The Lady Most Willing

by Julia Quinn, Eloisa James

  “Bretton can have my room,” Lord Oakley said, standing in the doorway as everyone else filed out.

  “No, really,” the duke responded, his voice a mocking monotone, “I couldn’t possibly inconvenience you.”

  Lord Oakley rolled his eyes and exited into the great hall.

  It was only then that Catriona realized she had been left quite alone with the Duke of Bretton.

  Chapter 3

  John Shevington had been the Duke of Bretton since the age of forty-three days, and as such, he had been inflicted with a legion of tutors, each of whom had been given the task of making certain that the young duke would be able to handle any situation in which an aristocratic young man might reasonably expect to find himself.

  Reasonably.

  Astonishingly, his tutors had not considered the possibility that he might find himself accidentally kidnapped by a stark raving lunatic, trapped in a carriage (his own carriage, mind you) for two hours with four unmarried ladies, one of whom had groped him three times before he used a bump in the road as an excuse to toss her across the carriage. And if that hadn’t been enough, he’d been deposited into a barely heated castle guarded by a roving pack of ancient retainers hobbling along with weapons attached to their kilts.

  Dear Lord, he fervently didn’t want a stiff wind to lift any of those kilts.

  Bret glanced over at the young lady who’d been left in the sitting room with him, the one old Ferguson claimed had been snatched by accident. Miss Burns, he thought her name was. She seemed to know Taran Ferguson better than any of the other erstwhile captives, so he asked her, “Do you think our host will find rooms for us?”

  She huddled closer to the fire. “I can almost guarantee he’s already forgotten he’s meant to be looking.”

  “You seem to be well acquainted with our host, Miss . . . It was Miss Burns, wasn’t it?”

  “Everyone knows Taran,” she said, then seemed to remember herself and added, “Your Grace.”

  He nodded. She seemed a sensible young lady, thankfully not given to hysterics. Although it had to be said, he’d come close to cheering her on when she’d given old Ferguson a tongue-lashing. Hell, he’d been hoping she’d wallop the old codger.

  Miss Burns returned his gesture with a smile and nod of her own, then turned back to the fire. They’d both been standing in front of it for several minutes, but if her fingers were anything like his, they still felt frozen from the inside out.

  If he’d had a coat he would have given it to her. But his coat was back at Bellemere, along with the rest of his things. He’d meant to stay for only two days; it was a convenient place to stop and rest his horses on the way back to Castle Bretton from the Charters shooting party in Ross-shire. In retrospect, he should have just remained with his friends for the holiday; only a fool took to the roads in Scotland at this time of year.

  But he’d always had a sentimental streak when it came to Castle Bretton at Christmastime. He might make his home in London for much of the year, but he couldn’t imagine being anywhere else when the Yule log was lit and Mrs. Plitherton’s famous Christmas pudding was brought to the table. He had almost no family with whom to celebrate—just his mother and whichever of her maiden sisters chose to join them. But the lack of Shevingtons had made the holiday a jollier, less formal affair, with songs and dancing, and the whole of the household—from the butler down to the scullery maids—joining in on the fun.

  Now it seemed his tradition would be broken by Taran Ferguson, the improbable uncle of both Oakley and Rocheforte.

  Oakley and Rocheforte. He’d nearly fallen over when he saw them. He’d known Oakley since . . . well, since he’d punched him in the eye their first week at Eton and gotten a bloody lip in return. But it had all been good since then.

  As for Rocheforte, Bret didn’t know him well, but he’d always seemed an amiable, devil-may-care sort of fellow.

  Bret glanced out the window, not that he could see anything. “When you said it was going to snow tonight,” he said to Miss Burns, “had you any thoughts as to the amount? Or duration?”

  She turned to him with frank dark eyes. “Are you asking me when we might be able to leave?”

  He liked a woman who got to the point. “Precisely that.”

  She grimaced. “It may well be three days, Your Grace. Or more.”

  “Good Lord,” he heard himself say.

