The Lady Most Willing . . . (29 page)

A
care
. A tepid term for what he felt. But why make this harder for anyone, especially her?

“I don’t want you to suffer any consequences for merely trying to keep warm,” he answered.

“I will change as soon as we get word that a carriage approaches,” she said. “But for now, well, what can it hurt?”

“A great deal,” he answered. “You would not want it bandied about London that not only were you closeted for four days with men unrelated to you and without a proper chaperone, but that you also sashayed about in a pair of tightly fitted breeches.”

She bit her lip, and he had the distinct impression it was to keep from laughing. He could hardly blame her. It was absurd but, damn and blast, he
had
become Byron!

“Who’s here that would describe the scene?” she inquired. “Catriona Burns is distracted by her duke and upcoming nuptials, as is Fiona with hers to Oakley. And I do not think either Bretton or Oakley is the type of gentleman who’d waste his breath tattling about a lady’s choice of clothing.”

“What?”

“I do not think your cousin or Bretton—”

“No, of course not. I meant, what did you say about Miss Chisholm and upcoming nuptials?” he asked, frowning.

“ ’Tis true,” she said. “They told me themselves—or rather Oakley crowed about it—outside in the stable this morning just before you appeared.”

His head was spinning. She must have read his confusion for she spoke again, in slow, distinct accents. “Lord Oakley has proposed to Miss Fiona Chisholm and she agreed to marry him.” She gave a light trill of laughter as she crossed the short distance between them. “It looks like your uncle’s mad plan has met with unexpected success.”

She stopped and tipped her head back to look him squarely in the eye. “Except in your case, of course. And if I recall correctly you were the target of all his machinations. Ironic, isn’t it?”

“Very.”

“You must feel a bit left out,” she teased.

“I am not the only one who failed to fall victim to his machinations. Marilla Chisholm has also escaped heart whole.”

Cecily’s lips flattened and her expression grew haughty. It seemed that she did not like Marilla. “Yes,” she said, ”though I doubt she’s feeling precisely triumphant. But if you are congratulating people on not succumbing to Cupid’s arrow, you must certainly add me to your list. I, too, remain unbetrothed.”

“But that’s only for the time being,” he said, and before he could think better of it, added, “Have you given your choice any further thought?”

She regarded him with an unreadable expression. “Comte de Rocheforte, are you perchance offering me your advice? Your
real
advice?”

“Good God, no,” he said, thunderstruck. “Of course not. I would never presume.”

She laid her hand against his chest in an unconscious gesture of appeal. He felt the imprint of each finger. “I wish you would. I have only my sisters to act as my advisors—”

“And I am sure they are far better qualified than I to guide you. Besides which, they are privy to your innermost feelings.”

“So might you be,” she said, her voice low and husky. His heart thundered beneath her palm, and he was seized by the impulse to sweep her into his arms and kiss her far more thoroughly than he had in the frozen corridor above.

But he didn’t move. He didn’t say a word, and after a few seconds, she sighed, letting her hand drop from his chest.

“As far as being dependable counselors,” she said, “they are silly girls, moved to raptures by the cut of a gentleman’s coat or the way he sits a horse. The youngest fell in love with her young man because he styled his hair à la Brutus.”

He could not help but laugh at that, and she grinned, edging closer once again. “You, though, with your reputation as a
bourreau des coeurs
, you can offer me invaluable insights: how to know if a gentleman will be faithful and guard my reputation, become a playmate, advisor, and tender lover.”

He
would. But how could he say such a thing? Everything about his past refuted that claim. And even if he were, how could he convince her father?

Lord Maycott, it’s true I’ve bedded a fair number of women, but none of them were virgins and none of them were living with their husbands when I slipped under their sheets. All very up-and-up, don’t you agree? And yes, my title was restored by a regime that could just as easily rescind it tomorrow. Still, it’s a title, what? And no, I haven’t any wealth to speak of, but happily, I will inherit this splendid castle, and there are a few rocky acres in Bordeaux that in, oh, a decade or so, may make enough profit to buy a small cabriolet. But in the meantime I daresay we’ll make do with your daughter’s dowry—not that I care about her inheritance. How could you possibly suspect otherwise?

