The Lady Most Willing . . . (13 page)

“I had given her hardly any encouragement,” the earl said, a heavy frown indicating
something that she had long suspected. Men liked to seduce, rather than be seduced.

“You’re very attractive,” Fiona said, silently cursing Marilla’s propensity to overplay
her hand. “She was overcome by your . . . your . . .” To her horror, her mind went
blank; the only thing she could think of was his thighs and that ferocious maleness
about him. “Your
charm
,” she cried. “Overcome by your charm, she has temporarily forsaken her maidenly modesty.”

A smile curled one side of his mouth. Really, a man shouldn’t have such a full lower
lip. It wasn’t fair to the female sex. “I feel a bit wounded that it took you such
a time to come up with a single attribute about me that might attract a young lady
such as your sister, apart from my title, of course.”

Fiona ignored this. “Marilla would make a perfect countess.”

“I beg to disagree.”

She persisted. “Yes, she would.” She raised a finger to enumerate. “She’s an heiress.
You do know that land isn’t entailed here in Scotland, don’t you? She will inherit
my father’s entire estate, and it is considerable.”

“Your father bequeathed her everything? What about you? Don’t you have a dowry?”

“I have my own fortune from my mother,” Fiona said. “My father had no need to provide
a dowry.”

There was a gleam in his eye that made her frown.

“Money is not everything,” she pointed out. “I’m not eligible for marriage, at least
not to anyone like yourself. I have already told you of my reputation, though Taran
must have forgotten about it when he scooped up his potential brides. To return to
the matter at hand.” She raised a second finger. “Marilla is not only an heiress,
but she’s very beautiful.”

“Beauty is in the eye of the beholder,” the earl said promptly.

She cast him a glance. She couldn’t imagine the person who would judge
him
less than beautiful, and that went double for Marilla.

“Don’t you agree, Miss Chisholm, or may I call you Fiona?” the earl said, leaning
toward her. His eyes were rather warm. “I think Fiona is a lovely name.”

“I wouldn’t know about beauty,” she said with some severity. “I wear spectacles, as
you see. That keeps me from drawing conclusions about people based on something as
shallow as their appearance. But I am aware that a gentleman would like to take that
into account, and I can assure you that Marilla is one of the most beautiful young
ladies in all Scotland. And England as well, from what I’ve seen,” she added, somewhat
recklessly.

“Your sister is like a hound in full-blooded chase after a fox. In that metaphor,
I am the fox,” he stated.

Fiona shut her eyes for a moment. “She is young. And as I said, she’s wild about titles.
Just
wild
about them.”

“
Wild?
” His face said it all.

“I assure you that the phrase is used in the most polite households. Miss Austen uses
it several times.” She opened the book and found the relevant paragraph in a moment.
“ ‘The girls were wild for dancing.’ ”

“Wildness is not a trait I am looking for in my bride.”

“I expect you are not looking for a wild girl,” Fiona said, trying to sound conciliatory.
“But if you wouldn’t mind a bit of plain speaking, after the unfortunate affair of
the dancing master, the trait that you truly want is an understanding of propriety.
Marilla wouldn’t kiss a servant if she were at the point of death. She understands
her own worth. I’m her sister, and I should know. That is, I
do
know.”

“I am not interested in her behavior once married.”

Fiona nodded. There was no hope for Marilla; one had only to take a look at Byron’s
stony countenance to know that. “I will tell her.” Honesty compelled her to reiterate,
“But she won’t listen to me.”

“Why not? In the absence of your parents, she should pay respect to you.”

“You have no siblings, so I gather you have no idea how ignorant that assumption is.”

“I do not wish to quell her natural spirits. She is quite beautiful, sportive, and
charming.”

Fiona flipped open her book. She’d had enough talking about Marilla for the day, and
besides, if the earl thought her sister was that charming, he’d probably end up married
to her, whether he wished to or no. “I completely understand,” she said, glancing
down. “I will inform her that you prefer that she offer no more kisses, and that she
keep her bodice firmly in place.”

A moment later she was immersed again in the story, bent on ignoring the man sitting
at the other end of the sofa . . . except he did not stir. “I thought you were leaving,”
she said finally, peering at him over her spectacles.

“I have been watching you instead.”

“A tiresome occupation,” Fiona observed.

