The Lady Most Willing . . . (9 page)

“I know,” Taran retorted. “It’s why you should do it more often. You’re playing, and
that’s final. You too, Your Dukeness,” he said, jabbing a gnarled finger in Bret’s
direction.

Which was how Bret found himself cowering in a corner an hour later, answering Marilla’s
call with as quiet a voice as he could manage.

“Blindman!” she sang out.

“Buff,” he whispered.

“Oooh, I hear someone,” she sang out.

Bret looked frantically for Catriona. Hell, he looked frantically for anyone. But
Oakley was half out the door, and Rocheforte had disappeared entirely. Lady Cecily
was standing on a bloody table.

“Blindman!”

“Buff,” he mouthed, but Marilla continued marching toward him with unerring precision.
There was no way Marilla couldn’t see from underneath her blindfold.

“Oh, I do love a meaningful game,” she trilled.

Meaningful? Good God.

He caught Catriona’s eyes. She had hopped up onto the table behind Lady Cecily.
Save me
, he implored. Surely she would take pity.

But no, she had her hand over her mouth and was giggling away, the traitor.

“Blindman!” Marilla called out.

Bret didn’t even bother mouthing the word this time.

“Oh, I hear someone,” Marilla cooed, still walking toward him. She held her hands
in front of her, moving them this way and that. “You must warn me if I crash into
something,” she called out. “But of course not some
one
.”

Bret inched to the left. If he timed it just right, he might be able to squeeze behind
the grandfather clock. He also might knock over the grandfather clock, but he wasn’t
so concerned about that at that moment.

Just a little more . . . a little more . . .

Marilla turned, following him like a beacon.

“She’s good at this game!” Taran hollered.

“I’m good at many games,” Marilla murmured.

That was when her hands found his chest.

It was all very amusing.

Until it wasn’t.

Catriona had been standing on the table, clutching on to Lady Cecily’s shoulder for
balance as she watched Marilla stalk the duke. They’d all been laughing, because it
was
funny
, it truly was. Even Lord Oakley had started to chuckle, and he never laughed about
anything.

But then Marilla attacked.

“Who could this be?” she asked, placing her hands on Bretton’s chest. “Remember, you
have to hold still while I guess your identity.”

Catriona frowned as she watched Marilla move her hands to Bret’s shoulders.

“Someone very athletic,” Marilla purred.

Catriona’s arms began to tingle. And not in a good way.

“Let me see,” Marilla continued. She trailed her fingers up to Bret’s face, lightly
touching his lips. “It’s definitely a man,” she said, as if that hadn’t already been
obvious, “but—”

“Enough!” Catriona roared.

“Miss Burns?” Lady Cecily said.

But Catriona had already vaulted off the table and was halfway across the room. “Unhand
him!” she yelled, and before Marilla could make a response, Catriona had grabbed her
by the shoulders and wrenched her away.

Marilla let out a shriek of surprise and would have crashed into a table had not Taran
leaped forward to save her.

“Here now,” Taran said accusingly. “That’s not very sporting of you.”

“She was mauling him,” Catriona growled.

“It was just a game,” Marilla sniffed.

“It was—” But then Catriona stopped. Because Marilla
hadn’t
been doing anything wrong. She’d been playing the game precisely as it had been meant
to be played.

Catriona’s stomach clenched, and all of a sudden she realized that everyone was looking
at her. With pity. With shock. With—

She looked at Bret’s face, terrified at what she might find there.

She looked at Bret’s face, and she saw . . .

John
.

John Shevington, the man with whom she’d fallen crazily, spectacularly, and apparently
quite publicly in love.

He would never be the Duke of Bretton to her again. He would never even be Bret. He
would always be John.
Her
John. Even if they never saw each other again, if he left Finovair and refused to
ever take another step in Scotland, he would be her John. She would never be able
to think of him as anything else.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered. Because she’d made such a scene. Because now everyone
was looking at him, and he was going to be forced to save the situation, to find a
way to laugh it all off.

Because she couldn’t. It was taking her every ounce of strength not to burst into
tears then and there.

“No,” he whispered. “Don’t be sorry.”

She swallowed, then looked down at their hands. When had he taken her hands in his?

“You are magnificent,” he said.

Her lips parted in surprise.

And then he smiled. One corner of his mouth tilted up, and he looked so boyish, so
handsome, so just plain wonderful, that she thought her heart might burst.

He dropped to one knee.

Catriona gasped.

Marilla gasped even louder. “He is
not
proposing to her!”

