The Lady Most Willing

by Julia Quinn, Eloisa James

  “Of course, as he’s eighty-three years old and suffers from gout, he stands a better chance of winning the Derby than he does catching a housemaid,” she managed to say between giggles. “Or me. Not that he’d ever make an attempt. He has some standards, as do all rakes.” She gave him a sidelong glance. “Or so Marmeduke assures me.”

  She started laughing again and damned if he didn’t join her. She’d been leading him along all the while, paying him back for making her praise his kisses.

  “Touché, ma petite,” he said, when they finally stopped laughing. He offered her his arm and she took it, and once again they commenced their much-protracted journey down the frozen hallway.

  For long companionable minutes they were silent and he drank in the sensation, the warmth of her fingers resting on his arm, the elusive scent of vanilla and jasmine that tickled his nostrils every so often, the simple pleasure of her company . . .

  “It may be chilly, but Finovair does have considerable charm,” she said after a while. “Yet I take it you think your bride will be happier in London than here.”

  He should have demurred, let her comment pass without replying but he needed to tell her—no, he needed to remind himself of how very far above him she stood.

  “Bride?” he echoed. “My dear Cecily, I have even less to offer a wife in London than here.”

  Any other girl would have blushed or apologized or at the very least looked on him with distaste. After all, he’d just committed one of society’s cardinal sins: he’d acknowledged his poverty. But he was growing used to the unexpected from her, and so it was now.

  “But you must want to marry and have a family,” she said earnestly.

  “I must,” he agreed. “But I have been told that when one takes a wife, one also has an obligation to take her wants into account, too. Wants I have scant hope of fulfilling. I may be a rake, Lady Cecily, but I am not a scoundrel.”

  She stared at him for a long moment and then her eyes flashed and she said, “I see. So, you see your future being similar to that of Marmeduke’s?”

  Hell and damnation, no. But before he could rebut this noxious notion, she hurried on in the manner of one trying very hard to be encouraging about a very dismal prospect. “Not that there’s anything wrong with that,” she said, adding under her breath, “I suppose.”

  Dear God, in her imagination was he predestined to go hobbling after chambermaids in his old age, gnarled fingers extended in hopes of pinching one last fleet-footed wench? Is that how she saw him? “You horrify me.”

  “I do?” she asked. “Why is that, I wonder?”

  “I meant your vision of my future horrifies me.”

  “Oh? Why? Marmeduke’s really rather a pet,” she said. “He’s a great favorite amongst my younger sisters.”

  The idea of dangling cherubic little girls on his knees while offering them well-censored bedtime stories about his youthful exploits sent nearly as great a shiver through Robin as the idea of him chasing chambermaids, and so he ignored her question, asking one of his own instead. “Do you have many siblings?”

  “Four. I have two younger brothers, twins. They were sent to Eton last year and I miss them a great deal, as my younger sisters consider games that require physical dexterity beneath them. Though I think they would find such games delightful if they were any good at them,” she confided with an arch twinkle in her eye that he found adorable.

  “Have you any brothers or sisters?” she countered.

  “No.”

  “But you had Oakley to keep tally of your sins?”

  He smiled at that. “No. Not really.” His smile faded. “Oakley and I were kept apart.”

  Robin hadn’t met Byron until they were adults. After Robin’s parents had died of influenza, pride, not compassion, had prompted Byron’s father to pay for Robin’s education. However, the old tartar had seen no reason that his heir should hobnob with some impecunious Frenchman’s get. So while Byron went to Eton, Robin been sent to Rugby. He had never been invited to spend holidays at Oakley House. Instead, Rugby’s headmaster had been paid to take Robin to his own home during those periods.

  But there was no reason to bother her with such details.

  “How many sisters?” he asked.

  She regarded him thoughtfully for long seconds before answering. “Two. One is nineteen and the other, who is seventeen, was launched just this past season. Quite successfully, too,” she said, with a touch of pride.

