Lessons from a Scandalous Bride
Page 4His eyes gleamed darkly in the shadows, but even in the dim lighting she didn’t miss the knowing look there. The barest smirk tainted his well-sculpted lips.
She’d seen the look before, scorn the moment someone realized that she and the earl were more than passing acquaintances. The judgment was always evident once they comprehended he was her beau. They deemed her a greedy social climber, after the earl for his title.
She quickly faced forward again, her spine an unyielding rod. Lord McKinney’s stare burned into the side of her face. Her hands knotted in her lap. The intermission couldn’t come quickly enough. As soon as the curtain lowered, she hastily stood and murmured her excuses. Lifting her skirts, she fled, gaze averted.
The corridor was not yet crowded. Fortunate for her, she reached the sanctuary of the retiring room before it was invaded by too many other ladies and claimed a seat.
As it filled up with chattering women, she pretended to fiddle with her hair in front of one of the gilded mirrors, feigning great concentration and using this time to compose herself.
“Did you see him? McKinney? Sitting bold as you please up in one of the boxes?”
Cleo blinked hard at the mention of the Scotsman. Could she not escape him even here, in the ladies’ retiring room?
“I don’t care if he is some savage, he’s the most delicious-looking specimen to ever set foot in Town,” a young woman uttered, readjusting her generous bosom inside her snug-fitting bodice.
“He’s on the hunt for an heiress, you know.”
A sigh followed this remark. The lady released her br**sts and puckered her lips for her reflection, angling her head as though seeking the most flattering pose. “Aren’t they all? One of four girls, I’m certain my dowry couldn’t tempt him. I must look to my other assets.” She and her friend giggled at this. Cleo rolled her eyes. Ninnies.
Lowering her hands from her hair, Cleo rose to her feet more abruptly than she’d intended. The girls paused in their ministrations, sending her curious looks. She pasted a vacant smile on her face and departed the retiring room. In the corridor, she struggled through the mad press of overly perfumed bodies. In these moments, she missed being able to step outside and inhale the salty sea air.
Arriving at the entrance to their box, she hesitated, reluctant to rejoin the group within. She closed her eyes in a slow blink, only to find McKinney’s scornful gaze in the dark of her mind. Blast! The fact that such a brief encounter should trouble her was utter absurdity. Who cared what a single stranger thought of her?
Lingering in the threshold, she glanced inside. Thrumgoodie was nowhere in sight. Or Libba. Only the three gentlemen remained. She stared at their backs, on the verge of gathering her nerve and stepping across the threshold when she heard Hamilton mutter, “Blasted female. She’s got blunt enough of her own, so we know she’s only after his title . . .”
She registered no other words as anger shot through her. How dare he gossip about her? Mortifying heat swept through her. She stared at the long line of McKinney’s back, trying to gauge his reaction. Not that it should matter. Not that it did.
From the look he’d sent her earlier, she knew he’d already begun to form an ill opinion of her. This no doubt cemented it.
“Come, move now, Cleo, you’re blocking the way.”
Even if she wanted to flee, she couldn’t any longer. Not without looking like a weak-hearted girl ready to collapse beneath the first strong wind. She couldn’t let Hamilton know he got beneath her skin. If she was to marry into his family, he’d best learn now that he held no power over her . . . that he failed to affect her.
After all, she was Jack Hadley’s bastard. The past year had toughened her skin. She’d endured the ugly whispers of the ton. What was he but another ugly voice on the wind?
Lifting her chin, she met Hamilton’s stare, hoping to convey how little she thought of him. He met her gaze with no regret, no shame. In fact, he looked quite pleased to have been caught in the process of disparaging her. Mr. Blackwell looked appropriately uncomfortable, tugging at his cravat as if it were suddenly too tight. Her gaze slid to Lord McKinney.
He stared back at her unflinchingly, his gray eyes as cool as fog coming in off the water. With features carved of stone. It was as if he saw nothing when he gazed upon her. Nothing worth seeing, at any rate.
Anger rose up bitterly in her mouth. In her first glimpse of him she had recognized warm interest in his gray eyes. He’d looked at her as though she were a lady of worth—a lady worth . . . well, considering. Now he looked at her like she was beneath his regard.
And it stung. Silly of her to care, she admitted. It’s not as though she could consider him. He was handsome, young, and virile—everything she wished to avoid. And yet, her eyes burned with a sudden sting of unwanted emotion.
With her chin still angled high, she strolled into the box and took her seat, staring straight ahead and telling herself she didn’t feel the gaze of the man sitting two seats over, coldly judging her.
He’d already made up his mind about her. Which was fine. She knew his sort. He’d probably gambled everything away at faro and needed an heiress to keep some decrepit estate from falling down around his ears. Once he secured his heiress, he’d stow her away there and keep her fat with his seed. Thank you, but no. Libba was welcome to him.
It was just as well he formed an ill opinion of her. She intended to cling to her poor opinion of him.
As Logan sat through the remainder of the performance two seats away from Miss Cleopatra Hadley, only one thought raced through his mind.
What a shameful waste.
