Lessons from a Scandalous Bride (7 page)

She gazed up at him, feeling utterly bemused. “Who’s that?”

He smiled that devilish grin again. “You. It only makes sense that you and I should court.”

Court? He wanted a legitimate relationship with her? She blinked, some of the fog dissipating as reality fought its way to the surface.

“You’re mad,” she whispered, and then reminded him. “And I’m no lady. Just a bastard. You can’t mean to entertain . . .”

He frowned, looking rather disappointed with her. “I don’t care about the circumstances of your birth. We’re both seeking the same thing. Why not choose each other?”

No words could have struck terror to her heart with more speed. She wiggled free of him, heedless of the delicious friction it created between their bodies.

With a growl, he grabbed hold of her wrist and forced her back around to face him. If possible, they now stood even closer than before. His arms came up to wrap around her, his hands warm and all-encompassing against her spine. The temptation to soak up his touch, lean into him like a purring cat was cruelly beguiling.

She struggled against this—against him. He was a brick wall. Immovable. Overwhelming. She was again reminded why virile, muscular men were so repellent to her. She loathed this sensation of being somehow fragile and easily broken. Prey for a man who could use her and crush her if she left herself vulnerable. Her mother’s face flashed before her eyes, older and more weary than her actual years, broken and defeated.

Not me. Never me.

“Hold still,” he bit out.

She ceased her struggles and glared up at him. A lock of hair fell into her face, waving like a flag in the wind before her eyes. She blew at it and shook her head, trying to force it back.

His gaze scanned her, devouring her face, missing nothing. “What are you so afraid of?”

The question landed like a perfectly targeted arrow, quivering throughout her body.

“N-nothing,” she quickly denied.

“You’re lying. I see the fear in your eyes.”

“Perhaps your unwanted attentions alarm me.”

“I alarm you, but not because you don’t want me.”

“Your arrogance knows no bounds.”

“Are you afraid of getting hurt? Is that it?”

Was she that transparent then? Blast! She clamped her lips shut, determined to say nothing else that confirmed his suspicions.

His eyes narrowed on her face. A muscle feathered tensely across his tight jaw. He looked dangerous and she was reminded how little she knew of this man.

Mentally, she recounted what little she knew of him that she could call fact. He hailed from the Highlands. He possessed a crumbling castle. He used a knife to cut through the stays of ladies’ gowns.

And she trembled with desire in his arms. Fact.

“Has someone hurt you before?” he pressed, his eyes darkening.

Her eyes widened. He thought someone had ravished her?

“No,” she quickly assured, mortification sweeping over her. She hadn’t lived the perfect childhood, but no one had hurt her in that manner. “Nothing like that.”

“But there is something that puts fear in your eyes.”

She silently cursed her slip and the implication that she was frightened. “What you call fear is modesty and good sense.” She moistened her lips. “I’ve set my cap for the earl and ask that you respect that.”

“Why? Is it his title? I know a Scottish title isn’t the same as an English one, but a life as my wife would—”

“Wife?” she echoed. He’d only spoken of courtship. This was the first time he had dared utter the word
wife
. And blast her defiant heart if she didn’t experience a small thrill . . . if her blood didn’t rush just a little bit faster in her veins.

“I’ve a mind to wed you.” His deep voice shot through her like a bolt of lightning. His eyes studied her intently, watching her reaction.

Masculinity rippled off him in waves. Altogether he presented no minor temptation. The same trap her mother and countless other women had fallen into yawned before her. Would she be strong enough to resist?

He stared at her for a long moment, his hands flexing over her arms. “I came to London to find a wife.”

“An heiress,” she quickly corrected.

Something shuttered over his eyes. He didn’t like the reminder, which was why she’d made it, determined to wedge a wall between them. He didn’t want her. Not fully, at any rate. If she weren’t in possession of a dowry, he wouldn’t be discussing marriage with her.

“Very well. I came to Town looking for an heiress. You’re the first one I’ve met who so much as piques my interest.” He swallowed, the cords of his throat working. “I’ll have you, Miss Hadley.”

I’ll have you.

