The Lady Most Willing

by Julia Quinn, Eloisa James

  She laid her hand against his chest in an unconscious gesture of appeal. He felt the imprint of each finger. “I wish you would. I have only my sisters to act as my advisors—”

  “And I am sure they are far better qualified than I to guide you. Besides which, they are privy to your innermost feelings.”

  “So might you be,” she said, her voice low and husky. His heart thundered beneath her palm, and he was seized by the impulse to sweep her into his arms and kiss her far more thoroughly than he had in the frozen corridor above.

  But he didn’t move. He didn’t say a word, and after a few seconds, she sighed, letting her hand drop from his chest.

  “As far as being dependable counselors,” she said, “they are silly girls, moved to raptures by the cut of a gentleman’s coat or the way he sits a horse. The youngest fell in love with her young man because he styled his hair à la Brutus.”

  He could not help but laugh at that, and she grinned, edging closer once again. “You, though, with your reputation as a bourreau des coeurs, you can offer me invaluable insights: how to know if a gentleman will be faithful and guard my reputation, become a playmate, advisor, and tender lover.”

  He would. But how could he say such a thing? Everything about his past refuted that claim. And even if he were, how could he convince her father?

  Lord Maycott, it’s true I’ve bedded a fair number of women, but none of them were virgins and none of them were living with their husbands when I slipped under their sheets. All very up-and-up, don’t you agree? And yes, my title was restored by a regime that could just as easily rescind it tomorrow. Still, it’s a title, what? And no, I haven’t any wealth to speak of, but happily, I will inherit this splendid castle, and there are a few rocky acres in Bordeaux that in, oh, a decade or so, may make enough profit to buy a small cabriolet. But in the meantime I daresay we’ll make do with your daughter’s dowry—not that I care about her inheritance. How could you possibly suspect otherwise?

  He should have laughed at the thought of it. He should; he couldn’t, had his life depended on it.

  “Robin?”

  She had no idea what she was asking him. He scraped the hair back from his forehead, looking anywhere but at her.

  “Am I wrong, Robin,” she said, “in thinking there is sympathy between us? That even in so short a time, we have recognized in one another a friend?”

  He could not resist the appeal in her voice. He looked down at Cecily and instantly became caught in the somber depths of her eyes, her earnest expression.

  “If I am wrong, pray, correct me now. I shall not take offense,” she said. “Only be honest with me,” she added, extending her hand.

  How could he refuse her? He enveloped her hand in his own.

  “You asked my advice. Here it is,” he said. “Choose the gentleman whom your father most approves, a man who can command his respect, and to whom he will be overjoyed to entrust your future.”

  The firelight licked at her tresses, turning them into polished mahogany. “My father wants my happiness. He would approve whomever I loved.”

  He gave a short, humorless laugh. “I would not wager a single penny on that assumption.”

  He was pulling her gently but inexorably closer as he spoke, his body having a will separate from his mind. She showed no signs of resisting. But then, as she herself had said, he was good at this.

  Of their own volition, his fingertips traced a path up the gentle valley of her spine to the back of her neck and beneath the heavy knot of hair, scattering the pins holding it in place. Her loosened tresses cascaded down over the backs of his hands, cool as silk and just as fine. A fragrance of lavender and soap, homely and yet incredibly erotic, rose from the unleashed tresses. Without thinking, he leaned closer to breathe in the scent.

  She regarded him somberly, the delicate fabric of her blouse shivering with each breath she took. She wet her lips with the tip of her tongue, and his gaze fell on it like a thief on a jewel. In his mind he was tasting her again, plumbing the sweet depth of her mouth.

  “He would accept my decision,” she whispered.

  His lips curved in a slight smile, distracted by her beauty. “Only if it were the right decision. Take someone like me, for example.”

  “What of you?” she asked, her body very still.

  “What if someone of my stamp were to approach your father and ask for your hand?”

  Her gaze searched his, but he barely noted it, drawing a feather-light stroke along the line of her jaw with the backs of his knuckles. Unable to stop himself, he went further, outlining the plump curve of her lip with his thumb. She trembled. He shifted closer.