  She loved them, he realized, her affection for her family wholly uncomplicated and honest, and she felt loved in return. It made him yearn to be included in her magical circle. He frowned at the thought: he’d finished with such nonsense years ago.

  “Both have received offers of matrimony from gentlemen of whom they are quite fond,” she continued. They were almost to the end of the corridor now. He could see the great stairway leading down to the inhabited part of the castle, a soft glow rising from the lower level. “They are all aflutter to marry and set up their own households,” she said. “Alas, Papa will not hear of it.”

  “The young men are unacceptable?” Robin asked, feeling comradely toward these poor, unworthy swains.

  “Not at all,” she said. “It’s just that my father is dreadfully old-fashioned. He refuses to let my younger sisters marry until I am off the market. In fact, that is why we are in Scotland.”

  At her words, something swelled in Robin’s throat and his heart thudded dully in his chest. That explained why the Maycotts were here, hosting a house party: the earl was going to announce his daughter’s engagement. Who was the bastard? Scottish perhaps, otherwise why drag society up here in the dead of winter. But who?

  They’d reached the end of the gallery and were at the top of the staircase looking down into the foyer just outside the great hall. The sound of light laughter drifted up to them. Bretton and his ladylove. Cecily belonged down there with them, in light and warmth. Not here, in the chill and ruin.

  “You are unflatteringly preoccupied, Robin,” she said reproachfully. “I daresay you haven’t heard a thing I’ve said.”

  Every syllable, every breath. He managed a smile. “Of course I have. You have come to Scotland to announce your engagement. “

  “No,” she said, her brow wrinkling. “I’ve come to decide which marriage proposal to accept.”

  “Which?” he repeated, dumbfounded. “There were so many?”

  She tipped her head, watching him closely. “Five.”

  “Five?” Somehow he managed to sound only faintly amused, politely interested. Perhaps he should consider a career on the stage.

  Five. And doubtless each one able to offer her the things any loving parent wanted for his child: security, wealth, consequence. Otherwise Maycott would have outright refused them. Still, she wasn’t promised to another. Not yet.

  “And,” he said, careful to keep his gaze straight ahead of him, “does any one fellow stand above the rest?”

  “No,” she said with a small sigh. “That’s the problem. There is not one amongst them for whom I care more than the others.”

  Absurd relief washed through him. He was craven. He was ridiculous. Still, it changed nothing.

  The pain of that realization cut through him, sharp and deep. He mustn’t let her see. He had pride, if nothing else. It had been the one thing he refused to compromise or cede in a short life filled with concessions and compromises.

  “What do you think I ought to do?” she asked intently, her voice no longer light and careless.

  This was one part he could not play. Yet play it he must.

  “Well,” he drawled, “if you postponed your decision for another season you could probably field another five offers. Then you’d have an entire cricket team and could just choose the best bowler.”

  Color washed delicately up her throat and stained her fine, pale cheeks. Wordlessly, she pulled off his jacket and handed it to him.

  “Thank you, Comte,” she said icily. “I shall take your suggest
ion under advisement.” She turned to start down the stairs, taking with her every dream he never realized he harbored but which she had brought to painful light . . .

  But not yet.

  He grabbed her arm and with not a whit of expertise or urbanity, spun her back around and into his embrace. He tipped her over his arm, and his mouth descended on hers in a ruthless, hungry kiss. All the years he would not touch her, see her, be with her poured into that kiss; loss and urgency, anger and helplessness. Then, as quickly as he’d taken possession of her, he set her back on her feet and stepped away, his hands dropping to his sides.

  For a long moment, they stood facing each other, each breathing heavily, their gazes locked in some undefined contest in which there would be no victor. He waited for her to castigate him, slap him, revile him, do any of the things she had every right to do not only now but in answer to his earlier kiss, too. But again, she didn’t. She just stood there, shoulders back, head high, eyes blazing. He had no idea what she was thinking, feeling. Fury? Disgust? Pity?

