The Lady Most Willing . . . (18 page)

Chapter 18

Earlier that evening, shortly after supper

“W
ell, Taran, you found me a perfect woman, I’ll grant you that.” Robin lifted his glass
in a mock salute before tossing back the contents.

He’d absented himself from yet another dinner. Absented? Fled, pure and simple. Not
that anyone cared except Oakley, and that only because it reflected poorly on the
family.
She
certainly wouldn’t object to the absence of a known libertine. He narrowed his eyes
against the embers glowing in the library hearth. “Damn you to hell, Taran,” he muttered.

“Oh! That’s a very, very bad word, isn’t it?”

Robin swung around. Marilla Chisholm stood artfully arranged in the doorway, leaning
against the jamb in such a way that her breasts jutted out like the prow of a ship.
Three of her little fingers covered the “O” formed by her lips.

“My pardon, Miss Chisholm,” Robin said. “I did not realize I had company.”

“Oh!” Marilla repeated, shoving off the doorjamb and mincing toward him. “You mean
. . . we are alone?”

She stopped within easy hand’s reach and tipped her head up, blinking rapidly. She
put him in mind of a myopic spaniel, making up in eagerness what she lacked in discernment.

“Hardly alone,” Robin assured her. “Not only is the library door wide open but there’s
all of Taran’s retainers lurking about, eavesdropping. Shouldn’t be surprised to find
some old man huddled under the cushions over there.” He pointed at the library’s lumpy
old sofa standing before the hearth, its back turned toward them.

Marilla gave the sofa a suspicious glance. “Your uncle is not in my good graces right
now. He had the nerve to drag me from the dinner table and
lecture
me on nice behavior.”

Robin was frankly astonished because Taran was the last person to whom one would apply
the definition of “nice behavior.”

“He was most unpleasant to me.”

“That’s because he is most unpleasant,” Robin said. “But what are you doing here,
Miss Marilla? Looking for your sister?”

“Good heavens, no. She’s off somewhere in a snit,” Marilla said dismissively then
smiled, sidling closer. “You aren’t offended by my concern for my reputation, are
you? A lady is nothing without her reputation. Take Fiona—” She stopped suddenly,
her hand once more flying to cover her mouth, feigning shock at her near indiscretion.

“Alas, tempting as that is, I must decline,” Robin said.

“Oh.” Marilla frowned, her hand falling away. “Oh! That was a very naughty thing to
say, wasn’t it?”

“Again, my pardon.”

Marilla tapped his chest playfully, then let the tap become a caress, pleating his
shirt’s placket between her fingers. “But then, you are a very, very naughty man,
aren’t you?” Her fingers snuck beneath his buttons to find bare flesh beneath.

The poor thing was so obvious it was almost endearing. Almost. Clearly, Marilla must
be doubting her ability to bring Byron to heel and was hedging her bets. He supposed
he ought to be flattered she even considered him a possible matrimonial candidate.

“My dear Miss Chisholm,” he said, clasping her busy hand and pulling it away from
his person, “ ‘naughty’ though I undoubtedly am, I am not so far gone to propriety
that I would take advantage of you or in any manner
whatsoever
importune you.” He smiled to take the sting out of his next words. “Let alone compromise
you.”

She had been in the process of working her free hand back beneath his shirt but now
she froze, pouting. “You wouldn’t?”

Trying to maintain a grave countenance, he shook his head.

“
Why
not?
” she burst out, her expression clouding with vexation.

“Because then I would be obliged to wed you.”

“Well, yes. Of course,” she said, rolling her eyes. “That’s how this sort of thing
works. What of it?”

Good God, had she an ounce of intelligence the girl would be terrifying. “You don’t
want to marry me.”

“Well, not initially,” she admitted. “You weren’t my first choice. You haven’t any
money and you aren’t even a real count, being only a
French
comte—and I must say I think it most shoddy that you go about letting decent people
labor under the assumption that you
are
a real count, but I shall let that pass.”

“I appreciate your forbearance.”

She sniffed. “I mean, really, how could you be my or anyone’s first choice, especially
since there’s both a real duke and a real earl available?”

“But of course, I couldn’t be.”

