The Lady Most Willing

Chapter 23

What in the name of all that is holy was wrong with the man?! He kisses her not once but twice, then pushes her away both times—though she has made it as clear as day that she does not want to be pushed away—and then, in answer to her pathetically obvious attempt to rouse his jealousy, suggests she should try to field a cricket team. A cricket team! That was all he could say?

Cecily stomped down the stairs, her velvet skirts swishing angrily around her ankles. But her steps slowed as she touched her lips, feeling again his hunger, his fierce desire. Thank heaven the gallery wall behind her had held her up for that first kiss, for without its support she would have buckled under his sensual onslaught, and he’d supported her for the second, which was even more potent. Even now the memory made her knees weak and her breath come high and tight in her chest.

She realized now that he hadn’t even bothered to embrace her during that first kiss. When he’d stopped, all she could assume was that he’d been somehow disappointed, that her kiss had been too jeune fille for his worldly palate, and so casting about frantically for something to say that would not sound horrifically unsophisticated, said the first thing that had popped into her head, some daft comment about how good he was at kissing. And for some reason, that had seemed to anger him. Almost to embarrass him.

What was she to make of that? And why had he kissed her again and why had that second kiss seemed so angry, yet so desperate? And what had he meant, “Aren’t you going to say something?” He was the one who’d kissed her. And finally, most importantly, why the hell wasn’t he following her now—

Oh!

She reached the bottom of the stairs and tripped over the hideous old dress’s hem. Frustrated, she yanked at the skirts and in doing so dislodged the velvet bed hanging looped around her shoulders. It fell in a coil to her waist, sweeping the loose neckline off her shoulders before catching around her hips like a great velvet boa constrictor. She froze, afraid that any movement might render her completely topless.

Tears welled in her eyes. What had become of her? She looked like a musty Gypsy crone and she smelled like a wet dog. No wonder he’d let her go. She should probably be happy he hadn’t given her a boot to the backside.

“Lady Cecily?” a tentative female voice hailed her.

Oh no. The last thing she wanted was an audience to her misery. Snuffling mightily, she dabbed at her nose trying to compose herself before turning around. Catriona Burns was coming toward her, her attitude cautious, her expression carefully bland. Her dress fit. A tear escaped Cecily’s eye and dribbled down her cheek.

“Hello, Miss Burns,” Cecily said, knowing she sounded brittle and false. “You are up early this morning.“ She looked away, trying to recover her poise, but her tears only fell more quickly. She ignored them as best she could. “It looks like it has the making of a lovely day.” She sniffed. “Wouldn’t you say?”

“Lovely,” Catriona agreed, coming to her side. And, without so much as a by-your-leave, she snagged the loose end of the treacherous bed curtain and draped it back over Cecily’s shoulders.

The unexpected kindness nearly undid Cecily.

“I believe we’ve seen the last of the snow for a while,” Catriona said as easily as if returning teary gentlewomen to a state of modesty were an everyday occurrence. “What’s already fallen won’t last long. It never does. I expect within a few days most of it will have melted.” She finished wrapping the curtain and stepped back, looking over her endeavors with a critical eye. “There now. How’s that?”

Cecily looked down at her faded dress with its bilious embroidery and drooping roses, and at the ragged velvet curtain. “Awful,” she said. “Simply awful,” and then she clamped her hand over her mouth, staring at Catriona in contrition because she hadn’t meant to be ungrateful, it was just that—

“It really is, isn’t it?” Catriona agreed, her gaze on the dress. “Completely and unutterably hideous.”

Catriona lifted her head, and something in her exaggeratedly woeful countenance made Cecily smile and then grin, and then the two of them were laughing like loonies.

“Now, we shall have a nice cup of tea and one of Mrs. McVittie’s scones,” Catriona said when their laughter had died down. She linked her arm through Cecily’s, drawing her into the room where breakfast was being laid out. “And then you can tell me what all this is about.”

And so Cecily did.