“You mean it, don’t you? Your sister will pay no heed to an admonishment from you.”

Having already been unduly honest, Fiona saw no reason to prevaricate now. “It could
be that your absence from the drawing room has turned her attention to someone else
. . . the Comte de Rocheforte, perhaps.”

“It is my impression that Rocheforte is looking elsewhere.”

Fiona raised an eyebrow. “Really? That’s quite interesting.”

“He’s my cousin,” Byron explained. “I know him better than any other person in the
world. He pretends to be a care-for-nothing, but in fact, he has a great affection
for this place. However, without an estate, he cannot afford it, so he acts as if
it is not important to him.”

“I’ve seen people act in that manner before,” Fiona said, thinking that she did it
herself.

At that moment the door opened behind them. Byron froze and then he turned slowly,
his eyes bright and wary.

Chapter 13

F
iona had been looking forward to the next act in the French farce that their kidnapping
had become, but rather than Marilla, one of the laird’s men pushed his way through
the door, a tray balanced on his shoulder.

“Brought you buttered crumpets,” he said with a grunt. “And mulled cider.” He walked
over to the fire and put the tray down on a hassock. Then he set a lidded silver pitcher
on the floor close to the hearth. “Leave it here so it’ll stay hot,” he ordered.

“Thank you,” Fiona said. “We will.”

He straightened, caught sight of Byron, and scowled. “Does the laird know that you’re
in here?”

“No, and you’ll not tell him.” The words were delivered with a hard tone that seemed
to make an impression on the man.

“Wooing!” he said, and turned and spat into the fire. “Time was a man dinna have to
do this kind of wooing. Groveling for money, more like.” His gaze moved to Fiona.
“Begging from women who has the money. It’s unnatural.” He collected her cold teapot
and headed for the door.

Byron strode after him. “You didn’t see me here,” he stated.

The old Scotsman snorted and stomped off.

Oddly enough, that snort made Byron smile. Fiona decided that she didn’t understand
him. He was unnerved by Marilla’s advances, but amused by a retainer’s flat rudeness.
As she watched, he not only closed the door but turned the key.

“Is that truly necessary?” Fiona inquired.

“If you’re asking whether I’d prefer to avoid the experience of having another strange
breast fall into my hand like an overripe plum, the answer is yes.”

Perhaps she should say something to defend her sister. But an overripe plum didn’t
sound very nice.

“What if it weren’t a
strange
breast?” she asked, unable to resist.

“I am not familiar with any woman’s breasts,” Byron replied, walking back to the sofa.
“At the moment the world is full of strange breasts. Though I must say, this is a
very improper subject.”

“You
do
need to marry,” Fiona pointed out, struck by his observation. “You should be out there
groveling at someone’s feet—Lady Cecily’s for example—in the hopes of gaining an intimate
acquaintance with body parts other than her feet.”

“There are better things a man could do with his time than grovel at a woman’s feet,”
Byron remarked.

With a start, Fiona realized that he was looking at
her
as he sat back down. With a lazy smile.

A dangerous smile.

For a moment her heart hiccupped, but she got hold of herself. “Right,” she said briskly.
“You may have one of my crumpets, and then I would ask to be left in peace. I don’t
have much left to read in this novel, and I’m keen to finish it.”

“If you force me to leave now, I shall starve,” he complained, picking up a linen
napkin from the tray.

“Only because you’re afraid to go into the drawing room for tea.”

He reached a powerful hand toward the crumpets. Devil take the man, his limbs were
probably as beautifully knit as his fingers. “More cautious than afraid,” he said.
“Have you noticed how much worse the storm has grown today?”

She didn’t even glance at the windows. She’d lived in the Highlands all her life,
and she knew the howl of the wind. “It will worsen through tomorrow evening, I should
guess. You are now in the Highlands proper, Lord Oakley.”

“My name is Byron,” he said, for the third or fourth time, as he handed her the napkin
and a crumpet.

The incongruity of this man being named Byron flashed across her mind. Byron was a
poet, a man who wrote of love, midnight, and a woman’s smile. The earl, though, was
of a different character altogether.

He obviously read her expression. “I have no connection whatsoever to that paltry
rhymester Lord Byron. The name has been in my family for generations.”

“You’re not a poet, then?” She smiled at him, acknowledging that the mere notion was
ridiculous. In fact, his christening had to be some sort of jest on destiny’s part.
This
Byron was the least poetic man she’d ever met.

