“Simply because I was the only gentleman present bearing a knife at the last soiree.” He grinned, recalling the scene. “A certain marchioness was much grateful I was present to rescue her when she swooned.”
Fiona snorted and shook her head. “By slicing open her gown and stays.”
“Anyone could see she was blue from lack of air.”
“Laugh all you like, that story now precedes you everywhere you go. It’s not a story that requires embellishment, but somehow it manages to sound worse with every retelling.”
“If your faith in me has any merit, I’ll win over this Lady Libba withstanding all the prattling from the dames of the ton.”
He did not care for the notion of people—strangers—discussing him as though they knew a single thing about him. Especially a bunch of over-privileged English aristocrats.
Fiona smiled in satisfaction. “Of course. I have utter faith in your prowess.”
Instead of humoring such rot with a response, he rose smoothly to his feet, all the more determined to find a wife and return home.
Chapter Three
“Have I said how lovely you look tonight, my dear?”
Staring into the earl’s rheumy gaze, Cleo couldn’t help wondering whether he could actually see her clearly. “Thank you, my lord.”
Lord Thrumgoodie lifted a shaky, beringed hand and unerringly confiscated her gloved hand. Not too blind, she supposed. She watched in dread as he pressed his chalky-dry lips to the back of it.
Cleo smiled thinly. “You are really too kind, my lord.”
Beyond the earl’s shoulder, his great-nephew glared. It was simple enough to read the contempt in Hamilton’s stare. She quickly averted her gaze and turned her attention to Lord Thrumgoodie, vowing to ignore the wretch.
As the earl’s heir, Mr. Hamilton often accompanied them. Fortunately, he primarily occupied himself at his estate outside Town. When he did visit, he at least feigned to like her in front of the earl and others. The contemptuous glances were for her eyes only.
The earl patted her hand with his trembling one, still clinging to it. “I speak only the truth, my dear.”
Cleo stifled her cringe. If she was going to marry the man, she really needed to learn to better abide his touch. It wasn’t often that he made overtures—and she knew on good authority that the old earl’s nether parts were not in working order. She wasn’t above listening to servants’ gossip, and her maid had turned out to be most garrulous. With no prodding, Berthe had become well acquainted with the earl’s servants, gleaning all she could about the man Cleo was considering marrying.
That Thrumgoodie had fathered only one child with his first wife nearly fifty years ago was common enough knowledge. Since then there had been four more wives, all unable to produce offspring. Two of those wives even had children from previous marriages. All of which pointed to the earl’s inability to sire further children. Less common knowledge was that in recent years the old earl had attempted to ravish a few maids in his employ. All to no success. Berthe had put it crudely: The ol’ man’s cannon is cracked.
As far as Cleo was concerned, he was the perfect candidate for matrimony. The last thing she wanted was some young, virile male to inflict upon her all the misery her mother had endured.
Thanks to Jack Hadley’s newfound interest in his daughters, she had a dowry to rival Croesus himself. Yet in exchange she was expected to wed someone titled. Someone to help elevate her father’s social standing among the ton. That was the trade-off.
After her half sister Grier married the Prince of Maldania, Cleo had thought Jack’s ambitions for her might lessen somewhat. One of his daughters had married a prince, after all. But she wasn’t off the hook. Her father still wanted an English nobleman for a son-in-law.
“I’m so excited.” Lady Libba bounced her generous frame upon the theater seat.
Cleo glanced down at the program in her hand, nodding. “Yes. I’ve heard several good things about the score.”
Libba slapped her with her fan. “Not the opera, you silly hen. McKinney.” She quickly glanced around as if uttering the name alone might set the hounds of hell upon them.
Cleo blinked. “Who?”
“Oh, Cleo! Have you been living under a rock?” She inched her chair closer, bouncing even more as she did so. “McKinney will soon be joining us.”
Cleo glanced at the two remaining seats, still vacant. Presumably the mysterious McKinney would occupy one. “I thought a Mr. and Mrs. Blackwell were invited to join us.” She’d overheard Hamilton mention that he’d invited his old school friend.
Libba bobbed her head in agreement. “They were, but Mr. Hamilton sent a letter around explaining that Mrs. Blackwell was not feeling quite the thing, so his brother-in-law, Lord McKinney, is joining us.”
“I see.” Cleo stared at Libba, seeing nothing at all. Apparently this McKinney should be known to her—at least in reputation.
Libba fluttered her fan as if suddenly overheated. “I’ve been fairly panting to meet him. He’s all everyone is talking about—ever since he drew a sword and sliced Lady Chesterfeld’s gown to ribbons.” Libba made a motion across her dress that looked as though she were fending off bees. “Left her stark n**ed on the ballroom floor. He’s a perfect savage.” Her eyes danced with delight, attesting that this was not a mark against him.
A perfect savage. Cleo’s lips twisted in a sardonic smile. Seemed rather a contradiction to her but she didn’t bother pointing that out. Instead, she said most soberly, “If that were true—”
“Oh it is!” Libba stared crossly at her, evidently resenting that her tale should be doubted.
“I’m sure it didn’t happen quite like that. He would have been tossed in gaol, certainly, and not about to join us in an opera box.”
Libba readjusted her plump figure on the chair with a sniff. “You shall see.”
