Lessons from a Scandalous Bride (Forgotten Princesses #2)(20)

She took several steps back, still gazing at him and confronting the knowledge that she wasn’t immune.

He’d aroused her as she’d never thought possible.

She lifted her hand and touched her lips. His gaze followed the movement. His eyes darkened, reminding her of a stormy night. The hunger there was unmistakable. She recognized it. Felt its echo inside herself.

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

Logan 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.

Later 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.

Cleo’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.”