  Finally, he could stand it no longer. “Aren’t you going to say something?” he demanded desperately.

  “Aren’t you?” she countered in the same tone.

  God, yes, how much he wanted to speak, to swear fealty, explain what she’d done to him, plead for her hand. But he couldn’t. It wouldn’t be right.

  “No.”

  Her head snapped back as if he’d struck her and his hand came up to reach for her . . .

  But she was already running down the stairs.

  Leaving him behind.

  Chapter 23

  What in the name of all that is holy was wrong with the man?! He kisses her not once but twice, then pushes her away both times—though she has made it as clear as day that she does not want to be pushed away—and then, in answer to her pathetically obvious attempt to rouse his jealousy, suggests she should try to field a cricket team. A cricket team! That was all he could say?

  Cecily stomped down the stairs, her velvet skirts swishing angrily around her ankles. But her steps slowed as she touched her lips, feeling again his hunger, his fierce desire. Thank heaven the gallery wall behind her had held her up for that first kiss, for without its support she would have buckled under his sensual onslaught, and he’d supported her for the second, which was even more potent. Even now the memory made her knees weak and her breath come high and tight in her chest.

  She realized now that he hadn’t even bothered to embrace her during that first kiss. When he’d stopped, all she could assume was that he’d been somehow disappointed, that her kiss had been too jeune fille for his worldly palate, and so casting about frantically for something to say that would not sound horrifically unsophisticated, said the first thing that had popped into her head, some daft comment about how good he was at kissing. And for some reason, that had seemed to anger him. Almost to embarrass him.

  What was she to make of that? And why had he kissed her again and why had that second kiss seemed so angry, yet so desperate? And what had he meant, “Aren’t you going to say something?” He was the one who’d kissed her. And finally, most importantly, why the hell wasn’t he following her now—

  Oh!

  She reached the bottom of the stairs and tripped over the hideous old dress’s hem. Frustrated, she yanked at the skirts and in doing so dislodged the velvet bed hanging looped around her shoulders. It fell in a coil to her waist, sweeping the loose neckline off her shoulders before catching around her hips like a great velvet boa constrictor. She froze, afraid that any movement might render her completely topless.

  Tears welled in her eyes. What had become of her? She looked like a musty Gypsy crone and she smelled like a wet dog. No wonder he’d let her go. She should probably be happy he hadn’t given her a boot to the backside.

  “Lady Cecily?” a tentative female voice hailed her.

  Oh no. The last thing she wanted was an audience to her misery. Snuffling mightily, she dabbed at her nose trying to compose herself before turning around. Catriona Burns was coming toward her, her attitude cautious, her expression carefully bland. Her dress fit. A tear escaped Cecily’s eye and dribbled down her cheek.

  “Hello, Miss Burns,” Cecily said, knowing she sounded brittle and false. “You are up early this morning.“ She looked away, trying to recover her poise, but her tears only fell more quickly. She ignored them as best she could. “It looks like it has the making of a lovely day.” She sniffed. “Wouldn’t you say?”

  “Lovely,” Catriona agreed, coming to her side. And, without so much as a by-your-leave, she snagged the loose end of the treacherous bed curtain and draped it back over Cecily’s shoulders.

  The unexpected kindness nearly undid Cecily.

  “I believe we’ve seen the last of the snow for a while,” Catriona said as easily as if returning teary gentlewomen to a state of modesty were an everyday occurrence. “What’s already fallen won’t last long. It never does. I expect within a few days most of it will have melted.” She finished wrapping the curtain and stepped back, looking over her endeavors with a critical eye. “There now. How’s that?”

  Cecily looked down at her faded dress with its bilious embroidery and drooping roses, and at the ragged velvet curtain. “Awful,” she said. “Simply awful,” and then she clamped her hand over her mouth, staring at Catriona in contrition because she hadn’t meant to be ungrateful, it was just that—

  “It really is, isn’t it?” Catriona agreed, her gaze on the dress. “Completely and unutterably hideous.”

