Lessons from a Scandalous Bride (Forgotten Princesses #2)(52)

“Well,” Marguerite said, her voice loud and jarring in the cavernous room. She clapped her hands together with an air of efficiency. “What gown shall you wear? Something blue? You look very fine in blue.”

Cleo nodded and tried to summon her voice. She should at least appear to care. It was her wedding day, after all.

Marguerite and Annalise were soon sifting through Cleo’s trunks.

“This is so exciting,” Annalise commented. “You’re marrying a fine lord.” She cast an almost shy glance at Cleo. “He’s very handsome, too.” Her gaze swept over the room. “And you’ll live in a castle.”

“A dilapidated castle,” Cleo reminded, hating for Annalise to become swept up in the seeming romantic nature of it all.

“Oh, but you’ll repair it now.”

Marguerite held up a lovely peacock blue gown. “I think this is the one.”

Cleo hardly cast it a glance. “Yes. It will do.” Her gaze drifted again to the bed. Her face reddened when she caught Marguerite following her gaze. Her half sister cleared her throat. “Annalise, why don’t you find your room and freshen up a bit yourself? I’m sure you’ll want to change before the ceremony.”

Annalise looked from Marguerite to Cleo. For the first time, Cleo noted the keen intelligence in those lovely brown eyes. For all of her naiveté, the girl wasn’t a dullard. She nodded and rose. “Of course. Send for me if you need anything.”

As the door clicked behind her, Marguerite resumed digging through Cleo’s trunk, hunting for the gown’s matching slippers.

Cleo rose and approached the fireplace, staring into the writhing orange nest of flames. “I imagine it gets very cold here in the winter.”

“I imagine so. But you’ll have that fine fireplace . . . and that fine husband to keep you warm.”

It was as though Marguerite baited her, knowing precisely what to say to make her want to run and hide like a frightened child.

She snorted indelicately. “I think you know he’ll not be keeping me warm. This isn’t a love union, Marguerite. It won’t be like your marriage.”

Marguerite didn’t respond for some moments, and Cleo finally looked over her shoulder to find her sister staring at her thoughtfully.

Cleo continued, “I suppose you think that’s wretched of me? A wife unwilling to consummate . . .”

Marguerite inclined her head. “I suspected that might be why you were spending so much time with Thrumgoodie. You thought he would be safe.” She spread the gown out on the bed, smoothing a hand over the glimmering blue fabric. “You certainly went in the opposite direction in choosing McKinney. I imagine he will be a hard man to resist.”

Cleo closed her eyes in a long, pained blink. “You have no idea.”

Marguerite smiled a small grin. “I think I might have an idea. I wasn’t always eager to wed Ash. But he changed my mind.”

Cleo’s cheeks heated. “Of course.” Her husband was a handsome man with an illicit reputation about Town—at least before he had married Marguerite.

“Let me just say the rewards of the marital bed can be . . . immeasurable.” Marguerite’s expression took on a dreamy quality that made Cleo decidedly uncomfortable.

“Rewards?” she scoffed. “The rewards the man receives versus the woman seem decidedly unbalanced.”

“I’ve no complaint.” Marguerite smiled ever patiently and Cleo bit back her automatic, not yet.

“You know”—Marguerite sat down upon the bed, picking at the lace trim of her gown—“there are things to do that don’t involve actual consummation. Certain pleasurable acts. For both of you.”

Cleo sniffed, striving for disinterest. But it didn’t work. She strode forward and sank down beside Marguerite, looking her steadily in the eye. “Such as?”

Marguerite smiled broadly. “It may shock you, but I assure you . . . there’s pleasure to be had for both of you, even if you never consummate the marriage.”

Cleo studied her sister, noting her wide, solemn eyes. She looked innocent enough. Clearing her throat, she nodded once. “Tell me. Tell me everything we can do. I’m listening.”





Chapter Twenty-one

The ceremony moved in a blur. There were words, vows exchanged as they stood before the tall, cadaverously thin Reverend Smythe. Despite his appearance, he managed a jovial air.

Everyone crammed inside the small church beamed good-natured smiles. Josie fairly bounced in her seat in the front pew. Cleo felt an inexplicable stab of guilt. They’d been waiting for this moment a long while, it seemed. The moment their eldest brother finally married. She swallowed thickly and glanced down at the little bouquet of flowers Josie had thrust into her hands. She wondered if the girl—if any of them—would be quite so delighted if they knew the restrictions she’d imposed on their marriage. That this marriage was, in fact, a farce.

Logan faced her, his well-carved features revealing nothing. He’d held himself stoic all through their vows. Lowering his head, his lips didn’t so much as soften as he sealed their vows with the obligatory kiss.

The church burst into applause. Cleo supposed none of them thought anything amiss with the brief kiss. She knew, however. Everything was wrong with it. She’d been a recipient of Logan’s kisses before. She knew just how long and savoring and delectable they could be.