It’s not as though she were the most beautiful woman he’d ever clapped eyes upon. Her midnight dark hair was fine enough—with a lovely glossy gleam to it. But it was her eyes. They shone with a sharp intelligence—a directness he had not seen in many a woman. It reached out and grabbed him, captured his attention as no lady had since he’d arrived in Town. There was something there at work behind her gaze.
His first hope had been that this was the Lady Libba he was here to court. He quickly discovered Libba was the garrulous chit wearing a profusion of peach ruffles. The fascinating Miss Hadley was courting the old man with one foot in the grave.
The longer he sat there with Lady Libba scooted close to his side, her nasal voice whispering inane remarks throughout the performance, the longer he mulled over the irony of finally meeting an heiress who intrigued him—and she happened to be intent on marrying an ancient English lord.
At the end of the performance, he wove through the crush with Lady Libba’s hand tucked into his elbow. At least he had gained the girl’s favor—precisely what he’d set out to do this night. He should be pleased with himself on that score and count the evening a success.
Shrugging, he faced forward. Dismissing the chit as beneath his concern, he glanced down at Lady Libba clinging to his arm and made his first tactical move in winning himself an heiress. “Have I mentioned how lovely you are, my lady?”
She blushed and tittered and swatted his arm. “Oh, la! Lord McKinney, you’re a terrible flirt!”
Chapter Five
Cleo brushed her hair vigorously until the dark mass crackled all around her like a brewing storm. The evening had left her disconcerted. She wanted to place the blame on Hamilton and his vicious tongue, but she’d only be lying to herself. He was only partly to blame for her consternation. The rest of the blame could be laid at the feet of him. The Scot. McKinney. That moment when those cool, gray eyes had looked at her with scorn was etched inside her mind.
She jumped as a gentle knock sounded at her bedchamber door. Setting down her brush, she bade entrance, assuming it was Berthe returning to see if she required anything else for the night.
Instead of the maid, she watched as the man who had sired her stepped inside her bedchamber. Jack Hadley. She felt none of her initial tension as she gazed upon the barrel-chested man. Over the months, they’d come to almost an accord. Not that she forgot or forgave him anything . . . but she acknowledged that he was a different man from that of twenty years ago. She saw regret in the worn lines of his face and longing in his eyes.
While it might appear that he longed for position and rank—which he ostensibly hoped to gain through marrying her to some titled lord—she sensed he longed for something else. Something more. A connection to others. Belonging. Money hadn’t bought him that yet. Even if he didn’t realize it, she suspected that was the true reason he had tracked her down. And not just Cleo, but two other illegitimate daughters. Jack Hadley wanted a family.
He nodded at her reflection in the mirror. “How was your evening?”
She turned to face him. “Fine, thank you.”
He looked as though he would like to say something more, but then shook his head as though thinking better of it. “Well, I won’t keep you. Good night.”
In the threshold, he suddenly stopped and turned. “You know . . . this courtship with the earl . . .” His voice faded away.
She nodded. “Yes.”
He rubbed a hand against the back of his neck. She’d never seen Jack Hadley discomposed like this. But then, she seemed to be constantly reevaluating him.
“Yes?” she prompted.
“The earl is older than I am.”
He looked rather pleadingly at her. “You’re a young woman, Cleo. You don’t have to settle on him. I realize he’s titled, but—”
“I’m quite satisfied with the earl’s courtship.”
Jack looked at her rather doubtfully. “Are you? Truly? Because I don’t want you to feel I’m forcing—”
“No one can force me to marry anyone.” She smiled at him with an arched brow. “Not even the great Jack Hadley.”
He snorted. “Well, your sisters seem to fear that I’m bullying you into this.”
“I’ll talk to them.” Or at least she would talk to Marguerite. She’d have to post a missive to Grier in Maldania.
He looked somewhat relieved at this and she suspected that they must have been badgering him a great deal over the matter. No one could understand her motives for accepting the earl’s suit. Which did not affect her one way or another. Her reasons were her own.
Jack stepped inside her chamber. “In fact, it’s rather nice having you about. I don’t see any point in your rushing into matrimony. The year you’ve been here has been . . . nice.”
“Indeed?” Despite herself, her heart thawed another notch. Her stepfather had never spoken a kind word to her. She really must be starved for a father’s care.
She quickly reminded herself that this is the same Jack who, a year ago, had been anxious to herd up his offspring and marry them off. Marguerite and Grier had actually obliged him—and rather quickly. Perhaps he regretted that now? Regretted that he didn’t have more time to acquaint himself with his other two daughters.
He looked a little lonely right then. And sad. Suddenly she had a notion of what might be bothering him. “Any luck on locating the Higgins woman?”
Several weeks ago, Jack had confessed he might have fathered another child with his former housekeeper. He sighed and shook his head. “The Pinkerton man I hired believes he may have found a lead on her. In Yorkshire.”
“I’m sure he’ll find her,” she murmured, even though she wasn’t certain of any such thing. She couldn’t help wondering whether this Higgins woman even wanted to be found. Her father believed he had sired a child with her, and perhaps he had. Perhaps she was happily married and wanted to forget Jack Hadley.