The Lady Most Willing

“No, yer problem is keeping her, once you’ve proposed,” his uncle scoffed.

The lovers had finally drawn apart, but Bret still held Catriona’s hands in his, and was looking down at her with such an adoring expression that Byron felt a true pulse of envy. He hadn’t deluded himself that either he or his former fiancee, Lady Opal Lambert, had felt that sort of feverish entanglement, but it was a bruise to his vanity to think that Opal wanted someone other than himself to the point of not caring about scandal.

“One more round of blindman’s buff,” his uncle called, surging forward. “Marilla, tie that blindfold back on. Now where’s Robin got to?”

“Robin left the room a good hour ago, when the blindfold first made its appearance,” Byron pointed out. He was rethinking his lifelong policy of courtesy. Why shouldn’t he simply retire to his room and stay out of the fray, the way Robin had done?

“Dang and balderdash,” Taran muttered. “How does that lad think he’ll catch himself a wife if he can’t even stay put for an evening?” He started barking out orders. Bret, Catriona, and the rest of the guests reluctantly, but obediently, gathered around Marilla again.

The lady was looking distinctly irritated. She had made it obvious that she hoped to lure Bret into the parson’s mousetrap, so she must be vexed that her overly intimate patting of his chest had led to his marriage proposal—to another woman.

But she smiled prettily enough when Taran handed the blindfold to Catriona so that she could cover Marilla’s eyes. “Lord Oakley,” she called, “you simply must join us. This children’s game won’t be at all fun without you.”

Byron stepped forward and Taran scuttled into place beside him.

“She’s up for anything,” his uncle whispered approvingly. “Blast Robin for leaving the room. Here I got him a lively one with a sweet fortune, and he flees like a sheep at its first shearing.”

“She’s an impudent baggage,” Byron said, taking advantage of the fact that Marilla was surrounded by giggling young ladies adjusting her blindfold and couldn’t hear him. “Didn’t you see how outrageously she behaved with the duke?”

“You are turning into a proper antidote,” his uncle snapped, rounding on him. “A pompous, self-righteous turnip! I heard about what you did to your betrothed, merely because she gave a buss to her dancing master. Likely she meant it no more than as a matter of courtesy, and you ruined her reputation for it.”

Rage swelled in Byron’s chest. He had found his fiancee bent backward over a sofa, one slender leg wrapped around her dancing master’s thigh. If that kiss represented the standard expression of appreciation for a dance, there would be far more men capering about English ballrooms. “I will never allow a strumpet to become Countess of Oakley,” he replied frigidly. “As for her reputation, I never mentioned the kiss; it was she who told her father all.”

“That’s the English for you,” his uncle said, looking disgusted. “A Scotswoman knows to keep such matters to herself. Though ’tis true Scotswomen have no need to stray. One kilt can keep a woman warm all winter long.”

Byron looked away from his uncle and met the eyes of the girl who wore spectacles. Fiona, he thought her name was. Her disdainful expression implied she’d overheard their conversation. He tightened his jaw; he didn’t care what she thought.

He wouldn’t choose a wife from this assembly if someone paid him. In fact, he’d just as soon never return to Finovair again. Next week, he would travel back to London, and in time he would marry a woman who possessed the proper respect for both her person and his title.

A second later he came to the discomforting realization that the emotion in Fiona’s eyes wasn’t disdain. In fact, it looked like pity. Damn.

“Turnip!” his uncle repeated, stamping off to the other side of the circle.

Byron took a deep breath. The game had begun, and one glance told him that the blindfolded girl was heading in his direction, arms outstretched. Presumably, he too was about to be patted down. But in his case, no young lady would leap to his rescue.

Marilla’s giggles were breathy and uninhibited. She sounded like the type of woman who would throw herself into the arms of any man with a gift for capering.

But he stood rigidly still. It wouldn’t be polite to back away from her; the group was watching and laughing, as always seemed to happen during absurd games like this. Taran, for one, was clapping like an organ-grinder’s monkey. She was coming closer and closer . . . He would wager anything that Marilla could see through that blindfold. She was heading straight toward him with as much single-minded purpose as a child who spies a sweetmeat.

He wasn’t the only one who had realized that Marilla was cheating. Fiona had a distinct scowl on her face as she watched her sister’s antics. Even given her spectacles, he could see that she had eyes the color of a dark Scottish forest, the kind that stretches for miles and miles.

Then a fragrant, soft bundle tumbled against him and began laughingly patting him, not on his chest, but his face.

“Oh, I think I know who this is!” Marilla cooed. “Such a resolute chin and powerful brow could only be one man . . .” She burst into a storm of giggles. “And now I must beg forgiveness from the rest of you. Of course, every one of the gentlemen in the room has a strong chin. But this nose . . .’tis a Roman nose.”