A sly look came into her round blue eyes. “But then I realized how much I would like
being chatelaine of my very own castle, especially one I could redecorate to my very
own liking. So . . . I have the money; you have the castle. And we are in Scotland.
All we are in want of is a pair of witnesses.”

He took it back. Even without intelligence, she was terrifying.

“What can I possibly say? You honor me unduly.” And in truth, she did. He really ought
to consider what was being offered. She was a better match than any to which he had
the right to aspire. But then, he remembered with heartfelt relief, he had no aspirations.
“Am I to take it neither Bretton nor Byron have come up to scratch?”

She eyed him, clearly considering whether to lie, but apparently decided that either
he would not be gulled or it wasn’t worth her effort. “Yes. I mean no. Not yet.”

By God, he should marry her if only because such indiscriminate ambition surely deserved
to be rewarded. Except . . . except . . .
Cecily
. What a fool he was. What a ridiculous, pathetic creature. He burst out laughing.

She scowled. “Are you laughing at
me
?”

“No. I am laughing at myself. Though I am flattered by your kind interest, I am afraid
I cannot make you the sort of offer you want.”

At this, she drew back, and for a moment, Robin was afraid he was about to be slapped.
It had happened a few times before under similar circumstances—young virgins with
a fancy to taste some forbidden fruit—so he recognized the signs: her beautiful face
grew thunderous; her brows snapped together; her lower lip thrust out. But then, abruptly,
the anger vanished and she shrugged. She edged closer, her hands once more dancing
up his chest. “How do you know?” she purred. “I may be more open to suggestions than
you expect.”

And with that, she lifted herself up on her tiptoes and planted a kiss full on his
lips.

She took Robin so by surprise that for a moment he did not react. Part of him was
appalled at her boldness, a greater part of him was amused at his being appalled by
her boldness, but the greatest part of all felt only a sort of reluctant sympathy
for her. And so, because at heart Robin had a kind nature, he carefully, with chastely
closed lips, returned her kiss and then, before she could deepen it, set her gently
aside. “And that, my dear, is that.”

“But . . . but
why
?”

“Because I have never fancied myself a consolation prize,” he said, still gentle.

“Oh . . . ballocks!” Marilla said, and with a huff of annoyance, turned and stomped
angrily out of the library.

Casually, Robin retrieved the glass of port he’d set down when she’d entered. He refilled,
saying as he did so, “You can get up off the floor now, Uncle.”

“Nae, I canna,” came a querulous reply from the vicinity of the sofa. “I be felled
by amazement. You had an heiress right there in your arms and you turned her aside.
I may die of pure horror.”

“Don’t make promises you have no intention of keeping.”

Taran’s grizzled head popped up over the back of the sofa behind which he’d thrown
himself upon Marilla’s arrival. “Are you out of yer bleedin’ mind, lad? She’s got
a fortune and she’s the prettiest one amongst the lot of them and she’s hot-blooded.
True, she’s a hellion, but a strong man could tame her. And, most important of all,
she wants you.” His tone held a hint of jealousy. “You best take what’s freely offered.”

“She doesn’t want me; she wants a castle.”

“Same thing.” With a click and rattle of knee joints, Taran hauled himself upright.
“Besides, ye got no choices left.”

“Really?” Robin drawled. “How is that?”

“Well, the duke is offered for Catriona Burns, and Oakley has himself all in a lather
over Fiona Chisholm, and I know you ain’t man enough to encroach on your cousin’s
claim.”

“And here I’d thought of it as being honorable all these years,” Robin murmured.

“Da ye no have an ounce of Scottish blood in yer veins? A Ferguson takes what he wants
no matter what the law says.”

“Ah,” Robin said, nodding sagely. “Suddenly, all the abrupt termini on the family
tree make sense. They were decorating another tree entirely. The Tyburn tree.”

“Ach,” Taran spat in disgust.

“But you said I have no other choice,” Robin said, returning to the prior subject.
“What of Lady Cecily?” He was gratified by how indifferent he sounded.

“No hope there. Not anymore,” Taran snapped.

“And why is that?”

“Because no woman with an ounce of pride would have you after witnessing Marilla rubbing
all over you like a tabby in heat.”

Robin checked. “What do you mean?”

