The Lady Most Willing . . . (16 page)

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 . . .”