  “My thoughts exactly.”

  He cleared his throat. “Has Mr. Ferguson ever done . . . this before?”

  Her lips pressed together with what he thought might be amusement. “Do you mean kidnap a duke?”

  “Kidnap anyone,” he clarified.

  “Not to my knowledge, but he did run bare-arsed through the village last May Day.”

  Bret blinked. Had she just used the word “arse”? He tried to recall the last time he’d heard a gentlewoman do so. He was fairly certain the answer was never. Then, as he watched the firelight flickering across her skin, he decided he didn’t care.

  Miss Burns wasn’t beautiful, not in the way Lady Cecily was, with her rosebud mouth and heart-shaped face. But she had something. Her eyes, he decided. Dark as night, and blazingly direct. You couldn’t see what she was thinking, not with eyes so dark.

  But you could feel it.

  “Your Grace?” she murmured, and he realized he’d been staring.

  “I’m sorry,” he said automatically. “You were saying?”

  Her brows rose a fraction of an inch. “Do you mean,” she asked with careful disbelief, “for me to continue the story about Taran Ferguson going bare-arsed through the village?”

  “Precisely,” he clipped, since if he spoke in any other tone of voice, he might have to admit to himself that he was blushing.

  Which he was quite certain he did not do.

  She paused. “Well,” she said, clearing her throat, “there was a wager.”

  This he found interesting. “Do many Scottish wagers involve racing about unattired?”

  “Not at all, Your Grace.” And then, just when he thought he might have offended her, the corners of her lips made the slightest indentation of a smile, and she added, “The air is far too chilly for that.”

  He smothered a laugh.

  “I believe the wager had something to do with making the vicar’s wife faint. There was no requirement for nudity.” Her eyes gave a slight heavenward tilt of exasperation. “That was Taran’s invention entirely.”

  “Did he win?”

  “Of course not,” Miss Burns scoffed. “It would take more than his scrawny backside to make a Scotswoman faint.”

  “Scrawny, eh?” Bret murmured. “Then you looked?”

  “I could scarcely not. He ran down the lane whooping like a banshee.”

  For a moment he stared. She looked so lovely standing there by the fire, her thick hair just starting to come loose from its pins. Everything about her looked prim and proper and perfectly appropriate.

  Except her expression. She’d rolled her eyes, and scrunched her nose, and he thought she might have just snorted at him.

  Snorted. He tried to remember the last time he’d heard a gentlewoman do that in his presence. Probably the last time one had said “arse.”

  And then the laugh that had been fizzing within him finally broke free. It started small, with just a silent shake, and then before he knew it, he was roaring, bent over from the strength of it, rolling and rumbling in his belly, coming out in great, big, beary guffaws.

  He tried to remember the last time he’d laughed like this.

  Wiping the tears from his eyes, he looked over at Miss Burns, who, while not doubled over, was laughing right along with him. She was clearly trying to maintain some dignity, keeping her lips pressed together, but her shoulders were shaking, and finally, she sagged against the wall and gasped for breath.

  “Oh my,” she said, waving a hand in front of her face for no apparent reason. “Oh my.” She looked at him, her eyes meeting his with a direct gaze that he
suspected was as much a part of her as her arms and legs. “I don’t even know what we’re laughing about,” she said with a helpless smile.

  “Nor I,” he admitted.

  The laughter fell softly away.

  “We must be hungry,” she said quietly.

  “Or cold.”

  “Insensible,” she whispered.

  He stepped toward her. He couldn’t not. “Completely.”

  And then he kissed her. Right there in front of the fire in Taran Ferguson’s sitting room, he did the one thing he shouldn’t do.

  He kissed her.

  When the duke stepped away, Catriona felt cold. Colder than when she’d been in the carriage. Colder than when she’d been standing in the snow. Even with the fire burning brightly at her back, she was cold.

  This wasn’t the cold of temperature. It was the cold of loss.

