Lessons from a Scandalous Bride (6 page)

It seemed neither one of them could manage speech. He looked as astonished as she felt. She only hoped that his shock would soon translate into regret. Eventually. That his low opinion of her would return in full force and this moment would soon be a dim memory.

Turning, she fled.

She’d forget this ever happened. She’d forget him. Even if forced into proximity again, she’d treat him as she would a stranger. Because that’s all he could ever be.

Chapter Nine

L
ogan watched her go, his body throbbing and alive as it hadn’t felt in years. Certainly not since he’d traveled across the country and began courting vapid young misses who thrilled him about as much as a glass of day-old milk.

“Cleopatra,” he murmured, his lips still tender and warm from the taste of her. For the first time he not only said her name, he allowed himself to think it. To feel it in his blood.

In that moment, something turned, something shifted inside him as definite as a key turning in its lock. She moved from the category where she’d been residing in his mind.

She wasn’t the cold, uninteresting female he’d first thought her to be. Far from it. He could still feel the delicious shape of her in his hands, against his body. And perhaps he’d known this all along. Why else had she consumed so much of his thoughts?

He followed in her wake, moving slowly across the pebbled path bisecting the lush lawn, coming to terms with this new realization. And grappling with what it signified.

L
ater that night in her bed, Cleo stared into the dark, her hand pressed to lips that still felt overly warm and tender. He had kissed her.

She had kissed him back.

She caught herself just short of smiling. Rolling onto her side, she struck her pillow several times.

Was this how it had been for her mother? She could almost empathize. Which was a frightening consideration when she had judged her mother weak and without sense all these years. With a sigh, she sat up and struck her pillow anew, using more vigor.

Feeling slightly better, she dropped back down and glared up at the dark canopy overhead.

Her mind raced ahead, contemplating when she would likely next see him. The Fordham ball was the day after tomorrow. She’d clarify matters with him then. He would not mistake her meaning. She’d be steadfast and resolved.

Tempting or not, she wouldn’t succumb. His lips would not come near her again. And she’d make sure he knew that.

C
leo’s feet tapped to the music, longing to dance, but knowing that would be unlikely. Lord Thrumgoodie was hardly a candidate. Understandably. He had no wish to break a hip. Rather than take to the dancing floor, he occupied himself at one of the card tables. A far safer pursuit. She assumed that all the other gentlemen considered her off the market because they never asked her.

Cleo currently stood along the edge of the ballroom beside a pouting Libba. She tried to focus on the swirl of colorful gowns, but it was difficult standing next to Libba. The girl had no shortage of gentlemen willing to partner her on the dance floor. With her pedigree and dowry, all manner of men pursued her. And yet she chose to spend her evening whining beside Cleo, rejecting dance partner after dance partner.

She stared straight ahead as Libba dismissed yet another gentleman with a feeble lie. “Forgive me, Reginald, but my head is aching most miserably.”

Cleo inhaled. Viable men sought her, and yet Libba had set her cap for only one.

An uncomfortable knot formed in her gut as she recalled the kiss she and McKinney had shared. As much as she regretted it and knew it could never happen again, oddly enough, in these moments with Libba, it gave her a secret delight. Until it occurred to her that he may have kissed Libba, too. Then she felt only jealous and panicky.

As the callow Reginald retreated, freshly rejected, Libba spun to face her. “Oh, where is he?” She stamped her foot in a fit of pique. “I know he received an invitation. I made certain of it.”

“Then I’m sure he’ll be here,” Cleo replied.

“He’s changed his mind about me.” Her eyes stared abjectly ahead.

Cleo’s pulse stuttered at her neck with treacherous hope. “W-why do you say that?”

“He hasn’t called upon me in two days.”

Since the day of our kiss.

“Perhaps he’s ill,” she offered lamely, her mind spinning.

Libba gazed at her desperately. “Nor has he sent word. This is so unlike his previous behavior. What if he’s met someone else?”

Cleo coughed, her face suddenly hot. “I find that unlikely.”

“Perhaps someone with a larger dowry—”

“Whose dowry could compare to yours?”

Libba waved a hand. “It’s not impossible. Yours surpasses mine from all accounts I’ve heard.”

