Lessons from a Scandalous Bride (13 page)

Everything.

Her eyes burned as the word penetrated—as she absorbed that he was right. As he eased into sleep beside her, she held herself still, reeling with the realization of what she had become—a person she didn’t want to be. Yet with her stepfather’s threats hanging over her head, she didn’t know how she could be anything else.

Chapter Seventeen

T
he pale light of dawn greeted her as she slowly opened her eyes. For a moment, she stared uncomprehendingly at the single window, absorbing the bluish light creeping between the curtains. Her thoughts were fuzzy and it took her a moment to register where she was . . . and even longer to process who shared the bed alongside her.

In that instant it all flooded over her, and her eyes flew wide.

Every sensation struck her full force. The long press of his body against hers. The weight of his arm draped over her. The span of each of his fingers against her belly. His chest was warm and broad—endless at her back. Her heart thudded violently against her rib cage.

Cleo’s thoughts raced, recalling the events of last night.

She was ruined. No mistake about that. Strangely, she couldn’t summon much regret about the loss of Thrumgoodie, and she suspected the reason had something to do with the man pressed alongside of her.

“How long are you going to pretend to be asleep?”

In one smooth move, he rolled her onto her back and came over her. His face was inches from hers, their noses almost touching. His thumb grazed her temple, feathering the tiny hairs there.

Even in the dim light, his eyes shone clear and bright, scanning her face as though he were memorizing it. In all her life, another person had not looked at her with such complete intensity.

Her heart stuttered against her chest so violently she was sure he felt it, too. She waited, her flesh tight and prickly with anticipation. Still, he did not move—didn’t lower his mouth that remaining half inch.

With a faint groan, she surrendered and lifted her mouth, touching his. It was all he needed, and she realized in some distant corner of her thoughts, that he’d been waiting for her to do this very thing.

Their mouths fused together hotly, devouring, consuming with hungry lips and feverish tongues. She held his face with both hands, clinging to him, desperate and needy.

His hands touched her everywhere, sure and firm, molding to her curves, caressing her in places that made her cry out against his mouth. He made short work of shedding her clothes, tossing them to the floor.

He stared down at her for a long moment. Ideally, this should have been the moment where reason returned in a flood, but he looked so beautiful gazing down at her, his eyes glittering and intense, his dark hair falling across his brow. And then there was his body.

Never had she seen such a sight. Lean and hard, his muscles played along his torso and rippled over his ribs. His sinewy arms were braced on either side of her and she wanted to turn her face and kiss every inch of the sculpted flesh.

He lowered down until his chest mashed into her breasts. The lean line of him aligned with her own naked body and the sensation fired her every nerve. She gasped as his narrow hips settled between her thighs.

His roughened palms glided over the outside of her thighs and her breath caught as those big hands slid beneath her garments, cupping her buttocks. He positioned himself deeply against her, and there was no mistaking the prodding bulge. She moaned at the sensation. And then he began to move. The hard length of him rubbed against her, sliding between her moist, intimate heat without penetrating.

An ache grew low in her belly, shooting a direct line to where he pressed against her. The friction became unbearable. She became slippery and wet against him.

She thrashed her head against the pillow. “Please, please, Logan.”

He rubbed deeper, moving in a manner that mimicked the act of lovemaking. She shook, trembled from desire, the need so great in her that she at last convulsed in his arms. Her nails dug into the smooth expanse of his back as fiery sensations rushed through her.

It went on and on. Ripples of pleasure crashed over her like a pounding tide.

She cried out his name and he drowned the sound with a blistering kiss. Suddenly he stilled against her, the throbbing length of him no longer moving and creating that delicious friction . . . and she was left with a vague sense of dissatisfaction. A hunger for more.

His arms, braced on either side of her, shook with restraint. She couldn’t help herself. She moved against him, used some wanton part of herself that she didn’t know existed inside her—that she had prayed, for years, didn’t exist within her.

“What are you doing?” he grit through clenched teeth.

The answer materialized in her mind. “Enjoying life,” she returned. “Isn’t that what you said I should do?”

“Stop,” he commanded, his jaw tense as though in pain.

It was wicked of her, she knew, but she didn’t stop.

With an epithet, he slid away from her. She thought he was gone, that she’d pushed him too far, but then his hands were on her thighs again, and she felt him there, his muscled shoulders between her legs.

“What are you doing?” she shrieked.

He splayed a hand on her belly, pinning her to the bed as his head delved between her thighs.

“Showing you,” he rasped, the moment before she felt his mouth there, his tongue tasting, licking, sampling her like she was some treat.

She bit her lip to stop from crying out at the sheer sinful shock of it. Then his mouth found the tiny nub buried in her folds. She couldn’t describe the wonder of it. She arched off the bed with a strangled shout as his lips sucked.

The waves were back, crashing over her. Hot sensation rolled through her again and again. Still, he didn’t stop, continued working his mouth over her like a man on a mission. She writhed like she was on fire beneath him, and she was. She’d never imagined anything like this was even possible—pleasure so acute, so swift and sharp. A pleasure so intense it bordered on pain.

Finally, she drifted back down and he slowed, easing himself away, collapsing at her side.

