The Lady Most Willing . . . (10 page)

Byron shot him a silent snarl.

“I would contest that,” Fiona stated, putting a hand under her sister’s arm.

Marilla jerked away in a somewhat ill-tempered manner. But her face betrayed nothing
but sweetness when she looked back up at Byron. “I think we should all be on familiar
terms, don’t you?” she asked. “My name is Marilla.”

She had melting eyes, the color of cornflowers in spring. Ridiculously, Byron felt
an overwhelming urge to flee, but stilled himself. It wasn’t her fault that her eyes
were the same color as Opal’s.

“You’re asking the wrong person,” Taran said with his usual blustery cheer. “My nephew
Robin, now, who will someday own this fine castle,
he
will be on the easiest of terms with a lovely lass such as yourself. Byron here is
a bit stuffy. Always has been. He got it from his father. I tell you, I thought I’d
seen it all when me other sister got married to a Frenchie, but Byron’s da was even
worse. When she brought the earl—the old earl, that is—back to Finovair for the first
time, I almost fled to the Lowlands. He was a humorless, obstinate old bastard who
acted as if every Scotsman should kiss the toes of his withered slippers. I never
blamed her when she flew the coop.”

Byron gritted his teeth. He’d heard the story a hundred times . . . from both points
of view.

“Course, it only took a Scotsman one well-placed blow to lay the earl out flat,” Taran
said, chortling. “Marilla and Fiona’s father did the honors. Took out that Englishman
with a doubler to the jaw. No . . .” He paused. “I’ve got a detail wrong, I do believe.”

The company waited, some of them even looking faintly interested.

“It wasn’t a doubler,” Taran finished triumphantly. “It was a roundhouse. We didn’t
ever see that pompous fart again in God’s green country. The man never met a Scotsman
whom he didn’t find beneath his touch, and the same went for Englishmen. Didn’t have
a friend in the world, to my mind.”

“My father had numerous friends,” Byron stated.

“Not one,” Taran contradicted. “Even sadder than that was the fact that Fiona’s da
took him out with one blow. The man didn’t even get his hands in position.”

Byron heard a little moan. His eyes met Fiona’s. Apparently, he wasn’t the only one
who was finding Finovair Castle less than idyllic.

“My father was not given to common fisticuffs.” But he didn’t stop when he should
have. “And I am not stuffy,” he heard himself saying. “As a matter of fact, I am on
familiar terms with my
many
friends. My Christian name is Byron, and I invite you all to use it.”

Bret had one eyebrow raised now, and his face radiated compassion. Byron gritted his
teeth again.

“As I said before, my name is Marilla,” the blonde chirped, patting his arm once more.
“Now we will all be comfortable with each other! I shall look forward to seeing you
tomorrow morning,
Byron
.” She said it with a breathy emphasis that made his jaw tighten.

Don’t be narrow-minded
, he reminded himself, as Fiona grabbed her sister’s arm and hauled her up the stairs
with what seemed unnecessarily forceful disapproval. True, Marilla was a lively girl.

His father would reject her on those grounds.

“Good work, boy,” Taran said approvingly. “Not that I want you to steal an heiress
from under Robin’s nose. He needs the blunt more than you do. Pretty as a picture,
ain’t she? I thought she was best of the bunch. Lady Cecily has a bundle of the ready
as well. Why don’t you take Marilla, and we’ll reserve Cecily for Robin. Dang that
lad, he’s missed all the fun.”

Byron headed up the stairs without taking leave of his uncle. There are limits to
a man’s patience, and he had reached the limit of his.

He wasn’t pompous, he told himself. Or stuffy, or narrow-minded. That was his father.

He was just . . . irritated.

Chapter 10

The following afternoon

“I
know it’s exciting to find yourself in a household with two eligible bachelors, even
after the Duke of Bretton made that surprising proposal to Catriona,” Fiona said to
Marilla, blocking their bedchamber door so that her sister couldn’t push her to the
side and rush downstairs in hot pursuit of those very bachelors. “But you
must
play this right, Marilla. Neither of the other two gentlemen would be interested in
a minx. Your behavior at blindman’s buff last night did you no credit, and you already
have a mark against you as a Scotswoman.”

