Cleo fought her temper. “Before what, precisely?”
“Before I realized that Thornton is altogether unacceptable,” Tia explained, giving Cleo’s arm a condescending pat.
“He is to be betrothed,” Helen added, her voice soft and sympathetic.
“I am aware.” Cleo pressed her lips together, choosing her words with care. “But nothing is certain.”
“My dear, it is the worst folly to fall in love with your lover if he is engaged to marry another.” Helen kept her voice gentle. “It’s why we regret our somewhat feeble attempt to bring the two of you together now we’ve learned of Miss Cuthbert.”
“You regret it now?” Cleo laughed without mirth. “Isn’t your regret a trifle tardy? After all, without your meddling, Thornton and I may have never…”
“Never what?” Helen looked at her askance. “You didn’t?”
“Oh dear.” Tia gripped her hand. “You haven’t, have you? Cleo, it would be quite ruinous.”
Cleo scoffed. “You needn’t insult him, you know. Half the ladies in attendance, married and unmarried, have been swooning over him these past few days. He’s hardly an ogre.”
“Yes, but he’s Thornton. While I agree that he cuts a fine figure and can seat a horse better than any man I know, not to mention his prowess at all things physical—really, you should see the man play rounders—he seems such a cold fish.”
“When did you see him playing rounders?” Cleo demanded, unnerved.
Tia smiled again. “Earlier this morning. I went for my walk and spied a few of the gentleman at play. I do love a well-muscled man.”
“He isn’t a cold fish,” Cleo said sternly, “but you are to stay away from him. No more spying on him whilst he plays rounders or otherwise.”
Tia pished. “Helen, darling, do ring for Bridget. I can’t think of where she is with our chocolate. As late as it is, I fear we are to be relegated to our chambers for breakfast.”
“Yes, your majesty.” Helen dropped from the bed and made a mock curtsy rival to any court presentation. “Whatever your majesty wishes.”
“Don’t be a wit,” Tia ordered, tipping her nose up in the air with regal grace. She directed her attention to Cleo again. “Cleo, I’m appalled. You were meant to conduct a respectable affaire with Ravenscroft.”
“Tia, an affaire is not respectable,” Helen chided from across the room.
“It’s a bit like saying ‘the nice executioner’.” Cleo felt compelled to agree. It was too early for her to be bombarded with such meddlesome sisters. Really, why couldn’t the Lord have blessed her with meek, mouse-in-the-hole misses instead? Oh, well enough, she would dearly miss her ferocious sisters if they were plaguing someone else’s chamber, but they could be deadly trying at times.
Tia swatted the air as if it contained a swarm of deeply distressing gnats. “You know what I meant to say. Thornton was to have been the one at first, but then when I saw how the earl danced attendance on you, I thought perhaps he was safer. But now you’ve gone and ruined it.”
“What is so terrible about Thornton?” Cleo’s protective instincts prickled to the surface of her pride.
“I think what our sister wants to say, in her circuitous way,” Helen began as she crossed the room and once more perched herself on the bed, “is that your heart would not have gotten involved with the earl. Whereas the marquis—dearest, it is plain to see, especially after your scene together the other evening, that you have deep feelings for one another yet.”
“I already said as much,” Tia grumbled, wearing a most aggrieved expression.
Helen raised a brow. “Yes, but I merely translated it into plain English.”
Cleo picked at the stitches on her exquisite coverlet. Sisters could be such a bother. Why did they always see and know so much? Did nothing escape their eyes? “I have been avoiding Thornton for just the reasons you both have mentioned. Indeed, I sought out Ravenscroft as a distraction from Thornton.”
Bridget entered the chamber just then, bearing a silver tray and pot of hot chocolate. “Good morning, my ladies.” She beamed, unaware of the serious nature of the conversation she had only just interrupted. “It’s sure to be a fine day today. The sun is shining, not a hint of clouds and the birds sing the sweetest songs.”
“Bridget,” Cleo began, much aggrieved, “in future, please do refrain from allowing miscreants into my chamber this early in the morning.”
Bridget bit her lip to keep, it would appear, from laughing. “Yes, my lady.”
