The Lady Most Willing . . . (21 page)

Byron froze as a hot wave of anger rushed to his head. “They talked of climbing up to your window, I suppose?”

“I’ve heard all the sallies you can think of involving ivy,” she said, obviously trying for a careless tone but not succeeding. But her voice strengthened. “I’m a ruined woman. But that doesn’t mean that you can simply take advantage of me.”

Byron managed to shove all his rage back into a little box, with the silent promise that he would wring the names of every one of those damned Scotsmen out of her.

He came down on his heels in order to be at Fiona’s level. The old pony raised her head sleepily, and he scratched her between the ears. “I told myself to go to my room, and then I tried to find you anyway. I wandered around and talked to Lady Cecily for a time.”

“She’s very nice. You should marry her.” She said it flatly.

“I don’t want to,” Byron said, as flatly as she.

“You can’t have everything you want in life,” she said, looking at him with an expression of mingled rage and pain. “Haven’t you learned
anything
, Byron? Not even that?”

“There have been many things I’ve wanted.” He gently stroked the pony’s ears so she twitched in her sleep. “I wanted my father to care for me. I wanted my mother to come home. I wanted to be less alone.”

Fiona pointed to a bottle of wine. “Have a drink.”

“I wanted a wife who would never play me false, or break my heart, the way my father’s heart was broken.”

“I never considered it before, but I’m finding wine is quite good at soothing a broken heart,” Fiona offered.

“Is your heart broken?” His whole body froze, waiting for her answer. He didn’t know what he was doing, what he was saying. But he was caught up in madness.

“What did you talk to Lady Cecily about?” Fiona said, ignoring his question, her eyes sliding away from his.

“We talked about the difference between what the world thinks of a person . . . and who that person may truly be.” Byron rather thought that the one sentence—that one thought—had changed the course of his life forever.

Fiona snorted. “The world thinks Cecily is tremendously nice, if a little boring, and from what I have seen in the last few days, she is.”

“I don’t think she’s boring.”

“Wonderful. Marry her. Her reputation is undoubtedly snow white and deserved.”

“Do you think that I am precisely what the world thinks me to be?”

She looked at him, and for a moment there was something raw and intense and full of longing in her eyes. Then she blinked. “Likely not,” she said, her voice disinterested.

She settled back against the pony’s stomach. “I’m leaving the country,” she announced.

“
What?
”

“I’m leaving Scotland. I can’t think why I didn’t have the idea before.”

“Of course,” he said, calming instantly. “You’re coming to England.”
With me
, he thought, feeling the truth of it in his bones. “Move a bit, would you? I’m going to put this animal in the stall next door. There’s not room enough for three of us.”

“No, no, not England,” she said, far too cheerfully, though she did sit up so that he could coax the pony to her feet. “I mean to live in Italy. The vineyards, the sunshine, the ancient Roman ruins . . . It will be wonderful! And when I’ve tired of gondolas, I’ll just move on. I’d like to see a camel. I’d like to
ride
a camel!”

“Hell no, you’re not,” Byron growled. He kicked open the door and led the pony through, glancing over his shoulder.

Fiona reached for the half-full bottle of wine leaning against the wall, but she paused. “Did you just swear at me?”

“No.” He opened the stall next door; the old pony ambled in and collapsed in the pile of straw.

He walked back to her, closing the stall door behind him.

“I’m glad that you didn’t swear at me.” She smiled in a way that showed pretty white teeth. “Because you have nothing to say about what I do with my life.”

Byron grinned back at her, enjoying the rebellion in her eyes. Not to mention the way her cloak had slid down to her waist so he could see the luscious curve of a shadowed breast.

“How will you finance these travels?” he asked, sitting down on a pile of straw opposite her.

Fiona took a swig from the bottle. “Oh, I inherited my mother’s fortune,” she said. “Didn’t I mention that? I reckon I have the edge on Marilla, if you add it all together. I have quite a bit of land.”

Byron reached out, took the bottle, and held it up to the oil lamp. “This half must be mine.”

“Actually, it’s all mine,” Fiona said, a little owlishly. “Though you may have a sip if you like. I’ll have plenty of wine once I move to Italy. Did I tell you that I’m moving to Italy?”