“Lady Cecily was out in the hall just now. She was aboot to come in but then she saw
the two of you locked together at the lips. Stopped her dead in her tracks, it did.
No great loss if you ask me. In spite of her great dower.”

“Taran—” Robin’s voice held a note of warning few had ever heard.

“Oh, she be pretty enough,” Taran admitted, unfazed, “but prissy. She jerked back
like the pair of you were naked and on the floor.”

Robin took a breath and squared his shoulders. What matter? As Marilla had so succinctly
pointed out, he was a very, very bad man, and if Lady Cecily hadn’t known it before,
she did now.

Very calmly, very carefully, he lifted his drink and in one long, slow draught drained
the glass.

Chapter 19

L
ady Cecily Tarleton was not only lovely, well connected and due to have an unimaginably
large sum settled on her upon her marriage, but she respected her elders and never
put herself forward. And if some people thought her a bit of a cipher, and others
opined her too good to be true, and a few old tabbies purred that a statue had more
animation, they were deemed to be jealous sorts. The vast majority of society mamas
considered Lady Cecily to have all the makings of a perfect daughter-in-law.

Which made the fact that she was not yet
anyone’s
daughter-in-law extremely vexing.

What on earth was wrong with Maycott? Why did he not approve some fellow’s suit and
get on with it?

It never occurred to anyone that Maycott was not at the bottom of the mystery and
that the unfailingly demure Lady Cecily was neither so demure nor so tractable as
they assumed, and that she had been encouraged since birth to follow her heart. When
it came to choosing a husband, she’d been told to wait for “someone special,” and
when she’d asked how she would know who that was, had been assured by her mother that
“when you meet him, you will know.”

Unfortunately, the only sort of men she attracted were somber, dignified fellows who
mistakenly thought they’d found in her a matching gravitas, and after three seasons,
Lady Cecily had begun to fear she would never meet the man her mother had promised
she would know on sight, and end up a spinster. With this specter in the forefront
of her mind, this past season Lady Cecily had decided to put aside dreams of heated
kisses, easy laughter, and passionate nights and concentrate on achieving more realistic
goals: a nursery full of beloved children, and earnest conversations with a . . .
a really very nice man.

So she’d told her father to give his consent to the man he liked best of those who’d
asked for her hand. At which point, her father had whisked her and the rest of the
family off to Scotland, where, away from the distractions of London, she could “make
your own drat choice.”

Which is how Cecily came to be standing in Bellemere’s newly refurbished ballroom
when a group of large, gray-bearded men clad in none-too-clean kilts burst in and
tossed her and some other young ladies over their shoulders and carried them off to
the appreciative applause of the other guests, who’d assumed it was all part of the
entertainment.

Though Cecily well knew being kidnapped had not been part of the entertainment, she
had not been particularly frightened. First, because one of her fellow kidnappees,
Catriona Burns, obviously knew the men and had declared them harmless; second, because
the Duke of Bretton was soon discovered to be sharing their—or rather his—well-sprung
carriage; and finally, because upon their arrival at Finovair Castle, a scandalously
handsome man with a head of loose black curls and a wicked smile had taken her hand
and looked down at her with beautiful, black-lashed, laughing eyes, and she had realized,
Mama was right
.

For in that moment, an odd welling had arisen from deep within Lady Cecily’s heart
alongside a bone-deep sense of rightness, of finally having arrived at a destination
she hadn’t even known she’d been journeying toward. So it was that Lady Cecily Tarleton,
the dutiful, proper daughter of the Earl of Maycott, recognized with absolute certainty
that she’d found in Robin, Comte de Rocheforte, unapologetic scoundrel, self-proclaimed
pauper, the scandalous Prince of Rakes, the man she would marry.

She’d known who he was and all about his reputation, of course. He had been pointed
out to her on the streets of London. It didn’t matter. The only question was what
she was to do about it.

It was a question that had her hourly more anxious, especially since Robin had spent
the last two days as conspicuous in his absence as, well, Marilla was conspicuous
in her availability. In point of fact, his determined nonappearance was beginning
to substantially threaten her plan to marry him. Which is what she planned to do,
because having finally found love, she saw no reason to relinquish it.