  “Let us say that some brain fever takes you and you are persuaded by whim or madness that you are in love with someone of my ilk.”

  “Let us say that,” she repeated, in an odd voice.

  “How would your father react?” He went very, very still, awaiting her answer as though his life depended on it, even though he already knew what it must be.

  Her mouth curved in a partial smile, and she drew in her breath on a tiny sob and gave a small, shaky laugh.

  “But the point is entirely moot,” she said, eyes sparkling with . . . merriment? “I would never ask my father—”

  “There you are!”

  Robin’s hands dropped and he fell back a step, feeling as though he’d taken a blow from a battering ram squarely in his chest. Fool. Fool!

  “I have been looking everywhere for you!”

  With neither interest nor urgency, he looked around. Marilla Chisholm sailed into the library. He greeted her interruption with a vague sort of relief. At least she’d spared him the remainder of that sentence: I would never ask my father to accept a man like you.

  “I swear for so small a castle, people do a marvelous job of getting lost in it,” Marilla prattled on. “But no matter, I found you. We are going to play a new game and we need you to— Good heavens!” She stopped dead, her eyes growing round. “Is that Lady Cecily behind you? Whatever— Oh!” Her hand flew to cover her mouth. “Whatever are you wearing, Lady Cecily?”

  Cecily glared at Marilla.

  “Now you know who would tattle about your apparel,” he said softly before turning to Marilla. “Lady Cecily is preparing to enact a scene from Romeo and Juliet for tonight’s entertainment. She is to play Mercutio.”

  “Oh,” Marilla said, doubtfully.

  “Wasn’t it clever of her to dress as a young gentleman to bring veracity to the role?” he asked, the hollow in his chest growing with each passing second.

  “I suppose,” Marilla said grudgingly. “But we are not doing theatrics. I have another game and you must play,” she said. “I refuse to leave unless you come with me.” She glanced at Cecily. “You can come along, too.”

  “Thank you,” Cecily replied, but her gaze never strayed from Robin’s face and her brow furrowed as she regarded him.

  Was his pain so evident? Poor dear girl. She had probably thought they would laugh together at the idea of him proposing to her and now he’d revealed himself, and being a tenderhearted young lady, she would be distressed that she had unwittingly caused him pain.

  If he stayed here in the library with her, if he even refused to join the party, he had no doubt she would hunt him down and tender an apology, or worse, console him.

  “We must hurry along. The others are waiting and you have no idea how long it took me to find them all and gather them into one place,” Marilla said. “All these couples billing and cooing as if they are the only people in the world, and no one else matters or needs to be entertained.” She sniffed.

  “I suppose you haven’t heard that Lord Oakley has offered for my half sister? Apparently, he must have some sort of fascination for women who wear spectacles. Rather peculiar, if you ask me, but I suppose there’s no accounting for a gentleman’s quirks.” She shook her head, and without another word, hooked her arm through Robin’s and began tugging him toward the door.

  A
nd he went.

  Chapter 26

  “The game is called forfeit,” Marilla announced to the group. “And it is all the rage on the continent.”

  Cecily, seated in a big upholstered chair near the fire, was in no mood to play more of Marilla’s games, but no one else seemed to share her reluctance. In fact, they all looked rather loathsomely happy and lighthearted.

  Oakley was seated on a settee with his arm stretched along the back, Fiona tucked in close. Every now and again he would brush her cheek with the side of his thumb as though he could not get enough of touching her. At the other end of the settee, Catriona Burns occupied a similar position next to Bretton, and though Bretton managed to keep his hands off her, the look he bent on her was as telling and ardent as a touch.

  Even Taran was in fine form. For once, he’d traded his ragged old kilt for a surprisingly clean one, below which his legs were properly hosed and gartered. On top, he wore a velvet jacket that, though a few decades out of mode, was at least well cut, and with an improbably snowy lace jabot at his throat, he looked nearly elegant.

