“We’ve been preparing the master chamber for your arrival ever since Master Logan left for Town.”
The housekeeper’s words settled like stones in the pit of her stomach. She leveled her gaze on the housekeeper, struggling to appear unaffected. “You were so certain he would return with a bride?”
Mrs. Willis smiled. “Well, of course. It was his duty. And for all his wild ways and devilish good looks, the master’s always been a good lad and known his duty.”
Cleo nodded. Duty. Of course. That’s all this was to him. All she was. That’s why he didn’t care about the stipulations she placed on their marriage. A useful reminder.
Mrs. Willis exhaled, her look extremely satisfied as she surveyed the room. “Good to see a new Lord and Lady McKinney in this chamber again. It’s been too long. The master’s parents would be so proud.” She nodded to the colossal bed. “Can’t even count how many babes have been born right there in that bed. Does my heart good to know that I’ll be here to witness the arrival of the next generation.”
Cleo felt the blood drain from her face as she stared at the bed under discussion. She would share this room—that bed—with Logan?
Marguerite must have read the horror writ upon her face. She squeezed Cleo’s hand. “That will be all for now, Mrs. Willis. Please send Miss Hadley’s trunks up and we’ll help ready her.”
Mrs. Willis nodded and departed with a quick curtsy of her portly frame. As soon as the door clicked shut, Cleo sank down onto the nearest chair. Her sisters watched her with concern and she forced a wobbly smile, struggling to reclaim her composure. She’d rather not collapse into a fit of vapors in front of them. She was made of sterner stuff than that.
“Well,” Marguerite said, her voice loud and jarring in the cavernous room. She clapped her hands together with an air of efficiency. “What gown shall you wear? Something blue? You look very fine in blue.”
Cleo nodded and tried to summon her voice. She should at least appear to care. It was her wedding day, after all.
Marguerite and Annalise were soon sifting through Cleo’s trunks.
“This is so exciting,” Annalise commented. “You’re marrying a fine lord.” She cast an almost shy glance at Cleo. “He’s very handsome, too.” Her gaze swept over the room. “And you’ll live in a castle.”
“A dilapidated castle,” Cleo reminded, hating for Annalise to become swept up in the seeming romantic nature of it all.
“Oh, but you’ll repair it now.”
Marguerite held up a lovely peacock blue gown. “I think this is the one.”
Cleo hardly cast it a glance. “Yes. It will do.” Her gaze drifted again to the bed. Her face reddened when she caught Marguerite following her gaze. Her half sister cleared her throat. “Annalise, why don’t you find your room and freshen up a bit yourself? I’m sure you’ll want to change before the ceremony.”
Annalise looked from Marguerite to Cleo. For the first time, Cleo noted the keen intelligence in those lovely brown eyes. For all of her naiveté, the girl wasn’t a dullard. She nodded and rose. “Of course. Send for me if you need anything.”
As the door clicked behind her, Marguerite resumed digging through Cleo’s trunk, hunting for the gown’s matching slippers.
Cleo rose and approached the fireplace, staring into the writhing orange nest of flames. “I imagine it gets very cold here in the winter.”
“I imagine so. But you’ll have that fine fireplace . . . and that fine husband to keep you warm.”
It was as though Marguerite baited her, knowing precisely what to say to make her want to run and hide like a frightened child.
She snorted indelicately. “I think you know he’ll not be keeping me warm. This isn’t a love union, Marguerite. It won’t be like your marriage.”
Marguerite didn’t respond for some moments, and Cleo finally looked over her shoulder to find her sister staring at her thoughtfully.
Cleo continued, “I suppose you think that’s wretched of me? A wife unwilling to consummate . . .”
Marguerite inclined her head. “I suspected that might be why you were spending so much time with Thrumgoodie. You thought he would be safe.” She spread the gown out on the bed, smoothing a hand over the glimmering blue fabric. “You certainly went in the opposite direction in choosing McKinney. I imagine he will be a hard man to resist.”
Cleo closed her eyes in a long, pained blink. “You have no idea.”
Marguerite smiled a small grin. “I think I might have an idea. I wasn’t always eager to wed Ash. But he changed my mind.”
Cleo’s cheeks heated. “Of course.” Her husband was a handsome man with an illicit reputation about Town—at least before he had married Marguerite.
“Let me just say the rewards of the marital bed can be . . . immeasurable.” Marguerite’s expression took on a dreamy quality that made Cleo decidedly uncomfortable.
“Rewards?” she scoffed. “The rewards the man receives versus the woman seem decidedly unbalanced.”
“I’ve no complaint.” Marguerite smiled ever patiently and Cleo bit back her automatic, not yet.
“You know”—Marguerite sat down upon the bed, picking at the lace trim of her gown—“there are things to do that don’t involve actual consummation. Certain pleasurable acts. For both of you.”
Cleo sniffed, striving for disinterest. But it didn’t work. She strode forward and sank down beside Marguerite, looking her steadily in the eye. “Such as?”
Marguerite smiled broadly. “It may shock you, but I assure you . . . there’s pleasure to be had for both of you, even if you never consummate the marriage.”
Cleo studied her sister, noting her wide, solemn eyes. She looked innocent enough. Clearing her throat, she nodded once. “Tell me. Tell me everything we can do. I’m listening.”
