Lessons from a Scandalous Bride (4 page)

Chapter Six

A
t the end of the meal, the ladies retired to the drawing room while the men adjourned to the library for their cigars. And not a moment too soon. Cleo desperately wanted a moment to compose herself and forget the way Lord McKinney had looked at her—that cold-eyed stare rattled her to the core.

Did he disdain her for letting a man old enough to be her grandfather court her? Or did her lack of pedigree offend? That stuck in the craw of enough members of the
ton
. She supposed even a Scottish lord might consider himself her better.

If that was the case, he was worse than Hamilton. Hamilton she at least understood. His nastiness derived from his fear that she’d marry his great-uncle—and he’d have to share Thrumgoodie’s inheritance with her.

Libba’s voice pulled her from her thoughts. “I’m the luckiest girl in the whole empire,” she gushed beside Cleo.

“Indeed,” Cleo murmured, stamping back her nausea at Libba’s excessive prattling.

“No man can rival him. Not in looks or charm.” She clapped her hands together and shivered in delight. “I can’t wait for our wedding night. Can you imagine his expertise in the boudoir?”

Cleo’s cheeks burned as she envisioned his virile form . . . stripped free of his evening attire. Unlike most gentlemen of the
ton
, he would probably look better out of his garments. She cleared her throat. “It seems soon to harbor such thoughts, does it not?”

“Oh, I know everything about him. He lives in a castle in the Highlands.” Her eyes danced with delight. “I’m quite sure he strolls about in a kilt. Can you imagine the sight of his delicious bare legs?”

Heat crawled up her neck to her face as she imagined McKinney’s bare legs. She swallowed. Not an image she needed in her head. He already spent too much time in her thoughts.

“Libba, really . . . you shouldn’t say such things.”

“Oh, don’t be such a prude, Cleo. You are female. How can you look at him without thinking such things?”

Cleo didn’t bother explaining that she was immune to virile, handsome men. She’d trained herself to resist the flirtations of young men, all too aware that such a path led to misery.

She shrugged. “You really believe you know
everything
about the man?”

Libba nodded. “Indeed. I do. He’s the one.”

“Let’s recount, shall we?” Cleo counted off on her fingers. “He lives in the highlands. In a castle. He’s seeking a wife.” She shook her head, searching Libba’s face for anything else she might wish to add.

Libba nodded, smiling rather blankly.

Cleo sighed with exasperation. “That hardly constitutes
knowing
a man, does it? Would you really go off into the wilds with him? Totally at his mercy?” Just the notion made Cleo’s skin shiver.

A dreamy expression came over Libba’s features. “Hmm. Yes.”

“Never mind.” Cleo rolled her eyes. The girl was hopeless.

“Oh, Cleo.” Libba nudged her shoulder roughly. “Haven’t you any trust? Any faith? Sometimes you have to trust your instincts about a person.”

Cleo sniffed. Like her mother had trusted? First Jack Hadley. And then her stepfather. Not Cleo—not a chance.

Libba continued. “I’m fairly certain he means to offer for me. Perhaps even this week . . .”

Cleo blinked. “So soon?”

“Oh, yes. You’ve been hiding away with that headache of yours for the last two days so you wouldn’t know, but he called on me the day after the opera with a bouquet of hothouse roses.

“Of course he did. He knows a good catch when he sees one,” Cleo replied wryly, but Libba missed her sarcasm and continued talking.

“ . . . And the day after that he took me for a ride in the park. Tomorrow we shall stroll Bond Street. I do hope he will propose soon,” she rushed to say. “Grandfather’s health is so precarious. The last thing I want is Hamilton acting as my guardian . . . or having to delay my wedding because Grandfather died.” Comprehension suddenly broke across Libba’s features. “Oh, how dreadful of me. I did not mean to imply that Grandfather might soon die. I know you’re very . . . fond of him.”

Cleo smiled weakly and patted Libba’s hand. The girl meant well. She just couldn’t be accused of keen intelligence. She could never fault Libba for being unkind. Unlike Hamilton, she was tolerant of Cleo’s budding relationship with her grandfather. “No worries, Libba.”

