She greeted first the earl and then the other guests. Unfortunately that meant she had to eventually face Lord McKinney again and exchange pleasantries.
As Libba finished playing, Cleo nodded in greeting. “Good evening, Libba. Lord McKinney.”
His gaze skimmed her, from the top of her head to the toes of her golden slippers, and then he looked away, dismissing her. She squared her shoulders and reminded herself that she was not here to gain his favor.
She took her seat on a settee beside the earl.
It shouldn’t have surprised her to see McKinney here again. If he was hunting for an heiress, Libba was that. And he was a feast for the eyes. There was no question that Libba was all gushing encouragement. She was his for the taking.
When dinner was announced, Cleo rose quickly, glad for a change of scene.
“Ah, my dear Cleo,” the earl said in his croaking voice. He waved his pale, thin hand on the air. “Come. A little assistance, please?”
With an obligatory smile, she offered her hand. He used it to haul himself from the chair. She staggered before catching herself, rooting her slippers into the carpet so she didn’t lose her balance.
He gripped her shoulder to right himself, crushing the capped sleeve of her gown. She fought back a grimace as he leaned against her, resisting the temptation to step away, quite convinced that if she did so he would collapse.
His labored breath blew moistly against her cheek. “I need but a moment to catch my breath,” he panted.
She nodded and watched as everyone filed out of the room in to dinner.
The hairs at her nape began to tingle and she had a certain sensation that she was being watched. She swiveled her head, surveying the last of the guests as they emptied the room. Nothing. It appeared everyone—
And then she spotted him.
Instead of escorting Libba in to dinner, he lingered in the corner, holding a glass of brandy lightly in his hand and surveying her and the earl.
His stare was penetrating, yet unreadable. Her face heated as he gazed at her. Mortification burned through her. She was acutely conscious of what he saw—the earl clutching her in an undignified manner as though she were a nursemaid and not a lady.
Thrumgoodie coughed hoarsely, regaining her attention. He struggled to regain his legs. His grip on her hand intensified. The fingers on her shoulder dug in deep and painfully. She bowed a bit beneath the pressure and stopped shy of crying out.
Abruptly, a deep voice rumbled near her ear. “I’ll help you there.”
She sagged with relief. Even if it was him. She didn’t think she could see Thrumgoodie all the way to the dining room without assistance, and no one else had lingered to see if she or the earl needed any help. She didn’t let herself consider why McKinney stayed behind. She was simply relieved he had.
The earl’s head snapped in his direction. “Eh? Who are you?”
“McKinney, my lord.”
“Oh, Libba’s beau.” He nodded as if remembering.
Libba’s beau. The reminder left a foul taste in her mouth and suddenly she didn’t want his help.
She tried to reclaim the earl’s hand. “We’re managing quite well, Lord McKinney. Thank you for your consideration, but it’s not necessary.”
He looked at her with those unreadable gray eyes. Just when she assumed he would turn and walk away, he made an exasperated sound and shook his head. Stepping close, he brushed her aside as if she were of no account.
Before she could so much as squeak, he took hold of Thrumgoodie’s hand that gripped her shoulder fiercely and guided him from the room, taking the old man’s weight into himself as if he were nothing more than a feather.
After a stunned moment, she followed, resenting that he should have been the one to stay behind and help her. When they at last settled in at the dining table, she focused her attention on her companions, grateful they were neither Hamilton nor McKinney. Still, she found it quite difficult to focus on the words of the soft-spoken lady beside her. Not with Libba laughing uproariously every few moments.
Cleo found herself sneaking baleful glances down the table. Libba threw back her head and leaned her entire body to the side, swatting the Scotman’s arm again and again. She held her ribs as if they ached from laughter.