“He is,” John said with a smile. And then he looked up, right into Catriona’s eyes.
“Catriona Burns, will you do me the indescribable honor of becoming my wife?”

Catriona tried to speak, but her words tangled and tumbled in her throat, and finally,
all she could do was nod her head. But she nodded with everything she had, and finally,
when she realized that tears were running down her face, she whispered, “Yes. Yes,
I will.”

John reached into his pocket and pulled out an ancient ring. She stared at it for
a moment, mesmerized by the delicate etching on its sapphire center. “But this is
yours,” she finally said. She had seen it on his finger. On his pinkie. She hadn’t
even realized that she’d noticed this about him.

“I am lending it to you,” he said, his voice trembling as he slid it onto her thumb.
Then he lifted her hand and kissed it, right where the gold touched her flesh. “So
that you may keep it safe for our son.”

“Kiss her!” someone yelled.

John smiled and stood.

“Kiss! Kiss! Kiss!”

Catriona’s lips parted with shock as he drew her close. “Right here? In front of ev—”

It was the last thing she said for quite some time.

Chapter 9

O
ne could hardly say that there was adequate documentation on the matter, but Byron
Wotton had always taken hell to be a fiery proposition.

He was wrong. Hell was obviously freezing, decrepit, and located in the Scottish Highlands.
What’s more, it was ruled not by Beelzebub, but by an uncle with a fiendish sense
of humor and not a single gentlemanly instinct to his name.

Byron had been watching, dumbfounded, as his old friend the Duke of Bretton declared
everlasting love for a woman he’d met practically five minutes before, when Taran—alias
Chief Tormenter—pulled him to the side.

“I hope ye’re taking some lessons from that English booby,” his uncle hissed.

Byron was watching the besotted look on his friend’s face as he gazed into Catriona
Burns’s eyes. It gave him a queer feeling. Not that he could imagine himself in the
grip of an emotion of that sort.

“What are you talking about?” he said, looking away as the duke drew his new fiancée
into his arms. Actually, he could only assume they were affianced; he hadn’t heard
her whispered answer to Bret’s proposal.

Given the way he was embracing Miss Burns, though, it must have been in the affirmative.
It was truly odd. Byron knew damned well that the duke hadn’t any plans for marriage.
Bret had confided only last summer that he planned to marry at the ripe age of thirty-five,
and he was still a good six years from that milestone.

But now . . .

“Did you hear me?” Taran barked at his shoulder. “I gave you nevvies a chance to do
the wooing that you don’t have ballocks to do yourselves, and yet you’ve let an Englishman
steal a march on you.”

Byron scowled at him. “I have all the balls needful. And may I point out that you’re
a single man yourself, Uncle, but you haven’t done a bit of wooing in the last decade
or so that I’ve noticed.”

“I’m too old to put up with a woman.”

“More likely one wouldn’t put up with you.”

“No man in his fifties should be asked to make the sacrifice!”

“You’re only a year or two into that decade,” Byron pointed out.

“I’m a widower,” Taran said piously. “Kept your aunt’s memory in my heart, I have.”

Byron snorted. No woman in her right mind would accept the old scoundrel.

“Back to the point,” his uncle persisted. “You’ve lost one heiress already. You know
what they say: as you grow older, yer balls grow colder.”

“You are being manifestly rude, Uncle.” He glanced back over his shoulder. Bret and
Catriona were still locked in each other’s arms.

“Thank the Lord, he’s too much of a fool to realize that Catriona Burns doesn’t have
tuppence to her name,” Taran muttered. “Her da will be kissing my feet for last night’s
work, I’ll tell you. Burns would have danced a jig if she’d landed the second son
of a baronet, let alone a duke. And he can’t say I didn’t try to chaperone the two
of them.”

“Be quiet!” Byron hissed. He’d known the duke since they were both boys, and though
Bret was easygoing to a fault, Byron had the firm conviction that no one would ever
be allowed to insult his wife without being beaten within an inch of his life.

“As I was saying before,” his uncle said, mercifully abandoning that topic, “I’m giving
you two every opportunity to snatch up yer brides, same as that Englishman done. Blindman’s
buff seems to be working. I’ll make certain we play it every night. You lads are so
lily-livered that you need the help of a blindfold.”

“I do not need help choosing a wife, from you
or
a blindfold,” Byron responded, keeping his voice even.

“No, yer problem is keeping her, once you’ve proposed,” his uncle scoffed.

