The Lady Most Willing

by Julia Quinn, Eloisa James

  Sensible women, the both of them, Bret decided. Although he supposed Lady Cecily hadn’t had much choice. She’d been in some wisp of a thing the night before. At least now she wasn’t going to freeze to death.

  “No after-supper port?” Marilla twittered. “Why, Taran, that is positively heathen of you.”

  “There’s no port in this castle,” Taran said proudly. “Not when we can be drinking whiskey in its stead.”

  Bret caught Catriona’s eye. She smiled.

  “Eh, and besides,” Taran continued, “I didn’t bring you here to send you off to the sitting room while the men get drunk.” He grinned over at Lady Cecily. “I’m much more sociable than that.”

  “Of course,” Lady Cecily murmured. “I would be delighted to have the gentlemen join us in the sitting room after supper.”

  “We shall play games,” Marilla announced.

  Bret thought he heard Oakley groan.

  “It shall be grand,” Marilla continued, clapping her hands together with enough force to make the ladies gasp and the gentlemen avert their eyes.

  Except Taran, who stared at Marilla’s quivering bosom with open fascination.

  “Shall we dine?” Lord Oakley said with great haste. “Mrs. McVittie has outdone herself, I’m sure.”

  “Oh look, Lord Oakley,” Marilla cooed. “You’re next to me.” She leaned toward the earl and murmured something Bret could not hear. Oakley didn’t flinch, so it couldn’t have been that bad, but his response was a stammered collection of barely intelligible phrases.

  “Miss Burns,” Bret murmured, holding out her chair. “How lovely that we are seated next to one another.”

  He wasn’t positive, but he thought she might have blushed when she said, “It is most fortuitous, Your Grace.”

  Had she tampered with the seating arrangements? He smiled to himself. He was loving her more by the second.

  “Well, this is a boon,” Taran announced, grabbing the hands of the ladies on either side of him and giving them a squeeze. “The two loveliest lasses in the Highlands, right here next to me.”

  Marilla beamed and Lady Cecily winced, presumably in pain. Taran did not appear to have modified his grasp for her delicate hand. Bret glanced at Catriona and Fiona, but neither appeared to have taken any affront at having been excluded from Taran’s pronouncement. If anything, Fiona looked relieved.

  And Catriona amused.

  “It is really too bad the rest of you were not able to watch the caber toss,” Marilla said to the other ladies. “It was marvelous. The men were so very, very strong.”

  “Ach, but the point isn’t how far you can throw the thing,” Taran reminded her. “It’s whether you can land it neatly on its end.”

  “Yes, yes,” Marilla said dismissively, “but surely you must agree, sometimes brute force is preferable to finesse.”

  “Oh, Marilla,” Fiona groaned.

  “Lord Oakley took my breath away,” Marilla said, laying a hand on the newly horizontal plane of her bosom. “He was so strong.”

  Oakley’s color heightened and Bret almost felt sorry for him . . . but not quite.

  “His muscles!” Marilla exclaimed. She laid a hand on Oakley’s upper arm in what might have been a squeeze. Or a caress. Bret couldn’t tell for sure.

  “How are you feeling, Miss Burns?” Oakley asked, politely tugging his arm free of Marilla’s grasp.

  Catriona blinked several times in complete incomprehension.

  “You were feeling faint,” Bret reminded her gently.

  “Oh! Yes. I’m quite recovered,” she answered. “Thank you so much for your concern.”

  Under the table, Bret placed his hand on hers.

  “Are you sure you’re well?” Lady Cecily asked with some concern. “Your color is quite high.”

  “I’m fine,” Catriona answered. She tugged on her hand, but Bret held tight, his thumb making lazy circles on her palm.

  “Did you also toss the caber, Mr. Rocheforte?” Lady Cecily asked.

  Rocheforte jerked a little and said, “Yes.” And then, while everyone stared at him for his terse answer, he added, “Thank you for asking.”

  “Who threw it the farthest?” Fiona asked.

  “Byron,” Taran answered, jerking his head toward Oakley. “But Robin’s attempt wasn’t anything shabby.” He grinned over at Marilla. “I’m leaving him the castle, you know.”

  “Uncle,” Rocheforte said, “don’t.”

  “Eh, now,” Taran grunted, “it’s not like anyone thinks ye’ve got two pennies to rub together. We all know what’s what.”

  Rocheforte said nothing, just sat stiffly in his chair.

  “I think Finovair is charming,” Lady Cecily said, smiling encouragingly at Rocheforte. “It is a lovely heritage.”

  “Really?” Taran said, drawing the word out with great interest.

  “Yes,” Lady Cecily replied, dipping her spoon into the soup that had just been placed before her by one of Taran’s ancient retainers. “It’s a little cold, but of course it is December.”