However, she couldn’t just tell him that she loved him. Since birth, it had been deeply
ingrained in her that a lady
waited
for a gentleman to notice her and then commence his courtship. That wasn’t going
to work here. Time was of the essence. Soon the storm would end, the passes clear,
and her father arrive.

So when Robin had once more failed to appear for dinner, she’d gone looking for him
and now stood in a dark hall outside the castle library, her cheeks scalding and tears
welling in her eyes. It had taken all her self-control to keep from stomping back
into the library, shoving Marilla Chisholm out of Robin’s arms, and taking her place.

Only one thing had kept her from doing so: what if Robin did not
want
her to take Marilla’s place?

She had no reason to believe he did. She had nothing on which to base her certainty
that he felt this . . . this
connection
, too, other than the way he’d looked at her outside Byron’s carriage, the profound
awareness that had penetrated his amusement and left him, for one telling instant,
looking staggered and vulnerable.

She edged away from the doorway and began walking, her thoughts floundering between
hope and despair. She didn’t note the direction her feet took until she heard a masculine
voice hailing her.

“Lady Cecily. Are you all right?”

She turned to find Lord Oakley striding toward her. He looked anything but pleased
to see her.

“Did you take a wrong turn? Are you lost?”

“Pardon?” She glanced about and realized that in her distraction she’d wandered into
a part of the castle she didn’t recognize. The hallway was unlit and uncarpeted and
chilly. “I may be.”

“You must be near frozen,” he said.

“No. I’m quite comfortable,” she said, which was true. The velvet material she’d scavenged
from her room to act as a shawl was warm if not fashionable.

Beneath the shawl she’d once more donned the dimity blue ball gown in which she’d
arrived, the black morning dress having fallen apart at the seams earlier in the day.

“I doubt that,” Oakley said, recalling her attention. “Allow me to see you back to
a warmer part of the castle.”

His attitude was impatient, and clearly, his thoughts were on other matters.

“Thank you,” she said, turning in the direction he indicated.

Though she’d never met Oakley in London, she knew his reputation as a stickler of
the highest order. She had seen him several times in the company of Lord Burbett,
her most solemn suitor, but had never asked for an introduction. He seemed the sort
of man who would always find fault with a person, and she never purposely courted
self-doubt.

Now Oakley was scowling deeply, his hands behind his back as he walked alongside her.
“I am sorry about all this,” he finally said. “Burbett will have my head when he hears
about it.”

She frowned. Apparently, Oakley thought Burbett entertained a position of greater
importance in her life than he did. She could hardly inform Oakley that she had turned
down his friend’s offer. It was Burbett’s place to reveal that information in whatever
light he chose.

Taking her ensuing silence for a rebuke against overfamiliarity, Oakley flushed. “And
now I must apologize again.”

“Good heavens, m’lord,” she said, “this is the eighth or ninth time you’ve apologized
for something or other. You can’t possibly blame yourself for
everything
. I assure you, I do not.”

“As no one else in my family seems to comprehend the gravity of the situation or claim
culpability in bringing it about, if only for pride’s sake, I must.”

“You do not consider your uncle or . . .” She hesitated. “ . . . your cousin to be
properly conscience-stricken?”

“Uncle Taran has no conscience,” Oakley muttered.

“And your cousin?” she prodded.

For a moment she thought he might rebuff this overture but then the stiffness that
seemed an essential part of his demeanor dissolved. He smiled rather ruefully.

“I suppose in all fairness if you are going to acquit me of blame, you must do the
same for Robin,” he said. “Though it is nigh well impossible to tell from outward
appearances, I suspect he is as shocked as I am by Taran’s fool antics.”

“
Is
he?” Now
here
was a topic far more interesting than Burbett.

Again that unexpected—and unexpectedly charming—smile. “One can but hope.”

The opportunity to learn more about Robin was irresistible. “For a gentleman noted
for his, ah, appreciation of young ladies, the comte certainly makes himself absent
a great deal of the time.” It was an appallingly bold thing to say and she could scarce
believe she’d uttered it.

Oakley glanced at her in some surprise, but answered nonetheless, “My cousin prefers
to give his
appreciation
only to ladies who are no longer young misses.”

