Lessons from a Scandalous Bride (Forgotten Princesses #2)(11)

Before she could so much as squeak, he took hold of Thrumgoodie’s hand that gripped her shoulder fiercely and guided him from the room, taking the old man’s weight into himself as if he were nothing more than a feather.

After a stunned moment, she followed, resenting that he should have been the one to stay behind and help her. When they at last settled in at the dining table, she focused her attention on her companions, grateful they were neither Hamilton nor McKinney. Still, she found it quite difficult to focus on the words of the soft-spoken lady beside her. Not with Libba laughing uproariously every few moments.

Cleo found herself sneaking baleful glances down the table. Libba threw back her head and leaned her entire body to the side, swatting the Scotman’s arm again and again. She held her ribs as if they ached from laughter.

Lord McKinney talked with ease, his broad hand waving carelessly on the air, a mild smile playing on his well-carved lips. Cleo narrowed her eyes on him and felt a fresh surge of dislike. He couldn’t be that genuinely amusing or charming. Nor could he honestly find Libba’s braying enjoyable. He doubtlessly played puppet to Libba, hanging on her every word and acting as though she truly had something interesting to say. The man belonged on stage. It would have been comical if it did not annoy her so much. She stabbed at a small roasted potato on her plate with uncharacteristic force.

Suddenly he looked up to catch her watching him. She possessed too much pride to look away as if she were guilty of some crime, so she held his stare, lifting the potato to her lips and chewing as if his scrutiny failed to affect her.

He must have read some of her distaste for him on her face, for the smile he had worn so easily for Libba faded and his eyes turned to hard chips of winter gray. Again, the condemning judgment. As his gleaming gaze watched her watching him, that night at the opera came back in a flood.

Jack, thankfully, paid her little note, too intent on impressing the young widow beside him to notice the stare-down between her and McKinney. Deciding she’d wasted enough of her time on the man, she looked away for good, determined to not give him another thought.





Chapter Six

At 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 . . .”