“Impertinent,” Cleo grumbled, but no one listened. It was well known that she was fond of Bridget and permitted free speaking between her staff and herself. Bridget took all in stride, dear woman that she was, and ignored her mistress.
“Chocolate.” Tia rose from the bed, smiling. “Thank you, dearest Bridget. You may leave us.”
Bridget set her tray carefully upon a table, curtseyed and hesitated. Cleo knew her maid well enough to know she wished to speak.
She sighed. “Yes, Bridget?”
“My lady, it is only that I wished to inform you of the gossip belowstairs.” Bridget’s pretty face was earnest. There was no ill will, no malice meant by her in gossip exchanges. Ordinarily, Cleo and Bridget shared a laugh over the latest scandals of the glittering set. This was different.
At the word gossip, her sisters’ ears perked up as if they were hounds. Cleo was sure she didn’t want to hear the gossip in the servants’ wing. Tia and Helen appeared equally sure they did.
“You may most assuredly stay, Bridget.” Tia smiled over her chocolate. “Do tell us.”
“It’s sorry I am, my lady.” Bridget frowned, looking distraught. “I know it’s not my place to interfere, but I’ve heard it from Hollins, Lady Thornton’s woman, that Lord Thornton is soon to be wed to a girl who’s certain to further his politics. Seeing as how I heard Lord Thornton and Lord Ravenscroft fought over you the other day, I thought you may wish to know.”
Mortification forced a blush to her cheeks. “They were fighting over a volume of Tennyson,” she objected, though even she knew her denial was a lame one. “Lord Thornton and I have had very little conversation since my arrival.”
“Of course, my lady.” The maid’s expression made it plain she did not believe Cleo. “I only wished to pass on gossip to entertain you ladies.”
“You have not done wrong,” Cleo forced herself to say. Though it embarrassed her to no end to suddenly find herself at the midst of a romantic contretemps and belowstairs tongue wags, she could not punish the loyal Bridget. “I am aware that the marquis is expected to become betrothed to further his political achievements. Undoubtedly, it will be a perfect union.” And the thought of it rendered her perfectly dejected.
“Has anything else been said, Bridget?” Helen asked, her tone cautious.
“Not to me.” She met Cleo’s gaze. “I recall how heartsick you were then, my lady, when the marquis proved a scoundrel.”
“That’s just it.” A faint, mirthless smile curved Cleo’s lips. “I’m afraid I cleaved myself to a scoundrel and ran away from a gentleman.”
“My lady?”
“You cannot think in this vein,” Tia protested. “No good shall come of it.”
“Too late,” Cleo whispered, shaken to her core.
“Cousin Alex, what is this I hear about you suffering a case of the blue cock?”
Thornton reined in his hunter and glanced sternly at his reprobate cousin, Lord Fordham. Thornton, he and Jesse were indulging in a morning ride. It was the perfect opportunity to escape the scrutiny of the house party, a chance for fresh air and good company. And now the brazen lad was utterly spoiling the fine mood.
“I’ll bloody well cut off your cock if I ever hear you talking about mine again,” he growled, aware that he’d allowed his temper to get a hold over him. Ordinarily, he did not countenance displays of emotion, but it would seem that being within Cleo’s grasp wreaked all manner of deviltry on his controlled life. He couldn’t
recall when he’d ever attempted to make love to a woman against a tree. Or a window, put to point.
Ford scowled. “You needn’t be so sensitive about it. I dare say I’ve experienced it once in my admittedly short lifetime.”
“Can’t say as I have,” Jesse offered, grinning like a smug bastard.
“Americans,” Thornton grumbled.
“You sound like the dowager,” Ford pointed out.
“I’m going to fucking kill you,” Thornton said with great forced cheer.
His cousin swallowed. “Not a bit like her now that I think on it.”
Good. Give the blighter a bit of fear.
“Better, but I’m still going to cut off your knob if you ever say ‘blue cock’ in my presence again.” He glared at Ford because he knew it was partially true. Cleo had him in an uproar. She had disturbed everything, shredded every last sense of peace he’d ever claimed. She’d ruined him for the second time. And now, she was waltzing about with that whoreson Ravenscroft, ignoring him. Forgetting his existence.
