Lessons from a Scandalous Bride (Forgotten Princesses #2)(5)

“There are only two additional seats.”

Logan eyed her as she patted her barely budding middle. Shrouded beneath her gown, the bulge was beyond notice except when she called attention to it. “Alexander shall merely explain that I was not feeling quite myself, but he decided to bring his delightful brother-in-law instead.”

Delightful. Logan snorted and crossed his long legs. “In the time I’ve been here, members of the ton would hardly agree with your description.”

Fiona sniffed and straightened where she sat—as though the suggestion affronted her. The sunlight filtering into the room lit her hair afire. “Then you shall prove them wrong tonight.”

“All in one night? Indeed? What is so special about tonight that so much shall be accomplished?” he asked suspiciously.

A glint flashed in her eyes and she suddenly took on the air of a general entering battle. “Listen well. The box is already occupied by Mr. Hamilton’s cousin, Lady Libba, and her grandfather, the Earl Thrumgoodie. And there are two other guests, I believe.” She waggled her fingers and shrugged as though those were of no consequence. “Lady Libba is your quarry. She is quite the lauded heiress. “And”—she paused for emphasis—“quite looking for a match.”

“Ah.” He sighed with understanding. “And yet that does not mean she will take a liking to—”

“Oh, Logan. Posh!” Fiona cut him off, waving a hand in his direction. “Be serious, will you?”

He shook his head, mystified.

She gave him a sobering look, motioning to his person. “You’re every girl’s dream. Every inch of you is a feast for the female eye. How many village maids did you bed back home? I can’t recall a time Mama wasn’t on her knees praying for your wretched soul.”

“Er, thank you?” he murmured wryly. “Yet I wouldn’t take it as a certainty that she’ll fall at my feet.”

“Oh, she’ll happily fall. Trust me. They all would . . . if you would only choose one.” Fiona pinned him with her gaze, her amber-hued eyes direct and faintly accusing. “ ’Tis the reason you came here, after all. Let’s not dally about it further.”

He gave her a sharp, two-fingered salute.

She returned her attention to her letter. “I’ll send Alexander’s valet to help attend you this evening. I’ll not have you looking like the barbarian everyone claims.”

“Simply because I was the only gentleman present bearing a knife at the last soiree.” He grinned, recalling the scene. “A certain marchioness was much grateful I was present to rescue her when she swooned.”

Fiona snorted and shook her head. “By slicing open her gown and stays.”

“Anyone could see she was blue from lack of air.”

“Laugh all you like, that story now precedes you everywhere you go. It’s not a story that requires embellishment, but somehow it manages to sound worse with every retelling.”

“If your faith in me has any merit, I’ll win over this Lady Libba withstanding all the prattling from the dames of the ton.”

He did not care for the notion of people—strangers—discussing him as though they knew a single thing about him. Especially a bunch of over-privileged English aristocrats.

Fiona smiled in satisfaction. “Of course. I have utter faith in your prowess.”

Instead of humoring such rot with a response, he rose smoothly to his feet, all the more determined to find a wife and return home.





Chapter Three

“Have I said how lovely you look tonight, my dear?”

Staring into the earl’s rheumy gaze, Cleo couldn’t help wondering whether he could actually see her clearly. “Thank you, my lord.”

Lord Thrumgoodie lifted a shaky, beringed hand and unerringly confiscated her gloved hand. Not too blind, she supposed. She watched in dread as he pressed his chalky-dry lips to the back of it.

Cleo smiled thinly. “You are really too kind, my lord.”

Beyond the earl’s shoulder, his great-nephew glared. It was simple enough to read the contempt in Hamilton’s stare. She quickly averted her gaze and turned her attention to Lord Thrumgoodie, vowing to ignore the wretch.

As the earl’s heir, Mr. Hamilton often accompanied them. Fortunately, he primarily occupied himself at his estate outside Town. When he did visit, he at least feigned to like her in front of the earl and others. The contemptuous glances were for her eyes only.

The earl patted her hand with his trembling one, still clinging to it. “I speak only the truth, my dear.”

Cleo stifled her cringe. If she was going to marry the man, she really needed to learn to better abide his touch. It wasn’t often that he made overtures—and she knew on good authority that the old earl’s nether parts were not in working order. She wasn’t above listening to servants’ gossip, and her maid had turned out to be most garrulous. With no prodding, Berthe had become well acquainted with the earl’s servants, gleaning all she could about the man Cleo was considering marrying.

That Thrumgoodie had fathered only one child with his first wife nearly fifty years ago was common enough knowledge. Since then there had been four more wives, all unable to produce offspring. Two of those wives even had children from previous marriages. All of which pointed to the earl’s inability to sire further children. Less common knowledge was that in recent years the old earl had attempted to ravish a few maids in his employ. All to no success. Berthe had put it crudely: The ol’ man’s cannon is cracked.