Lessons from a Scandalous Bride (Forgotten Princesses #2)(13)

She stared at him in mutinous silence and she was quite certain that he was enjoying himself. At her expense. His eyes gleamed in the gloom and she felt the overwhelming urge to strike him.

He continued in that rolling burr of his, mocking, “Is it his scintillating conversation?”

“Go to hell.” The words exploded from her lips before she could stop herself. Immediately, she regretted them. She regretted the hot emotion he’d roused within her . . . the unreasonable urge to lash out. She’d never been like this before . . . so defensive, so hostile. Not even with Roger, and he’d justifiably earned her ire on countless occasions. Daily.

He chuckled, seemingly delighted with her outburst. “You’re the first woman I’ve met in this godforsaken city to utter anything quite so . . . honest. It’s a welcome bit of fresh air.”

This declaration bordered on a compliment. Decidedly uncomfortable that he might actually admire her in some fashion, she turned to go. “We shouldn’t be out here . . . alone together.”

He chuckled anew, this sound lower, deeper. It slid seductively along her spine. She stopped, shooting a glance over her shoulder at the dim shape of him. “What’s so amusing?” she queried, the annoyance in her voice crisp and sharp.

“You did not strike me as the type to worry about what others might say.”

His comment hit its mark—no doubt as he’d intended. Her annoyance flared. She stepped closer. Closer than comfortable, but she couldn’t back down after he’d waved a flag like that before her face.

“Because if I did care what others think or say about me I would what?” Another step. “Conduct myself differently?”

Even in the gloom, she detected a bend to his lips. He was smiling. “Your words. Not mine.”

She inhaled thinly through her nostrils. “You really shouldn’t listen to gossip, Lord McKinney. It’s usually untrue.”

“Usually,” he returned. She could hear the smile in his voice. “But you know what they say.”

“And what would that be?”

“There’s always a kernel of truth to every rumor . . .”

Meaning he believed Hamilton’s scathing words about her—that she was naught but a title chaser.

She squared back her shoulders. “I hear you are quite good with a knife. Is that gossip or truth?”

He chuckled again. “I know my way around a blade.”

“You’re incorrigible.”

“I’ve been called worse.”

“I’m certain of that.”

He pushed himself off the railing and advanced. In a few softly thudding steps he was directly in front of her. “You’re a familiar story to me, Miss Hadley.”

Her skin tightened warily. She dropped her head back to peer up at his shadowed features. She should turn and walk away, but she couldn’t resist the bait. “What do you mean by that?”

Shivering, she hugged herself tighter, telling herself it was the chill in the air and not his proximity—or the way his eyes glimmered down at her. “Wasting yourself on someone you can never care about . . . I understand that all too well.”

Her breath seized for a moment at his words . . . at what sounded like regret in his voice. She finally breathed again. “I’m wasting nothing.”

He lifted one shoulder in a half shrug. “Not yet. But you’re on the cusp. Like me.”

“You don’t know me. We’re nothing alike.” With that, she spun around and marched away, her slippered feet moving quickly beneath her skirts.

His voice followed her. “Run along, Miss Hadley. I’m sure Lord Thrumgoodie is missing you. He needs someone to guide him about the furniture, after all.”

She swallowed down an epithet, but kept walking, refusing to believe that any part of him was like her, that he might know her or see inside her.

Logan watched her flee, aggravated with himself. What was he doing needling her? He all but admitted that he cared nothing for Libba. Not a smart move on his part. What if she persuaded Libba of that fact?

He dragged a hand over his face and stared blindly out at the night. She brought out the worst in him. He couldn’t explain it. She wasn’t doing anything he wasn’t doing—simply looking for the best match possible—but she stirred feelings inside him, made him unaccountably angry . . . made him feel.

He shook his head, reaching for the cool calm of indifference. Nothing had changed. She had her agenda. He had his. They’d both marry people they felt nothing for.





Chapter Seven

The following morning Cleo set out on a walk through the park.

Berthe accompanied her. Rather silly considering all the solitary walks Cleo had taken in her life. But that was all in the past—as Jack had reminded her the first time she tried to step outside unaccompanied.

Country bred, Berthe did not mind her brisk pace—or the early hour. A still, windless air draped the park—as if the world had not yet woken, and Cleo could almost pretend she wasn’t in the bustling city at all.

Berthe puffed beside her, the cheeks in her narrow, angular face flushed a ruddy red in the chill morning. “A mite fast today, aren’t you, miss?”

Cleo nodded to a nearby bench. “Feel free to have a seat.”

She shook her head. “Just pondering your need for such haste. No more than that.”