Ha! Cecily thought grimly, not if Marilla Chisholm had her way.

“Well, it isn’t very polite,” she said.

“You mustn’t take it personally,” Oakley said. The earl must be distracted by something—or
someone—indeed, to forget his legendary reserve. “I suspect that Robin is trying to
ensure that no one’s reputation suffers through association with him.”

“Or he is simply bound and determined not to fall in with your uncle’s matrimonial
plans for him?” she suggested.

“It is, of course, possible, but I doubt it.”

“Why is that?”

“Because I don’t think Robin believes any reputable young lady would consider him
a viable matrimonial candidate. No, something else is making him act strangely, and
his concern for your reputations is the best reason I can deduce.”

“You sound vexed,” she said lightly.

“That’s because Robin is vexing. And aggravating. And wholly a dunderhead.”

“By all appearances, he is quite your opposite, m’lord,” she retorted icily, unable
to refrain from coming to Robin’s defense. “One could see how so congenial a gentleman
might try the patience of someone who appears so sober.”

His lips tightened. “Who a person appears to be to the world and who that person knows
himself to be are not always the same thing.”

She understood better than most. She knew society considered her insipid, but as long
as her family and intimate friends knew better, she didn’t care. But looking at Oakley,
a thought occurred to her. “Of whom are you speaking?” she asked. “Yourself or the
comte?”

“Perhaps both of us. Even you, Lady Cecily. Burbett proclaimed you to be the most
circumspect young lady of his acquaintance and yet here you are interrogating me about
my cousin.”

Heat flooded up her neck and into her cheeks.

“But then, what do I know of ladies?” he continued on a note of savagery that surprised
her. “
Nothing
. Forgive me. I didn’t mean to chastise you. Fool that I am, I insist on seeing things
through society’s eye and not my own.” His jaw tensed. “As it were, I was speaking
of Robin’s insouciance. It’s a pose he’s adopted.”

She waited, hoping he would elaborate, and after a moment, her silence was rewarded.

“Robin’s willingness—or one ought to say
willfulness
—to undervalue himself invites others to do the same. He inherited a vineyard from
his father and through sheer determination he’s wrested it back from the brink of
ruination. Within a decade or so it will be producing some of the finest Bordeaux
in the world.

“The
gossips
”—he spat the word—“and tattle tellers and daily rags never mention
that
, however. The fools only speak of his expertise in other areas. And he encourages
it.” He ground out this last bit. “He readily admits not only to those things he has
done, but to crimes he has not even committed. Can you think why anyone would do such
a thing?”

Good heavens, whatever had become of the ironclad reserve of London’s most famous
stone face? She had the odd feeling he was no longer speaking of Robin but something,
or someone, else entirely.

She answered, nonetheless. “Perhaps he hopes to preempt the gossips by getting there
first, and in doing so at least have the satisfaction of stealing their thunder and,
perhaps, avoiding the sting unfounded accusations can bring.”

He regarded her sharply. “You may be right,” he murmured. “Robin is in many ways as
fine a man as I would hope to know. But I would be a poor host indeed were I to allow
my guests to unintentionally expose themselves to gossip.

“Be careful, Lady Cecily,” he added roughly, but not unkindly. “We have a mutual friend
who would never allow his name to be associated, even tangentially, with anything
remotely inappropriate. ”

He was talking about Burbett again, warning her that if she dallied with Robin, Burbett
would break off his courtship. “You needn’t concern yourself, Lord Oakley. I have
no intention of entering into a flirtation with your cousin.”

No. She had other ideas altogether.

“I would never presume such a thing, Lady Cecily,” Oakley said, stiffening once more.
“You are obviously not the sort of woman who encourages men to . . .” His lips curled
in a snarl that looked more frustrated than enraged. “ . . . to climb the ivy outside
their bedchambers.”

She had no idea what he meant by this last, but clearly, it meant something important.
She did not wonder for long, however, being wholly caught up in an idea that had taken
root with his words.

“Ivy,” she muttered, her brow furrowed in concentration. What man could possibly mistake
the intentions of a lady driven to such an act? He couldn’t.

She was thinking metaphorically, of course, but if Robin would not pursue her, then
she would simply have to seduce the Prince of Rakes.