Chapter Twenty-one
The ceremony moved in a blur. There were words, vows exchanged as they stood before the tall, cadaverously thin Reverend Smythe. Despite his appearance, he managed a jovial air.
Everyone crammed inside the small church beamed good-natured smiles. Josie fairly bounced in her seat in the front pew. Cleo felt an inexplicable stab of guilt. They’d been waiting for this moment a long while, it seemed. The moment their eldest brother finally married. She swallowed thickly and glanced down at the little bouquet of flowers Josie had thrust into her hands. She wondered if the girl—if any of them—would be quite so delighted if they knew the restrictions she’d imposed on their marriage. That this marriage was, in fact, a farce.
Logan faced her, his well-carved features revealing nothing. He’d held himself stoic all through their vows. Lowering his head, his lips didn’t so much as soften as he sealed their vows with the obligatory kiss.
The church burst into applause. Cleo supposed none of them thought anything amiss with the brief kiss. She knew, however. Everything was wrong with it. She’d been a recipient of Logan’s kisses before. She knew just how long and savoring and delectable they could be.
Turning, he took her arm and led her from the church. A barouche waited, decorated with ribbons and flowers, and Cleo marveled that so much had been accomplished in a few hours.
She settled onto the stiff cushion as Logan took up the reins. With a flick of his wrist, they lurched forward. Villagers lined the road leading up to the castle, waving and cheering, tossing flowers. It was like something out of a fairy tale—and Cleo was caught in the midst of it.
Logan waved and called out greetings. Cleo’s cheeks warmed from so much attention. She hadn’t expected it—hadn’t expected any of this. It was as though Logan ruled over a small kingdom here, so far from the drawing rooms of the ton. No wonder he seemed so indifferent to that world. It meant little to him. This was his world.
And he’d just made her a part of it.
Something in her chest tightened at the thought of that. Lifting her hand, she waved to the villagers, fighting back feelings of shyness. They welcomed her with unabashed enthusiasm. They wanted her here. Without even knowing anything about her, they’d embraced her. Because Logan had chosen her.
Amid all the well-wishers, one face stood out. Very likely because she was so beautiful, with her vivid red hair and curvy figure. But more than likely because she was scowling. The only unsmiling face in the crowd. The girl’s gaze fastened with stark intensity on Logan. Tears swam in her red-rimmed eyes, shining wetly.
She quickly forgot the woman as they arrived at the castle and were ushered into the great dining hall. Tables laden with food awaited them. One table sat upon a dais, well above the others. Logan guided her into a chair at the center of the table. Jack and her family soon arrived to join them, along with Logan’s siblings.
Toasts rang out as they ate and Cleo couldn’t help marveling how unlike this was from all the stuffy dinners she’d attended in Town.
And she was glad for that. Voices and laughter whirled around—all save her own. No one seemed aware that she was mostly silent, only answering questions, absorbing her new world—a world in which she was now married to Logan. This reality sank upon her slowly, like pebbles descending in water.
She nibbled on a bite of roasted pheasant, achingly aware of the man next to her. He radiated heat. Life and vitality.
“Are you not hungry?” he asked as Jack was regaling everyone with one of his anecdotes. She nodded just as everyone burst into laughter as he reached the high point of his story. “I’ve eaten my fill. Everything has been delicious.”
“Then perhaps we should retire. It’s been a long day.”
She gulped, wishing suddenly she’d drawn out her dinner, toying with her food and at least acting like she was eating. Now she had to walk up those winding stairs with him and climb into that big bed.
A bed big enough for an entire regiment. They wouldn’t even have to brush toes with each other. With that encouraging thought, she took a fortifying breath and rose to her feet. It wouldn’t be awkward. They had an understanding after all.
Logan wrapped his hands around her waist and swung her down from the dais. She stood beside him as he bid good night to everyone, nodding and smiling and praying she appeared happy as any bride ought to be—especially any bride marrying a man like Logan. Most girls only dreamed of such a match. Of course, she wasn’t most girls.
His brothers cheered perhaps the loudest and she blushed, guessing at their thoughts. They doubtlessly believed their brother was in store for a vigorous night of passion.
Only she knew better. And so did Logan.
Even so, her nerves were stretched unbearably taut as they walked side by side up the winding stairs. She skimmed her hand along the smooth stone balustrade, trying to ignore the sensation of his hand against the small of her back . . . and deliberately avoiding thinking of the night ahead. Her wedding night.
The sound of a crackling fire greeted them the moment they entered the chamber. A log hissed and crumbled with a sparking pop. Cleo watched this for a moment, holding herself still as the warmer air glided over her.
A dull orange glow suffused the room, reminding her of those sunsets back home, when she’d stand upon the seawall and watch the sun sink into the sea. Logan dropped down upon a velvet-cushioned bench and began tugging off his boots.
She lingered near the door, taking it all in—him, her husband, the bedchamber she was to share with him. It was too much to absorb. She crossed her arms and hugged herself, feeling suddenly small. Like an uncertain girl.
“Are you cold?” One boot hit the floor with a thud. She gave a small jump. Blinking, she looked up from the dark leather boot. She chastised herself for her jumpiness. He wasn’t going to pounce on her.
He glanced to the bed. She followed his gaze to the soft fur draped over the bottom half of the bed. “You’ll warm up quicker in bed.”