The Lady Most Willing . . . (5 page)

“But the pillows were nice,” Marilla continued. “I do love a soft pillow, don’t you?”

The duke’s eyes immediately fell to Marilla’s soft pillows. Catriona couldn’t fault
him for that; so did hers. It was rather like Taran’s scrawny arse when he’d run through
the village trying to shock the vicar’s wife. It was impossible not to look.

“Ehrm . . . I . . . ehrm . . .” The duke picked up his teacup and drained the dregs.

“How long do you think it will be before someone saves us?” Marilla said in a breathy
voice.

“We are hardly in danger, Miss Marilla,” Bretton replied.

“Still.” She sighed dramatically. “Ripped from our homes.”

“From Lady Cecily’s home,” Catriona corrected, still focusing on her food. She couldn’t
look up. She really couldn’t. The way Marilla was shaking about, she was terrified
by what she might see.

“Still,” Marilla said, with a touch less sweetness and light than the “still” she’d
directed at the duke. “Whatever shall we do to occupy ourselves?” she continued.

“I believe Miss Burns suggested tossing a caber,” Bretton remarked.

Marilla blinked. “Oh, but you cannot be serious.”

Catriona looked up just in time to see him give a falsely modest shrug. “I don’t see
why I couldn’t give it a try,” he murmured. “Besides, did you not just praise my fine
sense of sportsmanship?”

“But Your Grace,” Marilla said. “Have you ever seen a caber?”

“Miss Burns tells me it’s a log.”

“Yes, but it’s— Oh!”

“Oh my heavens, I’m so sorry,” Catriona said. “I have no idea how my jam flew off
my spoon like that.”

Marilla’s eyes narrowed to slits, but she said nothing as she picked up her serviette
and wiped the red blob off her chest before it slid into the deep, dark crevasse between
her breasts.

If the duke thought that a caber was a simple little log, Catriona wasn’t going to
let Marilla tell him otherwise.

“Oh dear me,” Marilla said, leaning toward the duke. “I can’t reach the butter.”

Bretton dutifully reached out for the butter, which was to his right, and Catriona
watched with amazement as Marilla scooted even closer to him while he wasn’t looking
at her. When he turned around, she was just a few inches away, batting her lashes
like butterfly wings.

If Catriona hadn’t disliked Marilla for so many years, she would have been impressed.
Really, one had to give the girl credit for persistence.

The duke shot Catriona a look that said clearly,
Save me
, and she was trying to figure out precisely how she might accomplish this when they
all heard the sound of approaching footsteps. Lord Oakley arrived on the scene, and
Bretton shot to his feet to greet his friend.

“Oakley!” he said, with enough enthusiasm that Lord Oakley’s expression took on a
vague tinge of alarm.

“Bret,” Lord Oakley said slowly, glancing about the room as if waiting for someone
to jump out and yell, “Surprise!”

“Join us,” the duke ordered. “Now.”

“Good morning, Lord Oakley,” Marilla said.

Oakley glanced down at her and flinched.

“You remember Miss Marilla,” Bretton said.

“Oh, don’t be silly,” Marilla said with a laugh that set her all a-quivering. “How
could he possibly forget any of us?”

Lord Oakley made haste to the sideboard, piling his plate with food.

“Miss Burns and I were just finishing,” Bretton said quickly.

Catriona felt her lips part, and she almost said,
We were?
But the duke shot her a look of such desperation, all she could do was nod and grunt,
“Mmm-hmm,” over the giant forkful of eggs she’d just thrust into her mouth.

“You may keep Miss Marilla company,” the duke said to Lord Oakley.

Catriona shoveled two more bites of food into her mouth, watching Marilla as she eyed
Lord Oakley assessingly.

The poor man was an earl, Catriona thought with a twinge of guilt. Marilla was going
to be on to him like . . .

Well, like she’d been on to the duke.

Still, Catriona couldn’t be expected to save everyone from Marilla, and the duke had
asked first . . .

Silently, but still. She’d got his meaning.

“Miss Burns?” the duke said, holding out his arm impatiently.

She nodded and held up a hand in a just-one-moment gesture as she gulped down the
rest of her tea.

