The Lady Most Willing

by Julia Quinn, Eloisa James

  Robin snorted derisively. “One need not guess whose idea this was. You always seemed to me a possessive sort, Bret.”

  “Always,” the duke agreed amiably.

  “And I suspect any attempt to outbid you would be futile.”

  “Entirely,” Bretton agreed. “You might ask Miss Burns to offer a kiss.”

  “No. I don’t think my sensibilities could tolerate another such exhibition,” Robin said.

  “I’ll bid a dance. A dance with the comte,” Marilla said, standing up as though Robin’s acceptance were a foregone conclusion.

  The little group broke into a smattering of approving applause.

  Cecily did not think she could bear to watch Marilla in Robin’s arms. “I will bid a dance, also,” she said. “With the laird of Finovair.”

  This met with even greater approval. Soon, everyone was bidding against one another, the antics growing ever greater. At one point, Taran even bid to waltz with Hamish, sending the entire company into gales of hilarity. Bretton finally announced he would throw himself on the altar of ignominy in order to spare the ladies so haunting a spectacle, and recite Lord Byron’s latest poem in order to win the bid.

  Robin awarded him the auction, and Bretton rose to his feet and proceeded to recite . . . something. Just what it was would forever after be the subject of much debate, but whatever it was, it most decidedly was not written by Byron. There were naiads in it and a few fauns, a character named Despot, and a whole gaggle of talking swans. And it was set in some country that rhymed with “puce.”

  The rest of the auction went much the same, everyone seeming to have a grand good time. Not unexpectedly, Marilla continued to bid her lips, her limbs, and her company to Robin for the various items. And Cecily continued to outbid Marilla’s offers with her own, and from there the others inevitably joined in to bid all sorts of japery and antics. Fiona balanced a spoon on her nose; Taran sang “The Bonnie Lass of Fyvie” in a very credible baritone, and Cecily juggled three pinecones.

  When, near the end, Marilla bid a kiss to retrieve her hank of hair and Taran was the only man who took her up on it, she was a good enough sport not to pout but to give as good as she got—and Cecily was surprised at how good what she got looked to be.

  Finally, only Cecily’s shawl remained on the table.

  “Do tell us what wondrous thing you have there, Comte,” Miss Burns encouraged.

  “This?” Robin said softly. For a moment he simply ran a finger along the velvet nape, his expression softening. He lifted it up, swishing it lightly in the air. “This is most rare, indeed. A relic, in fact.”

  “But what is it?” Fiona asked, dimpling.

  “I believe this once cloaked the form of a creature as rare in these parts as hen’s teeth.”

  Cecily’s heart began beating faster. His voice was warm and sad, wry and bittersweet.

  “What creature is that?” Marilla asked.

  “Why the Angliae optimatium heres.”

  “What’s that?” Taran demanded.

  “The English heiress,” Fiona translated with a laugh.

  Cecily felt warmth rise in her cheeks and looked away.

  “Rob!” Oakley said in a low voice. “You’ve embarrassed Lady Cecily with your reference to her wealth.”

  The smile stiffened on Robin’s dark, handsome countenance. “That was never my aim,” he said. His gaze caught Cecily’s and he inclined his head. “My pardon, Lady Cecily. But you must certainly know that your value far exceeds anything that can be counted in coin.”

  “Fine,” Marilla broke in abruptly, “Robin’s made a pretty apology. Now who is going to bid on that?”

  “I’ll kiss Miss Marilla Chisholm for it,” Taran offered.

  Marilla giggled.

  Catriona raised her voice and said, “What of you, Rocheforte? I heard no rule against the auctioneer bidding, and you have yet to do so. Surely you must want to possess so rare a relic?”

  She caught Cecily’s eye, her own shining with a teasing light.

  Cecily’s heart trip-hammered in her chest and she found herself holding her breath, waiting for Robin’s reply.

  He had gone very still at Catriona’s words, staring at the tawdry piece of cloth he held as though it were gossamer that might dissolve before his eyes. Carefully, almost reverently, he replaced it on the table, smoothing a fold away. He looked up.