Marilla scowled at her. “I’m not the trollop;
you
are.”

“Just don’t play your hand too obviously.”

“If they think I’m a minx, it will be because your reputation ruined my chance at
a good marriage before I even left the schoolroom,” Marilla said shrilly.

Fiona took a deep breath. “I am not under the impression that my lost reputation has,
in fact, affected your eligibility for marriage. Your fortune has outweighed such
concerns.”

“No one could possibly forget what kind of woman
you
are,” Marilla retorted. “I would likely be happily married by now if it weren’t for
you.”

It was certainly true that there are some events from which no woman’s reputation
can recover. An immodest kiss? Perhaps. A lascivious grope? Perhaps not. A fiancé
falling from her bedchamber window to his death? Never.

Fiona had been labeled an uncaring trollop throughout her village by sunset on that
fateful day; by week’s end, she was known throughout Scotland as a reckless fornicator.
If not worse. The mother of her former fiancé spat in her path for a good three years
at the merest glimpse of Fiona, and she wasn’t the only one.

No one seemed to care that when he fell, the lumbering oaf Dugald Trotter had been
climbing up to her window without the slightest encouragement on her part. They were
too busy being scandalized by her shameless ways—not to mention the fact that she
had, in their version of events, “callously neglected” to inform Dugald that mere
ivy cannot hold a man’s weight. Even those inclined to excuse frolicsome behavior
between betrothed couples couldn’t seem to forgive her for not warning him.

Of course, any man with a functioning brain could have taken a look at the ivy below
her window and come to his own assessment of its strength. But that was how stupid
her fiancé had been, at least in Fiona’s uncharitable recollection.

Dugald apparently didn’t think of it, and she hadn’t warned him because—as she kept
trying to point out, to no avail—she never planned to welcome him or anyone else to
come through her window.

In the aftermath of the tragedy, she often found herself outraged at the universal
rejection of her account of the event. Her own father had racketed about the house
for months, moaning about how she had besmirched the family name.

“So
you
say,” he would bellow, in response to her protests. “What was poor Dugald doing at
your window, then? Sharper than a serpent’s tooth is a female child! He wouldna climbed
your ivy, you silly goose, if you hadna turned a carnal eye in his direction. Ach,
poor Dugald, poor, poor Dugald.”

There the argument would stop, because Fiona didn’t allow herself to comment whenever
the chorus of
poor Dugald
reached deafening proportions. She knew perfectly well that she had not thrown Dugald
any come-hither glances. In fact, she wasn’t even sure what such a glance would look
like.

She wouldn’t have learned it from Dugald. He seemed to regard her as a pot of gold
rather than a nubile woman, at least until the last evening of his life. In fact,
she’d thought him more in pursuit of her fortune than her person.

But that night she had refused to kiss his whiskey-soaked mouth, only to find herself
shoved against a brick wall and forcibly dealt a wet kiss accompanied by a rough squeeze
to her breast. The very memory made her shudder. She had slapped Dugald so hard that
he reeled backward, after which she had run into the ballroom—with every intention
of breaking her betrothal on the morning.

As for what he was doing climbing up to her window later that night . . . she could
only think that he had decided to take matters into his own hands. Presumably, he
had planned to force her to accept the marriage, and the only thing that had saved
her virtue was the fragility of the ivy.

She certainly could not suggest such a terrible thing aloud. God forbid she would
dishonor a man’s name after death by suggesting he might have had something so sordid
as rape in mind.
Poor Dugald
had killed himself, to her mind.

Besides, she came to think of herself as lucky. What was ruination compared to being
married to a beast of a man? She proceeded to shape a life that was happily husband-free,
regularly offering prayerful thanks to her late mother for leaving her the fortune
that made such a decision possible.