The lovers had finally drawn apart, but Bret still held Catriona’s hands in his, and
was looking down at her with such an adoring expression that Byron felt a true pulse
of envy. He hadn’t deluded himself that either he or his former fiancée, Lady Opal
Lambert, had felt that sort of feverish entanglement, but it was a bruise to his vanity
to think that Opal wanted someone other than himself to the point of not caring about
scandal.

“One more round of blindman’s buff,” his uncle called, surging forward. “Marilla,
tie that blindfold back on. Now where’s Robin got to?”

“Robin left the room a good hour ago, when the blindfold first made its appearance,”
Byron pointed out. He was rethinking his lifelong policy of courtesy. Why shouldn’t
he
simply retire to his room and stay out of the fray, the way Robin had done?

“Dang and balderdash,” Taran muttered. “How does that lad think he’ll catch himself
a wife if he can’t even stay put for an evening?” He started barking out orders. Bret,
Catriona, and the rest of the guests reluctantly, but obediently, gathered around
Marilla again.

The lady was looking distinctly irritated. She had made it obvious that she hoped
to lure Bret into the parson’s mousetrap, so she must be vexed that her overly intimate
patting of his chest had led to his marriage proposal—to another woman.

But she smiled prettily enough when Taran handed the blindfold to Catriona so that
she could cover Marilla’s eyes. “Lord Oakley,” she called, “you simply
must
join us. This children’s game won’t be at all fun without you.”

Byron stepped forward and Taran scuttled into place beside him.

“
She’s
up for anything,” his uncle whispered approvingly. “Blast Robin for leaving the room.
Here I got him a lively one with a sweet fortune, and he flees like a sheep at its
first shearing.”

“She’s an impudent baggage,” Byron said, taking advantage of the fact that Marilla
was surrounded by giggling young ladies adjusting her blindfold and couldn’t hear
him. “Didn’t you see how outrageously she behaved with the duke?”

“You are turning into a proper antidote,” his uncle snapped, rounding on him. “A pompous,
self-righteous turnip! I heard about what you did to your betrothed, merely because
she gave a buss to her dancing master. Likely she meant it no more than as a matter
of courtesy, and you ruined her reputation for it.”

Rage swelled in Byron’s chest. He had found his fiancée bent backward over a sofa,
one slender leg wrapped around her dancing master’s thigh. If that kiss represented
the standard expression of appreciation for a dance, there would be far more men capering
about English ballrooms. “I will never allow a strumpet to become Countess of Oakley,”
he replied frigidly. “As for her reputation, I never mentioned the kiss; it was she
who told her father all.”

“That’s the English for you,” his uncle said, looking disgusted. “A Scotswoman knows
to keep such matters to herself. Though ’tis true Scotswomen have no need to stray.
One kilt can keep a woman warm all winter long.”

Byron looked away from his uncle and met the eyes of the girl who wore spectacles.
Fiona, he thought her name was. Her disdainful expression implied she’d overheard
their conversation. He tightened his jaw; he didn’t care what she thought.

He wouldn’t choose a wife from this assembly if someone paid him. In fact, he’d just
as soon never return to Finovair again. Next week, he would travel back to London,
and in time he would marry a woman who possessed the proper respect for both her person
and his title.

A second later he came to the discomforting realization that the emotion in Fiona’s
eyes wasn’t disdain. In fact, it looked like pity. Damn.

“Turnip!” his uncle repeated, stamping off to the other side of the circle.

Byron took a deep breath. The game had begun, and one glance told him that the blindfolded
girl was heading in his direction, arms outstretched. Presumably, he too was about
to be patted down. But in his case, no young lady would leap to his rescue.

Marilla’s giggles were breathy and uninhibited. She sounded like the type of woman
who would throw herself into the arms of any man with a gift for capering.

But he stood rigidly still. It wouldn’t be polite to back away from her; the group
was watching and laughing, as always seemed to happen during absurd games like this.
Taran, for one, was clapping like an organ-grinder’s monkey. She was coming closer
and closer . . . He would wager anything that Marilla could see through that blindfold.
She was heading straight toward him with as much single-minded purpose as a child
who spies a sweetmeat.

He wasn’t the only one who had realized that Marilla was cheating. Fiona had a distinct
scowl on her face as she watched her sister’s antics. Even given her spectacles, he
could see that she had eyes the color of a dark Scottish forest, the kind that stretches
for miles and miles.

Then a fragrant, soft bundle tumbled against him and began laughingly patting him,
not on his chest, but his face.

“Oh, I think I know who this is!” Marilla cooed. “Such a resolute chin and powerful
brow could only be one man . . .” She burst into a storm of giggles. “And now I must
beg forgiveness from the rest of you. Of course, every one of the gentlemen in the
room has a strong chin. But this nose . . .’tis a Roman nose.”