On the other hand, his person could easily be the subject of poetry. From the top
of his ice-blond head to the toes of his perfectly shined boots, he was flawless.
Even in the width of his shoulders and the clear blue of his eyes.

He had finished his crumpet, so he picked up the pitcher and poured hot cider into
her empty teacup.

“Brandied cider,” she said happily. “What a perfect drink for an afternoon such as
this.”

“It’s not afternoon; it must be going on six in the evening,” Byron said, pouring
himself a mug. “At any rate, I could write poetry if I wished.” Stubbornness echoed
in every word.

She eyed him. “Are you this competitive in every aspect of your life?”

“It is not competitive to understand that poetry presents very little challenge. A
rhyme here or there is hardly problematical.” He tossed back his cider.

Fiona thought precisely the opposite, but she kept prudently silent. It had just occurred
to her that he might have had a rather sad childhood. Still, thinking that an earl—a
man immersed in privilege and luxury—could have been neglected was absurd. She was
mistaking innate arrogance for something else.

“Did your governess teach you the fine art of writing lyrics?” he asked, reaching
past her toward the plate of crumpets. “Or were you sent to school?” His lips had
taken on a buttery shine. If she had the nerve—and life were completely different—she
would kiss him just there, on the bow of his lower lip.

Snow was dashing itself against the windows, and the library felt like a very warm,
very snug nest. “We were largely raised by a nanny and a governess,” she told him.
“We had different mothers, but unfortunately, neither survived past our early years.
My governess was not poetical, to the best of my memory.”

“Mine felt that nursery rhymes were poor substitutes for biblical verses,” the earl
said.

“That sounds . . . tedious,” Fiona said honestly.

He nodded. “I think it would have been better had I a sibling. I would have guessed
that Marilla was spoiled. ‘Too pretty for her own good,’ my nanny would have said.”

“Did your nanny say that of you?”

“I’m not pretty,” he said, reaching for the last crumpet.

“Please save at least
one
crumpet for me,” she asked pointedly.

“Oh, I don’t know,” he replied. To her surprise, there was a wicked amusement in his
eyes. “I’m sure Marilla would say I should eat them all, the better to protect your
waistline.”

“Beast,” she said, but without heat. His gaze made it perfectly clear that he thought
her waistline was fine as it was. In fact, that was probably the kind of carnal look
that her father thought she’d given Dugald. She hadn’t. Ever.

“I wouldn’t want us to quarrel over crumpets,” Bryon said, a glimmer of a smile at
one corner of his mouth. Then he did something that she would never in a million years
have expected: he held the crumpet up to her lips.

She looked at him.

“Open your mouth and take a bite,” he ordered.

He watched her lips so intently that she felt a curl of heat in her stomach. He couldn’t
truly be attracted to her.

Not that it mattered. At the moment he knew next to nothing about her past, yet all
too soon he would. But then . . . his eyes met hers as she took the bite, and the
curl of heat grew a little more intense.

It was as though they were having two completely distinct, yet simultaneous conversations.
It was most disconcerting.

“Marilla was a beautiful infant,” she told him, unable to think what else to say.
He took a bite of her crumpet, still watching her intently. “The adoration her curls
inspired wasn’t terribly good for her.”

“I suppose it led her to believe that she was the most endearing child in the Highlands,
as opposed to the most willful.” He held out the crumpet again.

“Lord Oakley,” she asked with some curiosity, “do you feel that you might have a fever?”

“Absolutely not.”

“You seem to be acting out of character. Do you think your friends would recognize
you if they could see you now?”

“Of course they would.”

She hesitated. “You do know that Marilla and I attended the London season the last
two years?”

A slight frown creased his brow. “Will you eat this crumpet, or shall I finish it?”

She accepted what little remained of the crumpet and finished it in two bites. Butter
dripped onto the back of her hand, and without thinking she licked it off. Their eyes
met again, and the warmth in her stomach spread to her legs.

“I glimpsed you at two balls in the last season,” she said, straightening her back.
“You were pointed out to me as one of the most eligible men in London—that was before
you asked for Lady Opal’s hand in marriage, of course.”

“But we were not introduced.” He frowned in a rather irresistible way. “I would have
remembered you.”

