Thrumgoodie was the one. She might never find a gentleman so perfectly suited to her needs. He was safe and unthreatening.

The sting was back in her eyes again. She blinked several times as the doubts pressed in on her. Blast it. Moisture built in her eyes and she wiped at them furiously, marveling at her sudden emotion. Because of Hamilton? She snorted. He hadn’t aggravated her to such a degree before. Maybe the tenor of his threats had altered today and frightened her?

She shook her head, quickly dismissing that. No. She wasn’t afraid of him. Living beneath her stepfather’s roof, she’d tasted the bitterness of fear before. When she was a girl, Roger’s alcohol-laced voice had spit angry words that shadowed every moment. Those days had been a haze of unrelenting dread.

Fear didn’t make her doubt herself now. But something else—someone else—did.

A certain gentleman’s taunting voice and derisive remarks suddenly had her questioning herself. Absurd. Leaning her head back against the tree, she listened to the thoughts warring inside her head. She wasn’t hurting anyone. Lord Thrumgoodie would be thrilled for her companionship . . . thrilled to call her wife. Why did a certain cad have to give her second thoughts?

Steps sounded on the path and she jerked her gaze up, spotting Hamilton advancing down the path. Had he followed her? He hadn’t noticed her yet. With a small gasp, she dove into the press of shrubbery edging the pond. Drastic perhaps, but the last thing she wanted was to be cornered alone by the vile man.

Holding her breath as though that would somehow make her quieter, she lifted her skirts and moved deeper into the undergrowth, hoping her gown wasn’t detectable from the path.

She glanced over her shoulder, making sure she wasn’t being followed. A branch snagged her hair and she winced, attempting to free herself without ruining her coiffure.

“Allow me.”

She froze at the sound of the deep voice. Her stomach dipped as strong fingers delicately freed the strands of her hair.

She quickly stepped back several paces, surveying who else hid in the shrubbery alongside her. “Lord McKinney,” she greeted.

“Miss Hadley.” He motioned to the tight press of trees and undergrowth surrounding them. “Seeking a moment alone?”

“You could say that. And you?”

He smiled, but there was no humor in it. “Likewise.” His cool gray gaze flitted over her.

She evaluated him in turn. He wore a deep blue jacket with tan trousers. Apparently he’d eschewed the vivid colors that seemed requisite at a garden party.

They said nothing more, simply considered each other thoughtfully. After a moment, he moved. She watched warily as he closed the space between them, his booted feet crackling over twigs and fallen leaves.

“I’ve been giving some thought to what you said,” he finally announced.

“Have you?” She tried to reveal none of her surprise that he should be thinking about anything she said. “And what was it I said requiring such reflection?”

“That we are both great pretenders, fooling poor souls into thinking we care about them for our own agenda.”

“Ah, yes. That.”

“And you’re right. We’re both playing at this game of securing a spouse.”

She angled her head. “Game?”

A rueful smile curved his lips. “Hunting for a wife, or in your case a husband, is nothing more than a game.”

He continued, “That being the case, we shouldn’t be sniping at one another. It serves no purpose.”

She crossed her arms awkwardly. “No. I suppose not.” What was he suggesting? That they actually be friends? Warning bells rang in her ears.

“Splendid.”

She nodded, feeling like an awkward schoolgirl. It was easier before this truce. Silence descended and her heart beat a loud rhythm in her ears.

“Well. I suppose I should get back.”

That muscle feathered his jaw again, and she knew she’d displeased him. “Want me to check and see if Hamilton is gone?” he asked idly.

“Why? I’m not hiding,” she lied.

His lips curved in a slow, seductive smile that she was certain got him most anything he ever wanted. “Indeed?” He leaned back against a tree, the picture of a relaxed gentleman, totally at ease, without a care in the world. “I am.”

From Libba? Of course he was. Not about to commiserate with him regarding the need to hide from one’s beau, she nodded and strode past him, heedless of her step. Her foot caught on a root, and she went flying, narrowly escaping a hard fall as he caught her.

Strong hands flexed around her arms. “Are you all right?”

“Fine,” she replied breathlessly.

Something flared hotly in his eyes as they gazed at each other. “You’re always running from me.”

“Apparently not very gracefully.”

“This time, no. But I sense that worked for the best.”

A shudder traveled through her. “Why is that?”

He angled his head. “I have my hands on you.”

Her hand fisted in his jacket, alerting her to the fact that she even touched him. Everything else faded—who she was, where she was. It all happened in a blur, too fast to process. A haze clouded her mind. She was out of control, past considering propriety and how vastly dangerous the situation had become.

And yet when he tugged her closer and trapped her arms between them, lifting her off her feet and against him, sanity returned.

She caught a flash of gray eyes before his head dove toward hers. Determined to resist, the press of his lips on hers galvanized her, made her struggle.

She bit down on his lip.

He pulled back with a cutting curse.

Locked in his embrace, chests squashed close, she glared at him. He glared back. For several moments their panting breaths mingled as they stared incomprehensibly at each other.

She noted a change in his eyes then. They no longer looked so cold. The condemnation wasn’t there. None of the calculating judgment of before. It was as if he saw her. Now. For the first time.

And there was fire in his eyes.