An hour or so later, Cecily sailed forth from Catriona Burns’s bedchamber much restored in spirit and body. Catriona Burns, soon to become Duchess of Bretton—and a lovelier duchess one would have a hard time imagining—had found stacks of boys’ clothing in the trunk brought to her room, including an antique tiger’s uniform, and insisted Cecily try them on. Throwing propriety to the wind, she had, and was gratified to discover that she and the tiger were a similar size and shape except for a certain constriction in the jacket. And about the hips. And her backside. In anticipation of finally being able to get a breath of fresh air after being castle-bound for so long, she’d finished her toilette by donning a knit cap found in the trunk.

Bolstered by Catriona’s encouragement and her own exhilaration at doing something as scandalous as wearing boy’s clothing, Cecily struck out, determined to find her would-be lover and recommence her seduction of him. The only problem was she did not know where he might be and she could hardly ask someone where his chambers were. As daring as she’d grown these last few days, there were some lines she was not prepared to cross. That was one of them.

And she had become daring, she thought, walking along the corridor, cracking open doors and peeking inside. Who among her acquaintances would ever imagine she’d be so audacious, trading bon mots with a rake, planning to seduce that same rake, and donning boy’s clothing preparatory to doing so? None.

In fact, for the first time outside the small circle of her immediate family, she felt wholly and comfortably herself. A chill traveled through her. What if she had never come to Scotland, what if she had said yes to one of those worthy men who’d courted her? What if she’d never been kidnapped and she had never met Robert Parles, Comte de Rocheforte?

She would have spent the rest of her days living a life removed from herself, experiencing emotions at a distance, cocooned and indistinct, like bumping a well-bandaged wound. Not painful, precisely, but not alive, either, a dull layer of conventionality and unmet expectation standing between her and her heart.

The chill grew deeper, colder. What if Robin refused her? What if he would not wed her? What then? Could she be satisfied with something less? Could she wed for convenience and hope that something more might eventually grow out of the union? Would she choose spinsterhood and the memories of a very intense, very few minutes over the promise of a family?

Her footsteps slowed and her earlier ebullience faded. She needed to clear her head.

She frowned and looked about. Lost in thought, she’d made her way toward the back of the castle, near the kitchens, and was standing next to a narrow window looking across a snowy yard toward the stables. Next to the window, a low door led outside.

She lifted the latch and pushed the door open, finding herself at the top of a short flight of stairs leading down into a thick blanket of snow. Above, the morning sun blazed in a robin’s-egg blue sky, setting the pure white field sparkling. The tang of pine reached her nostrils and the sound of birdsong filled the air.

As she stood there, the stable door opened. A couple emerged, a tall blond man with his arm wrapped protectively around the shoulders of a red-haired woman. With a start, Cecily recognized Lord Oakley and Fiona Chisholm, whose hair tumbled down around her shoulders and whose laugh tinkled in the air as she looked up at him with a teasing expression. Even at this distance, Cecily could discern the tenderness with which he returned her regard.

There wasn’t any possible way someone could misconstrue what Cecily was seeing. Blood rushed into her cheeks. The most disturbing thing was that she didn’t really feel shock . . . she felt jealousy.

She started to turn away, embarrassed at having unwillingly encroached upon their privacy. But Oakley spotted her and raised his hand in greeting. Without saying a word to Fiona, he bent down and swung her up into his arms. She gave a little shriek, but by then Oakley was already cleaving a path through the thigh-high snow, making his way toward the door where Cecily stood.

A moment later he was standing just below her, showing no inclination to put Fiona on her own feet. “Lady Cecily!” he said, with a broad smile of a sort she had never imagined seeing on the earl’s face.

“Lord Oakley.” She inclined her head, waiting for him to chastise her about her apparel. But it instantly became clear that he did not care, perhaps did not even notice, what she was wearing.

“Good morning, Lady Cecily,” Fiona said with a smile almost as large as Oakley’s. Then she turned and gave the man holding her an entirely unconvincing scowl. “Lord Oakley, will you please set me down?”

