Lessons from a Scandalous Bride (Forgotten Princesses #2)(34)

She’d actually done it.

He hadn’t thought she would. When it came right down to it, he’d assumed she wouldn’t be able to actually agree. Not when she kissed him the way she had. Not when her eyes looked at him with his own hunger echoed in their depths.

Cleopatra Hadley and old Thrumgoodie did not make sense on any level. She and Logan made sense. At least that was what he had fooled himself into believing.

He paced his bedchamber, telling himself he might as well fetch his mount and leave. He nodded once, hard and decisive. In his present mood, that was precisely what he intended to do. He had no intention of marrying Libba, so remaining here was only a waste of time for both of them. He owed no one an explanation. They could wonder all they liked about what happened to him come morning.

She would know, of course.

Striding to his wardrobe, he grabbed his satchel and began tossing his garments inside. Damn if he was going to stay another moment and witness the farce of Cleo and Thrumgoodie celebrating their betrothal.

A soft knock sounded at the door.

He whipped around, spotting the slip of paper the moment it slid beneath his door.

He tossed down the shirt he held and strode toward the door. Grasping the latch, he yanked the door open and peered out into the shadowed corridor. No one. Nothing save flickering shadows.

Bending down, he snatched up the small slip of paper in one motion. The neatly worded scrawl stared up at him, the message brief, but to the point.

Meet me in my room.

C.

Bitter fury coursed through him. She wanted to see him? Now? He growled low in his throat. What remained to be said? She’d made her choice. He’d watched as she said yes to another man. A veritable slap in the face after he’d bared his soul to her—confessing to want her as he’d never wanted another woman.

He crumpled the parchment into his fist and strode across the room. Flinging open the grate, he was on the verge of tossing it to the coals. With a grunt, he slammed the grate shut again, and walked a short, hard line back and forth across his chamber, stuffing the note into his pocket.

There was nothing left to say, and yet he couldn’t leave without seeing her one last time . . . without satisfying his curiosity and hearing what she had to say to him.

He’d see her. And then he’d go. He’d wasted enough time here already. He’d not waste another moment on a female that wanted nothing to do with him . . . who preferred a cold, empty future to the one they could have had together—one that would at least have been vital and alive. They would have had their share of fights, he was certain. But there would have been passion.

He returned to his satchel and finished packing absently, his thoughts elsewhere. When he left Scotland, he’d thought this matter of finding a wife would be a relatively easy feat. True, she needed to possess a dowry of means, but he’d been certain there were females enough to fit that requirement. He couldn’t have known that he’d fixate his desires on the one female who didn’t want him—who would prefer a man with one foot in the grave over him.

But after tonight that wouldn’t matter. She wouldn’t matter. Because he was moving on.

He’d never see her again.





Chapter Fourteen

Cleo brushed her hair until her scalp tingled. Glaring at her reflection, she set her brush down with a sharp click.

Angling her head, she studied herself. “What’s wrong with you?” The fact that she was talking to herself didn’t daunt her in the least.

Shaking her head, she rose to her feet. Untying the sash of her night rail, she dropped it at the foot of her bed, an enormous beast that could have slept her and several of her half-siblings. The thought of her siblings fortified her, reminding her that she was on the right path. Even if her chest felt heavy and tight, this was what she needed to do.

A maid had already pulled back the coverlet. She climbed within and pulled the soft bedding up to her chin. Staring up at the canopy, her thoughts invariably drifted to Logan. She told herself she was only concerned. She had no wish to hurt his feelings. She told herself that was the only reason she worried. Not because she cared about him . . .

She’d been unable to escape for at least another hour after Thrumgoodie announced their engagement. She’d suffered a toast of champagne. Libba had insisted Hamilton’s servants fetch his finest champagne for the occasion. He’d looked none too happy about that, of course, but no one seemed to notice. Just as no one seemed aware that Logan was absent from the festivities. Even Libba was too caught up in the revelry to notice. And yet Cleo noticed.

It was just the beginning, she realized with a bitter swallow. There would be dinners and parties, and more toasts to endure. She hadn’t anticipated all of that. Hopefully, the earl could arrange a short engagement so as not to drag it out.

With a sigh, she turned onto her side, lifting up on an elbow to punch her pillow with decided vigor. Falling onto her back, she allowed doubt and regret to creep in.

What am I doing? I cannot do this. Bitter emotion soured her stomach, and for a moment she feared she would be sick, the evening’s champagne acid in her stomach.

A soft knock at her door had her lurching upright. Frowning, she imagined Libba stood on the other side, too agitated from an evening of carousing to sleep yet. She was an easily excited creature even without adding spirits.

Flinging back her covers, Cleo marched toward the door and pulled it open with an admonition for Libba to march herself back to bed ready on her lips.