Libba clutched Cleo’s hand in each of her own. “And he is exceedingly fond of you, too. You’ve brought new life into him.”

Cleo’s smile grew pained.

Libba’s head dipped closer as she whispered conspiratorially, “I believe he intends to offer for you very soon.”

At this confidence, Cleo’s stomach sank. Foolish, of course. They’d been courting for months. This was what she’d been working toward, after all. An easy, uncomplicated match. Safe.

Above all safe.

“W-wonderful.”

“Isn’t it?” Libba’s head bobbed happily. “He swore he would never wed again after his last wife died. Sorry luck, that.” Libba gave her hand another squeeze. “He’ll likely outlive us all. Wait and see.”

“I dearly hope so,” Cleo returned. Not a lie. She truly did not yearn for widowhood . . . as the gossips were fond of declaring. She simply wished to keep her body to herself—and not lose her spirit under the grind of some man’s boot heel. The earl’s days of grinding his boot heels were long past. He was unthreatening in that regard . . . spending most of his days in a prolonged nap.

She need only envision her mother’s haggard face, or recall one of the tiny corpses she’d carried to the churchyard, to know the kind of life she wanted.

Still, the thought that she might soon have to finalize her decision and accept Thrumgoodie’s proposal knotted her stomach.

“Pardon me, Libba. I’m in need of some air.” She rose to her feet and slipped out the drawing room’s balcony doors.

She shivered at the sudden plunge into chilled air. She wished she’d brought her shawl but wasn’t about to go back into the house to fetch it. She moved away from the door. The feminine chatter from within faded as she strolled along the verandah that wrapped around the side of the house.

Chafing her arms, she stared up at the night and squinted, wondering where the stars had vanished. She’d always been able to see them at home. She and her mother were fond of picking out the constellations.

“Can’t see a thing through all the smog.”

Cleo gasped and spun around.

Standing several feet away, the Scot propped a lean hip against the stone railing, his booted feet crossed at the ankles.

“What are you doing out here?” she demanded.

“Could ask you the same.”

She crossed her arms, suddenly unsure what to do with them.

It dawned on her that they’d never even spoken at any length. Just a brief two- or three-worded greeting. For as much as he’d filled her awareness . . . occupied her thoughts, this struck her as strange.

She shivered anew. It was too dark to see his eyes but she imagined they still looked at her with that cold disapproval.

“Tired of the chatter?” he asked, his dark head nodding toward the drawing room.

She soaked up the sound of his voice. The faint brogue rolled through her like warm honey. She shook her head for thinking such a way, angry at herself for letting his voice affect her.

“I needed some fresh air,” she murmured, her voice a tight squeak.

“Bracing yourself for the earl’s cold touch?”

She sucked in a sharp breath, his words as shocking as a dousing of water. “Pardon me?”

“You heard me well enough.”

“Surely not. My ears must be mistaken to have heard you say something so unconscionably rude.”

He chuckled and the sound grated. Suddenly, his laughter stopped and silence stretched between them until he asked, “How old are you?”

She hesitated, but ultimately answered him. “Three and twenty.”

“That young?”

“You thought me older?”

“You must confess there aren’t many girls of your tender years who would consider a man in his eightieth year a prime candidate for a husband.”

She pulled back her shoulders. “You know no bounds, my lord. I’m not sure why anything about me should interest you.”

He shrugged. “You’re a curiosity, I confess.”

“Perhaps I look beyond the superficial shell of a person.”

He chuckled and the sound rippled though her like dribbling honey. “Oh, indeed? Then do tell. Share with me what it is about the old earl that you find so endearing?”

She stared at him in mutinous silence and she was quite certain that he was enjoying himself. At her expense. His eyes gleamed in the gloom and she felt the overwhelming urge to strike him.

He continued in that rolling burr of his, mocking, “Is it his scintillating conversation?”