By five years after the “incident,” as her father called it, most people had stopped
crossing the street when she approached. The last two seasons she had even ventured
to London as Marilla’s chaperone; her half sister seemed likely to cause a nasty scandal
if she wasn’t closely watched.

And though Fiona was not precisely fond of her sister—it was hard to imagine who could
be—she did love her. Somewhat.

In short, during the last five years Fiona had arrived at the conclusion that the
fatefully flimsy ivy had preserved not only her virtue, but her happiness.

A wealthy, unmarried woman has all the time she likes to read whatever she wishes.
She can learn cheese making and experiment with medicinal salves for the pure pleasure
of it. She can brew dyes from red currants, and then try making wines from the berries
instead.

Freed from the need to hunt and catch a man, she could eschew crimping irons and chilly,
yet seductive, gowns. She need not blunder around a ballroom pretending that she has
perfect eyesight; instead, she can balance a pair of spectacles on her nose and accept
the fact that she resembles someone’s maiden aunt.

Which status she would presumably attain, someday.

She was
free
.

“Please do not spontaneously offer either gentleman a kiss,” she said now. “From where
I stood, Oakley looked mortified rather than flattered.”

“Kissing means very little.” Marilla tossed her curls. “You’ve been out of society
too long, Fiona. I can assure you that
he
understood it as a jest, even if
you
did not.”

Fiona silently counted to five. Then: “If kissing means very little, I still think
it would nevertheless be better to allow a gentleman to kiss you, if he shows the
inclination, rather than chasing him yourself.”

“As if I would do something that fast!” Marilla caught a glimpse of herself in the
glass and froze for a moment to coax an errant lock into place.

She was extraordinarily beautiful; you had to give her that. Fiona crossed the room
and picked up a hairbrush to shape the long lock that fell down Marilla’s back. Her
sister accepted the attention as her due; she was smiling at herself with a tilt of
her head that she likely considered sophisticated.

Indeed, Marilla was so exquisite that men could hardly stop themselves from falling
at her feet . . .

Though they seemed to fall out of love just as quickly, once they came to know her.
As Fiona had bluntly told their father on Marilla’s debut, he should have matched
her quickly, before news of her temperament circulated among eligible men.

Regrettably, that hadn’t happened, though Marilla was only beginning to notice the
lack of offers; her vanity was such that she deemed virtually all potential suitors
beneath her notice.

“We have only a few days before the pass is cleared,” Fiona told Marilla, giving her
hair a little tug to get her attention. “Perhaps three or four . . . five at the outside.”

“I know that,” her sister said, twitching her curl free.

“I have no doubt but that Rocheforte or Oakley will fall in love with you. But I would
suggest that you make sure of the man before the three days are up.”

“Rocheforte?” Marilla snorted. “Granted, he is very handsome and he’s reputed to have
a sportive disposition—in every way. But he could have fled back to France for all
I’ve seen him. He hasn’t spent more than five minutes with us. ’Sides, I want a title.
A
real
title, not some French sham.”

“All right, Oakley will fall in love with you,” Fiona said patiently. “But not unless
you play your cards right.”

“Are you implying that I cannot do so?” Marilla cried. “That nun of an English heiress
can’t hold a candle to me. Though I was shocked to see the duke fall prey to that
dreadful Catriona Burns. I’ve never liked her.”

“I have always liked her,” Fiona said. “She’s exceedingly nice.”

“My point is that Oakley will not pose any particular challenge for me.”

“Of course not.” There was no point in taking issue with Marilla’s overweening self-regard.
It was as infinite as a starry night. “Do try to control your temper. Be docile and
chaste.”

“Why should I be docile? I hate to fawn over an Englishman. I—”

“Because you want to marry into the peerage,” Fiona interrupted. “The
English
aristocracy. Though I have to say that Rocheforte’s title is an ancient and honored
one, not a sham in any sense of the word.”