“Lady Cecily,” the earl said, setting Fiona on the step just below that on which Cecily was standing, “I would like you to be the first to know that Miss Fiona Chisholm had done me the great honor of agreeing to be my bride.”

He lifted Fiona’s hand and turned it over, bowing to press a swift kiss on the inside of her wrist. Fierce color flooded Fiona’s face, and Cecily caught the burning look she bent on Oakley’s white-gold head.

Due to some alchemy of the heart, Oakley must have sensed Fiona’s regard, for he looked up at her. Their gazes locked for a second, and then she leaned just slightly toward him. He was still standing thigh-high in snow, but he snatched her off the step in a rough embrace and . . .

Oh my!

Uncertain what to do, Cecily cleared her throat. No one paid her any mind. She cleared it again. Louder. Oakley lifted his head at that, his expression irritated. “If you are cold, Lady Cecily, may I suggest that you retire to the sitting room?”

“Byron,” Fiona murmured, “I confess that I am a bit chilled.”

That was all he needed to hear to pull her tightly against him and sweep her up the steps. Fiona had time only to give Cecily an apologetic glance before they were gone.

Amazed by this unexpected turn of events, Cecily picked her way down a narrow path along the castle walls where the snow had drifted back up on itself, forming a little corridor. Apparently, the castle was a veritable Cupid’s bower for lovers. Catriona and Bretton, Oakley and Fiona; why, she’d even seen Ferguson succumb to a romantic impulse and kiss Marilla Chisholm during their game of hide-and-seek.

The only one unaffected by all the carrying on was the famous rake himself, Robin, though she had to admit he’d not been entirely immune to the spell enveloping Finovair. He’d kissed Marilla or, she merely preferred to think, allowed Marilla to kiss him. And he had kissed her. Indeed, he had kissed her most thoroughly. It was just that he showed no signs of wishing to whisk her away to the stables, or sweep her up in his arms, or . . . or marry her.

She halted in her tracks, beset with frustration, and in doing so caught sight of a figure coming round the far end of the castle, heading for the stables. Her eyes widened. It was Robin. He glanced briefly in her direction, but did not pause. He’d apparently mistaken her for some poor stable lad his uncle had tricked out in antique finery in order to impress his guests.

Her gaze followed his progression, his greatcoat swinging from his broad shoulders, the high tops of his leather boots cutting through the snow, one gloved hand holding tight to the leather strap of the satchel slung over his shoulder . . . By God, he was leaving!

He couldn’t leave. How was she to convince him they must marry if he was somewhere else? She had to stop him. But by the time she waded through all that deep snow—which was probably up to her waist—he would be long gone out the stable door at the far end. And if she hailed him, he might not hear, or worse, hear and ignore her.

Frantically, she looked about before being struck by inspiration. Jaw set with determination, she scooped up twin handfuls of heavy moist snow, packing them tightly into a ball, ignoring the biting cold against her fingers. Veteran of hundreds of snowball fights with sharpshooting younger brothers, Cecily worked quickly but painstakingly, because a loose, ill-shaped snowball was an imprecise missile.

Finally, she was satisfied, and none too soon. Robin was almost to the stable doors. She had one chance to stop him.

Offering up a quick prayer, she stepped forward, cocked her arm, and let fly.

The snowball sailed true. Barely an arc altered its swift trajectory as it hurtled unerringly toward her proposed target in the middle of Robin’s back. Except . . . except it slammed into the back of Robin’s head instead and, with an audible thud, burst apart.

For an eerie second, Robin seemed to freeze in mid-stride. Then, slowly, as though time was unfolding in molasses, the satchel slipped from his shoulder, his knees buckled, and he fell face-first into the snow, disappearing from Cecily’s sight.

Her legs were moving before he hit the ground. She bowled into the deep drifts of snow, arms cartwheeling, certain that she had just killed the only man she would ever love.