Lord McKinney talked with ease, his broad hand waving carelessly on the air, a mild smile playing on his well-carved lips. Cleo narrowed her eyes on him and felt a fresh surge of dislike. He couldn’t be that genuinely amusing or charming. Nor could he honestly find Libba’s braying enjoyable. He doubtlessly played puppet to Libba, hanging on her every word and acting as though she truly had something interesting to say. The man belonged on stage. It would have been comical if it did not annoy her so much. She stabbed at a small roasted potato on her plate with uncharacteristic force.
Suddenly he looked up to catch her watching him. She possessed too much pride to look away as if she were guilty of some crime, so she held his stare, lifting the potato to her lips and chewing as if his scrutiny failed to affect her.
He must have read some of her distaste for him on her face, for the smile he had worn so easily for Libba faded and his eyes turned to hard chips of winter gray. Again, the condemning judgment. As his gleaming gaze watched her watching him, that night at the opera came back in a flood.
Jack, thankfully, paid her little note, too intent on impressing the young widow beside him to notice the stare-down between her and McKinney. Deciding she’d wasted enough of her time on the man, she looked away for good, determined to not give him another thought.
Chapter Six
At the end of the meal, the ladies retired to the drawing room while the men adjourned to the library for their cigars. And not a moment too soon. Cleo desperately wanted a moment to compose herself and forget the way Lord McKinney had looked at her—that cold-eyed stare rattled her to the core.
Did he disdain her for letting a man old enough to be her grandfather court her? Or did her lack of pedigree offend? That stuck in the craw of enough members of the ton. She supposed even a Scottish lord might consider himself her better.
If that was the case, he was worse than Hamilton. Hamilton she at least understood. His nastiness derived from his fear that she’d marry his great-uncle—and he’d have to share Thrumgoodie’s inheritance with her.
Libba’s voice pulled her from her thoughts. “I’m the luckiest girl in the whole empire,” she gushed beside Cleo.
“Indeed,” Cleo murmured, stamping back her nausea at Libba’s excessive prattling.
“No man can rival him. Not in looks or charm.” She clapped her hands together and shivered in delight. “I can’t wait for our wedding night. Can you imagine his expertise in the boudoir?”
Cleo’s cheeks burned as she envisioned his virile form . . . stripped free of his evening attire. Unlike most gentlemen of the ton, he would probably look better out of his garments. She cleared her throat. “It seems soon to harbor such thoughts, does it not?”
“Oh, I know everything about him. He lives in a castle in the Highlands.” Her eyes danced with delight. “I’m quite sure he strolls about in a kilt. Can you imagine the sight of his delicious bare legs?”
Heat crawled up her neck to her face as she imagined McKinney’s bare legs. She swallowed. Not an image she needed in her head. He already spent too much time in her thoughts.
“Libba, really . . . you shouldn’t say such things.”
“Oh, don’t be such a prude, Cleo. You are female. How can you look at him without thinking such things?”
Cleo didn’t bother explaining that she was immune to virile, handsome men. She’d trained herself to resist the flirtations of young men, all too aware that such a path led to misery.
She shrugged. “You really believe you know everything about the man?”
Libba nodded. “Indeed. I do. He’s the one.”
“Let’s recount, shall we?” Cleo counted off on her fingers. “He lives in the highlands. In a castle. He’s seeking a wife.” She shook her head, searching Libba’s face for anything else she might wish to add.
Libba nodded, smiling rather blankly.
Cleo sighed with exasperation. “That hardly constitutes knowing a man, does it? Would you really go off into the wilds with him? Totally at his mercy?” Just the notion made Cleo’s skin shiver.
A dreamy expression came over Libba’s features. “Hmm. Yes.”
“Never mind.” Cleo rolled her eyes. The girl was hopeless.
“Oh, Cleo.” Libba nudged her shoulder roughly. “Haven’t you any trust? Any faith? Sometimes you have to trust your instincts about a person.”
Cleo sniffed. Like her mother had trusted? First Jack Hadley. And then her stepfather. Not Cleo—not a chance.
Libba continued. “I’m fairly certain he means to offer for me. Perhaps even this week . . .”
