Seven Wicked Nights (Turner #1.5)

By the time he extricated himself from the guests, Gareth was almost wild with impatience. He had to do this tonight. In the morning it would be too late; the bride would be dressing for a wedding he no longer wanted to happen. He finally decided to wait until the house was quiet and then go to her room. It was improper, but he didn’t see any other way. He couldn’t stand at the altar tomorrow beside Helen, all the while wishing it were Cleo standing beside him instead, Cleo with his ring on her finger, Cleo in his bed that night. Although if it were Cleo next to him, Gareth was quite certain she would be in his bed long before night. His mother could entertain the guests at the wedding breakfast, and he could entertain Cleo upstairs.

He retreated to his study and dropped into his chair with a sigh, letting his head fall back. He poured a generous glass of brandy and let his mind run wild with all sorts of schemes, in case he couldn’t persuade Helen. He could pay Sir William to break the betrothal. At this point, any amount of money would be a small price to pay. He could invent some crisis in London he must attend to at once and literally flee the scene. He could shoot himself in some harmless place to buy time; a man with a bullet in his leg could hardly stand up in church. Gareth set down his empty glass with a thunk when he realized he was willing to cripple himself to avoid a wedding he had once sought. He glanced at the clock and cursed; he should wait another hour at least before seeking out Helen. He’d have no choice but to marry her if people saw him going into her bedchamber.

He lifted the glass, intending at least one more drink, and a letter came with it, stuck to the bottom. He pulled it off and started to toss it back on the desk when the direction caught his eye. It was to him, in Blair’s hand. Gareth frowned. It hadn’t been here earlier in the day. Blair hadn’t said a word to him at dinner, or after. Gareth had bade him good-night barely an hour earlier. What would his cousin write that he couldn’t say aloud? He broke the seal and unfolded the letter.

He read it three times before the meaning sank in. And then he began to smile. He read the letter again, just to reassure himself he understood it, then laughed out loud. What a prize Blair was! And what an idiot he was; if he hadn’t been knocked senseless by Cleo’s sly little smile, he surely would have noticed something earlier and deduced what had made Blair so quiet and bitter lately.

But how to proceed now? Gareth thought carefully for a moment, absently rotating the empty glass under his fingers. This would solve all his troubles, if handled properly, and not merely his own troubles. At last he got to his feet, folded the letter carefully into his pocket, and poured another drink, smaller this time. He raised the glass to the portrait of his father above the mantel. “To Cleopatra, your future daughter-in-law,” he told the painting. “And to James Blair, the finest man I know.”





Chapter Ten





THE WEDDING DAY DAWNED cool and misty. Awake since before first light, Cleo lay staring at the ceiling until the maid brought warm water for her to wash. There would be dark circles under her eyes, but the last two days of solitary contemplation had been good for her, in a way. She had nothing to regret; she had lost nothing that had been hers. What she felt for Gareth … it was unnatural, besides being wrong. People couldn’t fall in love so quickly, she told herself. It was not love; it was merely desire, or perhaps a hidden longing to be married again emerging with all the fuss over Helen’s wedding. It would pass, she told herself, trying to believe it. Sooner or later. The important thing was that she hadn’t acted on any of those mad, wicked impulses and betrayed her beloved sister.

She dressed slowly, carefully. Her mother had dictated her gown for the day, and Cleo had rolled her eyes behind her mother’s back at the volume of lace and the bland shade of gray. It would have been entirely appropriate for elderly Lady Sophronia—or rather, for someone of Lady Sophronia’s age, for Sophronia would probably have sliced the gray dress into pieces with her little Scottish dirk. Normally Cleo would feel the same way; Matthew had even made her swear not to wear mourning for him. He didn’t want her to be old before her time, he had said. But this morning Cleo put on the gray dress without complaint. Today she felt old and mournful, and might as well look it.

She drank the tea the maid brought, then just sat by the window, staring blindly at the grounds. The carriages were to come at ten o’clock to carry them to the Kingstag chapel. It was only a little past eight, although if Cleo knew her mother, the carriages would be waiting at least half an hour. Millicent was incapable of being on time to anything.

A maid interrupted her morose thoughts. “Your pardon, ma’am, but your mother, Lady Grey, requests you come to her.”

Cleo’s eyebrows went up, but she went without question. No doubt she would provide an audience to her mother’s raptures over Helen’s gown and hair and shoes. With something as momentous as this, Millicent would need someone to boast to, and Cleo was the only person who would listen and not think her crass. She braced herself and tapped at Helen’s door.

It opened and her mother seized her arm, whisking her inside before closing the door behind her. Cleo rubbed her arm, startled. “Why must you do that, Mama?”

“Shh!” Millicent pressed a handkerchief to her lips before her face crumpled. “Something awful has happened.”

Her heart stopped. “What? Is Helen ill?”