  Only one person in the room looked as dour as she felt. Robin stood beside the hearth, an arm resting on the high mantel as he stared into the fire. He hadn’t even looked up when she’d entered the room, arriving late as she’d decided to heed his advice and change out of her boy’s clothing. She’d done what she could for the blue ball gown but out of necessity had wrapped the velvet “shawl” around her shoulders again.

  “And how do you play this game, lassie? Is there kissing involved?” Taran asked hopefully.

  “It’s not required,” Marilla tittered, fluttering sidelong glances at Robin. “But I shouldn’t be surprised if some merry souls didn’t take advantage of a certain element of the game to steal a kiss.”

  At least, Cecily noted, Robin paid Marilla as little attention as he did to her.

  “I like this game,” Oakley declared. “How do you play?”

  “One gentleman is chosen to leave the room. Everyone left selects something from their person and puts it on that table. When the gentleman reenters the room, he holds an auction for the various items that the rest of us bid on. The only rule is that you cannot use money as your currency. You must provide something you own, or offer an antic or a song or such. You can also bid to have your own item returned to you.”

  “Where does the kissing come in?” Taran demanded.

  Marilla pretended a pretty fluster. “Well, I suppose if a person wished to claim something urgently enough, that person might be inspired to offer a kiss to procure it.”

  “It sounds disastrously dull,” Robin declared flatly.

  “Rob,” Oakley said, sounding surprised.

  “It does. Childish antics. We make eight. Let us play two tables of whist instead.”

  “I don’t play whist,” Marilla said, mincing to Robin’s side and pouting prettily. “I so very, very much want to play. And I would be very, very disappointed if you did not join the fun . . . Robin.”

  “Good Lord, what’s come over you, Rob?” Taran sputtered. “I have never known you to act so high on the instep. It’s a simple game and the ladies are bored.”

  “I’m not bored,” Fiona Chisholm said.

  “I am,” Marilla countered, glaring at her half sister.

  “Fine,” Robin said. “I’ll play.”

  Marilla clapped her hands. “Oh good! We’ll draw short straws to see who is the auctioneer.”

  She made quick work of shredding splinters from a piece of kindling and offering each gentleman in turn a chance to pull one from her fist. Robin drew the short splinter. Without a word, he stalked from the room, leaving the others to select what they wanted auctioned.

  Oakley drew a small book from his waistcoat pocket and placed it on the table. Fiona made a sound of surprise, and though Oakley remained as sober as ever, he caught her hand in his and kissed it. When he released her hand, she removed her spectacles and set them atop the book.

  “I don’t have anything,” Catriona Burns said, pinking up a little. With a rush of sympathy, Cecily realized she wore no embellishments other than a piece of satin she’d tied around her neck, the end of which disappeared beneath her modest neckline.

  “Of course you do,” Marilla said, sounding a bit irritated. “What’s that around your neck?”

  Reluctantly, Catriona pulled the ribbon from under her décolletage. At the end hung a man’s heavy gold signet ring, its large sapphire incised with a beautiful portrait. But before Catriona had finished untying the ribbon, Bretton’s hand covered hers, stilling her fingers. He bent and whispered something in her ear then reached into his vest pocket and withdrew a gold watch and fob. He set them on the table. “These will suffice for Miss Burns and myself.”

  “But they’re a pair,” Marilla protested. “You can’t bid on them separately.”

  “Exactly so,” Bretton said, escorting Catriona back to her chair.

  “Some people must ruin everything,” Marilla muttered, but was soon distracted by Taran, who strode to her side, stooped down, and with a flourish pulled a short-bladed sgian-dubh from the top of his silk hose. With a courtly flourish, he laid it on the tabletop.

  “Now there, lassie,” he told Marilla, “is the only thing worth a tinker’s damn on this entire board.”

  Marilla picked up the small knife by its mother-of-pearl handle.

  “Careful,” Taran cautioned. “Play with a man’s weapon and you might get pricked.” His eyes danced with a lascivious light.

  At this, Oakley, who’d been speaking to Fiona, swung around. “For God’s sake, Uncle. Apologize at once.”