Her skin prickled. As though she were a possession to be claimed. A female to be conquered and crushed beneath his will. Not just once but every day of her life. The words were just what she needed to hear to regain her senses and shake free of her mother’s curse.

“You can’t have me.” No man ever would. Even as she worked to fulfill her arrangement with her stepfather, she would still see to that.

“Why?” he asked, his voice maddeningly calm. “Give me one reason.”

Her mind searched, grasping for anything but the truth. She wouldn’t confide that to him and risk him empathizing with her plight. His wanting her was bad enough. She didn’t need for him to like her. Then he might pursue her with more fervor than he already was. “I can’t do that to Lord Thrumgoodie.”

His look turned skeptical. “Oh, you care about him that much?”

“Of course. I wouldn’t want to crush him.” She bit her lip at the lie. “He means a great deal to me.”

He snorted. “You can come up with a better excuse than that.” His lips quirked in a half smile. “Come now. A blood oath, is that it? He’s holding your kitten hostage?”

She started to smile and then caught herself. “Just take my words to heart. You and I can never be.” Wrenching free, she hastened away, experiencing the strongest sense of déjà vu. She was fleeing him again, the weight of his stare heavy on her back. She hardened her heart and didn’t stop. Didn’t look back.

If she must, she would keep repeating this moment. However many times necessary, she would run. She’d never stop running from him.

Eventually he’d give up. He had too much pride to chase her forever. And she wouldn’t be free that long anyway. If all went her way she’d soon be married to Thrumgoodie. A bitter taste rose in her throat that she fought to swallow. McKinney needed money. He needed an heiress. He’d have to find that in another female.

L
ogan watched her flee with a curse hot on his lips. That hadn’t gone as he’d hoped. He dragged a hand through his hair. A boy of ten and five could have handled that with more finesse.

He’d never fumbled with the fairer sex before. Cleopatra Hadley was the first. He clasped his fingers behind his neck and looked up at the ceiling. Like Antony, he intended to win her heart, too. Hopefully, it wouldn’t take him as long though—nor would it end as tragically.

His every instinct told him the best way to go about winning her was to seduce her. Or perhaps his mounting desire for her pushed him in that direction. Either way, it was a strategy he would very much enjoy employing.

Feeling refreshed with purpose, he strolled from the gallery, hands locked behind his back, whistling an old ballad from home under his breath.

He wouldn’t be nearly so confident if he weren’t positive she wanted him, too. Only fear held her back. A fear he was going to have to defeat . . . once he figured out what provoked it.

So intent on his next move with the complicated and fascinating Miss Hadley, he never noticed the shadowy figure watching him from the corner of the gallery, or that those eyes glowed with an unholy light, the calculating purpose there unwavering and determined enough to rival his own.

Chapter Ten

O
ver Cleo’s protests, Jack insisted on entertaining Lord Thrumgoodie and his family. It wasn’t an evening spent with Thrumgoodie that bothered her so much—she’d already determined to increase her efforts with him and garner that proposal she so desperately needed—but rather the prospect of an evening with the others on her father’s list of guests. She supposed she couldn’t get around Hamilton—he was Lord Thrumgoodie’s houseguest after all. But Lord McKinney?

“He is a nobleman,” her father had explained when she’d asked why they must invite him. “And he’s courting Lady Libba. Why should you care one way or another if he attends, Cleo?”

She held her tongue in the face of her father’s inquisitive stare. How could she explain that the man provoked her? That, incredible as it seemed, he wanted to marry her?

She couldn’t. And that’s how she found herself in her father’s drawing room, suffering through a musicale. Normally, she would have enjoyed such a diversion, but not sandwiched between Thrumgoodie and Hamilton. Nor with McKinney’s warm gaze heating her back.

The conversation with her stepfather replayed itself over and over in her head, and she knew she must extend every effort at encouraging Thrumgoodie. Not an easy task with Hamiltion there, interrupting and insinuating himself between them at every turn.

Cleo looked up as Berthe slipped inside the room and motioned for her to step outside. She eagerly rose and murmured her excuses, skirting around Thrumgoodie and Hamilton.