“Go to hell.” The words exploded from her lips before she could stop herself. Immediately, she regretted them. She regretted the hot emotion he’d roused within her . . . the unreasonable urge to lash out. She’d never been like this before . . . so defensive, so hostile. Not even with Roger, and he’d justifiably earned her ire on countless occasions. Daily.

He chuckled, seemingly delighted with her outburst. “You’re the first woman I’ve met in this godforsaken city to utter anything quite so . . . honest. It’s a welcome bit of fresh air.”

This declaration bordered on a compliment. Decidedly uncomfortable that he might actually admire her in some fashion, she turned to go. “We shouldn’t be out here . . . alone together.”

He chuckled anew, this sound lower, deeper. It slid seductively along her spine. She stopped, shooting a glance over her shoulder at the dim shape of him. “What’s so amusing?” she queried, the annoyance in her voice crisp and sharp.

“You did not strike me as the type to worry about what others might say.”

His comment hit its mark—no doubt as he’d intended. Her annoyance flared. She stepped closer. Closer than comfortable, but she couldn’t back down after he’d waved a flag like that before her face.

“Because if I did care what others think or say about me I would what?” Another step. “Conduct myself differently?”

Even in the gloom, she detected a bend to his lips. He was smiling. “Your words. Not mine.”

She inhaled thinly through her nostrils. “You really shouldn’t listen to gossip, Lord McKinney. It’s usually untrue.”

“Usually,” he returned. She could hear the smile in his voice. “But you know what they say.”

“And what would that be?”

“There’s always a kernel of truth to every rumor . . .”

Meaning he believed Hamilton’s scathing words about her—that she was naught but a title chaser.

She squared back her shoulders. “I hear you are quite good with a knife. Is that gossip or truth?”

He chuckled again. “I know my way around a blade.”

“You’re incorrigible.”

“I’ve been called worse.”

“I’m certain of that.”

He pushed himself off the railing and advanced. In a few softly thudding steps he was directly in front of her. “You’re a familiar story to me, Miss Hadley.”

Her skin tightened warily. She dropped her head back to peer up at his shadowed features. She should turn and walk away, but she couldn’t resist the bait. “What do you mean by that?”

Shivering, she hugged herself tighter, telling herself it was the chill in the air and not his proximity—or the way his eyes glimmered down at her. “Wasting yourself on someone you can never care about . . . I understand that all too well.”

Her breath seized for a moment at his words . . . at what sounded like regret in his voice. She finally breathed again. “I’m wasting nothing.”

He lifted one shoulder in a half shrug. “Not yet. But you’re on the cusp. Like me.”

“You don’t know me. We’re nothing alike.” With that, she spun around and marched away, her slippered feet moving quickly beneath her skirts.

His voice followed her. “Run along, Miss Hadley. I’m sure Lord Thrumgoodie is missing you. He needs someone to guide him about the furniture, after all.”

She swallowed down an epithet, but kept walking, refusing to believe that any part of him was like her, that he might know her or see inside her.

L
ogan watched her flee, aggravated with himself. What was he doing needling her? He all but admitted that he cared nothing for Libba. Not a smart move on his part. What if she persuaded Libba of that fact?

He dragged a hand over his face and stared blindly out at the night. She brought out the worst in him. He couldn’t explain it. She wasn’t doing anything he wasn’t doing—simply looking for the best match possible—but she stirred feelings inside him, made him unaccountably angry . . . made him
feel
.

He shook his head, reaching for the cool calm of indifference. Nothing had changed. She had her agenda. He had his. They’d both marry people they felt nothing for.

Chapter Seven

T
he following morning Cleo set out on a walk through the park.

Berthe accompanied her. Rather silly considering all the solitary walks Cleo had taken in her life. But that was all in the past—as Jack had reminded her the first time she tried to step outside unaccompanied.

Country bred, Berthe did not mind her brisk pace—or the early hour. A still, windless air draped the park—as if the world had not yet woken, and Cleo could almost pretend she wasn’t in the bustling city at all.

Berthe puffed beside her, the cheeks in her narrow, angular face flushed a ruddy red in the chill morning. “A mite fast today, aren’t you, miss?”