  His lips had been on hers. His arms had been around her. And then they weren’t.

  It was as simple as that.

  She looked up at him. His eyes—good heavens, they were blue. How had she not noticed it? They were like a loch in summer, except a loch didn’t have little flecks of midnight, and it couldn’t stare straight into her soul.

  “I should apologize,” he murmured, staring at her with something approaching wonder.

  “But you won’t?”

  He shook his head. “It would be a lie.”

  “And you never lie.” It wasn’t a question. She knew it was true.

  “Not about something like this.”

  She felt her tongue dart out to moisten her lips. “Have you done this before?”

  A small smile played across his features. “Kissed a woman?”

  “Kissed a stranger.”

  He paused, but for only a moment. “No.”

  She shouldn’t ask, she knew she shouldn’t. But she did, anyway. “Why not?”

  His head tilted to the side, just an inch or so, and he was peering at her face with the most remarkable expression. He was studying her, Catriona realized. No, he was memorizing her.

  Then his smile turned sheepish, and she knew. She simply knew that his was not a face that often turned sheepish. He was as befuddled by the moment as she was.

  It was amazing how much better that made her feel.

  “I don’t believe I’ve ever met a stranger I wanted to kiss,” he murmured.

  “Nor have I,” she said quietly.

  He moved his head slightly, acknowledging her comment and waiting. Waiting for . . .

  “Until now,” she whispered. Because it wouldn’t be fair not to say it.

  His hand touched her cheek, and then he was kissing her again, and for the first time in her life, Catriona considered believing in magic and fairies and all those other fey creatures. Because surely there could be no other explanation. Something was raging within her body, rushing through her veins, and she just wanted . . .

  Him.

  She wanted him in every possible way.

  Dear God above.

  With a gasp she broke away, stumbling back, away from the fire and away from the duke.

  She would have stumbled away from herself if she could have figured out how to do it.

  “Well,” she said, brushing at her skirts as if everything were normal, and she hadn’t just thrown herself at a man who probably took tea with the king. “Well,” she said again.

  “Well,” he repeated.

  She looked up sharply. Was he mocking her?

  But his eyes were warm. No, they were hot. And they made her feel things in parts of her she was quite sure she wasn’t supposed to know about until she was in her marriage bed. “Stop that,” she said.

  “Stop what?”

  “Looking at me. Like . . . like . . .”

  He smiled slowly. “Like I like you?”

  “No!”

  “Like I think you kiss very well?”

  “Oh God,” she moaned, covering her face with her hands. It was not her habit to blaspheme, but then it was not her habit to kiss a duke, and it was definitely not her habit to be thrown into a carriage and transported ten snowy miles across impassable roads.

  “I promise you,” she said, her face still in her hands, “I don’t usually do this.”

  “This I know,” he said.

  She looked up.

  He smiled again, that lazy, boyish tilt of his lips that flipped her insides upside down. “The madness of the moment. Of the entire evening. Surely we can all be forgiven uncharacteristic behavior. But I must say . . .”

  His words trailed off, and Catriona found herself holding her breath.

  “I’m honored that your moment of uncharacteristic madness was with me.”

  She backed up a step. Not because she feared him but because she feared herself. “I’m a respectable lady.”

  “I know.”

  She swallowed nervously. “I would appreciate it if you didn’t . . . ehrm . . .” She couldn’t finish the statement. He would know what she meant.

  The duke turned to face the fire, holding his hands out toward the warmth. It was as clear a signal as any that they would put their momentary insanity behind them. “I am just as susceptible to the strangeness of the situation,” he remarked. “I don’t usually do this sort of thing, either.”

  Delilah.

  Catriona fairly jumped. Back in the carriage, when he’d been intoxicated . . . He’d called her Delilah.

  He obviously did this sort of thing with her.

  “Where’s Taran?” she practically groaned.

  “Didn’t you say he likely forgot about us?”

  She sighed.

  “Oakley won’t,” the duke said.