“That’s right,” Marilla agreed, the little smile coming back to her mouth. “I do want
to marry an aristocrat. But I don’t care how old Rocheforte’s title is. He could crawl
on his knees across Scotland begging for my hand, and I wouldn’t marry him. The man
was too superior to join us for games after supper. I’m sure I don’t know what right
he has to be so haughty; the duke and the earl are perfectly happy to join us.”

“In order to marry the earl, you must be docile, courteous, and
gentle
, as in
gentlewoman
.” Fiona felt like a governess reciting the alphabet, but that was the reality of
being Marilla’s older sister.

“Gentleness doesn’t suit me.” Marilla’s nose wrinkled. One thing you could say about
her was that she did not bother to lie to herself.

“Pretend,” Fiona said, rather grimly. “No more behavior such as you exhibited last
night.”

“Blindman’s buff invites that sort of playfulness,” Marilla said, with an edge to
her voice. “You know how much I love frolics of that nature. Every man in the room
tried to find
me
as soon as he had a blindfold over his eyes.” She squared her shoulders and readjusted
the bodice on the ice blue gown she’d chosen from Taran’s ancient selection. “I think
I would prefer to carry your reticule than mine. It would better suit the color of
this gown. Give it to me, please.”

“I can’t seem to find it,” Fiona said. “I must have dropped it during the kidnapping.
Or perhaps I left it in the carriage.”

Marilla raised an eyebrow. “Careless of you,” she drawled. But her eyes returned to
the mirror. “These clothes are terribly old-fashioned, but I rather like them.”

“I didn’t think the neckline would be quite so low on you when I altered the gown,”
Fiona said, wondering how shocked the room would be if Marilla bared a breast to all
and sundry.

“Actually, you didn’t do an adequate job altering the dress, so I had to adjust it
myself,” Marilla replied, carefully arranging a long, silky ringlet so that it lay
in the valley between her breasts.

“Be careful with your tone,” Fiona warned. “I’m no subservient Cinderella here to
do your bidding. I sewed on your gown all morning so that you wouldn’t be stalking
the castle half-naked, but if you are rude about it, I shan’t even thread a needle
tomorrow.”

Marilla glared back. “You want me to marry, if you remember. It’s to your benefit
that I leave the house, so that you can have Father all to yourself.”

“And I would remind you that you want to be married,” Fiona replied. “So kindly remember
not to gesture too enthusiastically. Your bodice may well lose its claims to propriety.”

“I doubt it.”

“From all I’ve heard, Englishmen like their wives chilly and chaste.”

“That puts you out of the hunt,” Marilla said with a spiteful giggle. “I’m sure they
already know all about you and your infamous bedchamber window.”

“Perhaps,” Fiona said. “But it would be better for you if the news doesn’t leak out.”

“You tarnish my reputation just by existing, do you know that?”

“So you have reminded me, many times,” Fiona said, adding, “You sound like a shrew,
rather than the docile virgin you should be playing.”

“I
am
a virgin,” Marilla retorted. “Which is more than I can say for you!” She turned up
her nose and flew out the door in a flutter of skirts.

Fiona lingered for a moment to look in the glass.

The clothing she’d found in her wardrobe actually flattered her. She had a figure
meant for gowns that hugged her curves in a way that current fashion did not; the
tiny velvet balls that adorned the snugly fitted bodice and danced along the curve
of her breasts were a particularly nice touch. In fact, she looked better in this
gown than she did in her usual garments. She fancied it would draw male eyes to her
best features. What’s more, her skirts were a trifle short and revealed her ankles.

Not that anyone showed an inclination to gape at her ankles.

Fiona sighed and made her way down the wide stone steps leading to the great hall.
A fire burned in the huge hearth, but the room was as echoing and cold as it had been
the previous night. Even the ancient retainers who were knocking about last night
seemed to have disappeared.

She hesitated for a moment, wondering where she might find the others, and was moving
toward the drawing room door when she heard Marilla’s laughter.