After some moments, she found her voice in her parched throat. “Why?”

Why didn’t you take me, satisfy your own lusts on my body? Why did you only give?

He didn’t say anything at first and she thought she was going to be left wondering.

Then he rose from the bed, speaking as he moved to don his clothes. “I just wanted you to know.”

Even in the shadowy room, she could identify his state of arousal. It would be hard to miss. The sight of it alone brought the ache back between her legs. Her body, it seemed, knew there was still more he had to show her.

She pulled the sheet around her naked body. “Know what?”

“That not every man is a ravening beast intent on taking his pleasure. That I can control myself.” He stopped and came over her suddenly, his flexing arms braced on either side of her. “You can trust me. Some things—like the number of children you have—can be controlled.”

He was so close. She found herself straining for his mouth again. And then he was gone from her, shoving off the bed. He pulled on his boots and left the room.

She sat there for a long moment, the sheet hugged to her chest as she wondered how in the span of one day she had come to this point—a woman seriously considering marrying the exact type of man she’d sworn off. A man that could be her total undoing.

She fell back on the bed and inhaled deeply, which only brought the warm, musky scent of him washing over her anew. A rush of longing swept over that she quickly stamped down. This wasn’t supposed to be about her. About her wants and desires. She was supposed to be looking out for her family.

She was her mother’s daughter, after all, it seemed—quick to lose her head for a handsome man. It should panic her, but oddly she only felt a small frisson of unease. The need to make a decision weighed on her. She kept hearing his words:
You can trust me. Some things—like the number of children you have—can be controlled.

Was that true? She was of a mind to trust him and yet it was so difficult to release her demons and let herself go.

Let herself fall.

Chapter Eighteen

L
ogan walked Cleo to the front door of her father’s Mayfair mansion, her scent filling his nose. He felt conspicuous as he carried her valise. Even in the dark of night, eyes followed them. Servants peering from windows, people passing in carriages. Anyone who looked at them could see they’d been traveling together. Alone. He wondered if this occurred to her, too. Whether it concerned her in the least. Somehow he didn’t think so. Nothing that happened between them last night or this morning appeared to alter her determination not to wed him.

He’d left his horse in the drive alongside the nag he’d acquired for her to ride the rest of the way to Town. A groom rushed to attend to the beasts. She didn’t bother knocking at Hadley’s front door, simply strode inside.

He stepped behind her, fully intending to follow her, but once over the threshold she turned around and stopped, preventing him from going any further. Apparently, she didn’t wish him to join her inside.

He glared down at her, undeniably annoyed. He felt like a lad of thirteen again when Marlena, the young widow from the village, a very worldly nineteen-year-old, had brushed him off after introducing him to the wonders of the female body. He was too old, had seen too much to feel like this.

“I’d like to speak to your father.”

“I know you would,” she said evenly, giving a brisk nod. “I’ll talk to him myself. Explain everything.”

Suspicion knotted his stomach. Specifically regarding whether she would actually explain
everything
. Such as how ruined she was . . . and that he wanted to set it to rights and wed her. He glanced beyond her as if he might spot her father. “You can’t stop me from talking to him.”

She nodded again, the motion swift. “He won’t like hearing what happened. It’s best if it comes from me. He sets a lot of store in such things.”

“Things like your reputation?” he bit out. “Fathers tend to do that.”

She winced. “Let me break it to him first. Then you can pay us a call tomorrow.”

He angled his head, studying her closely. “What are you saying, Cleo?”

Her chest lifted on a deep breath. “I’ll marry you.”

His chest eased and loosened. He had to stop himself from grinning like a fool. Especially considering she looked as grim as an undertaker.

She leaned in closer, clutching the edge of the door. “You said I could trust you.”

He nodded at her whisper. “You can.”

Her eyes locked on his, soulful and deep . . . almost pleading. “I’m counting on that. Don’t expect me to be a real wife.”

The tightness came back again, seizing his chest. “What can I expect then?”

“I’ll try . . . but—” She licked her lips and looked over her shoulder. “Intimacy will be . . . infrequent.” Her eyes searched his face, and he read the fear there, the uncertainty. Accepting him was at great cost to her. “And you said there were ways to avoid—” Her voice dipped so low he could scarcely hear her. “Children . . .”

He nodded slowly. She was telling him she might never want children. It wounded more than he expected. And yet not enough to turn away from her. He wanted her. At any cost.

He wasn’t one of those men determined to populate the earth with his progeny. He had brothers. His family line would doubtlessly stay within his immediate family. He reminded himself that his goal coming here was to secure an heiress. It wasn’t to find himself a broodmare.

He covered her hand where it clutched the edge of the door, her slight fingers smooth beneath his own. “I won’t demand it of you. I’ll honor your wish.”

She released a rattling breath, her expression relieved. With a shaky smile, she slid her hand out from his and closed the door. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

The door clicked shut. He stared at it for some moments before turning and walking down the steps.

He’d won his heiress, but he felt no triumph. He hadn’t won Cleo.

Not yet.

“C
leo!” Her father’s voice boomed across the foyer before she had managed two steps from the door. “You’ve returned!”