He told himself she was a married woman. He told himself she betrayed him once before, believing Scarbrough over him, marrying another man and tossing their love aside. He told himself he didn’t care a straw for her, that she could warm the bed of every man in the house party if she dared and it would not bother him. But it seemed he didn’t care about the first two and the third was an utter falsehood.
“Maybe you should visit with the lovely Lady Boniface,” Jesse suggested, his tone polite, almost pitying.
“Maybe you should,” he bit out. “I don’t need a bedmate.”
“You needn’t be such a bear.” Ford winced. “Christ, I only said something because Lucy the chambermaid told me she heard belowstairs gossip that you were courting Lady Scarbrough but she had a tendre for Ravenscroft. I thought it a lark.”
“And what were you doing with Lucy the chambermaid?”
Ford looked abashed. “Alex, I know you said not to trifle with the servants, but I’m not trifling with Lucy. She’s a rum one, knows her way around a man. Beautiful breasts I could suck on all day long…”
“Ford!” Thornton felt like his cousin’s father sometimes. The lad needed guidance. Truly, he needed to join a monastery.
“You do have a stick up your arse,” Jesse intervened.
Thornton raised a brow. “You aren’t supposed to side with the stripling. You’re my friend.”
“Let him have his fun,” Jesse said quietly. “You were his age once.”
Yes and he’d been in love with Cleo. He hadn’t been shagging maids, for Christ’s sake. Guilt crept into his thoughts then. He had, however, been shagging Cleo like a common country wench, without benefit of marriage. Perhaps her betrayal had not been entirely her fault, he realized. After all, he had not offered for her, but had put the task off as a future certainty. He’d been too busy with Marleigh Manor, too weighed down by his mother’s demands and the challenges of refilling his empty family purse to worry about marriage. Cleo had been a young, innocent girl. She had no reason to believe he would make an honest woman of her. She had, in truth, been treated little better than Lucy the chambermaid. He had no right to admonish Ford. He had no right to harbor enmity for Cleo. She had made the decision any sensible young lady would have.
It had only taken him seven years to acknowledge his error. Oh, hell.
“Alex?” Ford interrupted his thoughts. “Please don’t be angry. I swear to you that Lucy approached me first.”
Thornton clenched his jaw. “I’m not angry about the damned maid. I’m angry at myself for being a hypocrite. Jesse’s right.”
“You shagged a maid at a Shakespearean whatnot?” Ford gave an unrepentant grin.
“Worse.” Thornton grimaced. “I’ll spare the details.”
“The saint was once a sinner?” Ford appeared to relish the idea.
Jesse caught his gaze. “Go to her,” he urged.
It was all the encouragement Thornton needed. He spun his mount around and headed back to Wilton House in a full gallop.
Cleo was just leaving the breakfast room in Ravenscroft’s company when Thornton strode into the entry hall. The expression on his chiseled face hardened as his gaze honed in on her companion. Alex was disheveled, dressed in riding attire and unutterably handsome. Her heart gave a great pang.
“Cleo?” The earl kept his voice low, comforting. She suspected he felt her body tensing at the mere sight of Thornton. Though he was many things, fool was not among his catalog of sins. Julian, as she had begun to call him in private, had proven a reliable and loyal confidante to her in the last few days. He had not even bothered to further his cause with romantic overtures. Naïve though perhaps she was, Cleo believed him sincere in his desire to merely befriend her.
“It is well with me,” she murmured. “Please do not resort to brawling like a pair of ruffians on the docks.”
“I would not drag you through the mire again for the world,” he said softly and she knew he spoke truth. This man—unlikely though it may be—meant to protect her.
Thornton reached them, jaw clenched, eyes dark as obsidian. He managed a curt nod in Julian’s direction. “Ravenscroft.” He turned abruptly to Cleo. “Lady Scarbrough, a word?”
She intended to deny him, but instead, another word emerged from her traitorous lips. “Where?”
“The library?” he suggested, polite and even urbane. To an impartial observer, he would appear impervious, the collected politician to his blue-blooded nose.
Julian could not resist a jibe. “You wish to return to the scene of my trouncing of you?”
A perfect smile curved Thornton’s lips. “Go to hell, Ravenscroft.”
“Not yet.” Julian grinned.