He should have laughed at the thought of it. He should; he couldn’t, had his life depended on it.

“Robin?”

She had no idea what she was asking him. He scraped the hair back from his forehead, looking anywhere but at her.

“Am I wrong, Robin,” she said, “in thinking there is sympathy between us? That even in so short a time, we have recognized in one another a friend?”

He could not resist the appeal in her voice. He looked down at Cecily and instantly became caught in the somber depths of her eyes, her earnest expression.

“If I am wrong, pray, correct me now. I shall not take offense,” she said. “Only be honest with me,” she added, extending her hand.

How could he refuse her? He enveloped her hand in his own.

“You asked my advice. Here it is,” he said. “Choose the gentleman whom your father most approves, a man who can command his respect, and to whom he will be overjoyed to entrust your future.”

The firelight licked at her tresses, turning them into polished mahogany. “My father wants my happiness. He would approve whomever I loved.”

He gave a short, humorless laugh. “I would not wager a single penny on that assumption.”

He was pulling her gently but inexorably closer as he spoke, his body having a will separate from his mind. She showed no signs of resisting. But then, as she herself had said, he was good at this.

Of their own volition, his fingertips traced a path up the gentle valley of her spine to the back of her neck and beneath the heavy knot of hair, scattering the pins holding it in place. Her loosened tresses cascaded down over the backs of his hands, cool as silk and just as fine. A fragrance of lavender and soap, homely and yet incredibly erotic, rose from the unleashed tresses. Without thinking, he leaned closer to breathe in the scent.

She regarded him somberly, the delicate fabric of her blouse shivering with each breath she took. She wet her lips with the tip of her tongue, and his gaze fell on it like a thief on a jewel. In his mind he was tasting her again, plumbing the sweet depth of her mouth.

“He would accept my decision,” she whispered.

His lips curved in a slight smile, distracted by her beauty. “Only if it were the right decision. Take someone like me, for example.”

“What of you?” she asked, her body very still.

“What if someone of my stamp were to approach your father and ask for your hand?”

Her gaze searched his, but he barely noted it, drawing a feather-light stroke along the line of her jaw with the backs of his knuckles. Unable to stop himself, he went further, outlining the plump curve of her lip with his thumb. She trembled. He shifted closer.

“Let us say that some brain fever takes you and you are persuaded by whim or madness that you are in love with someone of my ilk.”

“Let us say that,” she repeated, in an odd voice.

“How would your father react?” He went very, very still, awaiting her answer as though his life depended on it, even though he already knew what it must be.

Her mouth curved in a partial smile, and she drew in her breath on a tiny sob and gave a small, shaky laugh.

“But the point is entirely moot,” she said, eyes sparkling with . . . merriment? “I would never ask my father—”

“There you are!”

Robin’s hands dropped and he fell back a step, feeling as though he’d taken a blow from a battering ram squarely in his chest. Fool.
Fool!

“I have been looking everywhere for you!”

With neither interest nor urgency, he looked around. Marilla Chisholm sailed into the library. He greeted her interruption with a vague sort of relief. At least she’d spared him the remainder of that sentence:
I would never ask my father to accept a man like you.

“I swear for so small a castle, people do a marvelous job of getting lost in it,” Marilla prattled on. “But no matter, I found you. We are going to play a new game and we need you to— Good heavens!” She stopped dead, her eyes growing round. “Is that Lady Cecily behind you? Whatever— Oh!” Her hand flew to cover her mouth. “
Whatever
are you wearing, Lady Cecily?”

Cecily glared at Marilla.

“Now you know who would tattle about your apparel,” he said softly before turning to Marilla. “Lady Cecily is preparing to enact a scene from
Romeo and Juliet
for tonight’s entertainment. She is to play Mercutio.”

“Oh,” Marilla said, doubtfully.

“Wasn’t it clever of her to dress as a young gentleman to bring veracity to the role?” he asked, the hollow in his chest growing with each passing second.