With an indulgent smile, Cleo lifted her opera glasses and eyed the crowd pouring into their seats below. She was so engrossed in appreciating the ladies in all their finery—and musing how much her mother would love to witness such a sight—that she did not take heed of the newcomers entering their box until Libba slapped her with her fan again.
“Come now, stop your woolgathering,” Libba called out in an overly loud voice. “We’ve company!”
Cleo resisted the urge to rub her bare arm where the fan struck her. Libba really could be an annoying creature. The girl nodded her head meaningfully toward the back of the box where two gentlemen stood, exchanging greetings with Hamilton.
She assessed the new arrivals, her gaze sliding over a nice-looking fellow with sandy-brown hair and smiling eyes. When her attention turned to the man a step behind him, her breath caught in her throat.
There was no mistaking him. Libba’s perfect savage had arrived.
Chapter Four
Lord McKinney stood a head taller than the other gentlemen. He was a veritable brick wall with impossibly broad shoulders. He filled out his jacket to perfection—no padding necessary. No wonder the ladies of the ton were all atwitter. The image of him cutting away some lady’s gown with a sword was rather easy to envision.
His smoky gaze swept over the box, briefly appraising Libba before moving on—to her. Too late, she didn’t have time to look away. Their gazes collided. His eyes reminded her of a storm rolling in off the sea.
The air trapped in her lungs. She locked her jaw and tightened her lips, refusing to so much as smile lest he mistake the gesture for interest.
Her resolve only deepened as those gray eyes turned speculative. He evaluated her where she sat, ramrod straight in her seat, hands folded tightly in her lap. She felt stripped of her gown, exposed and vulnerable as he scanned her features, lingering on her mouth for a long moment before dropping to survey her décolletage, modestly displayed in her heart-shaped bodice.
She resisted the urge to press her hand there like some squeamish schoolgirl. Heat flooded her cheeks, and by the time his gaze lifted back to her face, she was certain her cheeks were the color of the red velvet drapes. His dark hair, in need of a trim, fell forward on his brow, begging for a woman’s hands to touch . . . caress. She damned herself for the fanciful notion.
Her gaze snapped away at the sound of Lord Thrumgoodie’s jarring tones. “Eh! Who are these two gents?”
Hamilton edged closer to his uncle, explaining, “This is the old school friend I was telling you about, Blackwell, and his brother-in-law, Lord McKinney.”
The earl nodded, but Cleo was unconvinced he had heard—or understood. Thrumgoodie possessed far too much pride, however, to beg his nephew to repeat himself.
“Ladies, allow me to present Mr. Blackwell and Lord McKinney. Gentlemen, my cousin, Lady Libba.” There was a weighty pause before he introduced Cleo, as if she were an afterthought. “And Miss Cleopatra Hadley.”
Cleo stifled the wince that always followed when she heard that dreadful name her mother had chosen for her spoken aloud. Given the life she had lived up until now, it was a mockery.
The gentlemen took their turns bowing over first Libba’s and then Cleo’s hands.
“A pleasure,” Mr. Blackwell murmured. “Thank you for including us. My wife is abject over missing such a delightful evening. She adores the opera.”
“Indeed,” Hamilton replied, all graciousness. “We are sorry to miss her lovely company, to be sure, but glad you could join us. We shall rehash our youth with stories of our days at Abernathy Hall.” Hamilton clapped Blackwell on the back. He nodded cheerfully at Lord McKinney, as if that pardoned his exclusion.
The “perfect savage” nodded in acknowledgement and Cleo wondered if he would deign to speak. The lights dimmed and everyone lowered into their seats.
Hamilton dropped back to sit beside Blackwell, so Lord McKinney took the vacant seat beside Libba. It could not have been arranged any better. Libba did not bother to hide her ear-to-ear smile. Unable to contain her excitement, her hands shook upon her lap.
“How are you enjoying London?” Libba inquired amid the opening notes.
Lord McKinney opened his mouth to answer her, but she did not give him a chance, rushing ahead with her next question. “Have you visited Persephone’s Emporium yet? Or Haverty’s? You must stroll Bond Street. The most splendid shopping in the world. It’s simply brilliant. I’m certain you’ve never seen the like. Certainly not in Scotland. That is where you are from, is it not? I’ve heard of you, of course . . .”
McKinney nodded, shifting to face her better as she prattled on and on about shopping, of all things. A glazed look fell over his eyes.
Cleo couldn’t help herself. A smile twitched her lips. He was probably reconsidering the wisdom of accompanying his brother-in-law.
His gaze caught sight of her as she fought down laughter, that same speculative look on his face as before.
Thankfully, the curtains lifted at that moment and the performance began, snaring everyone’s attention and silencing Libba. A blessing, Cleo couldn’t help but think. Especially for Lord McKinney.
Cleo soon lost herself in the music and drama unfolding below. She did not even immediately notice when the old earl’s hand crept upon her shoulder.
She started at the realization, glancing sideways as though a spider rested there. His thin, cold fingers brushed her flesh before settling upon the curl of hair draped there. He stroked her hair until she was quite certain the curl had unwound itself. Her throat tightened and she struggled to swallow. Her pleasure in the opera quickly vanished. For being defunct in matters of intimacy, he was certainly fond of touching her, but then she supposed touching was the only thing left to him.
Hoping to subtly dislodge his hand, she angled her head as though she needed to stretch her neck—or perhaps better see the corner of the stage. The action turned her body, and she found herself locking eyes with Lord McKinney.