The soprano her father had engaged for the afternoon sang beautifully, but Cleo was not sorry to leave. It was altogether draining, pretending to ignore Hamilton’s scathing looks . . . pretending the sound of Libba fawning over McKinney didn’t nauseate her.

“Berthe?” Her slippers fell silently over the marbled floor as she approached the maid. “What is it?”

Berthe smiled anxiously. “This missive came for you, miss.” She extended the letter toward Cleo. “It’s from your mother. I knew you would want to read it at once.”

Cleo grinned. “You know me well, Berthe.” Clasping the missive to her chest, she hurried into the neighboring library for a private moment, the smell of books and leather comforting.

As often as she wrote home, her mother had only managed a few letters. Cleo hadn’t let it dismay her, well understanding how busy her mother must be—especially without Cleo’s help.

Excitement pumped through her as she settled onto the settee before the fire and tore open the missive. Her mother’s familiar scrawl leapt off the page. As she scanned the parchment, the smile slipped from her face. Her excitement vanished. Cold washed over her, prickling her flesh.

She pressed a hand against her chest, over the sudden painful pounding of her heart.

“No.” She shook her head and read the words again, hoping, praying she’d read them wrong . . . that she misunderstood somehow.

Pain blossomed in her chest and spread throughout her body as the letter fluttered to the ground. She pressed her chest harder, pushing against the tightness at its center. Her breath came fast and hard and she still couldn’t breathe, couldn’t take enough air inside her constricting lungs.

She slid on her side onto the settee, gazing blindly into the crackling flames until they blurred in front of her.

This couldn’t have happened.
It didn’t happen
. Bess wasn’t gone. She wasn’t dead.

L
ogan watched the doors, waiting for Cleo’s return. As the minutes ticked by, he began to suspect that she wasn’t coming back.

The soprano finished yet another song. As everyone erupted into applause, Logan excused himself, lifting Libba’s clinging hand from his arm and freeing himself. Libba was a taxing creature, and he could only feel sympathy for the man that married her. Thankfully that would not be him. As soon as he persuaded Cleo to marry him, he could dispense with this farce of a courtship.

Free of the drawing room, he expelled a deep breath. He leaned back against the wall and rubbed his forehead. Hopefully, he’d win over Cleo soon.

A small sniffling sound caught his attention. He looked to the right. The double doors leading to the library were cracked. Firelight spilled out into the corridor. He turned and stepped into the path of light, pushing the doors open wider with the flat of his hand.

Cleo lay curled on the settee, her face buried into a cushion. He approached silently, the sound of his steps deadened on the carpet. Her shoulders shook, heaving with silent sobs. Her hair had fallen partially undone, the rich dark waves falling down her back.

He blinked and looked around him, as though he might find the answer to her present condition somewhere within the room. She always came across so composed, prickly and invulnerable. The sight of her weeping left an uncomfortable feeling in the pit of his stomach. He’d been around females before. All his life. His sister, even his mother, the strongest woman he’d ever known . . . all had cried on his shoulder at one time or another.

He cleared his throat. That didn’t seem to have any effect on her.

“Cleo?” He lowered a hand to her shoulder and gave a gentle squeeze. “What happened?”

She muttered something unintelligible. He sank down on the settee beside her. Something crinkled beneath his shoe. Bending down, he grasped a wrinkled sheet of parchment. He looked from her to the letter, guessing it had something to do with her present mood.

Scanning the letter, his heart sank. Lifting his gaze back to Cleo, he asked, “Bess? Your sister?”

A long moment passed before she rolled to face him. Her face was wet from crying, her eyes red-rimmed and . . . haunted. “Yes.”

He shook his head. “I’m so sorry.”

“I should have been there.” She wiped at her face with both hands.

“How old was she?”

“Three.”

He cursed low beneath his breath.

She shook her head, sending loose tendrils flying around her face. “I should have been there.”

He waved the letter. “Your mother said it was consumption.”

“Doesn’t matter,” she said quickly. “It shouldn’t have happened. She was healthy when I left.” She beat a fisted hand to her lap.

“You can’t blame yourself.”

“Can’t I?” She wet her lips and looked at him rather desperately, her eyes alive with a wild light. “I should have wed by now. Then I could have saved her.”