His head descended and this time she didn’t move. Not the barest flinch. Her breathing ceased altogether as his lips claimed hers with a swiftness, a surety, and skill that she felt ripple through the whole of her body.

His hands splayed against her back, each finger burning an imprint through her gown. Her body came alive as his lips moved over hers, caressing, possessing, melting her from the inside out. Her knees weakened and trembled. She clutched fistfuls of his jacket in her hands—to keep from falling, to pull him close. Both.

Heat sprang in patches all over her. Suddenly her dress felt constrictive, too tight. She moaned against his mouth and he deepened the kiss, parting the seam of her lips—or perhaps she opened to him. Either way his tongue slipped inside her mouth. Warm and deft, smooth and skillful, he tasted her, sliding his tongue against hers.

Her belly clenched and a twisting ache started between her legs. Just like that. One kiss and she was shattered and aching for this man. She never wanted it to end, and yet a voice worked its way through her, fighting its way to the surface as though from a deep, hidden place. A forgotten place where logic and her true purpose dwelled.

Stop this! Stop this madness!

She broke away with a shocked gasp. Unbelievably, she’d let passion seize her. A circumstance she would never have believed possible. She was nothing like her mother . . . like other girls who craved a man’s kisses.

He held her, but not tightly anymore. Not as a prisoner. Standing in the circle of his arms, she blinked up at him, unable to leave just yet. She had to understand. Had to process for herself what it was that had just happened . . . and if he was as shocked as she was.

His heavy-lidded gaze drilled into her with a relentless intensity, peeling away her layers bit by bit. At least it seemed that way. For a panicked moment, she felt certain those gray eyes saw her. Saw everything. That he read her fear, that he understood what motivated her. Likely because of her runaway tongue. She’d shared too much . . .

Horrified, she stumbled free.

She took several steps back, still gazing at him and confronting the knowledge that she wasn’t immune.

He’d aroused her as she’d never thought possible.

She lifted her hand and touched her lips. His gaze followed the movement. His eyes darkened, reminding her of a stormy night. The hunger there was unmistakable. She recognized it. Felt its echo inside herself.

It seemed neither one of them could manage speech. He looked as astonished as she felt. She only hoped that his shock would soon translate into regret. Eventually. That his low opinion of her would return in full force and this moment would soon be a dim memory.

Turning, she fled.

She’d forget this ever happened. She’d forget him. Even if forced into proximity again, she’d treat him as she would a stranger. Because that’s all he could ever be.

Chapter Nine

Logan watched her go, his body throbbing and alive as it hadn’t felt in years. Certainly not since he’d traveled across the country and began courting vapid young misses who thrilled him about as much as a glass of day-old milk.

“Cleopatra,” he murmured, his lips still tender and warm from the taste of her. For the first time he not only said her name, he allowed himself to think it. To feel it in his blood.

In that moment, something turned, something shifted inside him as definite as a key turning in its lock. She moved from the category where she’d been residing in his mind.

She wasn’t the cold, uninteresting female he’d first thought her to be. Far from it. He could still feel the delicious shape of her in his hands, against his body. And perhaps he’d known this all along. Why else had she consumed so much of his thoughts?

He followed in her wake, moving slowly across the pebbled path bisecting the lush lawn, coming to terms with this new realization. And grappling with what it signified.

Later that night in her bed, Cleo stared into the dark, her hand pressed to lips that still felt overly warm and tender. He had kissed her.

She had kissed him back.

She caught herself just short of smiling. Rolling onto her side, she struck her pillow several times.

Was this how it had been for her mother? She could almost empathize. Which was a frightening consideration when she had judged her mother weak and without sense all these years. With a sigh, she sat up and struck her pillow anew, using more vigor.

Feeling slightly better, she dropped back down and glared up at the dark canopy overhead.

Her mind raced ahead, contemplating when she would likely next see him. The Fordham ball was the day after tomorrow. She’d clarify matters with him then. He would not mistake her meaning. She’d be steadfast and resolved.

Tempting or not, she wouldn’t succumb. His lips would not come near her again. And she’d make sure he knew that.

Cleo’s feet tapped to the music, longing to dance, but knowing that would be unlikely. Lord Thrumgoodie was hardly a candidate. Understandably. He had no wish to break a hip. Rather than take to the dancing floor, he occupied himself at one of the card tables. A far safer pursuit. She assumed that all the other gentlemen considered her off the market because they never asked her.

Cleo currently stood along the edge of the ballroom beside a pouting Libba. She tried to focus on the swirl of colorful gowns, but it was difficult standing next to Libba. The girl had no shortage of gentlemen willing to partner her on the dance floor. With her pedigree and dowry, all manner of men pursued her. And yet she chose to spend her evening whining beside Cleo, rejecting dance partner after dance partner.

She stared straight ahead as Libba dismissed yet another gentleman with a feeble lie. “Forgive me, Reginald, but my head is aching most miserably.”

Cleo inhaled. Viable men sought her, and yet Libba had set her cap for only one.

An uncomfortable knot formed in her gut as she recalled the kiss she and McKinney had shared. As much as she regretted it and knew it could never happen again, oddly enough, in these moments with Libba, it gave her a secret delight. Until it occurred to her that he may have kissed Libba, too. Then she felt only jealous and panicky.