“We’re going for a walk,” the duke said to Lord Oakley.

“That sounds lovely,” Marilla said.

“Oh, but you must finish your breakfast,” Catriona said quickly. “And keep Lord Oakley
company.”

“I would love that above all things,” Marilla said. She turned to Lord Oakley, who
had taken a seat next to her, and smiled seductively at him over her bosom.

Catriona thought she might have heard Lord Oakley gulp. But she couldn’t be sure.
The duke had already taken her arm and was hauling her toward the door.

Chapter 5

B
ret did not let go of Miss Burns’s arm until they had put three full rooms between
them and Marilla Chisholm. Only then did he turn to her and say, “Thank you.” And
then, because once was not even remotely enough: “
Thank you
.”

“You’re quite welcome,” she said, looking down at something in her hand.

“You brought a scone?” he asked.

She shrugged. “I was still hungry.”

His fault. But surely she’d forgive him.

She glanced toward the door through which they’d just come. “I think I may have left
a trail of crumbs.”

“My deepest apologies,” Bret said, “but I—”

“There is no need to apologize,” Miss Burns said, “as long as you don’t mind if I
finish eating while we’re standing here.”

“Please.”

She took a dainty little bite, then said, “I thought Marilla was going to attack you.”

“Is she always so . . .”

“Forward?”

A kinder version of the word he might have used. “Yes,” he said.

“No,” Miss Burns admitted. “But you’re a duke.” She looked up from her food, her eyes
large and filled with the same amusement that played across her lips. “Sorry.”

“That I’m a duke?”

“It can’t be a good thing at times like this.”

He opened his mouth to say . . .

What?

His mouth hung open. What had he meant to say?

“Your Grace?” She looked at him curiously.

“You’re right,” he said. Because as lovely as it was to be a duke, and it
was
—really, what sort of idiot complained about money, power, and prestige?—it still
had to be said, with Marilla Chisholm on the prowl, life as a stablehand was looking
rather tempting.

“I’m sure most of the time it’s delightful,” she said, licking strawberry jam from
her fingers. “Being a duke, I mean.”

He stared, unable to take his eyes from her mouth, from her lips, pink and full. And
her tongue, darting out to capture every last bit of sticky-sweet jam.

Her tongue. Why was he staring at her tongue?

“You needn’t worry about me,” she said.

He blinked his way up from her mouth back to her eyes. “I beg your pardon?”

“Dangling after you,” she explained, sounding somewhat relieved to get it out in the
open. “And I think you’re safe from Fiona as well.”

“Fiona?”

“The elder Miss Chisholm. She’s as unlike Marilla as, well, as I am, I suppose. She
has no intention to marry.”

Bret regarded Miss Burns curiously. “Does that mean that you don’t, either?”

“Oh no, I do. But I don’t intend to marry
you
.”

“Of course not,” he said stiffly, because a man did have his pride. His first marriage
rejection, and he had not even proposed.

Her eyes met his, and for the briefest moment, her gaze was devoid of levity. “It
would be very foolish of me to even consider it,” she said quietly.

There didn’t seem to be an appropriate response. To agree would be a grave insult,
and yet of course she was correct. He knew his position; he had a duty to marry well.
The dukedom was thriving, but it had always been wealthier in land than in funds.
The Duchesses of Bretton always entered the family with a dowry. It would be highly
impractical otherwise.

He hadn’t given marriage much thought, really, except to think—
not yet
. He needed someone wellborn, who came with money, but whoever she turned out to be,
he didn’t need her right away.

And yet, if he
were
to choose a duchess . . .

He looked at Miss Burns, peering into her bottomless brown eyes before his gaze dropped
to the corner of her lips, where a tiny spot of strawberry jam lay temptingly pink
and sweet.

“You’re not going to marry me,” he murmured.

“Well, no.” She sounded confused.

“So what you’re saying,” he said with soft calculation, “is that, for my own safety,
I ought to remain in your company for the duration of our incarceration.”

“No!” she exclaimed, clearly horrified by his leap of logic. “That’s not what I meant
at all.”

“But it makes sense,” he pressed. “Surely you can see the wisdom of it.”

