Lessons from a Scandalous Bride

Page 8

“Liar.” He breathed the word more than he actually said it. Her heart stuttered inside her chest.
“Now who’s laboring under delusions of grandeur?”
The flat line of his mouth curved ever so slightly. “It’s fair to say I’ve thought of you perhaps . . .” he tilted his head as though searching, “once. Oh, very well. Twice.”
She snorted. “Well, not me.”
He shrugged one broad shoulder. “I suppose I’m not such an enigma.” His gaze dropped from her face, eyeing the modest cut of her dress as if it were anything but modest. The flesh of her chest warmed beneath his perusal.
“I couldn’t say. Now if you’ll let me pass.”
Instead of obliging, he plucked the books from her hands. She protested and tried to reclaim the books, but he held them out of her reach, reading their covers.
“Poetry,” he mused, scanning the volume. He looked at her second selection. “Ah. And Mrs. Radcliffe.” He made a clucking sound. “I would never have suspected it of you.”
Her lips pursed as she fought back the urge to demand what he meant by that.
“Oh, you look like you’re sucking lemons. Go ahead, Miss Hadley. Ask before you explode. You know you want to.”
She shook her head, loathing that he should read her so clearly. “I have nothing to ask you.”
“You’re a stubborn chit.” He waved the books before her. “Very well. I’ll go ahead and enlighten you. This is not the reading material I would have credited as your preference.”
“And why is that?” she snapped.
“So . . . emotional. Romantic and fanciful.” He scanned her face as though committing her every feature to memory. “These are the books a young girl reads . . . a dreamer.” His words fanned her cheek in a warm breath. “Not someone who would commit herself to a doddering old man—”
“Enough,” she bit out. “I’ll not bear your scorn. Especially as you’re no different from me.”
His dark eyebrow winged high. “Oh, now we’re alike, are we?”
She closed her eyes. She hadn’t meant to admit that. Opening her eyes, she confessed, “Very well. We’re both great pretenders, fooling poor souls into thinking we care about them when we have our own agendas. Is that not so?”
A muscle feathered across his jaw and she surmised that her words hit a nerve. A surge of satisfaction wound through her.
“You opened my eyes to that,” she added.
He didn’t answer, simply continued to stare at her as if perhaps he didn’t know her quite so well after all.
This time he did not stop her as she swept past him. At the end of the aisle, she spotted her sister watching her avidly, her bright gaze rife with questions as it drifted from her to Lord McKinney.
“Who is that?”
Cleo looked over her shoulder where he stood, still watching her. “No one,” she murmured.
“He’s not looking at you as no one would,” Marguerite remarked.
No, he wasn’t. He was looking after her like he wished to strangle her. At least she thought that was what his intense expression meant. She was not entirely sure.
Overcome with the need to hasten away, she took her sister’s arm. “Come, let us go.”
Satisfied that she had put him in his place, she fell into step beside Marguerite.
“I’m not sure you should look so smug,” Marguerite interrupted her thoughts. “He’s staring daggers at you right now.”
A quick glance over her shoulder confirmed he had moved to the end of the aisle to watch her retreat. “Of course he is.” She shrugged. “We loathe each other.”
Marguerite arched a slim eyebrow. “Indeed, do you now?” Her lips twitched.
“What’s so amusing?” she asked as they descended the short steps that led to the front of the shop.
“Loathing is such strong sentiment.”
Cleo frowned. She was right of course. Strong sentiment shouldn’t be applied to a man she had characterized as no one only moments before. “Perhaps loathing is too strong a word then. He irks me,” she corrected.
She chuckled lightly.
“Marguerite,” she growled. “Why are you laughing now?”
“I met a man who irked me once, too. Extremely so. I may have even fancied that I loathed him.”
Sighing and expecting a lesson was coming, she asked wearily, “And? What happened to him?”
“Oh, Ash? I married him.”
No words could have more effectively stolen her breath. It took her a moment to recover her speech. “Well, I can assure you that that will never happen. The notion is absurd. It’s too disturbing to even contemplate. I’m quite satisified with Thrumgoodie. I’m hoping for a proposal soon.”
“If you say so,” Marguerite agreed in an aggravatingly amiable tone. She sent another glance over her shoulder. “Only if one compared him and Thrumgoodie side by side . . .”
“If one were superficial enough to do that,” Cleo inserted pertly.
Marguerite giggled. “Have you seen my husband?” She smiled in rapt memory. “Never underestimate the appeal of virility in a man.”
Oh, Cleo never had. Which is why she was determined to choose Thrumgoodie over gentlemen like McKinney.
By the time Logan reached the front of the store with books in hand for Fiona’s little ones, Miss Hadley was nowhere to be seen. For the best, he resolved.
She had done a brilliant job getting beneath his skin. With their every encounter, she only buried herself deeper and deeper. Claiming they were both great pretenders was vexingly true. Courting Libba, fawning over her and plying her with empty compliments . . . it was a torment. But he had to.
He couldn’t fathom what drove Miss Hadley into the arms of a relic like Thrumgoodie. The allure of a title? Was it that simple? From all accounts, she didn’t require Thrumgoodie’s money. Shaking his head, he told himself he would probably never know what drove her. And why should he bother trying to find out? They weren’t even friends. Once he was married to Libba, he might see her at the occasional function—if she married Thrumgoodie, of course—but no more than that.
