Lessons from a Scandalous Bride (Forgotten Princesses #2)(60)

Then he was gone, wrenched from her arms. She sagged against the wall, panting and aching with disappointment. He stood back from her. She reached a trembling hand for him, but saw that he wasn’t even looking at her.

She followed his gaze to his younger brother. Niall’s amused expression showed no remorse at interrupting them. “Now I see why you were in such a hurry to get back home. I was sent to fetch you to dinner, but I can see that you both might want to skip dinner and go directly for dessert.”

“Niall,” he warned in a deeply guttural voice, the cords of his throat working with tension as he took a menacing step toward his young brother.

Niall held up a palm, looking hard-pressed not to laugh. “My apologies.” His gaze cut to Cleo. “I didn’t mean to embarrass you.”

Still fighting for her breath, she nodded, thinking she was less embarrassed and more frustrated at the interruption. Not normal thinking, she was sure. She’d become insatiable. Just as Marguerite had intimated—this could end only one way.

At that disturbing thought, she pushed off from the wall. “Excuse me. I’ll freshen up for dinner. I know my way back.”

Logan watched her intently as she passed, as a predator studies its prey. She tried not to notice. Tried not to look in his direction. Still, she felt his gaze as she hurried down the corridor. The heat of it followed her. Even when she was out of sight, she felt it. She felt him—the scent of him, the memory of his mouth, his hands . . .

Dear God. Marguerite was right. She’d set out to satisfy them both, thinking it needn’t go very far. And now she was enslaved, desperate for it to go much, much farther.

Dinner was a painstaking affair. Conversation. Laughter. Everyone seemed in fine spirits. Cleo’s father was particularly fond of Logan’s Scottish whiskey.

“And you make this here?” Jack asked after a deep swallow of the amber liquid.

Logan dragged his gaze from her. “Yes. Ever since the days of my great-grandfather.” His gaze returned to her—where it had been ever since they sat down to dinner.

She wasn’t certain where he had changed clothing. He hadn’t followed her to their bedchamber, but he’d been dressed in fresh clothing, waiting with the others when she joined. She didn’t know whether to be relieved or disappointed that he hadn’t joined her in their chamber.

His finger tapped the rim of his glass silently. She watched that tapping finger, feeling the anxiousness of that gesture inside her.

“Cleo, where did you disappear today?” Marguerite asked, her voice light, belying the concern in her eyes. Natural, she supposed, considering their last encounter.

“Just explored the castle a bit . . . and then I fell asleep in the library while I was reading.”

“I spent the day studying Latin.” Josephine pouted and stabbed at her dinner. “Latin! A dead language. What use is it, I would like to know?”

Logan glanced at his sister. “Cruel of me, I know, to see that you receive an education.”

Josephine scowled. “Well, I doubt it will serve me on the dance floors of London.”

Cleo’s lips twitched. The interplay reminded her of her own siblings. She frowned, missing them and wondering how long before she could put her plan in place to bring them here. The oldest of her brothers and sisters might be better served in a school that would provide them the education and polish they’d missed thus far. She’d have to investigate the matter. But the rest, the little ones—she was eager for them to join her here. She wouldn’t feel easy until she had them safely in her care. A pain stabbed the area surrounding her heart to know she couldn’t save her mother.

After dinner they all moved into the drawing room. Logan escorted her. Leading them at a creeping pace, she quickly grasped that he was deliberately positioning them last. Just as they were about to cross the threshold into the room, he pulled her back and pressed her against the wall outside the drawing-room doors, trapping her with his body.

“Logan? What—”

He smothered her words with a long, rough kiss that turned her knees to liquid. It went on and on. If not for the warm press of his body, she was certain she would slide to the floor in a boneless heap. Which she probably wouldn’t even mind as long as he joined her there.

“There.” He broke away, breathing fiercely, his broad chest rising and falling. “I’ve wanted to do that all night.”

“I-I . . .” she stammered uselessly as he grabbed her hand and led her back into the drawing room.

She tried to appear composed, unaffected—not as though she’d been kissed senseless seconds ago.

He sat beside her on the chaise, his leg so close that it brushed the skirt of her dress. Heat seemed to reach her from that trouser-clad leg. It drew her gaze again and again, distracting her from everything and everyone.

Her lips tingled. Bruised and sensitive, she brushed her fingers to her mouth, testing the surface, the shape of lips that she had lived with all her life but suddenly felt different.

At one point, she looked up to find Marguerite staring at her with a knowing lift of her eyebrow. The sight of which annoyed her to no end. Cleo dropped her hand from her face and lifted her chin at a defiant angle. Almost to prove that point, she scooted herself as far as possible down the chaise without falling off.

She didn’t have long to endure her sister’s smug gaze, however. Ash unfolded his long frame and helped his wife to her feet. “Excuse us. It’s been a long day, and I’m not entirely certain Marguerite has recovered from the journey.”