Byron changed into an evening coat and returned downstairs far faster than his usual wont. He walked over to one window and stared at the snowdrift blocking any view of the storm. He had been making an annual winter trek to Finovair for a decade or more, and he could not remember seeing the snow piled quite so high in the courtyard before.
Fiona was so different from Opal. She didn’t look away from him; she laughed straight to his face. She never seemed to be at a loss for words. She just said what she was thinking. He had a tremendous feeling of rightness, even thinking of the way her eyes shone with mischief.
She wouldn’t lie to him. She would mock him, and argue with him, and probably infuriate him, but she would never lie to him.
And she had told him about Marilla’s theft of her mother’s portrait. Perhaps if Opal and he had talked, really talked, she would have told him that she didn’t care to marry him. She wouldn’t have had to stage that scene with the balding dancing master.
If, instead, it had been Fiona who had decided she didn’t care to marry him, she would tell him face-to-face. Let’s say they were betrothed—a funny shot of heat came under his breastbone at the notion. He would like to put a ring on her finger. A ring that would tell other men that everything about her—from her sweet little nose, to those curved hips, to the perplexed look in her gorgeous eyes—it was all his.
Just hypothetically, if he were betrothed to Fiona, and she decided to throw him over, she wouldn’t do it through a dramatic scene. She would probably glare at him, and then she would tell him that he was a stupid, jealous . . .
Jealous?
He had never been jealous. Marriage wasn’t about jealousy. It was about respect and promises. But then he thought for a moment and realized that a seething cauldron lit in his chest at the very idea of a dancing master approaching Fiona.
This train of thought was insanity.
He leaned his forehead against the icy window, just to see whether he was dreaming. The glass was just as cold to his forehead as to his fingertips. A feeling of profound calm cut through with elation swept through him. He would do it: he would marry Fiona Chisholm, and have a bespectacled, honest, beautiful countess. She would probably be a good mother, but honestly, he didn’t give a damn.
If she was a bad mother, they could get a nanny. Well, of course they would have a nanny. He wanted her for himself. So he could . . .
So he wouldn’t be alone. So he would have a friend, and a lover, and a wife, all in one. The elation spread. How could he be so lucky?
He was never lucky.
The door opened and he turned, heart thumping. Not Fiona. It was Marilla, her breasts barely kept in check by an edging of lace, her eyes lighting up at the sight of him.
“You disappeared this afternoon!” she chided, disapproval softened by forgiving laughter.
“I spent the afternoon in the library,” he said, watching her closely.
She was approaching him, her hips swaying, but she froze for a second. Then her smile grew wider. “But wasn’t my sister, Fiona, hiding there? She’s so reluctant to be in company, you know. I promised her I would have someone send her tea so that she need not be embarrassed by her lack of social skills.”
He held out a chair for her and then said, “I didn’t notice any shyness.” Happiness thrummed low in his chest simply because he was talking about Fiona.
This was ridiculous. Preposterous. Like the sort of lovesickness that is visited on mere boys. He thought he wanted a woman to fall in love with him, but instead he was the one infected. Just like a giddy boy, he discovered he was grinning at Marilla.
“Fiona has no friends,” Marilla said, waving at the seat beside her. “Since we do sit on consequence, Byron, I certainly hope that you will remain at my side.” Her smile was lavish, but then, all of Marilla’s smiles were lavish.
He sat, thinking about what she just said. It didn’t make sense to him. Fiona was funny and wry and altogether delightful. Of course she had friends. But then, perhaps she didn’t have friends . . . perhaps she was as profoundly alone as he was.
“Where is your sister?” he asked, keeping his tone casual.
“Fiona has little regard for the servants. She asked for a bath not long ago, even though it’s not easy for those old men to carry hot water up the stairs.” Marilla slid her hand over his, and frowned with a kind of dewy earnestness. “She has no idea how to run a large household. My father made certain that I was trained in a chatelaine’s arts. One of the most important rules is that the lady of the household must respect those in her service. Yet Fiona asks for separate meals, as she did this luncheon, and baths!” She rolled her eyes. “She bathes every day, and never mind how much work it is to haul pails of hot water up and down the stairs.”