Cleo blinked. “So soon?”
“Oh, yes. You’ve been hiding away with that headache of yours for the last two days so you wouldn’t know, but he called on me the day after the opera with a bouquet of hothouse roses.
“Of course he did. He knows a good catch when he sees one,” Cleo replied wryly, but Libba missed her sarcasm and continued talking.
“ . . . And the day after that he took me for a ride in the park. Tomorrow we shall stroll Bond Street. I do hope he will propose soon,” she rushed to say. “Grandfather’s health is so precarious. The last thing I want is Hamilton acting as my guardian . . . or having to delay my wedding because Grandfather died.” Comprehension suddenly broke across Libba’s features. “Oh, how dreadful of me. I did not mean to imply that Grandfather might soon die. I know you’re very . . . fond of him.”
Cleo smiled weakly and patted Libba’s hand. The girl meant well. She just couldn’t be accused of keen intelligence. She could never fault Libba for being unkind. Unlike Hamilton, she was tolerant of Cleo’s budding relationship with her grandfather. “No worries, Libba.”
Libba clutched Cleo’s hand in each of her own. “And he is exceedingly fond of you, too. You’ve brought new life into him.”
Cleo’s smile grew pained.
Libba’s head dipped closer as she whispered conspiratorially, “I believe he intends to offer for you very soon.”
At this confidence, Cleo’s stomach sank. Foolish, of course. They’d been courting for months. This was what she’d been working toward, after all. An easy, uncomplicated match. Safe.
Above all safe.
“W-wonderful.”
“Isn’t it?” Libba’s head bobbed happily. “He swore he would never wed again after his last wife died. Sorry luck, that.” Libba gave her hand another squeeze. “He’ll likely outlive us all. Wait and see.”
“I dearly hope so,” Cleo returned. Not a lie. She truly did not yearn for widowhood . . . as the gossips were fond of declaring. She simply wished to keep her body to herself—and not lose her spirit under the grind of some man’s boot heel. The earl’s days of grinding his boot heels were long past. He was unthreatening in that regard . . . spending most of his days in a prolonged nap.
She need only envision her mother’s haggard face, or recall one of the tiny corpses she’d carried to the churchyard, to know the kind of life she wanted.
Still, the thought that she might soon have to finalize her decision and accept Thrumgoodie’s proposal knotted her stomach.
“Pardon me, Libba. I’m in need of some air.” She rose to her feet and slipped out the drawing room’s balcony doors.
She shivered at the sudden plunge into chilled air. She wished she’d brought her shawl but wasn’t about to go back into the house to fetch it. She moved away from the door. The feminine chatter from within faded as she strolled along the verandah that wrapped around the side of the house.
Chafing her arms, she stared up at the night and squinted, wondering where the stars had vanished. She’d always been able to see them at home. She and her mother were fond of picking out the constellations.
“Can’t see a thing through all the smog.”
Cleo gasped and spun around.
Standing several feet away, the Scot propped a lean hip against the stone railing, his booted feet crossed at the ankles.
“What are you doing out here?” she demanded.
“Could ask you the same.”
She crossed her arms, suddenly unsure what to do with them.
It dawned on her that they’d never even spoken at any length. Just a brief two- or three-worded greeting. For as much as he’d filled her awareness . . . occupied her thoughts, this struck her as strange.
She shivered anew. It was too dark to see his eyes but she imagined they still looked at her with that cold disapproval.
“Tired of the chatter?” he asked, his dark head nodding toward the drawing room.
She soaked up the sound of his voice. The faint brogue rolled through her like warm honey. She shook her head for thinking such a way, angry at herself for letting his voice affect her.
“I needed some fresh air,” she murmured, her voice a tight squeak.
“Bracing yourself for the earl’s cold touch?”
She sucked in a sharp breath, his words as shocking as a dousing of water. “Pardon me?”
“You heard me well enough.”
