The Lady Most Willing . . . (30 page)

“Fine,” Robin said. “I’ll play.”

Marilla clapped her hands. “Oh good! We’ll draw short straws to see who is the auctioneer.”

She made quick work of shredding splinters from a piece of kindling and offering each gentleman in turn a chance to pull one from her fist. Robin drew the short splinter. Without a word, he stalked from the room, leaving the others to select what they wanted auctioned.

Oakley drew a small book from his waistcoat pocket and placed it on the table. Fiona made a sound of surprise, and though Oakley remained as sober as ever, he caught her hand in his and kissed it. When he released her hand, she removed her spectacles and set them atop the book.

“I don’t have anything,” Catriona Burns said, pinking up a little. With a rush of sympathy, Cecily realized she wore no embellishments other than a piece of satin she’d tied around her neck, the end of which disappeared beneath her modest neckline.

“Of course you do,” Marilla said, sounding a bit irritated. “What’s that around your neck?”

Reluctantly, Catriona pulled the ribbon from under her décolletage. At the end hung a man’s heavy gold signet ring, its large sapphire incised with a beautiful portrait. But before Catriona had finished untying the ribbon, Bretton’s hand covered hers, stilling her fingers. He bent and whispered something in her ear then reached into his vest pocket and withdrew a gold watch and fob. He set them on the table. “These will suffice for Miss Burns and myself.”

“But they’re a pair,” Marilla protested. “You can’t bid on them separately.”

“Exactly so,” Bretton said, escorting Catriona back to her chair.

“Some people must ruin everything,” Marilla muttered, but was soon distracted by Taran, who strode to her side, stooped down, and with a flourish pulled a short-bladed
sgian-dubh
from the top of his silk hose. With a courtly flourish, he laid it on the tabletop.

“Now there, lassie,” he told Marilla, “is the only thing worth a tinker’s damn on this entire board.”

Marilla picked up the small knife by its mother-of-pearl handle.

“Careful,” Taran cautioned. “Play with a man’s weapon and you might get pricked.” His eyes danced with a lascivious light.

At this, Oakley, who’d been speaking to Fiona, swung around. “For God’s sake, Uncle. Apologize at once.”

But Marilla proved herself Taran’s equal in mischief. Lifting the blade, she very deliberately and very conspicuously took her time sawing a tress of her hair off with it. Then she replaced the blade on the table with the casual observation, “That old thing is dull and in want of a good whetting.”

Taran burst out laughing. Catriona bit her lip, Bretton looked bemused, Oakley coughed away a laugh, and Fiona looked away, but not in time to hide her smile. Cecily watched them, an unfamiliar wave of jealousy spreading through her.

They were all so happy, even Marilla, who’d not yet realized that the next gentleman on her list would no more accommodate her matrimonial ambitions than the former ones.

“What’s your forfeit, Marilla?” Taran asked, when he could breathe again.

“Why, this lock of my hair,” she said, holding up the guinea gold tress. “I should think anyone would recognize it as mine.” She meant Robin, of course.

She looked up. “That’s everyone. We can call Robin in and . . . Oh. Lady Cecily. I forgot about you,” she said. “What are you going to forfeit?”

“I think this,” she said, unwrapping the bed curtain shawl from her shoulders and letting it fall in a heap on the table.

“That? No one will bid for that.”

“I might,” Catriona said. “What good are jewels to a frozen corpse?”

“As you will.” Marilla shrugged, then practically tripped over herself running to open the door and calling for Robin to reenter.

When he reappeared his former issues with the game seemed to have evaporated, for his expression was pleasant.
Determinedly
pleasant, Cecily thought.

“Remember,” Marilla lectured him with mock severity, “You must make us pay very, very steep prices for those things we wish to secure.”

“I understand,” he said. “Let us begin.”

He went over to the table and picked up Fiona’s spectacles. “Here we have nothing less than a piece of magic. Nineteenth-century glass, I believe, rumored to allow its wearer to detect the very nearly imperceptible.”

“How so?” Bretton called out, looking vastly amused.

“Why,” Robin said, “legend has it that the current owner was even able to discern the heart beating beneath the wooden effigy of a certain earl.”

At this Bretton burst out laughing and Oakley joined him.

