Lessons from a Scandalous Bride (Forgotten Princesses #2)(24)

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.

Logan 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

Over 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.

Logan 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.