“Of course we were not introduced,” she said, almost laughing at him. “Marilla and
I are as far beneath your notice as butterflies are to a . . . a . . .”

“Hawk?” he suggested.

“Elephant?”

The right side of his mouth hitched up in an enchantingly hesitant smile.

“At any rate,” she said hastily, reminding herself that this flirtation had no future,
“I rather think your friends might believe you’d lost your mind if they could spy
on you.”

“I would like to know what it was like to grow up with a sibling,” he said, ignoring
her comment. “Did she steal your toys? I believe that is common behavior.”

“Surely Rocheforte stole your things when you were boys?”

“My father did not consider Robin suitable company for his heir,” the earl said. “A
matter of his French blood, you understand. We met only as adults, so I did not share
my nursery with anyone.”

Her hunch had been right, then: his had indeed been a lonely childhood. “Marilla did
borrow my things occasionally,” Fiona admitted. She took a sip of the cider and broke
into a fit of coughing.

He leaned over, slipped a hand behind her, and gave her a gentle clap on her shoulder.
“Are you all right?”

Excepting the fact that she could feel the touch of his fingers all the way through
ancient velvet, two chemises, and a corset, she was fine. Just fine. “Your uncle’s
cider is a trifle stronger than I’m used to.”

Byron poured himself a new cup, and took a healthy swallow. “Brandy with a touch of
cider, rather than the reverse,” he said with obvious pleasure. “It isn’t as though
we have to do anything requiring coordination.”

Fiona took another sip. The drink burned on the way down to her stomach, reminding
her that one crumpet, plus two bites of another, wasn’t much of a meal.

“Let’s return to the subject of your childhood,” Byron said, settling into his corner
of the sofa.

“Let’s not,” Fiona said. “We ought to join the others in the drawing room. It must
be nearly time for supper.”

There was something wild and boyish about the earl’s face, as if he’d thrown his entire
personality—at least, what she’d seen of it in London—out the window. “Not after I
went to all that trouble to sneak in here,” he said. “Besides, I’m enjoying this.
Very much.”

Fiona felt a blush creep up her neck.

“Lord Oakley,” she said cautiously, “did you take anything to drink before that cider?”

“No,” he said, tipping his head against the back of the sofa. “I did not. But I might
drink that whole pitcher; I may never return to the drawing room.” He turned his head
and looked into her eyes. “I don’t want to be kissed by your sister again. And that’s
even though I gave some thought to marrying her.”

Fiona cleared her throat. “I can understand that.”

He leaned toward her. “But I wouldn’t mind if you kissed me. If you address me as
Oakley once again, I shall kiss
you
. There: I’ve given you fair warning.”

“I shall not kiss you,” Fiona exclaimed, drawing back. “I don’t kiss anyone.”

“And your reason for such abstinence?”

“That’s none of your business.”

He settled back into his corner, nodding. “You would probably share such information
only with your intimates. Friends.”

Fiona glanced at him, feeling shy, but she couldn’t bring herself to tell him about
Dugald. Not yet. “Marilla and I didn’t fight over toys,” she said, looking back to
the fire. “I didn’t mind sharing. But when we were growing up, my sister always wanted
a portrait frame that I owned.”

He stretched out an arm along the back of the sofa; it was amazing how a person could
not touch you . . . and still touch you. “Did she take it from you?”

She nodded. “I always got it back, though.”

“And that frame held a portrait of your dead mother.” She felt him pick up a lock
of her hair.

“How on earth did you guess that?” She turned to face him again, and her hair slid
from his fingers. Her toes were a little chilly; she pulled up her legs and wrapped
her arms around her knees.

“Power of deduction,” he answered, shrugging. “I suspect that you have always given
Marilla what she wants, because I doubt there are many material objects you hold dear.
I could think of only one thing that you wouldn’t give up. She would want it all the
more because it was important to you.”

She stole another look at him, and realized that there was one other thing that she
would never willingly give to Marilla . . . but
he
wasn’t hers to keep. It was a horrifying thought. It was hard enough to recover from
the emotional morass caused by Dugald’s death. She didn’t need to fall in love with
an improbably beautiful and thorny lord as well.

“It was a
very, very
pretty frame,” she said, realizing she had adopted Marilla’s favorite phrase only
as she said it. “Silver worked with pearl, and of course my sister was quite young
when she first saw it.”