Cleo nodded to a nearby bench. “Feel free to have a seat.”

She shook her head. “Just pondering your need for such haste. No more than that.”

Cleo smiled. Berthe had come to read her well. There was an undeniable parallel between Cleo’s moods and her urge for brisk walks.

They continued on, the only sound their rasping breaths. An occasional rider streaked along a bridle path, reveling in the freedom of the park in the early-morning hour.

The path wound, cutting into a heavy cluster of trees. A twig snapped behind them and Cleo glanced over her shoulder. Leaves scuttled across the path, but nothing else moved. Shrugging, she faced forward again . . . only to stop and glance behind them again several moments later, an uneasy feeling sweeping over her.

Berthe followed her gaze. “What?”

Cleo shook her head. “Nothing. Just . . .”

“What?”

“Nothing.” Turning about, she moved two strides before a shadow fell across their path.

Cleo gasped. Berthe yelped and took a hasty step in front of Cleo.

With a sinking sensation, Cleo gazed at the man in front of them and placed a hand on Berthe’s arm. “Don’t be alarmed.”

The maid glanced back and forth between Cleo and the stranger.

“He’s my stepfather,” Cleo explained, staring sullenly at Roger. His face appeared more bloated and dissipated than she remembered, and she could guess that he’d been spending some of Jack’s money on a healthy portion of gin.

“Your stepfather?” She looked him up and down, clearly unimpressed. “Don’t you know how to make a proper call? It doesn’t include sneaking up on a lady and giving her a fright—I don’t care if she is your stepdaughter!”

His lip curled. “Mind yer affairs and step away while I have a word with my daughter.”

Berthe straightened with an indignant huff of breath.

“Stepdaughter,” Cleo interjected even as she nodded to Berthe, indicating for her to give them a moment.

Frowning, Berthe moved off the path—out of hearing range but not out of sight. The maid’s gaze never left Roger, and Cleo had no doubt that Berthe would attack at the slightest behest.

His gaze crawled over her like a slow-moving serpent. “Aren’t you the fine-looking lady? Looks like you’ve landed yourself in quite the cozy little nest.”

Cleo crossed her arms and cut straight to the point. “What do you want?” She knew he wasn’t interested in idle chatter. If he was here, it was because he needed something from her . . . and the fact that he hadn’t gone directly to the house told her he wanted to stay clear of Jack.

His red-rimmed eyes didn’t blink at her bald question. “Money.”

She blinked and cocked her head to the side. “Jack’s man gave you plenty when he—”

“You didn’t expect that to last, did you? That was almost a year ago.”

“It’s gone? That was enough to last two years.”

He shrugged. “What can I say? My standard of living has significantly increased.” He tugged on the lapels of his coat. “I’m a gentleman now.”

She didn’t even acknowledge the absurdity of that comment. “What did you do with the money?”

He stared at her, thin lipped. Crossing his thick arms across his chest, he asked, “Does it matter? It’s gone.”

She supposed it didn’t matter. She sighed. “I’ll go to Jack and—”

“I already done that. Months ago.”

He’d gone to Jack? He’d run through the money months ago?

Roger continued, “The tight-fisted bastard offered me a paltry sum to come only every fortnight. An
allowance
, he called it. Treats me like a bleeding child.”

“It’s better than nothing. He owes you nothing,” Cleo sharply reminded.

“I married his whore.” Roger thrust his face close to snarl. “Raised his brat.”

She took a bracing breath.

“I want more.” He pounded his chest. “I deserve it.”

She shook her head, wondering in what twisted reality he resided if he thought he deserved anything. “I can’t make him give you more.”

Roger stepped closer, the wool of his coat brushing her. “You forget about your family, Cleo? Your sisters and brothers?” His gaze narrowed. “Bess asks for you still. You remember her?”

Cleo’s throat tightened. She nodded. “Of course I remember her.”

“Because it’s been hard these last months. Little Bess is so frail.” He shrugged. “It’s been cold . . . and coal isn’t cheap.”