She jumped and turned to face Jack guiltily. Partly because she’d just shoved Logan from the house like some dirty little secret. And partly because she’d hoped to escape upstairs and compose herself before confronting him.

He advanced on her with an anxious expression on his face. “I didn’t think Dobson would fetch you this quickly, but all the better. Come. She’s in the drawing room.”

Her father was expecting her? He’d sent Dobson to fetch her home? “Who’s in the drawing room?”

Jack stopped and stared down at her. “Didn’t Dobson tell you?”

It appeared she would have to explain everything right now whether she liked it or not. “Dobson didn’t fetch me home. I returned on my own.”

Jack shook his head. “Thrumgoodie decided to return early?”

“Um, not precisely.”

He looked from her to the door, as though he might find the explanation of how she’d gotten here written upon it.

“Lord McKinney brought me back.”

“McKinney? You traveled alone with him?” Jack’s ruddy complexion darkened, no doubt grasping the implications of this scenario. “Whatever for?”

“I didn’t have a choice.”

His head cocked to the side. “How’s that?”

“You see . . . we were caught.” She bit her lip. Releasing the bruised flesh, she added, “In a rather comprising situation. In my bedchamber.”

Jack gaped.

“Thrumgoodie was quite upset, as you can imagine.” She saw no point in explaining that she’d been engaged to the earl up until that disastrous moment. It would only make Jack’s disappointment more acute. “Hamilton saw fit to kick me and Lord McKinney from his house.”

“I’ll kill him.”

“Now, Jack.” She rested her hand on his arm. “I’m a grown woman and responsible for my actions. You can’t blame Logan any more than you can blame me.”

Jack’s eyes snapped fire. “I’m not talking about McKinney—although he’ll have some explaining to do as well. I’m talking about Hamilton. And Thrumgoodie for that matter. How dare they boot you from the house as if you were some common trash? Thrumgoodie escorted you. I don’t care what you did! The man should have seen you safely home.”

She squeezed his arm, trying to calm him. “No harm done. And I couldn’t really bear to stay in that house a moment longer . . . not after being caught with Logan like that.”

Her father huffed and looked down at her. “Logan, is it?”

Her cheeks heated. She managed a nod.

“You care about him?”

She blinked. Partly because the question was so unexpected from Jack. She never expected him to care one way or another. And partly because she didn’t wish to consider the notion. She couldn’t care for Logan. That would be . . . bad. Bad for her control when it came to keeping him at arm’s length.

“I-I suppose. Yes. I do,” she answered, guessing that was the answer that would most appease Jack. She couldn’t explain her complicated relationship with Logan to him.

He nodded as though satisfied. “I’m assuming he intends to salvage your reputation and—”

“Yes, he’s offered.”

He waved an arm widely. “Then where is he?”

“I insisted he call on you tomorrow. After you and I had spoken.”

He grunted and tugged his jacket down his barrel frame. “Very well. A Scottish lord isn’t what I’d hoped for you, but it’s something at least.”

Her lips twisted. Of course, she couldn’t forget her father’s mission was to see his daughters well wed. She and Marguerite might not have scored the best matches in his estimation, but at least Grier had not disappointed him.

He clapped his hands. “Come now. I’ve a surprise for you.”

He took her elbow and guided her to the drawing room. She followed, curious to meet the mysterious “she” he’d referred to.

He pushed open one of the double doors with a flourish. Immediately, Cleo’s gaze landed on the female knitting quietly on the sofa, her expression soft and serene, but with a lingering sadness.

She wore a drab dress of wool. It did nothing to compliment her rather pudgy shape—or the bland brown hair pulled back into an equally bland bun.

“Cleo, allow me to present Annalise.”

The young woman hastily dropped her needlework and rose to her feet, her expression hopeful and anxious as she gazed at Cleo. A faint awareness tingled at the back of her neck, tightening her skin as she stared at the girl. She almost felt as though she knew her . . . that perhaps they’d met before.

Annalise took a few steps in Cleo’s direction. As she did so, Cleo saw she moved with a slight limp. Annalise trained her large brown eyes on Cleo. Brown like the rest of her except that they were large and lovely, framed with remarkably long lashes. They were quite her best feature—extraordinary really.

“Hello,” Cleo greeted, looking to her father, uncertain who this stranger was and why he seemed so excited to have her here.

“Hello,” Annalise returned. “I’ve heard a great deal about you from Jack.” She wrung her small hands together in front of her.

Jack’s smile broadened. “I told Annalise all about you . . . how quickly you acclimated to Town life and had beaus courting you left and right.” He waved a hand like he was swatting flies.

Cleo stifled a snort. It hadn’t exactly happened like that. “Er, yes. And will you be in Town long?” She looked helplessly at Jack, unsure what to say to this strange girl and beginning to become annoyed that he wasn’t enlightening her as to her identity.

“I should think so,” Jack declared, smiling. “She has the bedchamber next to yours.”

Cleo looked from Jack to the girl, a sinking suspicion beginning to take hold. If possible, the girl’s hopeful expression only intensified, leaving Cleo with no doubt.

She was staring at her sister.