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a man she had characterized as no one only moments before. “Perhaps loathing is too strong a word then. He irks me,” she corrected.
    She chuckled lightly.
    “Marguerite,” she growled. “Why are you laughing now?”
    “I met a man who irked me once, too. Extremely so. I may have even fancied that I loathed him.”
    Sighing and expecting a lesson was coming, she asked wearily, “And? What happened to him?”
    “Oh, Ash? I married him.”
    No words could have more effectively stolen her breath. It took her a moment to recover her speech. “Well, I can assure you that that will never happen. The notion is absurd. It’s too disturbing to even contemplate. I’m quite satisified with Thrumgoodie. I’m hoping for a proposal soon.”
    “If you say so,” Marguerite agreed in an aggravatingly amiable tone. She sent another glance over her shoulder. “Only if one compared him and Thrumgoodie side by side . . .”
    “If one were superficial enough to do that,” Cleo inserted pertly.
    Marguerite giggled. “Have you seen my husband?” She smiled in rapt memory. “Never underestimate the appeal of virility in a man.”
    Oh, Cleo never had. Which is why she was determined to choose Thrumgoodie over gentlemen like McKinney.
    B y the time Logan reached the front of the store with books in hand for Fiona’s little ones, Miss Hadley was nowhere to be seen. For the best, he resolved.
    She had done a brilliant job getting beneath his skin. With their every encounter, she only buried herself deeper and deeper. Claiming they were both great pretenders was vexingly true. Courting Libba, fawning over her and plying her with empty compliments . . . it was a torment. But he had to.
    He couldn’t fathom what drove Miss Hadley into the arms of a relic like Thrumgoodie. The allure of a title? Was it that simple? From all accounts, she didn’t require Thrumgoodie’s money. Shaking his head, he told himself he would probably never know what drove her. And why should he bother trying to find out? They weren’t even friends. Once he was married to Libba, he might see her at the occasional function—if she married Thrumgoodie, of course—but no more than that.
    He nodded at the shopkeeper behind the counter and murmured an appropriate farewell as he took his parcel of books and left the shop, more determined than ever to put Cleopatra Hadley from his mind.

Chapter Eight
    C leo knew the moment she accepted the invitation to Lady Doddingham’s garden party that she would come face to face with Lord McKinney again. Hopefully, preparing herself for the encounter would make it less . . . less . A dull conversation with the Scotsman would not be remiss. Or even no conversation at all. As she stared out at the sea of manicured lawn, she caught no glimpse of him. For the time being, she breathed easier.
    Lady Doddingham was Libba’s godmother. Those close ties to Lord Thrumgoodie explained why Cleo had earned an invitation to what was customarily the first event of the season and a most coveted affair. As Libba explained, anyone who was anyone attended.
    She had Thrumgoodie to thank for most of her invitations about Town. Jack’s wealth only carried so much pull, she’d learned. Her sister marrying a prince didn’t benefit him as greatly as he would have hoped. Not when the first thing Grier did was pack up and move to Maldania.
    If her father chose to relocate to the country of Maldania, he wouldn’t have to grease any palms to see that he was invited to the best soirees. Here, however, was another story . . . and why he still craved a highborn English son-in-law.
    She sipped from her crystal flute and continued to scan the garden, searching for a dark-haired man who would stand a head taller than other gentlemen present. Just as Cleo was invited, she knew Libba would have insisted upon McKinney’s inclusion. Indeed, Libba would have seen that his name was on the top of Lady Doddingham’s list.
    “What a perfectly lovely