Her gloved fingers curled and uncurled in anger. He’d had more than enough money for coal . . . and food, and clothes. Cleo cursed herself. She should have known this would happen—that Roger would hoard the money for his own vices while her mother and siblings suffered.

She suddenly doubted whether her mother and the children saw a penny of it. Of course her mother wouldn’t have wanted to complain to Cleo. Her mother never complained. She just endured.

“I’m close to marrying.” She held up a hand in supplication. “I can give you money of my own then. You won’t have to go through Jack.”

He looked her over appraisingly. “Found yourself a ripe pigeon, have you? Are you certain he’ll give you free rein of his purse?”

She nodded. “Yes. But I’ll require a promise from you in exchange.”

A guarded look came over his face. “And what would that be?”

“I get the children. And Mama, too.”

He scratched his bristly jaw, obviously considering her words. “And what will I get?”

“Money. Freedom. You won’t have a brood of children beneath your feet. You can live the life of a gentleman . . . go off and spend your money however you please—“

“I can do that anyway—and keep my kin.”

“No. You can’t.” She sucked in a breath. “You won’t get a penny from me unless you agree to these terms.”

His eyes narrowed. “The boys. Adam and Conrad. They’re getting older. They can be useful—”

“I want them. All of them.”

“That’s going to cost you.”

Loathing curled in the pit of her belly. “What kind of man negotiates the sale of his children?”

He shrugged. “What can I say? I’m an entrepreneur.”

“I’ll pay whatever you ask. But I get all of them. Or I walk. That’s the arrangement.” She held her breath tight inside her chest, hoping he’d believe her bluff—that she’d walk away from her family. No matter the situation, she’d never do that—could never turn her back on them.

He studied her, clearly contemplating her offer, weighing if there was any disadvantage to him.

“Very well,” he finally relented. “You can have the children. They’re naught but trouble, anyway. But I keep your mother.”

A protest surged hotly to her lips. “No!” Her mother would not live much longer if she remained with him. Of this she was certain. “I’ll pay you.”

“You can’t pay me enough for her.” He thrust his face close. Spittle flew from his lips. “She’s my wife. I keep her.”

Gazing into his eyes, she knew he would never relent on this point. Her shoulders slumped in defeat. “Very well.”

He smiled suddenly. “I’m glad we had this talk.” Shivering in the morning chill, he flipped up the collar of his coat.

Glaring at him, she marveled that she could ever despise anyone so much.

Squinting out at the tree-shrouded horizon, he murmured mildly, “Best be quick and get yourself to the altar. Don’t know how long the little ones can fare without proper care. Life can be so . . . taxing.” He glanced back at her, an eyebrow winging high. “As you well know.”

With that parting comment ringing ominously in her ears, he drifted off down the path.

T
he next afternoon Marguerite surprised Cleo with a visit. Even if Cleo hadn’t grown fond of her half sister in the last year, she would have been delighted to see her for the distraction alone. She’d suffered a restless night, her encounter with her stepfather replaying through her mind, filling her with a gnawing sense of urgency. She must do something and soon. She might not be able to save her mother, but she could still save the children.

Deciding an outing would do her some good, Cleo suggested they visit her favorite place, a bookshop she had discovered shortly after arriving in Town.

The bell chimed over the door as they entered the shop. Cleo inhaled, loving the musty, leathery aroma. Mr. Schumacher greeted them warmly, coming around his wide oak counter.

“Ladies! So good to see you again. Anything I can help you with today?”

“Just browsing, Mr. Schumacher,” she replied, untying her bonnet’s ribbons beneath her chin.

Marguerite did the same, smoothing a hand over the top of her raven-dark hair.

“Well, you always manage to find something with no assistance from me. Enjoy! Let me know if you need anything.” Beaming, he gestured widely with his hands, welcoming them to peruse the towering shelves stuffed haphazardly with books. Cleo was certain they were organized in some order and fashion that Mr. Schumacher alone understood. Patrons, however, were hopeless to understand what that pattern might be.