He just looked at her.

“I suppose I did,” she said thoughtfully. “Well, since you don’t seem to like that topic of conversation, let’s discuss something else. Why on earth did you try to save my sorry self from gracefully falling asleep in a snowdrift? Didn’t you tell me this very afternoon that a chaste reputation was the greatest possible blessing? I don’t have one, in case you missed the announcement.”

“I suppose I did say something of that nature.”

“Dugald’s mother has stopped spitting when she sees me.” She paused. “You know how people say there’s a silver lining to a dark cloud? I hate to say it, but not having that woman as my mother-in-law is something of a blessing.”

Byron took another gulp of wine, and placed the bottle to the side. Then he reached out, tossed the fur cape to the side, and crawled forward until his hands were on either side of her shoulders.

She frowned up at him. “You’re not the lord of the manor, you know.” She hiccupped. “The lord of the stable. Don’t think I will kiss you again, because I will not. I’m done with kissing.”

He gazed down at the rose flush in her cheeks, her liquid, slightly hazy eyes, her plump lips, and felt that surge of gladness again. “You’re done with kissing forever?”

“Oh no,” she said, her forehead wrinkling in thought. “I’ve decided to make exceptions.”

“Good,” he said silkily. “You can make one for me.”

“No.” She shook her head. “Only for my Italian lover.”

The hiss that came from between his teeth wasn’t a noise a civilized man would make. “Dugald wasn’t Italian, was he?”

“What? No.” She frowned at him. “Would you mind not crouching over me like some sort of demented housecat grown large?”

Byron dropped to his elbows and, very deliberately, lowered his body onto hers. There was a gasp from her, and a barely stifled groan from him. “There will be no Italian lover,” he said, clenching his teeth so that he didn’t resort to a ridiculous, primitive display of manhood.

“Who are you to say that?” she demanded, her eyes darkening, even as her arms looped around his neck. “You are not my fiancé.”

“I know; he’s dead.”

“And ruined me in the process,” she pointed out, yet again.

“Right.” Byron had already decided that he didn’t give a damn about Dugald. If he, the Earl of Oakley, was going to throw over his father’s principles, he was going to do it in style. In other words, he would not only marry the most notorious woman in Scotland (if she was to be believed), but he would never tax his wife with the fact that she came to their bed less than innocent, tarnished by a blackguard fiancé with the stupidity to compromise her as he plummeted to his death.

“You really must stop flirting with me.” She scowled at him. “Though this can hardly be called flirting.”

“What is it?” Byron asked, settling his body a bit more firmly on top of hers. All the right parts of him were pressing against the right parts of her.

“Something worse,” she said darkly.

“Or better,” he said, leaning down so he could give her earlobe a little nip.

“I know it doesn’t matter to you, but I’d rather not have everyone think that I’ve dallied with you as well as with Dugald. I’m already next thing to a Babylonian scarlet woman. A Highlands version, of course.”

“That bad?” Her ear was delightful: small and round and feminine.

“I told you that Dugald’s mother crosses the street when she sees me. After spitting.”

“What about the Italian lover?”

“What about him?”

“What’s his name?” Byron asked, keeping his tone easy. He didn’t want her to know that the Italian was about to plunge from his own metaphoric ivy.

“Well, how should I know? I haven’t met him yet.”

A great burst of joy spread through Byron’s chest, so he bent his head to her mouth. She tasted like wine and Fiona, a combination more potent than the strongest whiskey.

“Ach, man,” she whispered, when he slipped away from her lips and kissed a path along her jaw. “Ye do drive me mad, ye truly do.”

“Your burr comes out when you’re drunk,” he whispered back.

“I’m not drunk! I’m a little tipsy, that’s all.”

“And you’ve decided to take an Italian lover?”

She nodded. She seemed not to notice that her hands were exploring his back, each touch making him press more firmly into the cradle of her legs.

“
Ti amo, amore mia.
”

“I suppose you’re trying to make me think that you’re Italian, rather than the most punctilious earl in all London?”

Byron dropped a careful line of kisses down her neck. “I’m not your Italian lover. I’m your Italian husband.”

