Lessons from a Scandalous Bride (8 page)

Chapter Eleven

L
ogan 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, his 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.”

“We’ll see him belowdecks and make sure he doesn’t sneak off.” The captain motioned to his men to fetch Roger.

“Thank you,” he murmured, although he doubted it was necessary. Roger wouldn’t attempt to leave the ship. He was nothing more than a bully. Spineless and desperate to feel in control, he wouldn’t dare return where Logan’s threat could become a reality. He’d stay on the ship and sail wherever she took him. He’d never return. Cleo and her family were free.

He turned and departed the ship, his boots thudding heavily on the ramp, his mind already moving ahead to when he might next see Cleo.

“T
his is rich!” Fiona crowed. “My brother, the darling of every lass within a league’s ride from McKinney, the very one likely to be found beneath a milkmaid’s skirts rather than about his chores, needs advice on wooing a lady?”

“Are you finished, Fiona?” Logan asked, already regretting asking Fiona for her input in winning over Cleo.

She waved a hand at him amid her riotous giggles.

“Fiona, dear, be kind,” Alexander chided. “Can’t you see he’s fond of this one?”

She gasped for breath. “Of course, of course. Forgive me, Logan.” She wiped tears of merriment from her eyes. “I’ll be serious. Especially as this one seems to have captured your fancy.”

He recalled the efforts he had taken to see that Cleo was happy . . . that her family was safe from her stepfather. Yes. She had more than captured his fancy. “I’d appreciate that.”

She nodded, adopting a more somber expression. “Yes, well . . . let me ask you, have you kissed her yet? Back home, every lass claimed your lips to be nectar of the gods.”

Tossing his napkin upon the table, he stood to leave the room.

“No, no, stop! Sit yourself back down.” She waved an imperious finger at his chair, again reminding him of their departed mother. “It’s a legitimate question.”

At her arched eyebrow, he admitted, “Aye, I’ve kissed her and she appeared to like it well enough, but she’s still determined to marry the old man.”

“Hmm.” Fiona tapped her lips. “If you can’t seduce her body, you’d best turn to her mind.”

He blinked. “Her mind?”

Fiona threw her toast in his direction. She always was a horrible aim. “Yes, you oaf. It’s that thing between your ears. Most women happen to possess one, too.”

“Oh, then just yours was left out at birth?” he returned.

Fiona continued blithely as if she hadn’t heard the barb. “Discover her interests, her hobbies, her favorite books . . . engage her on a different level.” Fiona’s gaze locked with his, all seriousness. “Persuade her. Convince her that she can’t have anyone else but you. Make the notion of any other man intolerable because no one but you will do. Make her believe no other man will care about her as you do.”

Leaning back in his chair, he brought his cup of steaming coffee to his lips, inhaling the chicory aroma and considering his sister’s words. He arched a brow at Alexander, silently inviting him to chime in.

“She’s right.” He smiled fondly at Fiona, plucking her hand off the table and kissing the back of it. “That’s the way it is between us.”

“Spare me,” Logan muttered, although the sight did twist something inside his gut. He was happy that his sister had found such contentment in her marriage, and he possibly wondered if he could find a measure of the same for himself.

And yet he was certain that Cleopatra Hadley was not a woman easily persuaded into anything. Especially now that he understood that fear for her family drove her. She’d settled on Thrumgoodie . . . believed him to be her salvation. It would not be easy to sway her from that notion . . . and he was not inclined to inform that he’d put her stepfather on a ship for South Africa. He didn’t want her coming to him out of gratitude. He wanted her to want him.

A groom arrived with a tray bearing several envelopes upon it. He set the tray down beside Fiona. With a smile, she took the envelopes and began perusing them, as she was accustomed to do during breakfast. In the years since she’d married, his sister seemed to have grown into herself. She actually appeared to enjoy her life here. Living in Town with all its diversions suited her.

“Ah, appears to be an invitation for you, Logan.” She tossed a letter in his direction. “You’re not a total pariah after all.”

Alexander chuckled and Fiona flashed him an approving smile.

With a grunt, Logan tore open the letter and scanned the elegantly worded missive.

“Well?” Fiona prompted.

“I’ve been invited to a house party.”

“My, my, you have made friends. I’ve underestimated you, Logan.”

“Mr. Hamilton requests the honor of my company . . .”

“And will you be going?”

“I think if a certain lady is in attendance . . . and I fully expect she will be . . . then I most certainly will be there.” Immediately he envisioned himself slipping into Cleo’s bedchamber in the dead of night and waking her with a heated kiss.

“Heaven help her,” Alexander murmured, shaking his head side to side. “If you’re anything like your sister, the chit doesn’t stand a chance.”

“Anything like me?” Fiona blinked. “Who do you think I learned it from?”

Logan gazed at the invitation in his hand, their voices fading to the background.