“Well, as they are magic, how can I resist?” Oakley said. “I will offer my boots for them.”

“Boots?” Robin scoffed. “Magic comes at a far greater price than a pair of Hoby boots, sir. Who else will bid?”

“As their current owner I must insist they are returned to me, for I am not done yet with my perusal of that earlish effigy you mentioned. I am convinced there is a great deal more yet to discover, and I am well and truly committed to the endeavor.”

“I applaud your commitment, Miss Chisholm, but what forfeit will you give?”

“A kiss!” Taran shouted.

Robin grinned wolfishly at Fiona, who looked away, flustered. “Aye,” he said. “A kiss might buy these spectacles. But whom should she kiss? I would, of course, suggest myself, but I would hate it to be said that I took unfair advantage of the situation.”

“Since when?” Oakley demanded.

“The lass can kiss me!” Taran suggested magnanimously.

“Miss Marilla said the price must be high, not extortionate,” Robin said, winning more laughter. “No, there’s nothing for it, but that she must kiss Oakley to retrieve her glasses.”

Oakley wasted no time in seeing that Fiona’s glasses were returned. He surged to his feet, catching Fiona by the hand and hauling her into a tight embrace. Cecily glanced away; the passion in their kiss made her heart ache.

When Oakley finally released her, Robin shook his head. “Coz, you really must learn to attend.
She
was to kiss
you
. Not vice versa.”

At once, Fiona stretched on her tiptoes, clasped Oakley’s face between her hands, pulled his head down, and planted a hearty buss upon his mouth. “Satisfied?” she asked, with an unexpected note of coquetry in her voice.

“My dear, alas, I am in no position to answer,” Robin replied rakishly. “That is a question for Oakley.”

Cecily’s heart thudded dully in her chest. She wanted a lifetime of Robin’s roguish smiles and unaffected humor, his teasing laughter and warmth.

Next, he picked up the watch and fob. “What am I to make of this? Is it one or two pieces?”

“It is two pieces that must perforce be bought together,” Marilla explained.

Robin snorted derisively. “One need not guess whose idea this was. You always seemed to me a possessive sort, Bret.”

“Always,” the duke agreed amiably.

“And I suspect any attempt to outbid you would be futile.”

“Entirely,” Bretton agreed. “You might ask Miss Burns to offer a kiss.”

“No. I don’t think my sensibilities could tolerate another such exhibition,” Robin said.

“I’ll bid a dance. A dance with the comte,” Marilla said, standing up as though Robin’s acceptance were a foregone conclusion.

The little group broke into a smattering of approving applause.

Cecily did not think she could bear to watch Marilla in Robin’s arms. “I will bid a dance, also,” she said. “With the laird of Finovair.”

This met with even greater approval. Soon, everyone was bidding against one another, the antics growing ever greater. At one point, Taran even bid to waltz with Hamish, sending the entire company into gales of hilarity. Bretton finally announced he would throw himself on the altar of ignominy in order to spare the ladies so haunting a spectacle, and recite Lord Byron’s latest poem in order to win the bid.

Robin awarded him the auction, and Bretton rose to his feet and proceeded to recite . . . something. Just what it was would forever after be the subject of much debate, but whatever it was, it most decidedly was
not
written by Byron. There were naiads in it and a few fauns, a character named Despot, and a whole gaggle of talking swans. And it was set in some country that rhymed with “puce.”

The rest of the auction went much the same, everyone seeming to have a grand good time. Not unexpectedly, Marilla continued to bid her lips, her limbs, and her company to Robin for the various items. And Cecily continued to outbid Marilla’s offers with her own, and from there the others inevitably joined in to bid all sorts of japery and antics. Fiona balanced a spoon on her nose; Taran sang “The Bonnie Lass of Fyvie” in a very credible baritone, and Cecily juggled three pinecones.

When, near the end, Marilla bid a kiss to retrieve her hank of hair and Taran was the only man who took her up on it, she was a good enough sport not to pout but to give as good as she got—and Cecily was surprised at how good what she got looked to be.

Finally, only Cecily’s shawl remained on the table.

“Do tell us what wondrous thing you have there, Comte,” Miss Burns encouraged.