Byron clenched his jaw. It wasn’t her fault that he had taken a dislike to being touched
since his betrothal fell apart. He wasn’t the sort of man to keep a mistress, and
it was something of a shock to realize that he hadn’t been with a woman in months.
Not that Opal had touched him in such an intimate fashion, of course.

Marilla was now stroking his neck, which was only slightly less unpleasant than when
she touched his face. His repulsion must be some odd response to the dissolution of
his engagement.

“Make your guess, Marilla,” her green-eyed sister called, a commanding tone in her
voice.

“So who do you think you’ve caught in your arms, lass?” Taran demanded with obvious
glee. “Who do you choose?”

“I choose you,” Marilla breathed, so softly that no one except him could have heard
her. Then, before he grasped what she meant, she said more loudly, “Of course, we
all know there’s only one way to be certain,” and without pause she rose on her toes
and brushed his mouth with hers.

Byron reacted reflexively, thrusting her violently away and stepping back. Then, realizing
what he’d done, he lunged forward, catching her in his arms as she toppled. “I beg
your forgiveness,” he said, carefully placing her back on her feet.

The room had gone silent. Lady Cecily was gazing into a corner, an agonized expression
on her face, and the spectacled girl was scowling. Bret had the delighted air of a
man realizing that he’d barely escaped a man-eating tiger. Deserting all claims to
respectable behavior, the duke dropped a kiss on Catriona’s rosy lips with a distinct
air of relief.

“So you
should
,” Marilla cried with a pout, as she pulled the blindfold from her head. “I could
have fallen to the floor and injured myself.” She widened her blue eyes. “
Not
the action of an English gentleman, Lord Oakley. Nor a Scotsman, either, I assure
you.”

She was inarguably right. Byron ground his teeth and swept into an apologetic bow.
“I offer my sincere regret. I’m afraid I have had a tendency to startle since I was
a boy.”

“
This
nephew is a nervy type,” Taran said, popping up at his elbow like an evil sprite.
“Now, my nephew Robin is a real man, the kind who knows how to keep a woman in his
arms, though not on her feet!”

This crude jest was greeted with marked silence by everyone except Marilla, who giggled.
Byron held out his arm to her. “May I escort you to the stairs? I’m sure we all feel
quite tired after our frivolities.” It was just the sort of sticklike comment his
father would have made.

“Damned if you don’t sound older than me,” Taran cackled, as if he’d heard Byron’s
thought.

Marilla on his arm, Byron followed her sister through the door. Marilla’s figure showed
to exquisite advantage in her evening gown, the high waistline emphasizing her breasts,
which were magnificent by any man’s measure.

In contrast, Fiona’s gown was conservative. Her evening gown was a sober blue, with
long sleeves, and without even the smallest ruffle to relieve its austerity.

Still, you knew with one look that her breasts were luscious as well. And sensual,
and feminine, and all the things that he hadn’t felt or tasted in months. Just because
Marilla’s were on display didn’t mean that—

With a start, he wrenched his thoughts back into place. “I’m sorry,” he said, looking
down at the bright curls of the girl at his side. “I didn’t hear what you said.”

“I
said
that the storm is worsening,” Marilla repeated, an edge of disapproval in her voice.
Clearly, she was under the impression that he ought to hang on her every word.

He cast her a glance that conveyed a censorious view of her pretensions. That look—he’d
been reliably informed—was feared throughout London. Oakley was one of the oldest
earldoms in the country, and Byron had learned at his father’s knee not to tolerate
impudent and overfamiliar mushrooms.

Marilla didn’t even flinch. She merely patted his arm and dimpled up at him. “But
I will forgive you, Lord Oakley. I know you must have any number of very, very serious
matters on your mind. Men are so given to that sort of thinking.”

“I do not think it is necessarily a trait of the sex,” came a quiet voice in front
of them. Fiona was waiting for her sister at the newel post. “Marilla, it is time
that we bid the company good night.”

Marilla did have a very pretty pout. “No, don’t bow again!” she said gaily to Byron,
who had no such intention. “We should not be on such terribly formal terms here, don’t
you agree?” She pointedly looked behind them. Bret and Miss Burns had made it as far
as the drawing room door before they started kissing again. “Obviously,” she added,
“at Finovair we are not obligated to adhere to the very, very silly rules that London
society requires.”

“Exactly,” Taran chortled, coming up from behind to beam at the girl. “We are all
friends here.”