Cleo released her grip on his arm and accepted the arm Thornton proffered. She realized too well that if Thornton and Julian remained within the same breathing space for a minute more, they would be at one another’s throats physically rather than verbally. “Thank you, Julian,” she whispered.
From the rigid bunching of muscles in his arm, she knew Thornton had heard and had not liked the familiarity. Good, she thought with stern defiance. She did not appreciate the phantom appearance of his perfect future wife, either. Let him stew.
They walked the short distance to the library in silence and found its massive environs blessedly empty. Thornton slid the lock home to bar potential interlopers. Wise, given their last interlude in another book-lined haven. She continued walking deeper into the chamber, unable to sit for the nervousness attacking her stomach yet needing to put distance between them. She did not trust herself, nor him.
Cleo approached a set of shelves, running her finger over an unprecedented smattering of dust just beyond a set of Latin treatises and histories. Lady C. would be horrified were she aware of her servants’ lapse. She blew lightly, sending it skittering into the air as dancing dust fairies. The motes turned over themselves in anxious discord, much like her own tumultuous emotions.
“What did you wish to discuss?” she asked the question in as light a tone as possible. Then, she made the error of looking back over her shoulder. He watched her like a predator, his lean hips propped against a shelf, his booted feet crossed in a deceptively casual pose. Her dress improver tightened another inch.
“He is Julian to you now?” His voice was equally light, yet fraught with dark undercurrents, like water that appeared to be shallow and yet was capable of drowning a man. Or a woman, as it were.
“We’re friends.” Wary, she turned to face him completely.
“I don’t like you associating yourself with him. It’s lowering.”
Her chin tipped up. “I’m afraid you haven’t the right to object, my lord.”
Thornton sauntered across the parquet floor. “He stole it from me.”
Instinctively, she backed against the shelves. “Julian?”
“Scarbrough,” he ground out.
Cleo found herself genuinely perplexed. “What do you mean t
o say?”
“Christ, this is coming out all wrong.” He ran a hand through his hair, stopped and began to pace. “I’ve been thinking, Cleo, about a good deal of things. About our past, about what you said to me that day when you broke off with me, about how you said Scarbrough told you this and that. I was so bloody angry at the time, so hurt you’d take his word over mine, that I overlooked the obvious.”
“The obvious?” A small sensation blossomed in the depths of her belly as she watched him. She knew, she realized, what he was about to say. Secretly, she had suspected as much.
“Scarbrough needed funds. Scarbrough took on the French Nightingale as his mistress, Cleo, not me as he told you. All along it was him, playing us both like a deck of cards. It was the ultimate game for him, I’m sure of it, and we allowed him to win.”
She clasped her hands together, awash in turmoil. “I know he lied to me about many things. For these last few years, it was easier to believe his lies that you had betrayed me than to think I had allowed myself to—”
“You cannot blame yourself,” Thornton interrupted, stalking closer to her. “I gave you no reason to believe I would marry you. And Scarbrough, well, he proposed to you while I cooled my heels trying to get Marleigh Manor in order and you…” He stopped before her and took her hands in his. “You were an innocent young woman who had been taken advantage of, out of her elements. I am at fault for this, all of this.”
“No.” She took a deep breath, her fingers tightening on his reassuring ones, taking comfort from his warmth and strength. Cleo could not allow him to take sole responsibility, nor could she keep the truth from him any longer. “You are not at fault. I made the decisions that led me here, not you. I was naive and scared, and I was with child.”
“What?” He inhaled sharply, as if he’d been wounded.
“I was with child and when John told me his lies and I could not reach you…you know, I saw you at the opera with the French Nightingale myself. Why were you with her if it wasn’t true?”
Thornton exhaled on an ugly string of curses. “Scarbrough convinced me to take her, said he had to make an appearance for his mother and that the Nightingale would throw him over if she didn’t go to the opera on the arm of a gentleman. Jesus. I was so stupid, but we were friends then, he and I, and I thought I was doing a mate a favor. I didn’t realize he was escorting you, intending for you to see it all along so that he could steal you for himself. But a babe, Cleo? Why did you never tell me?”
Heart’s Temptation Books 1–3 Page 13