Marguerite trailed behind her, evidently content to let Cleo browse the many books. Cleo pulled out one title and then slid it back in its home, strolling along and running her fingers over spines.

“See anything you like?”

“Not yet.” She looked over her shoulder with a smile. “But I will.”

“Of that I have no doubt. You read more than any soul I’ve ever known.”

“Books were such a rarity growing up. The only thing I ever read with any regularity was Mama’s Bible. Or sheet music. When I practiced the pianoforte at the rectory, the vicar would sometimes let me read from his collection of books.” She smiled at the memory. “The reverend was a good man, but his reading preferences were different from my own. He didn’t own a single novel.”

She selected a battered novel by Mrs. Radcliffe and tucked it beneath her arm.

Marguerite arched a dark eyebrow. “I’d hazard to say he would not have approved of that one.”

She laughed. “Most assuredly.”

Cleo exclaimed with delight as she found a thin volume of poems. Thumbing through it, she saw that it was all melodramatic rubbish. The best kind. Pleased, she hugged the book close.

“I’ll be back. I want to see if there are any books of children’s rhymes. My friend Fallon enjoys reading to her daughter.” Marguerite moved down the aisle.

Cleo continued to browse as Marguerite moved off. Surrounded by so many books, she could forget the world around her . . . especially so close to the chance of escaping into other worlds. Better worlds.

“Good morning, Miss Hadley.”

As the familiar Scottish voice ribboned its way through her, she questioned her sanity and whether she had conjured the words from memory. Surely he couldn’t be here of all places. Not in the one place in this city she considered hers.

Inhaling a bracing breath, she turned. Her ears had not deceived her. Her skin heated as she recalled their last encounter and his intimation that they were alike.

“Lord McKinney,” she murmured, pleased at the flatness of her voice. “What are you doing here?” Blunt to the point of rudeness perhaps, but she didn’t really care. After their last exchange, she needed to keep things aloof.

“It’s a bookshop. I’m looking for a book.” His gray eyes narrowed. “What? You don’t think I’m following you, do you?”

She lifted her chin. “Of course not.”

He nodded slowly, those gray eyes of his watching her closely as if he really believed she thought that.

She waved at the books. “You don’t strike me as much of a reader.”

“I don’t know whether to be offended or complimented.”

She frowned, wondering how he could have read a compliment in that.

He elaborated, “You either think me a dullard uninterested in books . . .”

“Or?” she prompted at his pause.

“Well, that you think of me at all to form any opinion is quite gratifying.”

She exhaled. “I assure you I don’t think of you.” Pulling her books close, she moved to walk past him. He stepped directly in her path, blocking her way. He stood so close she had to tilt her head back to meet his gaze.

“Liar.” He breathed the word more than he actually said it. Her heart stuttered inside her chest.

“Now who’s laboring under delusions of grandeur?”

The flat line of his mouth curved ever so slightly. “It’s fair to say I’ve thought of you perhaps . . .” he tilted his head as though searching, “once. Oh, very well. Twice.”

She snorted. “Well, not me.”

He shrugged one broad shoulder. “I suppose I’m not such an enigma.” His gaze dropped from her face, eyeing the modest cut of her dress as if it were anything but modest. The flesh of her chest warmed beneath his perusal.

“I couldn’t say. Now if you’ll let me pass.”

Instead of obliging, he plucked the books from her hands. She protested and tried to reclaim the books, but he held them out of her reach, reading their covers.

“Poetry,” he mused, scanning the volume. He looked at her second selection. “Ah. And Mrs. Radcliffe.” He made a clucking sound. “I would never have suspected it of you.”

Her lips pursed as she fought back the urge to demand what he meant by that.

“Oh, you look like you’re sucking lemons. Go ahead, Miss Hadley. Ask before you explode. You know you want to.”

She shook her head, loathing that he should read her so clearly. “I have nothing to ask you.”

“You’re a stubborn chit.” He waved the books before her. “Very well. I’ll go ahead and enlighten you. This is not the reading material I would have credited as your preference.”

“And why is that?” she snapped.