She’d actually done it.
He hadn’t thought she would. When it came right down to it, he’d assumed she wouldn’t be able to actually agree. Not when she kissed him the way she had. Not when her eyes looked at him with his own hunger echoed in their depths.
Cleopatra Hadley and old Thrumgoodie did not make sense on any level. She and Logan made sense. At least that was what he had fooled himself into believing.
He paced his bedchamber, telling himself he might as well fetch his mount and leave. He nodded once, hard and decisive. In his present mood, that was precisely what he intended to do. He had no intention of marrying Libba, so remaining here was only a waste of time for both of them. He owed no one an explanation. They could wonder all they liked about what happened to him come morning.
She would know, of course.
Striding to his wardrobe, he grabbed his satchel and began tossing his garments inside. Damn if he was going to stay another moment and witness the farce of Cleo and Thrumgoodie celebrating their betrothal.
A soft knock sounded at the door.
He whipped around, spotting the slip of paper the moment it slid beneath his door.
He tossed down the shirt he held and strode toward the door. Grasping the latch, he yanked the door open and peered out into the shadowed corridor. No one. Nothing save flickering shadows.
Bending down, he snatched up the small slip of paper in one motion. The neatly worded scrawl stared up at him, the message brief, but to the point.
Meet me in my room.
C.
Bitter fury coursed through him. She wanted to see him? Now? He growled low in his throat. What remained to be said? She’d made her choice. He’d watched as she said yes to another man. A veritable slap in the face after he’d bared his soul to her—confessing to want her as he’d never wanted another woman.
He crumpled the parchment into his fist and strode across the room. Flinging open the grate, he was on the verge of tossing it to the coals. With a grunt, he slammed the grate shut again, and walked a short, hard line back and forth across his chamber, stuffing the note into his pocket.
There was nothing left to say, and yet he couldn’t leave without seeing her one last time . . . without satisfying his curiosity and hearing what she had to say to him.
He’d see her. And then he’d go. He’d wasted enough time here already. He’d not waste another moment on a female that wanted nothing to do with him . . . who preferred a cold, empty future to the one they could have had together—one that would at least have been vital and alive. They would have had their share of fights, he was certain. But there would have been passion.
He returned to his satchel and finished packing absently, his thoughts elsewhere. When he left Scotland, he’d thought this matter of finding a wife would be a relatively easy feat. True, she needed to possess a dowry of means, but he’d been certain there were females enough to fit that requirement. He couldn’t have known that he’d fixate his desires on the one female who didn’t want him—who would prefer a man with one foot in the grave over him.
But after tonight that wouldn’t matter. She wouldn’t matter. Because he was moving on.
He’d never see her again.
Chapter Fourteen
Cleo brushed her hair until her scalp tingled. Glaring at her reflection, she set her brush down with a sharp click.
Angling her head, she studied herself. “What’s wrong with you?” The fact that she was talking to herself didn’t daunt her in the least.
Shaking her head, she rose to her feet. Untying the sash of her night rail, she dropped it at the foot of her bed, an enormous beast that could have slept her and several of her half-siblings. The thought of her siblings fortified her, reminding her that she was on the right path. Even if her chest felt heavy and tight, this was what she needed to do.
A maid had already pulled back the coverlet. She climbed within and pulled the soft bedding up to her chin. Staring up at the canopy, her thoughts invariably drifted to Logan. She told herself she was only concerned. She had no wish to hurt his feelings. She told herself that was the only reason she worried. Not because she cared about him . . .
She’d been unable to escape for at least another hour after Thrumgoodie announced their engagement. She’d suffered a toast of champagne. Libba had insisted Hamilton’s servants fetch his finest champagne for the occasion. He’d looked none too happy about that, of course, but no one seemed to notice. Just as no one seemed aware that Logan was absent from the festivities. Even Libba was too caught up in the revelry to notice. And yet Cleo noticed.
It was just the beginning, she realized with a bitter swallow. There would be dinners and parties, and more toasts to endure. She hadn’t anticipated all of that. Hopefully, the earl could arrange a short engagement so as not to drag it out.
With a sigh, she turned onto her side, lifting up on an elbow to punch her pillow with decided vigor. Falling onto her back, she allowed doubt and regret to creep in.
What am I doing? I cannot do this. Bitter emotion soured her stomach, and for a moment she feared she would be sick, the evening’s champagne acid in her stomach.
A soft knock at her door had her lurching upright. Frowning, she imagined Libba stood on the other side, too agitated from an evening of carousing to sleep yet. She was an easily excited creature even without adding spirits.
Flinging back her covers, Cleo marched toward the door and pulled it open with an admonition for Libba to march herself back to bed ready on her lips.
Only Libba did not stand there.
She gaped. Her head fell back to take him in. He wore only trousers and a shirt. No vest. No jacket. A pair of Hessians hugged his muscular legs up to the knees. The white lawn of his shirt contrasted sharply to the darker exposed flesh of his neck. Her throat felt suddenly dry, and she fought to swallow.
She wanted to demand an explanation for his presence outside her bedroom, but speech failed her. She’d thought so much of him tonight, wondering where he’d disappeared to during the impromptu celebration of her forthcoming marriage, wondering if she’d hurt him—hoping she hadn’t. She was unable to erase the memory of his shadow, standing witness as she accepted Thrumgoodie’s offer.
