him a great deal over the matter. No one could understand her motives for accepting the earl’s suit. Which did not affect her one way or another. Her reasons were her own.

Jack stepped inside her chamber. “In fact, it’s rather nice having you about. I don’t see any point in your rushing into matrimony. The year you’ve been here has been . . . nice.”

“Indeed?” Despite herself, her heart thawed another notch. Her stepfather had never spoken a kind word to her. She really must be starved for a father’s care.

She quickly reminded herself that this is the same Jack who, a year ago, had been anxious to herd up his offspring and marry them off. Marguerite and Grier had actually obliged him—and rather quickly. Perhaps he regretted that now? Regretted that he didn’t have more time to acquaint himself with his other two daughters.

He looked a little lonely right then. And sad. Suddenly she had a notion of what might be bothering him. “Any luck on locating the Higgins woman?”

Several weeks ago, Jack had confessed he might have fathered another child with his former housekeeper. He sighed and shook his head. “The Pinkerton man I hired believes he may have found a lead on her. In Yorkshire.”

“I’m sure he’ll find her,” she murmured, even though she wasn’t certain of any such thing. She couldn’t help wondering whether this Higgins woman even wanted to be found. Her father believed he had sired a child with her, and perhaps he had. Perhaps she was happily married and wanted to forget Jack Hadley.

Staring at Jack, she felt a twinge of her old resentment. Jack had certainly been prolific in spreading his seed all about the country and leaving heartache in his wake. Still . . . if she had another sister or brother out there, she would like to know them.

Jack plucked at an invisible piece of lint on his sleeve. “Well, I won’t keep you from your bed.”

“Good night,” she murmured, watching him depart and musing over how she could not despise the man who had rejected her mother—and her. She had assumed the hatred would always be there.

When she first arrived, she had been quite willing to lay the blame for her mother’s wretched life at his feet. But Cleo didn’t have it in her to hate the man. At least her mother’s needs were being tended now. She also recognized that her mother had made her choices with open eyes. She’d known Jack Hadley was not the marrying kind and yet she’d gone to his bed anyway.

Her mother had paid for that mistake. And Cleo had learned from it. She would choose a different path. Even though she didn’t hate Jack any longer . . . she wouldn’t place her total trust in him. A smart, carefully chosen marriage would give her the lifelong security she sought.

Setting the brush down, Cleo used the small step stool to climb into bed. As she sank beneath the luxurious quilted silk coverlet, she marveled that this should be her bed—
her life
. She would never have to worry about an aching belly again.

And if she chose carefully, wisely, she wouldn’t have to contend with a man wreaking destruction over her life and body. To say nothing of her heart.

F
or two days, she avoided Thrumgoodie, in no mood to see again his wretched nephew, who had taken residence at the earl’s Mayfair mansion during his visit. She frequently replayed that moment when she’d stumbled upon him gossiping about her to Mr. Blackwell and Lord McKinney. The wretch.

Then she realized that she was being cowardly. The last thing she wanted Hamilton to think was that he’d succeeded in running her off. Indeed not. With that thought in mind, she accepted the earl’s invitation to dinner. Her father, invited as well, accompanied her. He reveled in these affairs, mingling among the peerage over glittering crystal and the finest port. Wearing the rich, garish colors his tailor convinced him were the height of
ton
fashion. He enjoyed nothing more.

It was a small dinner party, no more than a dozen guests. Cleo dressed in her best, feeling fortified in a gown of bronze silk that made the hidden lights gleam in her dark hair. At least that’s what the modiste had told her when she selected the fabric. She only hoped she wasn’t being led astray as her father was.

Jack helped her from her cloak and handed it to a waiting groom. Offering his arm, he led her into the drawing room where everyone was gathered before dinner. As they approached, she could hear the familiar din of Lady Libba hammering away at the keys. From the sound of it, the pianoforte might very well crumble beneath the onslaught.

“Hope she bloody well quits that racket soon,” her father murmured in her ear. “Might turn off my appetite.”

Despite herself Cleo chuckled and grinned, all gaiety when she entered the room.

As though a magnet drew her, her eyes landed on him first. The sight of Lord McKinney startled her as it shouldn’t. He stood straight as an oak beside the pianoforte, turning the pages when Libba indicated he should.

He spotted her, too. His direct stare flustered her. Her fingers flexed on Jack’s arm and he sent her a curious glance. Inwardly, she commanded herself to recall herself—who she was, what she was about.

She greeted first the earl and then the other guests. Unfortunately that meant she had to eventually face Lord McKinney again and exchange pleasantries.

As Libba finished playing, Cleo nodded in greeting. “Good evening, Libba. Lord McKinney.”