  “I am afraid I have nothing of value with which to barter, Miss Burns. Neither goods nor talents.”

  Cecily’s heartbeat slowed to a dull, heavy thud as her throat constricted with tears she refused to shed.

  Catriona frowned, her expression uncertain. “Surely there is something . . .”

  He shook his head. “Nothing. Besides, the point is moot. I would never aspire to something so far above my touch.”

  So that was it, then. He could not be more clear: she’d receive no offer of marriage from Robin.

  She didn’t even realize she had stood until the book she’d won dropped from her lap. And then she was running out the door, Catriona Burns calling after her.

  Catriona.

  But not Robin.

  Chapter 27

  Cecily avoided the stairs; she couldn’t go to her room. Kindhearted Catriona Burns was bound to look for her there, and Cecily did not think she could face the other girl’s pity. Better to be unavailable until she could mask her heartbreak.

  Instead, she headed for the small family chapel next to the great hall, one of the few other public rooms still in use in this part of the castle, though gauging from the dust on the pew cushions, “use” was a relative word. Like many castle chapels, it rose two stories tall, its height divided horizontally by a small second-floor balcony that overlooked the altar so that the lord and lady could attend daily services directly from their chambers. A wooden staircase led to the balcony so Cecily climbed it, not wanting to be seen by anyone passing the door opening onto the corridor.

  The dust lay even thicker above than below, coating a pair of wingback chairs set well back from the wooden rail and a bench that might have served the lord’s children, which now lay toppled on its side. Cecily sought refuge in one of the oversized chairs, curling her feet beneath her and huddling deep into the corner.

  What was she to do now? How was she to return to her former life and go about the business of choosing a husband, when the only husband she wanted would not court her? She had done everything she could to charm, beguile, and befriend Robin. Nothing remained in her arsenal of feminine weapons.

  Since birth, she’d been taught that whatever a lady wanted, she must wait until it was given, be it a pony, a dress, a party, or a husband . . .

  Not that a lady need be entirely passive. But Cecily hadn’t been. She had followed Robin, kissed him, worn boy’s clothing, tried to rouse his jealousy in her pursuit of him. What more could she do?

  And why would he not propose? Because she was too rich, too English? Because he was too poor, his title too French? Because she was a virgin, or because he was so patently not a virgin . . . None of that mattered. The only reason she would accept was that he did not love her. But he did! She knew it. Her heart could not be so blind, her soul so deaf. When he had looked at her this evening across the room, the pitiful shawl in his hands, she had been as certain of his feelings as she was of her own . . .

  “No! I’ll not be quiet!”

  Cecily lifted her head from her arms. The voice from directly below her had been Taran’s.

  “Then at least do me the courtesy of coming in here and not shouting so that all the world might hear you!”

  Cecily froze. Robin.

  “Why should you care?” Taran demanded, his voice growing louder as he entered the chapel. “The world already knows you’re a heartless bastard. Nothing I can say will surprise a one of them.”

  Robin’s reply was terse and unintelligible.

  “I know you and Byron think I’m nothing but a half savage,” Taran went on, “but at least I don’t re
duce lassies to tears.”

  “Do you think I enjoyed that?” Robin ground out.

  “How could a man tell with you? Always ready with a quip and a laugh, and all the while the lassie looking as pale as the survivor of a massacre.”

  “You overstate the case.” His tone was thick with emotion.

  “The hell I do!” Taran shouted. “That she has feelings for you is as clear as fresh blood on new snow . . .” He trailed off and when he spoke again, his tone had changed from bombast to true shock. “Dear God, laddie, ye dinna actually seduce the poor wee creature? I know I encouraged you to do so, but only if you had honorable intentions. If you dinna plan to marry the girl, then you are a bloodier blackguard than I—”

  “Stop! I did not seduce her!” Robin thundered. “For the love of all that’s holy, what do you take me for?’

  “Who you are,” Taran snapped in reply. “What you are.”