Byron thought with some satisfaction of the newfangled pipes he’d added to his house two years ago. And then he thought of Fiona sitting in his bath, steam rising around her, all that glorious hair curling into smaller ringlets, her creamy skin flushing . . . He hastily put his napkin in his lap.
The door opened and Bret and his betrothed entered, laughing. He had his hand on Catriona’s back, and the way he looked down at her was so resonant with desire that . . . well, the couple was just as improperly intimate as they had been the night before, but now Byron saw it with a different eye, looking not at Catriona’s face, but at Bret’s.
He wanted to put his hand on the small of Fiona’s back. He’d never thought about the gesture, but now he perceived the possessiveness in that light touch. He wanted to hand Fiona into a chair and then sit beside her, a bit too close, and hold hands under the table, the way Bret and Catriona now were. He wanted to escort her to supper with lips that had been kissed the color of dark cherries, as Bret had.
Hell, he wanted to join her in the bath and . . .
After making her his bride, of course.
Marilla’s voice cut into his thoughts again. She had curled her fingers around his forearm, and was leaning forward, saying something to Catriona. “Oh, we feel the same,” she cooed. “Byron and I were just talking about the arduous duties of running a large household. This strange little interlude at Finovair has done so much to bring us all close! I’m thrilled to know that I was there when the Duke and Duchess of Bretton fell in love. I cannot wait to tell my friends.”
Byron drew his arm away, while Bret threw him a look that said, clear as day, that Marilla wasn’t going within two miles of the duchy of Bretton. Byron grinned back and then watched the puzzlement grow in Bret’s eyes.
His old friend hadn’t figured it out yet. Hell, he had hardly figured it out. All he knew was that his entire being was tense, waiting for Fiona to get out of that bath and join them at the supper table.
Taran blew in the door, followed by a train of his retainers carrying platters. “Lady Cecily dines in her room,” he said briskly. Robin was nowhere in evidence: he was probably hiding in his room as well. And still there was no Fiona.
The laird sat down and scowled rather unexpectedly at Marilla. “Keep your hands to yourself, lass. Your father wouldn’t approve.”
Byron realized that Marilla had once again curled her hand around his forearm. She gave Taran a lofty smile and didn’t move a finger. Instead, she moved even closer and said in a breathy voice, “Byron, do tell me about your castle.”
“I don’t have one,” he said calmly.
“What a pity,” Marilla said. “But I suppose you could always buy one if you wished.”
“No,” Byron said, catching Bret’s eye. Bret was trying not to laugh and not succeeding very well. “I could not. Castles are far and few between in England.”
Without even glancing at Marilla, he knew she was pouting. “Such a pity! This is the first time I’ve stayed in a castle and I find it very, very charming. It’s so grand . . . so much bigger than most houses.”
Naturally, it’s all about size, Byron thought uncharitably.
“My sister is very retiring,” Marilla informed the comp
any when they reached the second course and the plate to his left was still empty. “She likely lost her courage, and will eat in our bedchamber. Of course we must continue without her. In our household, my father and I often forget that she’s there at all.”
Byron was contemplating what Fiona’s life had been like in company with her relatives, when she walked into the room and began heading around the table to the open chair.
She looked a bit pale, but her greeting was cordial enough. But he didn’t care for “Good evening, Lord Oakley.”
He stood and pulled the chair out for her. “I thought we agreed that you would not address me as Oakley,” he said to her, ignoring the conversations that had started around the table.
Not that anyone ignored his statement. Even Marilla’s semiflirtatious conversation with Taran—the woman seemed incapable of conversation that was not suggestive—halted in mid-sentence.
Fiona had just seated herself; she froze and turned a little pink. Her hair was slightly damp from her bath, and enchanting pin curls framed her face. Bret looked swiftly from her face to Byron’s and then leaned over to whisper something to Catriona. There was a huge grin on his face.