“I suppose,” Marilla said grudgingly. “But we are not doing theatrics. I have another game and you
must
play,” she said. “I refuse to leave unless you come with me.” She glanced at Cecily. “You can come along, too.”

“Thank you,” Cecily replied, but her gaze never strayed from Robin’s face and her brow furrowed as she regarded him.

Was his pain so evident? Poor dear girl. She had probably thought they would laugh together at the idea of him proposing to her and now he’d revealed himself, and being a tenderhearted young lady, she would be distressed that she had unwittingly caused him pain.

If he stayed here in the library with her, if he even refused to join the party, he had no doubt she would hunt him down and tender an apology, or worse, console him.

“We must hurry along. The others are waiting and you have no idea how long it took me to find them all and gather them into one place,” Marilla said. “All these couples billing and cooing as if they are the only people in the world, and no one else matters or needs to be entertained.” She sniffed.

“I suppose you haven’t heard that Lord Oakley has offered for my half sister? Apparently, he must have some sort of fascination for women who wear spectacles. Rather peculiar, if you ask me, but I suppose there’s no accounting for a gentleman’s quirks.” She shook her head, and without another word, hooked her arm through Robin’s and began tugging him toward the door.

And he went.

Chapter 26

“T
he game is called forfeit,” Marilla announced to the group. “And it is all the rage on the continent.”

Cecily, seated in a big upholstered chair near the fire, was in no mood to play more of Marilla’s games, but no one else seemed to share her reluctance. In fact, they all looked rather loathsomely happy and lighthearted.

Oakley was seated on a settee with his arm stretched along the back, Fiona tucked in close. Every now and again he would brush her cheek with the side of his thumb as though he could not get enough of touching her. At the other end of the settee, Catriona Burns occupied a similar position next to Bretton, and though Bretton managed to keep his hands off her, the look he bent on her was as telling and ardent as a touch.

Even Taran was in fine form. For once, he’d traded his ragged old kilt for a surprisingly clean one, below which his legs were properly hosed and gartered. On top, he wore a velvet jacket that, though a few decades out of mode, was at least well cut, and with an improbably snowy lace jabot at his throat, he looked nearly elegant.

Only one person in the room looked as dour as she felt. Robin stood beside the hearth, an arm resting on the high mantel as he stared into the fire. He hadn’t even looked up when she’d entered the room, arriving late as she’d decided to heed his advice and change out of her boy’s clothing. She’d done what she could for the blue ball gown but out of necessity had wrapped the velvet “shawl” around her shoulders again.

“And how do you play this game, lassie? Is there kissing involved?” Taran asked hopefully.

“It’s not required,” Marilla tittered, fluttering sidelong glances at Robin. “But I shouldn’t be surprised if some merry souls didn’t take advantage of a certain element of the game to steal a kiss.”

At least, Cecily noted, Robin paid Marilla as little attention as he did to her.

“I like this game,” Oakley declared. “How do you play?”

“One gentleman is chosen to leave the room. Everyone left selects something from their person and puts it on that table. When the gentleman reenters the room, he holds an auction for the various items that the rest of us bid on. The only rule is that you cannot use money as your currency. You must provide something you own, or offer an antic or a song or such. You can also bid to have your own item returned to you.”

“Where does the kissing come in?” Taran demanded.

Marilla pretended a pretty fluster. “Well, I suppose if a person wished to claim something urgently enough, that person might be inspired to offer a kiss to procure it.”

“It sounds disastrously dull,” Robin declared flatly.

“Rob,” Oakley said, sounding surprised.

“It does. Childish antics. We make eight. Let us play two tables of whist instead.”

“I don’t play whist,” Marilla said, mincing to Robin’s side and pouting prettily. “I so very, very much want to play. And I would be very, very disappointed if you did not join the fun . . . Robin.”

“Good Lord, what’s come over you, Rob?” Taran sputtered. “I have never known you to act so high on the instep. It’s a simple game and the ladies are bored.”

“I’m not bored,” Fiona Chisholm said.

“I am,” Marilla countered, glaring at her half sister.