He nodded at the shopkeeper behind the counter and murmured an appropriate farewell as he took his parcel of books and left the shop, more determined than ever to put Cleopatra Hadley from his mind.
Chapter Eight
Cleo knew the moment she accepted the invitation to Lady Doddingham’s garden party that she would come face to face with Lord McKinney again. Hopefully, preparing herself for the encounter would make it less . . . less. A dull conversation with the Scotsman would not be remiss. Or even no conversation at all. As she stared out at the sea of manicured lawn, she caught no glimpse of him. For the time being, she breathed easier.
Lady Doddingham was Libba’s godmother. Those close ties to Lord Thrumgoodie explained why Cleo had earned an invitation to what was customarily the first event of the season and a most coveted affair. As Libba explained, anyone who was anyone attended.
She had Thrumgoodie to thank for most of her invitations about Town. Jack’s wealth only carried so much pull, she’d learned. Her sister marrying a prince didn’t benefit him as greatly as he would have hoped. Not when the first thing Grier did was pack up and move to Maldania.
If her father chose to relocate to the country of Maldania, he wouldn’t have to grease any palms to see that he was invited to the best soirees. Here, however, was another story . . . and why he still craved a highborn English son-in-law.
She sipped from her crystal flute and continued to scan the garden, searching for a dark-haired man who would stand a head taller than other gentlemen present. Just as Cleo was invited, she knew Libba would have insisted upon McKinney’s inclusion. Indeed, Libba would have seen that his name was on the top of Lady Doddingham’s list.
“What a perfectly lovely day,” Hamilton remarked as he came up alongside of her.
She forced a bright smile and blinked, blinded by his garishly bright purple cravat. Apparently the ton dressed more colorfully for garden parties. He wasn’t the only one present wearing colors to rival a peacock’s plumes.
“Indeed,” she agreed with stiff politeness.
“Even if you are here,” he returned.
She congratulated herself when her smile didn’t falter at his jab. “The day is remarkably warm. I so feared it would rain.”
He smiled tightly, no doubt annoyed she hadn’t risen to his bait. “Would rain have kept you away then? Perhaps I should issue forth a quick prayer for a downpour so that I may be delivered from you.”
She snorted, doubting the good Lord even heard this devil’s prayers. Even as she thought this, she held her tongue and glanced around, hoping for rescue. There wasn’t a friendly face anywhere amid the elaborate flower arrangements and yellow-striped linens.
“Looking for my uncle? I believe he had an accident.” His voice dropped on the last word and he motioned near the front of his trousers so that she had no confusion to what he was referring. Mortifying heat crept over her face. “He has those problems, you know,” Hamilton continued with a tsk of his tongue. “A man his age . . . he has a great many . . . ailments. Incontinence. Impotence.”
If possible, the heat in her face only intensified. “How dare you speak of such matters to me? You go too far. Your uncle would not appreciate it.”
In the distance she spotted Thrumgoodie walking in his wobbly gait along the buffet table and her anger only burned hotter. “I see you were making sport. Your uncle is over there.”
“Oh, so he is.” Hamilton shrugged. “Doesn’t alter anything I told you. Marry him and you’ll only be getting half a man.”
“I realize you’re only speaking out of concern.” Her voice dripped sarcasm. “You’re such an altruist.”
At her tone, his mocking smile vanished to be replaced with a very nasty sneer. “Oh, make no mistake. I’m not a nice man. Heed me well. Stay away from my uncle. Go sniff after some other title. If you think we don’t rub on well now, just wait and see what happens if you actually marry my uncle.”
Cleo sipped from her flute before saying, “Hmm, let me consider this scenario. Me . . . marrying the earl. What would happen? Oh, I remember,” she exclaimed with false brightness. “I get half of your inheritance.” Smiling sweetly, she whirled away. But not before a muttered bitch stung her ears.
She fought to keep the smile on her face until she was certain he could no longer see her. Lifting her skirts, she descended the stone steps into the garden, past the milling guests. She walked until the chatter, clink of crystal and harp strings were but a distant song.
She bypassed a maze of hedges and veered off the pebbled path into a press of trees that crowded one side of a pond. Doddingham’s estate was only just outside the city, but it felt as though she were lost amid the country. Far away from the city. The ton and all its watching eyes. She inhaled a deep breath, smelling the leaves and loamy earth. Some of the tension ebbed from her shoulders. Until that moment, she hadn’t realized her eyes stung. She rubbed at them until the sensation faded.
Heedless of the snags it might give her gown of buttercream silk, she expelled a great breath and leaned against a thick oak tree. Staring out at the pond’s glassy surface, she wondered if she should not heed Hamilton’s warning and focus her attentions elsewhere. Although finding another man to meet her criteria might prove a challenge.
The words she’d uttered to her mother—the vow she’d made to herself—weighed on her. She’d dallied long enough. She needed to see her mother and all her siblings properly cared for. Roger had made it clear she was short on time. No more gnawing hunger. No wretched sickness. No miserable squalor. Marrying Thrumgoodie would see to that. It would grant her the freedom and independence to live her life and use her money as she wished without sacrificing her body and heart to a man who would use and abuse both.