  “One doesn’t always get to choose when to live in one’s castle,” Rocheforte said brusquely.

  “Robin!” Taran said sternly.

  But Rocheforte just shrugged and turned to his soup.

  “You seem quite unlike yourself,” Oakley said to his cousin.

  Indeed, Bret thought. Rocheforte’s silver tongue and ready smile were legendary. Both seemed to have deserted him.

  “It must be the cold,” Rocheforte replied.

  “The cold certainly wasn’t bothering you this afternoon,” Marilla said, leaning forward so that she could smile at him. “I was shocked when you removed your coat. But I must confess, it did seem to give you a greater range of movement when you picked up the caber.”

  “I’m sorry I missed it,” Lady Cecily said.

  Rocheforte flushed.

  “I was the only one who landed the bloody thing on its end,” Taran said.

  Marilla gave him a placating smile, patted him on the hand, and then returned her attention to Oakley, who appeared to have nudged his chair as far as he could in the opposite direction.

  “Have you recovered from your exertions?” Marilla asked.

  Oakley cleared his throat, adjusted his cravat, and turned toward his soup. Somewhere in the midst of all that, he muttered, “Yes.”

  But Marilla could not be tamed. “I was so very, very grateful that I had a handkerchief with me this afternoon to wipe the perspiration from your brow.”

  “It was warm, too,” Taran chortled, motioning to his chest. “Pulled it right out from—”

  “Uncle!” Oakley cut in.

  “Eh, well, she did. And don’t say you didn’t notice.”

  “There isn’t a man alive who could fail to notice her bosom,” Fiona muttered under her breath.

  Bret had a feeling he wasn’t supposed to have heard that, but he smiled at her nonetheless.

  “What shall we play after supper?” Marilla asked Oakley.

  Oakley was speechless.

  “Hide-and-seek?” Taran suggested.

  “No,” Marilla said, playfully tapping a finger on her chin. “It’s not very sociable. And you did wish to be sociable, did you not?”

  “I always wish to be sociable,” Taran replied.

  Rocheforte coughed, loudly.

  “The problem with hide-and-seek,” Marilla continued, “is that all of the players are separated for the bulk of the game. And we must be so quiet. It’s hardly fun when the aim is to become better acquainted.”

  “Quite right,” Taran said vigorously. “What a clever lass you are. I had no idea.” He jerked his head toward one nephew, then another. “Take note of that, boys.”

  Oakley smiled tightly. Even Rocheforte could not manage a response.

  “Have I mentioned,” Bret murmured to Catriona, “how very grateful I am not to have any blood uncles?”

  “You don’t?”

  “Not a one. My mother had six sist
ers. Three older, three younger.”

  “And your father?”

  “An only child.”

  “As am I,” Catriona said.

  “Really?” The sane and lucid part of his brain reminded him that he had known her only one day, but still, it seemed incomprehensible that he did not know this.

  “My parents had me quite late in life,” she told him. “I was something of a surprise.”

  “I am also without siblings,” Bret said.

  “Really?” She smiled, and then he smiled, and it was the most ridiculous, lovebird-hearts-and-flowers sort of thing, but he almost sighed, because it felt like such an important connection.

  And then Fiona Chisholm snorted.

  “Oh, Catriona,” she said, her innocent voice not quite masking a devilish intent, “do you believe in love at first sight?”

  “What?” Catriona asked, dropping her spoon.

  “What?” Bret heard himself echo.

  “What?” came Lady Cecily’s voice from down the table.

  “I was only wondering,” Fiona murmured.

  “Do you believe in love at first sight?” Catriona countered.

  “I don’t think so,” Fiona said thoughtfully. “It does seem quite improbable.”

  “Madness,” Rocheforte put in.

  “But,” Fiona continued, “I don’t see why one could not fall in love at one’s first meaningful conversation. Do you?”

  Bret turned to Catriona. She was swallowing uncomfortably, and her cheeks had gone a particularly dusky shade of pink. He knew that Fiona meant no malice, but all the same, Catriona clearly did not relish having been placed so squarely at the center of attention.

  “I believe,” Bret announced.

  Catriona flashed him a grateful glance.

  “You believe in what, Your Grace?” Fiona asked.

  “In love at first meaningful conversation. Why not?”

  “Why not, indeed?” Marilla exclaimed, clapping her hands together. And then she beamed at him.

  “Oh dear,” Bret whispered.

  “Did you say something?” Catriona asked.

  He shook his head. But he didn’t let go of her hand.

  “Blindman’s buff!” Marilla cried out. “Oh, it will be perfect.”

  “Then we must play it,” Taran said, smiling at her the way she was smiling at Bret.

  Good God.

  “I’ve never been good at games,” Oakley said, in what Bret thought was a phenomenally lame attempt to escape the oncoming torture.

  “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 someone.”

  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

  One 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.