At this comment, Cleo strangled on a breath. “I haven’t your grace or charm or social standing . . . no one could compete with you on those points.”

Libba shrugged. “Ah, well. That’s true. I do have a great deal to offer.”

Cleo nodded.

“Perhaps he is ill and just didn’t want me to worry.” Libba cocked her head as though considering this doubtful explanation.

“Yes, I’m sure that’s it,” Cleo lied.

Cleo spied another of Libba’s young swains weaving his way toward her, his face flushed with eagerness. “You really should dance. The last thing Lord McKinney would wish is for you to wallow away during his absence,” she suggested.

“Perhaps.” Her lips pulled into a little moue. “And it would do me good if word got back to him how popular I am.”

“Oh. Naturally.” Cleo nodded. And perhaps another gentleman might catch her fancy and turn her off from Lord McKinney. Not a bad thing, however small the chance. Especially as Cleo was beginning to fear that he had in fact experienced a change of heart regarding his pursuit of Libba. A fact for which she felt heartily to blame.

Could their one kiss have persuaded him to forget Libba?

Of course not
. She scoffed at the absurd notion. It was one kiss. She wasn’t so egotistical to think her lips possessed the power to change one man’s matrimonial plans.

She watched in satisfaction as Libba finally accepted a partner and was swept away on the dance floor. Cleo inhaled, at peace for the moment with a respite from Libba. Her gaze scanned the room, looking for her father even as she assumed that he was still in the card room with Lord Thrumgoodie. When it came to whist, the two were a pair. They could play for hours.

Her gaze suddenly halted amid its survey of the room. There, in the threshold, stood her McKinney.

She blinked and silently cursed the mental slip. Not
her
anything!

His gray eyes scanned the room and she spun around before he could see her. So much for her determination to face him. She fled, hoping he hadn’t spotted her—or that he couldn’t recognize the back of her.

She wove her way through bodies. Holding up her skirts, she disappeared down a corridor, telling herself she needed but a moment alone to gather her nerve . . . to regain her composure before she issued her warning that he keep his hands—and lips—to himself.

She passed the buzzing card room. A glance inside revealed the crowd of gentlemen—even a few ladies. Not a very good hiding place.

She pushed ahead. Feeling very much like a panicked hare, she hurried forward without direction, no destination in mind. She couldn’t imagine McKinney staying too long. He always seemed to possess an air of ennui in large gatherings—like he’d rather be somewhere, anywhere, else. Or perhaps that was simply wishful thinking. He’d arrived late. Perhaps he intended to stay a good while.

Perhaps if he can’t locate you, he’ll leave.

She shook her head at the arrogant thought. If she believed that, then she believed his reason for coming here tonight was because of her. For all she knew that kiss meant nothing to him and he was here to continue his courtship of Libba. That seemed the most logical conclusion.

She soon found herself in the portrait gallery. She strolled down the long length, gazing at several stern faces staring down at her—a long line of proper-looking aristocrats. She snorted, thinking of her own ancestors. Peasants, all. None could have imagined any descendant of theirs ever strolling the floors of such a grand house. A year ago she would not have thought such a thing possible.

Steps sounded in the distance, echoing off the marbled floor. She started, looking swiftly to the left and right. Her first thought was that he was coming after her.

Even as she recognized this as foolish and unlikely, she dove behind a potted fern. It was a rather large specimen. Even so, she doubted she was totally hidden to the discerning eye. Her peacock blue skirts peeped out from around the fern. And yet, she held herself utterly still.

It only sounded like one pair of feet. A man’s tread. Her heart thudded in her chest. She bit her lip and turned her face away from the offending branch poking near her eye. Probably just someone wandering through to view the gallery.

Even as she reasoned this, she held her breath, listening. The steps rang out with an echo as they entered the gallery.

And then they stopped altogether.

Too many leaves obscured her view, and she didn’t wish to rustle them with her fingers. She imagined some innocuous soul standing there, studying one of the portraits. Just as she was counting herself ten kinds of fool for concealing herself behind a fern, a voice rumbled across the air.

“Are you going to hide there forever?

She jerked, the wretchedly familiar voice with its velvet burr like a slap.

He spoke again, “I can see your dress. Come now. Show yourself.”

