Lessons from a Scandalous Bride (Forgotten Princesses #2)(28)

He didn’t care for Hamilton. Even if he hadn’t been so quick to malign Cleo that first evening at the opera, there was simply something in his eyes that Logan distrusted. And yet if she was there, he’d tolerate the fellow. It was a small thing for him to bear in order to win her. And what better venue than a house party to convince her she should choose him over old Thrumgoodie? Certainly he’d be able to steal her away for a private word. On multiple occasions. A slow smile curved his lips. Perhaps more than words would be exchanged.

What on earth am I doing here?

It was a question Cleo had asked herself again and again, too many times to recall at this point.

She’d been shocked initially to even garner an invitation to Hamilton’s estate . . . until she reminded herself that Hamilton strove to secure his grand-uncle’s blessing. And having her in attendance went far in pleasing Lord Thrumgoodie.

She might have felt more comfortable if Jack had accompanied her, but business kept him in Town. So she’d come alone, traveling with Libba and the earl. After Roger’s visit, she knew every day that she dallied her brothers and sisters suffered.

The carriage ride had been nothing short of a trial. She’d endured Libba waxing on and on about McKinney. Although he still hadn’t called upon her—apparently she hadn’t seen him at Lady Fordham’s ball—he had accepted the invitation to Hamilton’s house party. A fact that had filled Cleo with delight and dread. Confusing to be sure.

She had no desire to marry the man . . . as he’d outrageously offered. He was the complete antithesis of what she desired in a husband. His virility was overwhelming to her senses. If she married him she’d end up as broken as her mother. Not a year would pass before her belly swelled with child. An image of the babies she’d carried so solemnly to that lonely churchyard flashed through her mind. A shudder racked her. She couldn’t endure that. And the babies would be hers, so the misery would only be amplified. She couldn’t even fathom it.

One thing for certain, she refused to live it. No matter that for those few minutes in the garden and the library, she’d found herself at ease with him. Even comfortable and relaxed. Such peace could never last.

She glanced out at the horizon. Dusk approached, tingeing the sky a faint purple orange, and she began to hope that McKinney had changed his mind and decided not to attend.

“Can I get you anything, my lord?” she inquired from where she sat beside Thrumgoodie in a reclining chair.

His hands shook lightly where they were folded in his lap over his blanketed legs. He seemed very different from the man she’d met almost a year ago. His energy was waning, and she suspected Libba had spoken the truth when she said her grandfather’s health was on the decline.

The wind blew softly, lifting the ends of her shawl. She pulled the soft pashmina closer around her and stared out at the figures dotting the lawn. The loud thwack of Libba’s mallet carried across the air. She crowed with delight, waving her arms in the air like she’d won some grand prize.

Thrumgoodie clapped his gnarled hands. His rheumy gaze swung to Cleo. “Looks to be a rousing game, indeed! Certain you don’t want to play, my dear? I won’t mind if you leave me for a bit. Not so long as you return soon.” He winked one rheumy eye.

She shook her head. “I’m quite content to sit here with you.” Safe from Hamilton’s probing gaze. There was a cunning behind his gaze that she didn’t trust. Her unease around him was only pronounced by being here beneath his very roof. She’d entered the enemy camp.

He reached for her hand. “You’re such a darling to keep an old man company as you do.”

She patted the back of his hand. “No hardship, my lord.”

“Sometimes I feel selfish keeping a young dove such as you to myself.” He looked wistful for a moment. “I’m no young buck anymore.” He motioned to the lawn. “You should be frolicking out there instead, with others your age.”

“But I want to be here.” She inhaled through her nose, adding on a gust of breath: “With you.”

Did he hear the hesitation in her voice?

He stared at her for a long moment and she felt as though he were deciding something, assessing her and then weighing something inside of himself.

She held her breath, sensing this moment was important . . . that her future and whether it rested with him was being decided. At least on his part.

His hold on her hand tightened, surprisingly strong for one so aged. “Cleopatra,” he began, stopping to cough and work his throat clear.

She nodded, a tightness closing around her throat. This was it.

He would ask for her hand now.

Her flesh grew tight and itchy. She blinked suddenly aching eyes. “Yes?”

Abruptly his gaze shifted, lifting to settle on something over her shoulder. “Ah, McKinney, my good man!” he exclaimed. “Was beginning to think you wouldn’t make it!”

Blast the man! Must he ruin everything? Without even a word he managed to thwart her. His mere presence did the trick.

She shot a fulminating glare over her shoulder at him. His eyes locked on her, the gray glittering with amusement, and she knew he knew. Not that his presence displeased her, although she was certain he knew that to be true. No. He knew that he had interrupted something important. He winked at her.

Infernal man! She fumed, not even aware of the words passing between the two men, entirely too irate that he had chosen this moment to arrive. And beneath her annoyance, was another emotion that equally disturbed her. Relief.