He didn’t care for Hamilton. Even if he hadn’t been so quick to malign Cleo that first evening at the opera, there was simply something in his eyes that Logan distrusted. And yet if she was there, he’d tolerate the fellow. It was a small thing for him to bear in order to win her. And what better venue than a house party to convince her she should choose him over old Thrumgoodie? Certainly he’d be able to steal her away for a private word. On multiple occasions. A slow smile curved his lips. Perhaps more than words would be exchanged.

W
hat on earth am I doing here
?

It was a question Cleo had asked herself again and again, too many times to recall at this point.

She’d been shocked initially to even garner an invitation to Hamilton’s estate . . . until she reminded herself that Hamilton strove to secure his grand-uncle’s blessing. And having her in attendance went far in pleasing Lord Thrumgoodie.

She might have felt more comfortable if Jack had accompanied her, but business kept him in Town. So she’d come alone, traveling with Libba and the earl. After Roger’s visit, she knew every day that she dallied her brothers and sisters suffered.

The carriage ride had been nothing short of a trial. She’d endured Libba waxing on and on about McKinney. Although he still hadn’t called upon her—apparently she hadn’t seen him at Lady Fordham’s ball—he had accepted the invitation to Hamilton’s house party. A fact that had filled Cleo with delight and dread. Confusing to be sure.

She had no desire to marry the man . . . as he’d outrageously offered. He was the complete antithesis of what she desired in a husband. His virility was overwhelming to her senses. If she married him she’d end up as broken as her mother. Not a year would pass before her belly swelled with child. An image of the babies she’d carried so solemnly to that lonely churchyard flashed through her mind. A shudder racked her. She couldn’t endure that. And the babies would be hers, so the misery would only be amplified. She couldn’t even fathom it.

One thing for certain, she refused to live it. No matter that for those few minutes in the garden and the library, she’d found herself at ease with him. Even comfortable and relaxed. Such peace could never last.

She glanced out at the horizon. Dusk approached, tingeing the sky a faint purple orange, and she began to hope that McKinney had changed his mind and decided not to attend.

“Can I get you anything, my lord?” she inquired from where she sat beside Thrumgoodie in a reclining chair.

His hands shook lightly where they were folded in his lap over his blanketed legs. He seemed very different from the man she’d met almost a year ago. His energy was waning, and she suspected Libba had spoken the truth when she said her grandfather’s health was on the decline.

The wind blew softly, lifting the ends of her shawl. She pulled the soft pashmina closer around her and stared out at the figures dotting the lawn. The loud
thwack
of Libba’s mallet carried across the air. She crowed with delight, waving her arms in the air like she’d won some grand prize.

Thrumgoodie clapped his gnarled hands. His rheumy gaze swung to Cleo. “Looks to be a rousing game, indeed! Certain you don’t want to play, my dear? I won’t mind if you leave me for a bit. Not so long as you return soon.” He winked one rheumy eye.

She shook her head. “I’m quite content to sit here with you.” Safe from Hamilton’s probing gaze. There was a cunning behind his gaze that she didn’t trust. Her unease around him was only pronounced by being here beneath his very roof. She’d entered the enemy camp.

He reached for her hand. “You’re such a darling to keep an old man company as you do.”

She patted the back of his hand. “No hardship, my lord.”

“Sometimes I feel selfish keeping a young dove such as you to myself.” He looked wistful for a moment. “I’m no young buck anymore.” He motioned to the lawn. “You should be frolicking out there instead, with others your age.”

“But I want to be here.” She inhaled through her nose, adding on a gust of breath: “With you.”

Did he hear the hesitation in her voice?

He stared at her for a long moment and she felt as though he were deciding something, assessing her and then weighing something inside of himself.

She held her breath, sensing this moment was important . . . that her future and whether it rested with him was being decided. At least on his part.

His hold on her hand tightened, surprisingly strong for one so aged. “Cleopatra,” he began, stopping to cough and work his throat clear.

She nodded, a tightness closing around her throat. This was it.

He would ask for her hand now.

Her flesh grew tight and itchy. She blinked suddenly aching eyes. “Yes?”

Abruptly his gaze shifted, lifting to settle on something over her shoulder. “Ah, McKinney, my good man!” he exclaimed. “Was beginning to think you wouldn’t make it!”

Blast the man! Must he ruin everything? Without even a word he managed to thwart her. His mere presence did the trick.

She shot a fulminating glare over her shoulder at him. His eyes locked on her, the gray glittering with amusement, and she knew he knew. Not that his presence displeased her, although she was certain he knew that to be true. No. He knew that he had interrupted something important. He winked at her.

Infernal man! She fumed, not even aware of the words passing between the two men, entirely too irate that he had chosen this moment to arrive. And beneath her annoyance, was another emotion that equally disturbed her.
Relief
.

What was wrong with her? She was finally close to getting what she wanted.