Staring at Jack, she felt a twinge of her old resentment. Jack had certainly been prolific in spreading his seed all about the country and leaving heartache in his wake. Still . . . if she had another sister or brother out there, she would like to know them.

Jack plucked at an invisible piece of lint on his sleeve. “Well, I won’t keep you from your bed.”

“Good night,” she murmured, watching him depart and musing over how she could not despise the man who had rejected her mother—and her. She had assumed the hatred would always be there.

When she first arrived, she had been quite willing to lay the blame for her mother’s wretched life at his feet. But Cleo didn’t have it in her to hate the man. At least her mother’s needs were being tended now. She also recognized that her mother had made her choices with open eyes. She’d known Jack Hadley was not the marrying kind and yet she’d gone to his bed anyway.

Her mother had paid for that mistake. And Cleo had learned from it. She would choose a different path. Even though she didn’t hate Jack any longer . . . she wouldn’t place her total trust in him. A smart, carefully chosen marriage would give her the lifelong security she sought.

Setting the brush down, Cleo used the small step stool to climb into bed. As she sank beneath the luxurious quilted silk coverlet, she marveled that this should be her bed—her life. She would never have to worry about an aching belly again.

And if she chose carefully, wisely, she wouldn’t have to contend with a man wreaking destruction over her life and body. To say nothing of her heart.

For two days, she avoided Thrumgoodie, in no mood to see again his wretched nephew, who had taken residence at the earl’s Mayfair mansion during his visit. She frequently replayed that moment when she’d stumbled upon him gossiping about her to Mr. Blackwell and Lord McKinney. The wretch.

Then she realized that she was being cowardly. The last thing she wanted Hamilton to think was that he’d succeeded in running her off. Indeed not. With that thought in mind, she accepted the earl’s invitation to dinner. Her father, invited as well, accompanied her. He reveled in these affairs, mingling among the peerage over glittering crystal and the finest port. Wearing the rich, garish colors his tailor convinced him were the height of ton fashion. He enjoyed nothing more.

It was a small dinner party, no more than a dozen guests. Cleo dressed in her best, feeling fortified in a gown of bronze silk that made the hidden lights gleam in her dark hair. At least that’s what the modiste had told her when she selected the fabric. She only hoped she wasn’t being led astray as her father was.

Jack helped her from her cloak and handed it to a waiting groom. Offering his arm, he led her into the drawing room where everyone was gathered before dinner. As they approached, she could hear the familiar din of Lady Libba hammering away at the keys. From the sound of it, the pianoforte might very well crumble beneath the onslaught.

“Hope she bloody well quits that racket soon,” her father murmured in her ear. “Might turn off my appetite.”

Despite herself Cleo chuckled and grinned, all gaiety when she entered the room.

As though a magnet drew her, her eyes landed on him first. The sight of Lord McKinney startled her as it shouldn’t. He stood straight as an oak beside the pianoforte, turning the pages when Libba indicated he should.

He spotted her, too. His direct stare flustered her. Her fingers flexed on Jack’s arm and he sent her a curious glance. Inwardly, she commanded herself to recall herself—who she was, what she was about.

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.”