Byron just wanted to make it all clear. He was possessed of the happiest emotions of his life, and even though the object of his happiness looked stunned, he was bent on sharing them. Could she really believe that he would kiss her—the way he had kissed her—and mean nothing by it?
He bent down and dropped a swift kiss on her lips, and then another on her damp curls for good measure. She sat as rigid as a statue, not seeming to draw a breath, looking . . . stricken?
“Well, the tone of this gathering has lowered, has it not?” Marilla said shrilly on the other side of Byron. Her voice trembled with fury.
“Marilla,” Fiona whispered.
“I gather I have to protect my sister once again from the illicit lust of ne’er-do-well gentlemen,” Marilla cried, ignoring her plea. “Isn’t it enough that she is branded a whore the length of all Scotland? Must you, Lord Oakley, who has some claim to being a model of propriety, show your contempt for her so openly? Kissing her in an open gathering? When you know perfectly well that a man of your noble heritage would never make her his countess? Shame on you, Lord Oakley, shame on you!”
Byron was so stunned that he stared at Marilla for a moment, registering the cruel gleam of rage in her eyes.
Then he turned, slowly, back to Fiona. Branded a whore? Fiona?
She had turned the color of parchment. As their eyes met, she raised her chin. “I told you repeatedly that I had a reputation. Apparently, you did not believe me.”
“Yes, but did you tell him that your fiancé fell to his death from your bedchamber window?” Marilla shrilled.
At this, Taran threw back his chair and stumped around the table. He reached out a hand and jerked Marilla to her feet. “You and I, lassie, are going to have a good talk, because it’s obvious to all of us that the beauty in your face doesn’t match your heart. You’re acting like a mean-spirited little horror, you are.”
Before Marilla could say another word, he pulled her over to the door, pushed it open, and slammed out into the corridor.
“I’m sorry,” Fiona said to Byron, her beautiful green eyes as grave as a monk’s. “I kept trying to tell you what happened.”
“He fell from your window?” Byron echoed, finally sitting down himself.
He could feel all the joy draining from his body. It felt as if he had turned back to a brass automaton, to the half-dead man he’d been when he arrived in Scotland. His father’s double. Obviously, women were as lustful as his father had warned, even sweet ones from Scotland who smelled like fresh bread and innocence.
There was dead silence around the table. Fiona nodded. “Yes. My fiancé, Dugald, lost his life in a fall. All Scotland knows it. I am sure that our friends at the table will be gracious enough to forget the implications of what you said a moment ago.”
Bending her head, she spread her napkin in her lap.
“I never believed it,” Catriona said with a note of ferocity in her voice, “and neither did my mother. She should know, since she was godmother to Dugald himself. How could a man who was as fat as a distillery pig think to climb a strand of ivy?”
“The window was there, as was the ivy, and unfortunately, so was Dugald,” Fiona said. “Yes, I would like some roast, if you please. Catriona, what games did you play this afternoon?”
Catriona looked as if she wanted to continue her defense, but she succumbed to the pleading expression on Fiona’s face.
Byron endured three more courses without saying another word. Taran strolled back in at length, looking pleased with himself, but Marilla never reappeared. Byron was aware of the warmth of Fiona’s arm next to his, though they never touched, even accidentally. The conversation stumbled along until finally the subject of Robert Burns’s poetry was brought up, which provoked a spirited dispute.
“As full of air as a piper’s bag,” Taran shouted, in response to Catriona’s praise of the poet.
“I rather like the poem about how he’ll love his betrothed until the rocks melt into the sun,” Bretton murmured, looking (of course) at Catriona.
“Until the sands of life run dry,” she whispered back to him, but Byron heard her.
After that, he just sat still, thinking. Really thinking.
If his father weren’t already dead, the thought of a notorious woman becoming the Countess of Oakley would have killed him.
He didn’t know what his mother would think, because after she ran away with his uncle, he never heard from her again.