“Not for me!” When he did not answer quickly enough, she planted her hands on her
hips. “I have a reputation to consider, even if you do not.”

“True, but we need not steal away from the rest, as delightful as that sounds.”

She blushed. He quite liked that she blushed.

“All I really need,” he continued, “is for you to act as a deterrent.”

“A deterrent?” she choked out.

“A human shield, if you will.”

“
What?
”

“I cannot be left alone with that woman,” he said, and he felt no remorse at the low
desperation in his voice. “Please, if you have any care for your fellow man.”

Her lips clamped together in a suspicious line. “I’m not certain what
I
get out of the equation.”

“You mean besides the joy of my delightful company?”

“Yes,” she said, with an impressive lack of inflection, “besides that.”

He chuckled. “I shall be honest . . . I don’t know. The joy of thwarting Miss Marilla?”

Her head tilted thoughtfully to the side. “That would be a joy,” she conceded.

He waited for a few more seconds, then said simply, “Please.”

Her lips parted, but whatever word she’d had resting on her tongue remained there
for an endless frozen moment. “All right,” she finally agreed. “But if there is a
hint—even a whisper—of anything improper . . .”

“You can be assured there will not.”

“You can’t kiss me again,” she said in a low voice.

Normally, he would have pointed out that she had been doing her fair share of the
kissing, but he was far too desperate for her agreement to argue. “I will do my best,”
he said.

Her eyes narrowed.

“It is all I can promise,” he said quite truthfully.

“Very well,” she said. “What shall we do?”

“Do?”

“Or hadn’t you thought that far ahead?”

“Apparently not,” he said, flashing her what he hoped was a winning grin.

“We can’t just stand here all day in the old buttery.”

For the first time, Bret paused to take a look about. They were in a pass-through
room, with one door that opened to the great hall, and another that was presently
shut but probably led to the kitchens. There were a couple of tables, but other than
that, the small chamber was mostly empty, save for a few ancient barrels in the corner.
“Is that where we are?” he remarked.

She gave him a look of mild disdain. “You do know what a buttery is, don’t you?”

“Of course I do. I
live
in a castle.”

“An English castle,” she said with a sniff.

“It’s a
castle
,” he ground out. Not as ancient as Finovair, of course, but the Brettons predated
the Tudors by at least two hundred years.

“You do know that we don’t make butter in a buttery?” Miss Burns said.

“We don’t make anything in the buttery,” he shot back. And then, when her face still
did not release its expression of skepticism, he said, “The buttery was where one
got a beer. From wooden butts.” He raised a brow. “Satisfied?”

“This was hardly a test.”

“Wasn’t it, though?” he countered. But he felt a smile approaching. It was a little
frightening how much he was enjoying himself.

“We Scots are proud of our history,” she admitted.

He gazed longingly at the dried-up old barrel. “I could use a beer right now.”

“Beer? A duke?”

“Bait to which I shall not rise,” he said archly.

She smiled at that.

“I suppose you’ll say it’s too early for spirits of any kind,” he grumbled.

“Not this morning I won’t,” she said with feeling.

He regarded her with curiosity. And admiration.

“Well, let’s see,” she said, ticking off her fingers. “I was kidnapped . . .”

“So was I,” he pointed out.

“. . . thrown into a carriage . . .”

“You have me there,” he acknowledged.

“. . . groped . . .”

“By whom?” he demanded.

“You,” she said, seemingly without ire, “but don’t worry, I got away very quickly.”

“Now see here,” Bret sputtered. He had never claimed to understand the female mind,
but he did understand the female body, and there was no way she hadn’t enjoyed the
previous night’s kiss every bit as much as he did. “When I kissed you . . .”

“I’m not talking about the kiss,” she said.

He stared at her, flummoxed.

She cleared her throat. “It was when . . . ah . . . Never mind.”

“Oh no, you don’t,” he warned. “You cannot introduce such a topic and then not follow
through.”

“In the carriage,” she mumbled. And then: “Why
were
you in the carriage?”

“It was my carriage,” he reminded her.

“Yes, but the rest of us were in the ballroom.”

He shrugged. “I was tired.” It was true. And bored, too, although he would not tell
her that. The Maycotts’ Icicle Ball had been pleasant enough, but he’d really wanted
to be home.