“Surely not. My ears must be mistaken to have heard you say something so unconscionably rude.”
He chuckled and the sound grated. Suddenly, his laughter stopped and silence stretched between them until he asked, “How old are you?”
She hesitated, but ultimately answered him. “Three and twenty.”
“That young?”
“You thought me older?”
“You must confess there aren’t many girls of your tender years who would consider a man in his eightieth year a prime candidate for a husband.”
She pulled back her shoulders. “You know no bounds, my lord. I’m not sure why anything about me should interest you.”
He shrugged. “You’re a curiosity, I confess.”
“Perhaps I look beyond the superficial shell of a person.”
He chuckled and the sound rippled though her like dribbling honey. “Oh, indeed? Then do tell. Share with me what it is about the old earl that you find so endearing?”
She stared at him in mutinous silence and she was quite certain that he was enjoying himself. At her expense. His eyes gleamed in the gloom and she felt the overwhelming urge to strike him.
He continued in that rolling burr of his, mocking, “Is it his scintillating conversation?”
“Go to hell.” The words exploded from her lips before she could stop herself. Immediately, she regretted them. She regretted the hot emotion he’d roused within her . . . the unreasonable urge to lash out. She’d never been like this before . . . so defensive, so hostile. Not even with Roger, and he’d justifiably earned her ire on countless occasions. Daily.
He chuckled, seemingly delighted with her outburst. “You’re the first woman I’ve met in this godforsaken city to utter anything quite so . . . honest. It’s a welcome bit of fresh air.”
This declaration bordered on a compliment. Decidedly uncomfortable that he might actually admire her in some fashion, she turned to go. “We shouldn’t be out here . . . alone together.”
He chuckled anew, this sound lower, deeper. It slid seductively along her spine. She stopped, shooting a glance over her shoulder at the dim shape of him. “What’s so amusing?” she queried, the annoyance in her voice crisp and sharp.
“You did not strike me as the type to worry about what others might say.”
His comment hit its mark—no doubt as he’d intended. Her annoyance flared. She stepped closer. Closer than comfortable, but she couldn’t back
down after he’d waved a flag like that before her face.
“Because if I did care what others think or say about me I would what?” Another step. “Conduct myself differently?”
Even in the gloom, she detected a bend to his lips. He was smiling. “Your words. Not mine.”
She inhaled thinly through her nostrils. “You really shouldn’t listen to gossip, Lord McKinney. It’s usually untrue.”
“Usually,” he returned. She could hear the smile in his voice. “But you know what they say.”
“And what would that be?”
“There’s always a kernel of truth to every rumor . . .”
Meaning he believed Hamilton’s scathing words about her—that she was naught but a title chaser.
She squared back her shoulders. “I hear you are quite good with a knife. Is that gossip or truth?”
He chuckled again. “I know my way around a blade.”
“You’re incorrigible.”
“I’ve been called worse.”
“I’m certain of that.”
He pushed himself off the railing and advanced. In a few softly thudding steps he was directly in front of her. “You’re a familiar story to me, Miss Hadley.”
Her skin tightened warily. She dropped her head back to peer up at his shadowed features. She should turn and walk away, but she couldn’t resist the bait. “What do you mean by that?”
Shivering, she hugged herself tighter, telling herself it was the chill in the air and not his proximity—or the way his eyes glimmered down at her. “Wasting yourself on someone you can never care about . . . I understand that all too well.”
Her breath seized for a moment at his words . . . at what sounded like regret in his voice. She finally breathed again. “I’m wasting nothing.”
He lifted one shoulder in a half shrug. “Not yet. But you’re on the cusp. Like me.”
“You don’t know me. We’re nothing alike.” With that, she spun around and marched away, her slippered feet moving quickly beneath her skirts.
His voice followed her. “Run along, Miss Hadley. I’m sure Lord Thrumgoodie is missing you. He needs someone to guide him about the furniture, after all.”