Without a word, he strode past her, his shoulder brushing her arm. She swallowed a hiss at the contact.
For a moment, she couldn’t move. Her head spun. Reeling and bewildered, she took a quick glance up and down the empty corridor. Satisfied no one had seen him enter her room, she closed the door, sealing them in as effectively as if they were in a tomb.
She knew she could demand he leave. She should. Nothing about this was proper or seemly. If he was discovered, she’d be ruined, all her hopes for her family lost.
She wasn’t sure why she was letting any of this happen. Only that she felt compelled—like some other force was guiding her to behave against her will. Against all reasoning. She was willingly betrothed to another man—the precise man she wanted for a husband. The man she’d set out to land for herself.
And yet the precise man she did not want, she had just permitted inside her bedchamber. There had to be a cell in Bedlam for people like her.
He prowled a small circle before stopping in the center of the room. Facing her, his arms hung at his sides, hands clenched in tight fists.
Tension swam on the air, so tangible she could touch it.
She’d never seen him look like this before. The flesh surrounding his eyes seemed tighter. A tiny tic worked madly at the corner of the right eye. His chest rose and fell, lifting against his white shirt.
She couldn’t stand to look at the accusation in his face. She looked away, and her gaze fastened on the exposed stretch of his throat, on the skin there that looked so warm and inviting.
“You did it,” he murmured.
He might as well have yelled the words. She jumped at the whisper. She breathed in and out before answering, “I said I would.”
“Yes.” He nodded, moving slowly, advancing on her. “You did.”
No censure. Not even anger. Just that tension about him. A coil ready to spring. A lion about to pounce.
Ironic considering she moved first, coming at him in a gliding step.
And that’s all he needed to act.
He met her, enveloping her in his arms and lifting her off her feet. His mouth swooped over hers. Her hands slid up to cup his face, holding, reveling in the rasp of his bristly cheeks. His tongue was in her mouth, mating fiercely with her own. His hands clutched her back, the strong dig of his fingers rough and thrilling.
They clung to each other with equal fervor, their lips locked in a devouring kiss that went on and on. His hands slid down, cupped her bottom through the thin fabric of her nightgown. She gasped as he lifted her easily, guiding her legs around him.
Everything about this should have horrified her, but she could only feel. Only taste. She had thought she’d never see him again. That he was lost to her. Nothing could make her break away right now.
Her world jarred slightly with his every step. Soon she was descending back onto the bed, all his splendid weight falling atop her, directly between her splayed thighs. Her nightgown slipped and cool air drifted over her exposed legs.
He released her lips and dragged his hot mouth down her throat just as his hand slid along her rib cage. He nipped her throat and then kissed the bruised flesh, laving with his tongue. She moaned, arching under him, sensation flooding her.
She didn’t know it could be like this. His hand closed over her breast and she gasped, seized with a want so deep that she forgot everything. Who she was . . . what she’d always wanted for herself. For her family. For once the visage of her stepfather didn’t intrude. The only thing she wanted right now was this. Him.
His hand kneaded her breast until she was panting and writhing beneath him. When his lips closed over the hard tip, sucking through the thin fabric of her gown, she arched her back with a sharp cry as hot sensation rippled through her.
His mouth pulled at her, taking her deep. The wet fabric of her gown only served to chafe her overly sensitized nipple. She weaved her fingers through his hair, holding him to her with hungry desperation, determined that he give more. She wanted her nightgown gone—his clothes to melt away. She yearned to feel his skin, to experience the hardness of his body against hers . . . his flesh to her flesh . . .
She was lost. Oblivious to reason. To the world around her.
To the click of the opening door . . .
She was heat imploding in his arms. Logan was overwhelmed with the taste and feel of her. He hadn’t come here for this. At least not consciously. She’d agreed to marry another man. As far as he was concerned, she was beyond his reach. She’d seen to that. It infuriated him, but there was nothing to do about it now short of abducting her.
And yet here he was. Here they were. Lost together. With each other.
He heard the gasp. It registered dully, sinking into his awareness slowly. He lifted his head from her delectable breast and blinked as if waking from a dream.
Instantly, the trio standing in the threshold took shape. His gut clenched at the sight of Libba, her expression one of horror and disbelief. Thrumgoodie stood there, too, looking more ashen than usual, clutching his nephew’s arm as though it were the only thing keeping him from collapsing.
Logan sat up quickly and stood back from the bed, reaching down to cover Cleo’s legs with her nightgown. A hasty assessment told him there was little he could do to help her appearance. She looked like a woman thoroughly ravished.
Her dark hair floated like a nimbus around the wanton curve of her body. Her clouded gaze seemed unable to focus. She propped herself on her elbows and stared up at him beneath heavy lids.
“Cleo,” he whispered harshly, gazing intently at her flushed face. She looked appealing as hell, and he cursed the crowd of intruders.
Of course, better that they arrived when they did. He winced at the idea of them arriving five minutes later. Given more time, he had a fairly good idea of the scene they would have witnessed. Now that would have been a scandal to live down.