“I suppose it was late—” Miss Burns started to say.

“Don’t change the subject,” he cut in.

She didn’t even try to look innocent.

“The groping,” he reminded her.

Her cheeks went every bit as pink as they should. “You were asleep,” she mumbled.

He had groped her while he was
asleep
? “I’m sure you must be mistaken.”

That
got her goat. “You called me Delilah,” she ground out.

“Oh.” He had a sinking suspicion that his cheeks were also going every bit as pink
as they should. Which was to say, quite a lot.

“Who’s Delilah?” she asked.

“No one whom you would ever have cause to meet.”

“Who’s Delilah?”

This could not end well. “Surely this is not an appropriate—”

“
Who’s Delilah?
”

He paused, taking a good look at her face. Miss Burns was lovely with her color high
and eyes flashing. His eyes dropped to her lips, and there it was again, that amazing,
overwhelming desire to kiss her. It wasn’t an urge so much as a
need
. He could stop himself if he had to, but oh, what a sad and colorless place the world
would be if he did.

“What are you looking at?” she asked suspiciously.

“Are you jealous?” he asked with a slow smile.

“Of course not. We just got through—”

“You’re jealous,” he declared.

“I said I’m not— What are you doing?”

“Kicking the door shut,” he said, just as he did so. It was a small room, and only
three steps were required to bring him back to her side. “About that kiss,” he said,
pulling her into his arms.

Her lips parted, just in time for his to brush gently against them.

“I said I would do my best,” he murmured.

“Your best not to kiss me,” she reminded him, her voice trembling softly into a whisper.

He nibbled at her lower lip, then gently explored the corner of her mouth. “My best,
apparently, has nothing to do with
not
kissing you.”

She made some sort of inarticulate sound. But it wasn’t a no. It definitely wasn’t
a no.

Bret deepened the kiss, nearly shuddering with desire when he felt her body relax
against his. He didn’t know what it was about this woman, what mystery she possessed
that made him want to possess
her
. But he did. He wanted her with an intensity that should have terrified him. He’d
never dallied with gently bred women, and he wasn’t angling for a bride. Catriona
Burns was all wrong for him, in almost every possible way.

Almost.

Because the thing was, when she was in his arms . . . No, even when she was merely
in the room with him . . .

He was happy.

Not content, not pleased. Happy. Joyful.

Good God, he sounded like a hymn.

But that was what it felt like, as if a chorus of angels were singing through him,
infusing him with such pleasure that he could not contain it. It spilled out through
his smile, through his kiss and his hands, and he had to share it with her. He had
to make her feel it, too.

“Please tell me you’re enjoying this,” he begged.

“I shouldn’t,” she said raggedly.

“But you do.”

“I do,” she admitted, moaning as his hands cupped her bottom.

“You don’t lie,” he said, hearing his smile in his words.

“Not about this.”

“Catriona,” he murmured, then drew back a few inches. “Do people call you Cat?”

“Never.”

He gazed down at her for a moment, his first inclination to declare that
he
would call her that. He wanted something special for her, something all his own.
But it didn’t fit, he realized. She would never be Cat. Her eyes were too round, too
open and honest. There was nothing slinky about her, nothing cunning or calculated.

Which wasn’t to say she wasn’t enormously clever.

And witty.

And sensible.

“Who is Delilah?” she whispered.
While she was kissing him
.

And stubborn, apparently.

He pulled back, just far enough to settle his nose against hers. “She was my mistress,”
he said, unable to be anything but honest with her.

“Was?”

If his life had been written by Shakespeare, he might have said that Delilah had entered
the past tense of his story when he first laid eyes on Catriona. That he had been
so squarely struck by Cupid’s arrow that all other women were made insubstantial and
colorless.

But the truth was, Bret had broken it off with “Delicious Delilah” some weeks earlier.
It was exhausting keeping company with London’s most renowned opera singer. Forget
her temperament, which was full of drama, both on and off the stage. It was the other
men
who were driving him to the edge. He couldn’t get a quiet drink at White’s without
a pack of young bucks edging over to his table with winks and leers and drunken elbows
jabbing in his shoulder.