  For a moment Robin was absolutely silent. Carefully, Cecily shifted in the chair, craning toward the rail to hear better.

  “My past has nothing to do with Cecily and myself,” Robin said. “I would never do anything to harm her. Never.”

  Cecily’s heart began to beat faster. She slipped from the chair to her hands and knees and crept to the rail to look down. Below, she could see Taran standing halfway down the short aisle leading to the altar. Before him, black curls gleaming in the afternoon light streaming through the chapel’s rose window, Robin paced like a caged beast.

  “Cecily, is it?’ Taran asked musingly. “Well, it looks like for all your proposed good intentions, you’ve mucked up a grand bit, laddie, for the lady is heartsore and that’s a surety.”

  “No,” Robin said emphatically. “She’s not.”

  What did he mean? How could he make such an assumption?

  “You’re wrong,” Taran said flatly. “I saw her watching you this afternoon. She could fain take her eyes from you.”

  “No.” Robin stopped pacing, raking his hair back with his hand. The very set of his shoulders suggested resignation and weariness. “This afternoon I asked her to pretend that she loved a man like me and tell me how her father would react if that man asked for her hand.”

  “And?” Taran prompted.

  “She said the point was moot, because she would never ask her father to approve someone like me.”

  What? No. No. She hadn’t! Cecily’s brows furrowed, thinking back fiercely, trying to recall her exact words before Marilla, with her impeccable sense of timing, had interrupted them. Robin had just said, “Let us say you are in love with someone of my ilk,” and she had agreed, and then he had asked how her father would react and . . .

  Her eyes flew wide. She had said the point was moot, and been about to say she would not ask her father’s permission because the only thing that mattered was if he loved her. But those words were not what Robin’s imagination had supplied. He had heard what he thought he deserved to hear.

  “I don’t know why she would say such a thing when it’s so clearly a lie. Maybe she’s afraid of her parents. But if you were man enough, you’d find the way to persuade her to ignore her parents’ wishes and elope with you.”

  “Dear God, Taran, have you not heard a thing I’ve said? Do you not understand? I love the girl, damn you and your plans and your machinations! I love her. I would never come between her and her family. I would never ask her to elope. Indeed, I would never . . . I should never have . . .”

  Cecily’s heart began beating madly, a heady warmth rushing through her, filling her. The very blood in her veins seemed to carry joy with it, suffusing her every fiber with happiness.

  Below her, Robin’s hand clenched into a fist at his side. “If she were my daughter and a man like me pursued her, I would horsewhip him within an inch of his life. I would sell him to a press gang and hope he died on foreign soil in some futile war.” He laughed bitterly. “But, as has been said, the point is moot.”

  “It’s only moot if ye don’t do something aboot it, lad.”

  “Enough,” Robin said, his voice weary. “Your man returned a few hours ago. The pass will be open by daybreak. I’ll stay to see that no one suggests there be any reason I should have left, and after that, I’m gone.”

  Without another word, Robin brushed past Taran and disappeared, his uncle following.

  On the balcony above, Cecily dropped back on her bum with a thump. Her hands slipped from the rail to her lap, her unseeing gaze fixed on the small marble altar below.

  Robin loved her. Her heart swelled anew at the thought, became complete and whole and filled with unlimited potential, the future suddenly an invitation to a glorious adventure, the rest of her life a love story waiting to be told. Whatever her father’s objections, however reasonable and heartfelt, they would somehow find a way past them.

  The only question now was how she would find her way past Robin’s own objections.

  Her gaze drifted to a chapel window, the bare vines outside covering it like latticework, and suddenly, she knew: she was going to climb the ivy.

  Chapter 28

  Late that evening

  Cecily bullied Hamish into bringing her hot water, then washed off all the chapel dust, then offered Mrs. McVittie her pearl ear bobs to tell her where Robin had his chambers. The scrawny, stooped old Scotswoman cackled like a witch and asked what she would do with pearl ear bobs and then, with a toothless grin, told her the location anyway.