  She turned and blinked. “I beg your pardon.”

  “Lord Oakley. He won’t forget to find us rooms. I’ve known him for years. The only thing that is making this bearable is that he must be dying inside over all this.”

  “You don’t like him?”

  “On the contrary. I’ve long considered him a friend. It’s why I enjoy his misery so much.”

  Men were very strange, Catriona decided.

  “He’s quite proper,” the duke explained.

  “And you’re not?” She bit her lip. She should not have asked that.

  The duke did not turn, but she saw a faint smile play across his mouth. “I’m not as proper as he is,” he said. Then he glanced her way. “Apparently.”

  Catriona blushed. To the tips of her toes, she blushed.

  The duke shrugged and turned back to the fire. “Trust me when I tell you that nothing could give him greater agony than to be party to something like this. I’m sure he’d much rather be the aggrieved than the perpetrator.”

  “But he’s not—”

  “Oh, he’ll still feel like he is. Ferguson is his uncle.”

  “I suppose.” She was quiet for a moment, then asked, “What about the other one?”

  “Rocheforte, you mean?” he asked, after the tiniest pause.

  She nodded. “Yes, although . . . Is he Mr. Rocheforte or Lord Rocheforte? I feel quite awkward not knowing what to call him. I’ve never met a French comte before.”

  The duke gave a little shrug. “Mr. Rocheforte, I believe. It would depend upon the recent Royal Charter.”

  Catriona had no idea what he was talking about.

  “He won’t mind whatever you call him,” the duke continued. “He takes nothing seriously. He never has.”

  Catriona was silent for a moment. “An odd set of cousins,” she finally said.

  “Yes, they are.” Then he turned to her abruptly and commanded, “Tell me about the rest of them.”

  For a moment she just stared in surprise. His tone had been so imperious. But she did not take offense. It was likely a more usual tone of voice than the one he had been using. He was a duke, after all.

  “We’re to be stuck together for several days,” he said. “I should know who everyone is.”

  “Oh. Well . . .” She cleared her throat. “There is La
dy Cecily, of course. But her father is the Earl of Maycott. Since you were at Bellemere, you must know her already.”

  “A bit,” he said offhandedly.

  “Well, that’s more than I know of her. Her family has been renovating Bellemere for nearly two years. It seems a folly to me, but . . .” She shrugged.

  “You’re quite practical, aren’t you?”

  “May I take it as a compliment?”

  “Of course,” he murmured.

  She smiled to herself. “I don’t think the Maycotts plan to be in residence for more than two weeks per year. It seems an inordinate amount of money to spend on a house one rarely uses.”

  “It’s lovely, though.”

  “Well, yes. And I cannot complain. The village has not been prosperous since—” She stopped herself. Better not introduce politics with an Englishman. Especially one who likely owned half of England. “The Earl of Maycott has provided many jobs for the villagers, and for that I am grateful.”

  “And the others?” he asked.

  “The Chisholm sisters,” Catriona said. Dear heavens, how to explain them? “They are half sisters, actually, and . . . not terribly fond of each other. I don’t really know Fiona that well—it’s Marilla who is my same age.” She pressed her lips together, trying to adhere to the whole if-you-don’t-have-anything-nice-to-say doctrine. “They’ve both been down to London, of course,” she finally said.

  “Have you?” the duke asked.

  “Been to London?” she asked with surprise. “Of course not. But I had a season in Edinburgh. Well, not really a season, but several families do gather for a few weeks.”

  “I like Edinburgh,” he said agreeably.

  “I do, too.”

  And just like that she realized that she no longer felt on edge with him. She did not know how it was possible, that she could kiss a man until she barely remembered how to speak, and then just a few minutes later could feel utterly normal.

  But she did.

  And of course that was when Lord Oakley returned, scowling mightily. “My apologies,” he said the moment he entered the room. “Miss Burns, we’ve found a room for you. I’m sorry to say it’s not elegant, but it is clean.”

  “Thank you,” she said.