“This?” Robin said softly. For a moment he simply ran a finger along the velvet nape, his expression softening. He lifted it up, swishing it lightly in the air. “This is most rare, indeed. A relic, in fact.”

“But what
is
it?” Fiona asked, dimpling.

“I believe this once cloaked the form of a creature as rare in these parts as hen’s teeth.”

Cecily’s heart began beating faster. His voice was warm and sad, wry and bittersweet.

“What creature is that?” Marilla asked.

“Why the
Angliae optimatium heres.
”

“What’s that?” Taran demanded.

“The English heiress,” Fiona translated with a laugh.

Cecily felt warmth rise in her cheeks and looked away.

“Rob!” Oakley said in a low voice. “You’ve embarrassed Lady Cecily with your reference to her wealth.”

The smile stiffened on Robin’s dark, handsome countenance. “That was never my aim,” he said. His gaze caught Cecily’s and he inclined his head. “My pardon, Lady Cecily. But you must certainly know that your value far exceeds anything that can be counted in coin.”

“Fine,” Marilla broke in abruptly, “Robin’s made a pretty apology. Now who is going to bid on that?”

“I’ll kiss Miss Marilla Chisholm for it,” Taran offered.

Marilla giggled.

Catriona raised her voice and said, “What of you, Rocheforte? I heard no rule against the auctioneer bidding, and you have yet to do so. Surely you must want to possess so rare a relic?”

She caught Cecily’s eye, her own shining with a teasing light.

Cecily’s heart trip-hammered in her chest and she found herself holding her breath, waiting for Robin’s reply.

He had gone very still at Catriona’s words, staring at the tawdry piece of cloth he held as though it were gossamer that might dissolve before his eyes. Carefully, almost reverently, he replaced it on the table, smoothing a fold away. He looked up.

“I am afraid I have nothing of value with which to barter, Miss Burns. Neither goods nor talents.”

Cecily’s heartbeat slowed to a dull, heavy thud as her throat constricted with tears she refused to shed.

Catriona frowned, her expression uncertain. “Surely there is something . . .”

He shook his head. “Nothing. Besides, the point is moot. I would never aspire to something so far above my touch.”

So that was it, then. He could not be more clear: she’d receive no offer of marriage from Robin.

She didn’t even realize she had stood until the book she’d won dropped from her lap. And then she was running out the door, Catriona Burns calling after her.

Catriona.

But not Robin.

Chapter 27

C
ecily avoided the stairs; she couldn’t go to her room. Kindhearted Catriona Burns was bound to look for her there, and Cecily did not think she could face the other girl’s pity. Better to be unavailable until she could mask her heartbreak.

Instead, she headed for the small family chapel next to the great hall, one of the few other public rooms still in use in this part of the castle, though gauging from the dust on the pew cushions, “use” was a relative word. Like many castle chapels, it rose two stories tall, its height divided horizontally by a small second-floor balcony that overlooked the altar so that the lord and lady could attend daily services directly from their chambers. A wooden staircase led to the balcony so Cecily climbed it, not wanting to be seen by anyone passing the door opening onto the corridor.

The dust lay even thicker above than below, coating a pair of wingback chairs set well back from the wooden rail and a bench that might have served the lord’s children, which now lay toppled on its side. Cecily sought refuge in one of the oversized chairs, curling her feet beneath her and huddling deep into the corner.

What was she to do now? How was she to return to her former life and go about the business of choosing a husband, when the only husband she wanted would not court her? She had done everything she could to charm, beguile, and befriend Robin. Nothing remained in her arsenal of feminine weapons.

Since birth, she’d been taught that whatever a lady wanted, she must wait until it was given, be it a pony, a dress, a party, or a husband . . .

Not that a lady need be entirely passive. But Cecily
hadn’t
been. She had followed Robin, kissed him, worn boy’s clothing, tried to rouse his jealousy in her pursuit of him. What more could she do?

And why would he not propose
? Because she was too rich, too English? Because he was too poor, his title too French? Because she was a virgin, or because he was so patently not a virgin . . . None of that mattered. The only reason she would accept was that he did not love her. But he did! She knew it. Her heart could not be so blind, her soul so deaf. When he had looked at her this evening across the room, the pitiful shawl in his hands, she had been as certain of his feelings as she was of her own . . .