  Catriona lifted her head, and something in her exaggeratedly woeful countenance made Cecily smile and then grin, and then the two of them were laughing like loonies.

  “Now, we shall have a nice cup of tea and one of Mrs. McVittie’s scones,” Catriona said when their laughter had died down. She linked her arm through Cecily’s, drawing her into the room where breakfast was being laid out. “And then you can tell me what all this is about.”

  And so Cecily did.

  An hour or so later, Cecily sailed forth from Catriona Burns’s bedchamber much restored in spirit and body. Catriona Burns, soon to become Duchess of Bretton—and a lovelier duchess one would have a hard time imagining—had found stacks of boys’ clothing in the trunk brought to her room, including an antique tiger’s uniform, and insisted Cecily try them on. Throwing propriety to the wind, she had, and was gratified to discover that she and the tiger were a similar size and shape except for a certain constriction in the jacket. And about the hips. And her backside. In anticipation of finally being able to get a breath of fresh air after being castle-bound for so long, she’d finished her toilette by donning a knit cap found in the trunk.

  Bolstered by Catriona’s encouragement and her own exhilaration at doing something as scandalous as wearing boy’s clothing, Cecily struck out, determined to find her would-be lover and recommence her seduction of him. The only problem was she did not know where he might be and she could hardly ask someone where his chambers were. As daring as she’d grown these last few days, there were some lines she was not prepared to cross. That was one of them.

  And she had become daring, she thought, walking along the corridor, cracking open doors and peeking inside. Who among her acquaintances would ever imagine she’d be so audacious, trading bon mots with a rake, planning to seduce that same rake, and donning boy’s clothing preparatory to doing so? None.

  In fact, for the first time outside the small circle of her immediate family, she felt wholly and comfortably herself. A chill traveled through her. What if she had never come to Scotland, what if she had said yes to one of those worthy men who’d courted her? What if she’d never been kidnapped and she had never met Robert Parles, Comte de Rocheforte?

  She would have spent the rest of her days living a life removed from herself, experiencing emotions at a distance, cocooned and indistinct, like bumping a well-bandaged wound. Not painful, precisely, but not alive, either, a dull layer of conventionality and unmet expectation standing b
etween her and her heart.

  The chill grew deeper, colder. What if Robin refused her? What if he would not wed her? What then? Could she be satisfied with something less? Could she wed for convenience and hope that something more might eventually grow out of the union? Would she choose spinsterhood and the memories of a very intense, very few minutes over the promise of a family?

  Her footsteps slowed and her earlier ebullience faded. She needed to clear her head.

  She frowned and looked about. Lost in thought, she’d made her way toward the back of the castle, near the kitchens, and was standing next to a narrow window looking across a snowy yard toward the stables. Next to the window, a low door led outside.

  She lifted the latch and pushed the door open, finding herself at the top of a short flight of stairs leading down into a thick blanket of snow. Above, the morning sun blazed in a robin’s-egg blue sky, setting the pure white field sparkling. The tang of pine reached her nostrils and the sound of birdsong filled the air.

  As she stood there, the stable door opened. A couple emerged, a tall blond man with his arm wrapped protectively around the shoulders of a red-haired woman. With a start, Cecily recognized Lord Oakley and Fiona Chisholm, whose hair tumbled down around her shoulders and whose laugh tinkled in the air as she looked up at him with a teasing expression. Even at this distance, Cecily could discern the tenderness with which he returned her regard.

  There wasn’t any possible way someone could misconstrue what Cecily was seeing. Blood rushed into her cheeks. The most disturbing thing was that she didn’t really feel shock . . . she felt jealousy.

  She started to turn away, embarrassed at having unwillingly encroached upon their privacy. But Oakley spotted her and raised his hand in greeting. Without saying a word to Fiona, he bent down and swung her up into his arms. She gave a little shriek, but by then Oakley was already cleaving a path through the thigh-high snow, making his way toward the door where Cecily stood.