“Hiding?” She stepped out from behind the fern and smoothed both hands over her skirts. Lifting her chin, she adopted an even tone and blinked innocently. “How absurd. Why would I hide?”

“Because you’re avoiding me.”

“I’m not avoiding you. Why would I even bother to do such a thing?” She snorted lightly, applauding herself for how calm and unaffected she sounded.

He angled his head and swept her a hot look that brought everything back. His mouth on hers. His hands moving over her back. That impossibly broad chest pressed against her.

Heat crawled up her face. With a look like that, he clearly wanted her to remember.

“Oh. Because of that?” She waved a hand dismissively. “A mistake to be sure, but it won’t happen again.” It was the closest she could bring herself to discussing what had happened.

He stepped closer, his boot heels clicking on the floor. His gray eyes were as stormy as a night sea and she felt a stab of alarm that only intensified at his next words. “I would very much like to kiss you again.”

Her eyes widened. She hadn’t expected such bluntness—nor the way those very direct words made her belly flutter.

Her breath fell faster. “That’s quite impossible.”

“Why?”

She shook her head, baffled that he should even have to ask. That she should need to explain. “You know why.”

He shook his head slowly. “I’ve considered it, and no. I don’t know why we cannot. We’re both marriage-bound and obviously suited.”

“Because of a mere kiss you think we are suited?”

“Mere?” His dark eyebrows winged high. He was close enough now. Too close. He reached for her and she knew instantly he meant to prove her wrong, to take her in his arms again and show her there was nothing
mere
about their kiss.

She danced out of his range and held up a hand to ward him off. “Very well!” she quickly admitted, hoping to avert the disaster of his lips landing on hers again. “It was . . . nice.”

That stopped him. “Nice?” he demanded.

Her heart flipped as she gazed at his face—so handsome in his indignation that the sight made her chest ache.

“More than nice,” she amended, taking a sliding step backward.

His gray eyes darkened and she knew she’d annoyed him. “Liar.”

She flinched.

“I want you,” he declared, stepping nearer again. “And you want me, too.”

She shook her head. “You’re making too much of this.” She took another step back and bumped into a bust of some long-dead ancestor. It wobbled dangerously and she quickly turned, grabbing it and steadying it with her shaking hands.

She exhaled with relief and turned to find him there, practically on top of her. She gasped. Unable to back up a step again without sending the bust careening to the floor, she held her ground. Her hands wobbled uncertainly between them before surrendering and coming to rest on his splendidly broad chest.

His heart thudded strong and deep against her palms, and she was achingly reminded of his words—could hear them in her head.
I want you.

There was no mistaking his intent even if he hadn’t said such an outrageous thing. She could see it in his eyes . . . smell it on the musky, intoxicating aroma of him. In the way he held his body against her, all tense muscles ready to spring.

She moistened her lips and asked, grasping at straws, “What about Libba?”

“Come now.” His stare searched her face, missing nothing. “I’ve promised her nothing.”

“Formally, yes, no proposal has been issued, but the expectation is there all the same.”

“Everyone has expectations. Disappointments are a way of life. She’ll forget me in time and favor someone else.”

Cleo shook her head, her heart thundering in her chest. She doubted that. He was quite unforgettable. She glanced at his too handsome face and then looked away. But too late. The strong lines, the dark slashing eyebrows and steel gray eyes were there, permanently etched in her mind.

God, she was her mother’s daughter, to lose her head over the first handsome man to pay her such attentions, to pursue her as a hungry predator might.

He reached down to caress the fat sausage curl draped over her bare shoulder. “Like satin,” he murmured. “Molten chocolate.”

“I don’t understand.” The words rasped slowly from her lips, her thoughts churning sluggishly through her head. His nearness, his touch did that to her—addled her head. “You’re saying you no longer wish to court Libba because . . .” She stopped, unable to put it into words.

His lips curled in a half smile, crooked and enticing. “I’m a pragmatic man.” His hand turned so that his fingertips stroked the bend of her throat, where her neck and shoulder connected.

“Uh-huh.” She struggled to focus, something exceedingly difficult with his velvet touch on her. Was this seduction then? This sensation of sinking deeply, inexorably into a pool of sensation.

“There’s only one lady I’ve met that fires my mind and blood. How can I turn from her?”