The Lady Most Willing

Byron clenched his jaw. It wasn’t her fault that he had taken a dislike to being touched since his betrothal fell apart. He wasn’t the sort of man to keep a mistress, and it was something of a shock to realize that he hadn’t been with a woman in months. Not that Opal had touched him in such an intimate fashion, of course.

Marilla was now stroking his neck, which was only slightly less unpleasant than when she touched his face. His repulsion must be some odd response to the dissolution of his engagement.

“Make your guess, Marilla,” her green-eyed sister called, a commanding tone in her voice.

“So who do you think you’ve caught in your arms, lass?” Taran demanded with obvious glee. “Who do you choose?”

“I choose you,” Marilla breathed, so softly that no one except him could have heard her. Then, before he grasped what she meant, she said more loudly, “Of course, we all know there’s only one way to be certain,” and without pause she rose on her toes and brushed his mouth with hers.

Byron reacted reflexively, thrusting her violently away and stepping back. Then, realizing what he’d done, he lunged forward, catching her in his arms as she toppled. “I beg your forgiveness,” he said, carefully placing her back on her feet.

The room had gone silent. Lady Cecily was gazing into a corner, an agonized expression on her face, and the spectacled girl was scowling. Bret had the delighted air of a man realizing that he’d barely escaped a man-eating tiger. Deserting all claims to respectable behavior, the duke dropped a kiss on Catriona’s rosy lips with a distinct air of relief.

“So you should,” Marilla cried with a pout, as she pulled the blindfold from her head. “I could have fallen to the floor and injured myself.” She widened her blue eyes. “Not the action of an English gentleman, Lord Oakley. Nor a Scotsman, either, I assure you.”

She was inarguably right. Byron ground his teeth and swept into an apologetic bow. “I offer my sincere regret. I’m afraid I have had a tendency to startle since I was a boy.”

“This nephew is a nervy type,” Taran said, popping up at his elbow like an evil sprite. “Now, my nephew Robin is a real man, the kind who knows how to keep a woman in his arms, though not on her feet!”

This crude jest was greeted with marked silence by everyone except Marilla, who giggled. Byron held out his arm to her. “May I escort you to the stairs? I’m sure we all feel quite tired after our frivolities.” It was just the sort of sticklike comment his father would have made.

“Damned if you don’t sound older than me,” Taran cackled, as if he’d heard Byron’s thought.

Marilla on his arm, Byron followed her sister through the door. Marilla’s figure showed to exquisite advantage in her evening gown, the high waistline emphasizing her breasts, which were magnificent by any man’s measure.

In contrast, Fiona’s gown was conservative. Her evening gown was a sober blue, with long sleeves, and without even the smallest ruffle to relieve its austerity.

Still, you knew with one look that her breasts were luscious as well. And sensual, and feminine, and all the things that he hadn’t felt or tasted in months. Just because Marilla’s were on display didn’t mean that—

With a start, he wrenched his thoughts back into place. “I’m sorry,” he said, looking down at the bright curls of the girl at his side. “I didn’t hear what you said.”

“I said that the storm is worsening,” Marilla repeated, an edge of disapproval in her voice. Clearly, she was under the impression that he ought to hang on her every word.

He cast her a glance that conveyed a censorious view of her pretensions. That look—he’d been reliably informed—was feared throughout London. Oakley was one of the oldest earldoms in the country, and Byron had learned at his father’s knee not to tolerate impudent and overfamiliar mushrooms.

Marilla didn’t even flinch. She merely patted his arm and dimpled up at him. “But I will forgive you, Lord Oakley. I know you must have any number of very, very serious matters on your mind. Men are so given to that sort of thinking.”

“I do not think it is necessarily a trait of the sex,” came a quiet voice in front of them. Fiona was waiting for her sister at the newel post. “Marilla, it is time that we bid the company good night.”

Marilla did have a very pretty pout. “No, don’t bow again!” she said gaily to Byron, who had no such intention. “We should not be on such terribly formal terms here, don’t you agree?” She pointedly looked behind them. Bret and Miss Burns had made it as far as the drawing room door before they started kissing again. “Obviously,” she added, “at Finovair we are not obligated to adhere to the very, very silly rules that London society requires.”

“Exactly,” Taran chortled, coming up from behind to beam at the girl. “We are all friends here.”

Byron shot him a silent snarl.

“I would contest that,” Fiona stated, putting a hand under her sister’s arm.

Marilla jerked away in a somewhat ill-tempered manner. But her face betrayed nothing but sweetness when she looked back up at Byron. “I think we should all be on familiar