But the question, obviously, was what did he think?
Fiona was still pale, but she had joined the conversation about Burns. He watched her talk and even laugh when Taran said something particularly outrageous, without ever glancing at him.
He felt as if he’d been given a glimpse of heaven, only to have it torn from his hands. How could he dishonor his ancient name? Breach his father’s memory in such a fashion?
This had been a momentary madness, that’s all.
“You’re mad as May butter!” Taran shouted at Catriona, who was thoroughly enjoying sparring with him, to all appearances.
Not Catriona: him.
He was as mad as May butter.
Chapter 15
Fiona had been humiliated before. Having to sit through a homily on the evils of lust, read at Dugald’s funeral, came to mind. But in its own way, this was worse. She had been in shock during the funeral, and she had gone through it as if in a trance, still not understanding that no one believed her, and that no one ever would.
Now she was older, and thoroughly clearheaded. She would never be able to forget the moment when Byron’s eyes turned cold. His face had gone completely blank, and stayed that way. It was as if he put on a mask, and all there was to be seen was the arrogant, haughty Earl of Oakley, the man whom she saw from afar in English ballrooms.
When supper finally, mercifully, ended, Fiona excused herself and ran up the stairs. She opened the door to the bedchamber to find Marilla sitting on the bed. Acid rose in Fiona’s throat. She couldn’t—she really couldn’t—bear to speak to her sister at the moment.
Without a word, she headed directly for the ancient wardrobe and pulled out the fur-lined cloak she’d worn for the caber-throwing contest. It appeared to be as old as the wardrobe, and could have belonged to Queen Elizabeth herself, but it would keep her warm.
“I’m to apologize,” Marilla said, her voice scratchy from crying. “Taran insists.”
Fiona didn’t even glance over her shoulder. “I accept. I’m going to the carriage to find my reticule. I’m sure it must be there.”
“What are you talking about? You’re going out in the snow?”
“The carriage is in the stables.”
“Just tell a footman to fetch it for you!”
“I would welcome some fresh air. Do go to sleep without me.”
“
You cannot do such a stupid thing as walk out into this storm! You’re pouting, Fiona, and it’s a very unpleasant, childish thing to do. I have apologized.”
“There’s a cord that leads from the kitchen to the stables. Mr. Garvie told me about it the first night.” She almost added, So don’t worry about me, but the words died in her mouth. She was tired of pretending that there was something more between them than the potent reek of Marilla’s dislike.
“I truly am sorry I told the earl about Dugald’s death,” her sister said.
Fiona had discovered a pair of gloves that, although ancient and cracked, were lined with fur like the cloak. All that remained was to find something warmer than her slippers to put on her feet. She began poking at the bottom of the wardrobe.
“Are you ignoring what I just said?” Marilla’s voice rose a bit.
Fiona had exhumed something that felt like a sturdy pair of boots; she backed out of the cupboard, straightened, and turned around. Her sister was looking at her with tearstained defiance. “No,” she stated. “It will never be all right with me. Once this accursed storm ends, I shall move to my own house. It will be easier for all of us. Papa can hire a chaperone for your next season.”
Marilla stared at her, her jaw dropped.
Fiona pulled the boots on, and then the gloves. She probably looked like an ancient crone wearing a bear costume inside out. But when she glanced at the mirror, she didn’t even see her own reflection: instead, she saw Oakley’s blue eyes. They were an extraordinary color, the color of the sky on a summer day, when one lay on one’s back in a meadow.
“Good-bye,” she said, walking out and closing the door behind her.
“I didn’t mean it!” Marilla called shrilly. Fiona pretended that she hadn’t heard, and kept walking, down the stairs, through the baize door, and into the kitchen.
She stopped only to grab a bag of apples and a bottle of wine from the kitchen staff. The apples were for the horses, and the wine was for her. She’d never drunk to excess before. Ladies never became inebriated. But she wasn’t a lady. She was ruined, ruined, ruined.
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