  But now, creeping up the cold stone staircase, shielding the flicking candle with her hand, it occurred to Cecily that the old lady might have been teasing her, because why would Robin stay in the abandoned part of the castle?

  The corner room above the bailey tower, the old lady had said. Well, here she was and there was the door leading into that room, a thin line of light delineating the bottom. She pulled the blanket she’d draped over her shoulders closer and, taking a deep breath, pushed the door open.

  Beyond was a small chamber, lit by the glow from embers in a tiny hearth in the opposite wall. It was a monkish room with only a few pieces of furniture. A large wingback chair stood facing the hearth, turned away from her and a narrow bed had been pushed hard against the wall.

  She did not see Robin at once, and for one terrible moment thought he’d left after all. But then she saw a man’s hand appear over the arm of the chair, the long fingers curling over the carved end.

  “If that draught is you, Taran, come to lecture me some more, go away,” Robin said tiredly. “If it is Hamish, leave the bottle on the table, and my thanks. And if it is Marilla, I am sorry, my dear, but I am not receiving tonight. Or any night. Or day, for that matter.”

  She took a breath. “What if it is Cecily? How is she to act?”

  The fingers tightened reflexively over the chair’s arm. For a moment he did not reply, and then in a very careful voice he said, “Sensibly. By leaving. At once.”

  She smiled at that. “But it turns out I am not sensible. Or dutiful. Or circumspect. Or any of those things for which I have been admired. So I believe I will stay.” She let the blanket slip from her shoulders to the floor.

  He stood up, slowly and without turning at once, as though carrying with him a great burden, and once erect pulled back his shoulders. He was wearing only a white lawn shirt, the sleeves rolled up over muscular forearms, and a pair of skintight buckskin trousers that showed his athletic figure to great, distressingly great, advantage. A little thrill raced through her at the sight of his tall, broad-shouldered form silhouetted against the fire.

  Then he turned and saw her. The mask he’d composed failed him at the sight of her, for she wore only an antique chemise of the softest, sheerest linen, the deep, rounded neckline edged in lace, the sleeves falling free to her wrists. His eyes burned in his pale face and a muscle jumped at the corner of his hard jaw.

  “Cecily. You must leave,” he said. “Please.” But in his expression she read everything she needed to give her the courage to stay.

  “No,” sh
e said. She moved to his side, tipping her head to look up at him. He stared silently back.

  “I am cold, Robin,” she said.

  Still mute, he pulled his discarded jacket from the back of the chair and draped it over her shoulders. She shook her head, her eyes never leaving his. “Still cold,” she said.

  She stepped right up next to him and wrapped her arms around his chest and pressed herself tightly against him. The muscles in his chest jumped into tense rigidity. She laid her head against his shoulder. The rightness of it was startling. Every bit of tension, every last bit of doubt dissolved into his body’s warmth and heat and strength. She sighed, a soul finding its moorings, a homecoming and an awakening all at once.

  “For God’s sake, Cecily,” he finally rasped, “please. What is this?”

  His heart thundered beneath her ear.

  “I love you,” she said. “I love you, and I want you to marry me. Marry me.” She would never have imagined herself saying something so bold, so extraordinarily forward. A woman should make her plans and then wait for a gentleman to fall in with them. She did not . . . climb the ivy. Yet it felt right, perfect. In fact, the only possible thing she could say.

  A shudder ran through his big body. She rubbed her cheek against him, her eyes closing as she luxuriated in the sensation of being this close, this connected.

  “How can you ask this? What has happened to make you forget your situation, your family, your name?”

  “You,” she replied simply.

  He put his hands very lightly on her shoulders. “You are the most extraordinarily forthright young lady I have ever known.”

  “Not to everyone. But always to you. Loving you has made me so.”

  “So many sins on my head,” he murmured, his breath stirring the hair at the top of her head.

  “I would never recognize myself in the woman wrapping her arms around you, unconcerned with anything other than the fact that your arms are not around me. Why aren’t you holding me, Robin?”

  “Because if I embrace you, I am afraid I will not be able to find the will to let you go.”