“How does your marrying have anything to do with Bess getting sick?”

“You don’t understand.”

His hand tightened on her. “Then explain it to me.”

She released a deep, shuddering breath. “My stepfather did this. Roger barely kept us in clothes. Or warm. Or fed. He certainly would never see that we received the care of a physician.” Her lip curled in disgust. “He agreed that I could take the children once I married. As long as I paid him, I could have them.” Her face crumpled then. “Not my mother though. He won’t let her go.” Tears swam down her cheeks.

He pulled back in horror at what she described. “He’s holding them hostage?”

“In essence, yes.” She sucked in a deep breath and shook her head as though trying to stave off the tears. “I’ve dragged my feet . . . left them in his care for too long.” Her fist beat in her lap with renewed vigor. “Stupid, stupid. He’s never cared if any of us lived or died before. It’s my fault.”

He cupped her face, letting the warm wet of her tears soak into his palms. “She died because she was sick. That wasn’t your fault. Nor is it your fault that you’re at the mercy of an animal.”

Tears shimmered in her eyes as she gazed up at him. The sight clawed through him. “I wasn’t there to carry her.”

“Carry her?” He frowned, angling his head, his thumbs gently stroking her cheeks. “Where?”

“To the churchyard. It’s my responsibility. I always carry them to the church. I
always
carry them.”

“What do you mean, you . . .” His voice tapered off, suspicion sinking its teeth into him, making him dread her next words.

“Rose, James, Lottie, and Helen. I carried them all. I should have carried her, too. I wasn’t there for her.”

He could only stare at her, speechless for a long moment, struggling to comprehend what she was saying. “Wait. You mean you . . . take the bodies away?”

She nodded once and his gut clenched thinking about her walking to the churchyard holding the dead bodies of her siblings. His throat tightened up on him, but he still managed to say, “That should never have been your burden.”

“Should it have been my stepfather’s? He wouldn’t waste his time with such a task. Nor would I wish him to.” Her eyes glittered passionately. “They deserved someone who cares to walk them to their final rest. I’m the one who’s supposed to carry them.” Her head bowed and she choked out, “Oh, Bess. I’m so sorry.”

He hauled her into his arms, unable to stop himself, unable to stand her suffering for something that was out of her control. He knew her pain was inescapable. He’d lost both his brother and father. He understood grief. She’d just lost her sister. Nothing would ever take away that ache. But he’d be damned if he’d let her think any of it was her fault. “Don’t blame yourself. You loved her. She had that love . . . she always will.”

Her body trembled against him and he held her tighter as if he could somehow take her anguish inside himself. She pulled back enough to look up at him. He scraped the loose tendrils of hair back from where they clung to her damp cheeks.

“Thank you,” she whispered. “It means a lot to hear that . . . to be reminded of that.”

Noses practically touching, he nodded, his gut suddenly clenching tightly in a way that he’d never felt before. Staring down into her tear-filled gaze, he felt like he was drowning. One thing for certain, he’d never met a woman like Cleopatra Hadley. She was stronger than he could have ever known . . . and he wanted her for his wife with a fierceness that stole his breath.

“Miss!” A maid rushed into the room. “Are you all right?” She eyed Logan suspiciously—as if he were the cause for her distress.

Cleo pulled away, sniffing loudly and wiping indelicately at her nose. He hated to leave her, but knew his presence here, with her, was vastly inappropriate. He read as much in the gaze of her maid. Cleo wasn’t his to comfort, as much as he might like her to be. At least not yet.

And yet a new purpose consumed him. Whether she ever belonged to him or not, there was something he could do for her.

C
leo watched Logan depart, staring hungrily at the broad expanse of his back. The gnawing ache at the center of her chest only intensified as he moved away from her. Somehow when he’d held her, talked to her . . . her pain had felt . . . less.

“Miss?” Berthe brushed a tendril back from her face. “Did he hurt you?”

“No, Berthe,” she whispered. “He didn’t hurt me.”

Quite the opposite. Shaking her head, she told herself that she shouldn’t let herself feel this way. Because she was now more determined than ever to marry Thrumgoodie. She lost Bess. She would not lose anyone else.