His gaze skimmed her, from the top of her head to the toes of her golden slippers, and then he looked away, dismissing her. She squared her shoulders and reminded herself that she was not here to gain his favor.

She took her seat on a settee beside the earl.

It shouldn’t have surprised her to see McKinney here again. If he was hunting for an heiress, Libba was that. And he was a feast for the eyes. There was no question that Libba was all gushing encouragement. She was his for the taking.

When dinner was announced, Cleo rose quickly, glad for a change of scene.

“Ah, my dear Cleo,” the earl said in his croaking voice. He waved his pale, thin hand on the air. “Come. A little assistance, please?”

With an obligatory smile, she offered her hand. He used it to haul himself from the chair. She staggered before catching herself, rooting her slippers into the carpet so she didn’t lose her balance.

He gripped her shoulder to right himself, crushing the capped sleeve of her gown. She fought back a grimace as he leaned against her, resisting the temptation to step away, quite convinced that if she did so he would collapse.

His labored breath blew moistly against her cheek. “I need but a moment to catch my breath,” he panted.

She nodded and watched as everyone filed out of the room in to dinner.

The hairs at her nape began to tingle and she had a certain sensation that she was being watched. She swiveled her head, surveying the last of the guests as they emptied the room. Nothing. It appeared everyone—

And then she spotted him.

Instead of escorting Libba in to dinner, he lingered in the corner, holding a glass of brandy lightly in his hand and surveying her and the earl.

His stare was penetrating, yet unreadable. Her face heated as he gazed at her. Mortification burned through her. She was acutely conscious of what he saw—the earl clutching her in an undignified manner as though she were a nursemaid and not a lady.

Thrumgoodie coughed hoarsely, regaining her attention. He struggled to regain his legs. His grip on her hand intensified. The fingers on her shoulder dug in deep and painfully. She bowed a bit beneath the pressure and stopped shy of crying out.

Abruptly, a deep voice rumbled near her ear. “I’ll help you there.”

She sagged with relief. Even if it was him. She didn’t think she could see Thrumgoodie all the way to the dining room without assistance, and no one else had lingered to see if she or the earl needed any help. She didn’t let herself consider why McKinney stayed behind. She was simply relieved he had.

The earl’s head snapped in his direction. “Eh? Who are you?”

“McKinney, my lord.”

“Oh, Libba’s beau.” He nodded as if remembering.

Libba’s beau
. The reminder left a foul taste in her mouth and suddenly she didn’t want his help.

She tried to reclaim the earl’s hand. “We’re managing quite well, Lord McKinney. Thank you for your consideration, but it’s not necessary.”

He looked at her with those unreadable gray eyes. Just when she assumed he would turn and walk away, he made an exasperated sound and shook his head. Stepping close, he brushed her aside as if she were of no account.

Before she could so much as squeak, he took hold of Thrumgoodie’s hand that gripped her shoulder fiercely and guided him from the room, taking the old man’s weight into himself as if he were nothing more than a feather.

After a stunned moment, she followed, resenting that he should have been the one to stay behind and help her. When they at last settled in at the dining table, she focused her attention on her companions, grateful they were neither Hamilton nor McKinney. Still, she found it quite difficult to focus on the words of the soft-spoken lady beside her. Not with Libba laughing uproariously every few moments.

Cleo found herself sneaking baleful glances down the table. Libba threw back her head and leaned her entire body to the side, swatting the Scotman’s arm again and again. She held her ribs as if they ached from laughter.

Lord McKinney talked with ease, his broad hand waving carelessly on the air, a mild smile playing on his well-carved lips. Cleo narrowed her eyes on him and felt a fresh surge of dislike. He couldn’t be that genuinely amusing or charming. Nor could he honestly find Libba’s braying enjoyable. He doubtlessly played puppet to Libba, hanging on her every word and acting as though she truly had something interesting to say. The man belonged on stage. It would have been comical if it did not annoy her so much. She stabbed at a small roasted potato on her plate with uncharacteristic force.

Suddenly he looked up to catch her watching him. She possessed too much pride to look away as if she were guilty of some crime, so she held his stare, lifting the potato to her lips and chewing as if his scrutiny failed to affect her.

He must have read some of her distaste for him on her face, for the smile he had worn so easily for Libba faded and his eyes turned to hard chips of winter gray. Again, the condemning judgment. As his gleaming gaze watched her watching him, that night at the opera came back in a flood.

Jack, thankfully, paid her little note, too intent on impressing the young widow beside him to notice the stare-down between her and McKinney. Deciding she’d wasted enough of her time on the man, she looked away for good, determined to not give him another thought.