Lessons from a Scandalous Bride (Forgotten Princesses #2)(58)

“Oh dear,” she murmured, her hand shaking as she toyed with the handle of her teacup.

Marguerite sent her a sympathetic smile and cut into her kipper.

“Why did you not warn me?” Cleo looked at her rather reproachfully.

Marguerite chewed thoughtfully, tilting her head. “You only asked if there were things you could do without . . . you know.” She waved her fork, implying the rest of their conversation with the gesture. “And I told you.”

“But you know why I wanted to know. What I was hoping to avoid . . .” Hot desperation choked up her throat.

Her voice must have given something away. Jack glanced down the table at her. Cleo took a deep breath and tried to look normal, unaffected.

Marguerite suddenly looked solemn. “I knew that. Yes. I just don’t think you truly want that.”

“I do,” she insisted in a whisper. “I don’t wish to consummate my marriage.” She suddenly felt trapped, like a lioness caged—her fate out of her hands.

“Cleo.” Marguerite reached for her hand.

She stood abruptly, stopping herself just short of running from the dining room. She didn’t want her father to think anything was wrong—or Annalise to think she was some flighty, temperamental creature. Even if she did feel overwrought with emotion at this particular moment.

Marguerite had tricked her—or at least omitted certain facts. It’s almost impossible to resist following through. The words rumbled through her head like ominous thunder.

She roamed the castle, relieved to be alone, not sure where she was going, and not really caring, only trying to make sense of what it was she wanted from her marriage to Logan. Because Marguerite was correct. She had begun something last night with him . . . and she wanted more.

Passing a series of long stained-glass windows that looked generations old, she saw a flash of lightning through the colorful panes. Seconds later, the sound of thunder rumbled in the far distance.

Her heart thumped hard against her chest. She immediately thought of Logan and the others out there in the rain. Would he return now? Her skin warmed at the prospect.

She walked faster, eagerness tripping through her at the prospect of seeing him again and continuing where they’d left off last night. And then panic rose up inside her, warring with the euphoria.

Everything was slipping away. Her long-held fears, everything she’d always believed—everything she’d always told herself she wanted. For the first time since Jack sent for her, she wasn’t sure what she wanted anymore.

Slowing her pace, she continued her stroll through endless corridors, taking turn after turn until she knew she was well lost. She snorted at this irony. It was exactly how she felt.

She peered inside various rooms, entering what appeared to be a music room. Several instruments filled the space. None of which was collecting dust. Either Logan and his siblings made good use of them or the staff did an excellent job cleaning in here.

Her eyes alighted upon floor-to-ceiling double doors leading outside. Snatching an afghan off a nearby sofa, she wrapped it around herself and stepped outdoors. The wet cold of the paving stones immediately seeped through the soles of her slippers as she stepped out into the gray morning. She suspected she would be wearing her boots more often in this climate.

She looked skyward. Dark, almost black clouds rolled in from the west, and she wondered what direction Logan had ventured for the day. Shaking her head, she commanded herself to stop thinking about him. That would be the first step toward avoiding Marguerite’s prediction that there was only one inevitable conclusion for the two of them.

Lowering her gaze, she stared out at a well-tended garden. One side appeared to be flowery shrubs and rows of juniper trees. The other section was devoted to plants and herbs.

Maids busied themselves, pruning, clipping, edging. They worked quickly, with one eye to the sky. One maid worked amid the herbs. She wore a heavy wool apron and sat on her knees, clipping snippets of herbs for her basket. Cleo’s gaze fastened on her, narrowing on the thick plait of red hair snaking out from the wool kerchief covering her head. Cleo admired the glorious red hair for a moment before her gaze drifted to the girl’s profile. The creamy complexion. The full, bow-shaped mouth. The lovely, slightly upturned nose. Sudden recognition seized her.

She must have made a sound. The girl swung around on her knees. At the sight of Cleo, she almost lost her balance. One hand came down on the dark soil to balance herself. Her face paled for a moment as she eyed Cleo up and down. Then a fetching shade of red flooded her cheeks.

“My lady,” she murmured in a lilting brogue, dipping her head in deference.

“Hello,” Cleo returned, feeling suddenly awkward, more aware than ever that she was a stranger in her new home. This girl’s place and position here were more natural than her own.

The notion mortified her—especially when she recalled the tears in the girl’s eyes on her wedding day . . . and what they perhaps signified about her relationship with Logan.

Were they lovers once? Still?

Her fingers tightened around her blanket. And yet she couldn’t move. They simply stared at each other.

“What’s your name?” Cleo asked. She had to know—had to know the name of the girl who may or may not have a place in Logan’s heart. Perhaps he would even have married her if she’d possessed the requisite dowry.

Cleo’s gaze traveled over her lush figure, resting on her chapped, work-roughened hands. Not too long ago her own hands had resembled those. She was peasant stock—just like Cleo. Only fate and fortune had shone on her.