Lessons from a Scandalous Bride (Forgotten Princesses #2)(12)

Cleo blinked. “So soon?”

“Oh, yes. You’ve been hiding away with that headache of yours for the last two days so you wouldn’t know, but he called on me the day after the opera with a bouquet of hothouse roses.

“Of course he did. He knows a good catch when he sees one,” Cleo replied wryly, but Libba missed her sarcasm and continued talking.

“ . . . And the day after that he took me for a ride in the park. Tomorrow we shall stroll Bond Street. I do hope he will propose soon,” she rushed to say. “Grandfather’s health is so precarious. The last thing I want is Hamilton acting as my guardian . . . or having to delay my wedding because Grandfather died.” Comprehension suddenly broke across Libba’s features. “Oh, how dreadful of me. I did not mean to imply that Grandfather might soon die. I know you’re very . . . fond of him.”

Cleo smiled weakly and patted Libba’s hand. The girl meant well. She just couldn’t be accused of keen intelligence. She could never fault Libba for being unkind. Unlike Hamilton, she was tolerant of Cleo’s budding relationship with her grandfather. “No worries, Libba.”

Libba clutched Cleo’s hand in each of her own. “And he is exceedingly fond of you, too. You’ve brought new life into him.”

Cleo’s smile grew pained.

Libba’s head dipped closer as she whispered conspiratorially, “I believe he intends to offer for you very soon.”

At this confidence, Cleo’s stomach sank. Foolish, of course. They’d been courting for months. This was what she’d been working toward, after all. An easy, uncomplicated match. Safe.

Above all safe.

“W-wonderful.”

“Isn’t it?” Libba’s head bobbed happily. “He swore he would never wed again after his last wife died. Sorry luck, that.” Libba gave her hand another squeeze. “He’ll likely outlive us all. Wait and see.”

“I dearly hope so,” Cleo returned. Not a lie. She truly did not yearn for widowhood . . . as the gossips were fond of declaring. She simply wished to keep her body to herself—and not lose her spirit under the grind of some man’s boot heel. The earl’s days of grinding his boot heels were long past. He was unthreatening in that regard . . . spending most of his days in a prolonged nap.

She need only envision her mother’s haggard face, or recall one of the tiny corpses she’d carried to the churchyard, to know the kind of life she wanted.

Still, the thought that she might soon have to finalize her decision and accept Thrumgoodie’s proposal knotted her stomach.

“Pardon me, Libba. I’m in need of some air.” She rose to her feet and slipped out the drawing room’s balcony doors.

She shivered at the sudden plunge into chilled air. She wished she’d brought her shawl but wasn’t about to go back into the house to fetch it. She moved away from the door. The feminine chatter from within faded as she strolled along the verandah that wrapped around the side of the house.

Chafing her arms, she stared up at the night and squinted, wondering where the stars had vanished. She’d always been able to see them at home. She and her mother were fond of picking out the constellations.

“Can’t see a thing through all the smog.”

Cleo gasped and spun around.

Standing several feet away, the Scot propped a lean hip against the stone railing, his booted feet crossed at the ankles.

“What are you doing out here?” she demanded.

“Could ask you the same.”

She crossed her arms, suddenly unsure what to do with them.

It dawned on her that they’d never even spoken at any length. Just a brief two-or three-worded greeting. For as much as he’d filled her awareness . . . occupied her thoughts, this struck her as strange.

She shivered anew. It was too dark to see his eyes but she imagined they still looked at her with that cold disapproval.

“Tired of the chatter?” he asked, his dark head nodding toward the drawing room.

She soaked up the sound of his voice. The faint brogue rolled through her like warm honey. She shook her head for thinking such a way, angry at herself for letting his voice affect her.

“I needed some fresh air,” she murmured, her voice a tight squeak.

“Bracing yourself for the earl’s cold touch?”

She sucked in a sharp breath, his words as shocking as a dousing of water. “Pardon me?”

“You heard me well enough.”

“Surely not. My ears must be mistaken to have heard you say something so unconscionably rude.”

He chuckled and the sound grated. Suddenly, his laughter stopped and silence stretched between them until he asked, “How old are you?”

She hesitated, but ultimately answered him. “Three and twenty.”

“That young?”

“You thought me older?”

“You must confess there aren’t many girls of your tender years who would consider a man in his eightieth year a prime candidate for a husband.”

She pulled back her shoulders. “You know no bounds, my lord. I’m not sure why anything about me should interest you.”

He shrugged. “You’re a curiosity, I confess.”

“Perhaps I look beyond the superficial shell of a person.”

He chuckled and the sound rippled though her like dribbling honey. “Oh, indeed? Then do tell. Share with me what it is about the old earl that you find so endearing?”