Lessons from a Scandalous Bride (Forgotten Princesses #2)(30)

Logan blinked, startled at the old man’s bluntness, and not a little dismayed. It sounded as though Thrumgoodie had made up his mind and intended to marry Miss Hadley. He sounded so certain, in fact, that Logan wondered if they weren’t already betrothed. When he’d arrived, he’d felt as though he were interrupting an intimate moment between the two of them and felt only satisfaction in shattering their closeness. It never occurred to him that Thrumgoodie could have already proposed.

“I suppose I’ll get about the matter of proposing,” he continued. “Haven’t got too much time left. Not that I can get down on a knee these days, but I’ll manage. She accepts me as I am. A rare trait in a female, to be so accepting. And she’s exceedingly solicitous of my needs. More than anyone else . . . even the servants.”

Logan heaved a sigh of relief. He wasn’t too late then. But he best not dally. Thrumgoodie spoke as though a proposal was imminent.

Followed on the heels of this relief, he felt a surge of anger. Did she really wish to marry a man who regarded her as little more than a servant?

Thrumgoodie broke into his musings: “Have you ever been married?”

“No.”

“Well, think hard before you settle on someone . . . it’s not a decision to enter into lightly. Choose the female best capable of serving your needs.”

Logan grimaced. He made a wife sound like a slave to her husband. His mother had been a true partner to his father. She’d ruled their family like a general before and after his death. When his father left for the Crimea, his mother had been the one to put food on the table and oversee the crofter’s grievances. She was so much more than his father’s servant.

Thrumgoodie’s voice droned on. “Most gentlemen spend more time picking out a cravat than a wife. I could never understand that. A potential wife should be weighed with the same consideration a man employs while selecting his steed.”

Logan blinked at the oddness of this conversation. Strange consul indeed, considering he was presumably here to court Thrumgoodie’s granddaughter. The strangeness was even greater if one knew Logan’s true motives—that he was intent on wooing Miss Hadley. As he sat beside her decrepit beau, listening to him dole out advice on matrimony, he focused on how he might steal Miss Hadley out from under him. The irony wasn’t lost on him.

He wasn’t above taking advantage of the situation. Not just for himself but for Miss Hadley, too. She deserved more than an old man who, by his own admission, could never be a real husband to her.

The silence stretched and he stared at the double doors in the distance where she’d departed, longing to give pursuit. “You’ve known Miss Hadley long?” he asked.

Thrumgoodie broke into laughter that ended in a horrible hacking cough. Regaining his breath, he gasped, “Do you ever really know a woman?”

Logan cocked an eyebrow and stared again in the direction where Miss Hadley had disappeared. He supposed there was some truth to that. Except he felt like he knew her. Comforting her as she wept over her baby sister, her grief over not being there to carry her to the churchyard . . . he had learned everything he needed to know about her in that moment.

Logan rose to his feet. He didn’t have time to squander—not with Thrumgoodie so very close to proposing.

Cleo finally narrowed her selection to a volume of romantic poetry. Thrumgoodie had, after all, suggested she choose something she would enjoy, too. She perused further, in no hurry to return to the lawn where she’d left him with Lord McKinney. She need wait only a little while. As determined as she was, Libba would doubtlessly override his protests and claim him.

“Have you found a book that meets your satisfaction?”

She whipped her head around, struggling to keep her expression cool and composed. “What are you doing here? I thought you needed to relax.”

“I feel quite invigorated actually.” He leaned against the wall just inside the library, arms crossed over his chest. He looked very masculine and formidable—definitely not like a man in need of rest.

She feigned boredom, sliding the book she’d been perusing back on the shelf. “Interesting. You should play croquet with the others then.”

He pushed off from the wall and began walking toward her, his long legs quickly covering the distance between them.

Something about his gait—his very appearance—struck her as predatory. Not the first time. The gray of his eyes seemed dark, almost charcoal . . . and intense in a way that made the tiny hairs at the back of her neck prickle.

“Games are fun,” he agreed, inclining his head in a partial nod. His dark stare held her for a long, tense moment. He took a final step, stopping himself directly before her. Only a scant inch separated his chest from hers. Her neckline was modest, but the exposed flesh above her breasts tingled. His gaze scanned her face before dropping to her throat, her chest. “But I’m not playing at anything when it comes to you.”

She held her breath, riveted by his eyes, his face, the movement of his lips as he spoke.

She swallowed and recovered her voice. “No? What do you call proclaiming your intent to court me one day, and then showing up here the next day to woo Libba? Sounds like a man with a penchant for games to me.”

A slow smile curved his mouth. “You sound jealous.” He splayed one hand against the bookshelf above her shoulder. She glanced at the strong length of that arm before looking back at his face.