Her eyes were closed, but at that she opened one and squinted at him. “Don’t you understand who I am?”

He smiled down at her. “Most scandalous woman in all Scotland. Seducer and killer of an idiot by the name of Dugald. Have I missed anything?”

“Probably not.”

“Future countess,” he added calmly.

A crease appeared between her brows, and he kissed it.

“You’ve gone mad.” She seemed quite convinced of it.

“I don’t care.” He caught her mouth again and plunged into a craving, demanding, all-consuming kiss. One hand found its way to her breast, and with a little sigh, she arched toward him, sending a rush of fire to his loins.

“What if you change your mind?” she whispered, a while later. There was just the tiniest quaver in her voice.

“In my family, we never change our minds. That was my father’s problem, you know.”

“He had a problem?”

“My mother left when I was a boy,” Byron said. He rolled off her body and pulled the cape over her again. Then he ran a finger down her delicate nose. “One day I realized that she hadn’t summoned me to her room in some days. I finally concluded that she must have died, if only because my father was so obviously affected.”

Fiona came up on one elbow, her beautiful eyes fixed on his face. “You grew up without a mother.”

“As did you.” He dropped a kiss on the end of her nose. “That’s why I knew the one thing you wouldn’t allow Marilla to take from you must be a portrait of your mother.”

Her eyes softened. “I’m so sorry, Byron.”

The pang was hardly more than a pinprick. “My mother was not very motherly. I thought . . . I thought if I could find a wife who showed no signs of passion that she wouldn’t think of leaving our children for another man.”

She nodded. “You must have been devastated when she left.”

“I didn’t know her well enough to be devastated. But my father was. He grew harsh and rather brittle. Even after I was grown, I didn’t question him about what happened. I had the feeling he might break.”

“What would happen if he had broken?”

He considered. “I suppose all that pent-up emotion would have rushed out . . . It would have been embarrassing for both of us.”

“So you never asked him where she was?”

“I pieced it together slowly, mostly from things I overheard. She ran away with my father’s brother. His younger brother.”

Fiona gasped. “That must have been so awful for your father!”

“Yes. He always talked of his brother as a man led astray by an evil woman. For a long time, I had no idea that my mother was the evil woman in question.”

“That’s dreadfully sad. No wonder you were taught such concern about your reputation.”

“It’s not my reputation that’s at the heart of it.” He moved a little closer, just enough that he could put an arm around her waist. “I like touching you.”

She frowned at him. “If not your reputation, then what?”

“I couldn’t bear to become like him,” Byron explained. “I thought if I didn’t fall in love, and I chose a woman who was utterly chaste, I could avoid the possibility.”

“Lady Opal . . .”

“I didn’t know her at all. But she seemed like the driven snow.”

Fiona giggled. “She obviously got to know you well enough to guess precisely what would drive you away.”

“I might kill a dancing master you kissed.” His voice came out hard, all the sheen of a civilized Englishman stripped away, leaving a blazingly possessive man. Just a man. It felt as if his heart stopped as he waited for her to answer, his breath clenched in his chest.

The sharp pain there eased only when she leaned closer to him and said, “You don’t have me, so you’d have no right to raise an eyebrow.” There was a promise in her voice, a daring, silky promise.

Byron took a deep breath, threw a silent prayer of thanks to whatever deity happened to be listening, and began nimbly undoing the lacing on her velvet bodice.

“What are you doing?” she yelped.

His fingers stilled. “How drunk are you?”

Her eyes were clear. “I seem to have grown quite sober. But perhaps you should give me the bottle. I’m pretty sure that I’m hallucinating, and I don’t want it to stop.”

“It won’t,” he said. He slowly pulled her jacket wide open. Of course, she was wearing layers . . . a blouse, a corset, a chemise.

He had her out of the blouse and was unlacing the corset before she asked, “Byron, why are you doing this?”

“Because I’m marrying you.”

She was silent, and then: “Did I miss the moment when you asked me?”

“Yes. You must have had too much to drink.” He threw her corset to the side.

But she shook her head when he reached toward her chemise. “Byron. No.”

“I want you,” he said, his voice dismayingly like a growl. “I’ve never wanted anyone the way I want you. I . . . I think I—”