  But Marilla proved herself Taran’s equal in mischief. Lifting the blade, she very deliberately and very conspicuously took her time sawing a tress of her hair off with it. Then she replaced the blade on the table with the casual observation, “That old thing is dull and in want of a good whetting.”

  Taran burst out laughing. Catriona bit her lip, Bretton looked bemused, Oakley coughed away a laugh, and Fiona looked away, but not in time to hide her smile. Cecily watched them, an unfamiliar wave of jealousy spreading through her.

  They were all so happy, even Marilla, who’d not yet realized that the next gentleman on her list would no more accommodate her matrimonial ambitions than the former ones.

  “What’s your forfeit, Marilla?” Taran asked, when he could breathe again.

  “Why, this lock of my hair,” she said, holding up the guinea gold tress. “I should think anyone would recognize it as mine.” She meant Robin, of course.

  She looked up. “That’s everyone. We can call Robin in and . . . Oh. Lady Cecily. I forgot about you,” she said. “What are you going to forfeit?”

  “I think this,” she said, unwrapping the bed curtain shawl from her shoulders and letting it fall in a heap on the table.

  “That? No one will bid for that.”

  “I might,” Catriona said. “What good are jewels to a frozen corpse?”

  “As you will.” Marilla shrugged, then practically tripped over herself running to open the door and calling for Robin to reenter.

  When he reappeared his former issues with the game seemed to have evaporated, for his expression was pleasant. Determinedly pleasant, Cecily thought.

  “Remember,” Marilla lectured him with mock severity, “You must make us pay very, very steep prices for those things we wish to secure.”

  “I understand,” he said. “Let us begin.”

  He went over to the table and picked up Fiona’s spectacles. “Here we have nothing less than a piece of magic. Nineteenth-century glass, I believe, rumored to allow its wearer to detect the very nearly imperceptible.”

  “How so?” Bretton called out, looking vastly amused.

  “Why,” Robin said, “legend has it that the current owner was even able to discern the heart beating beneath the wooden effigy of a certain earl.”

  At this Bretton burst out laughing and Oakley joined him.

 
; “Well, as they are magic, how can I resist?” Oakley said. “I will offer my boots for them.”

  “Boots?” Robin scoffed. “Magic comes at a far greater price than a pair of Hoby boots, sir. Who else will bid?”

  “As their current owner I must insist they are returned to me, for I am not done yet with my perusal of that earlish effigy you mentioned. I am convinced there is a great deal more yet to discover, and I am well and truly committed to the endeavor.”

  “I applaud your commitment, Miss Chisholm, but what forfeit will you give?”

  “A kiss!” Taran shouted.

  Robin grinned wolfishly at Fiona, who looked away, flustered. “Aye,” he said. “A kiss might buy these spectacles. But whom should she kiss? I would, of course, suggest myself, but I would hate it to be said that I took unfair advantage of the situation.”

  “Since when?” Oakley demanded.

  “The lass can kiss me!” Taran suggested magnanimously.

  “Miss Marilla said the price must be high, not extortionate,” Robin said, winning more laughter. “No, there’s nothing for it, but that she must kiss Oakley to retrieve her glasses.”

  Oakley wasted no time in seeing that Fiona’s glasses were returned. He surged to his feet, catching Fiona by the hand and hauling her into a tight embrace. Cecily glanced away; the passion in their kiss made her heart ache.

  When Oakley finally released her, Robin shook his head. “Coz, you really must learn to attend. She was to kiss you. Not vice versa.”

  At once, Fiona stretched on her tiptoes, clasped Oakley’s face between her hands, pulled his head down, and planted a hearty buss upon his mouth. “Satisfied?” she asked, with an unexpected note of coquetry in her voice.

  “My dear, alas, I am in no position to answer,” Robin replied rakishly. “That is a question for Oakley.”

  Cecily’s heart thudded dully in her chest. She wanted a lifetime of Robin’s roguish smiles and unaffected humor, his teasing laughter and warmth.

  Next, he picked up the watch and fob. “What am I to make of this? Is it one or two pieces?”

  “It is two pieces that must perforce be bought together,” Marilla explained.