The Lady Most Willing

Marilla glared back. “You want me to marry, if you remember. It’s to your benefit that I leave the house, so that you can have Father all to yourself.”

“And I would remind you that you want to be married,” Fiona replied. “So kindly remember not to gesture too enthusiastically. Your bodice may well lose its claims to propriety.”

“I doubt it.”

“From all I’ve heard, Englishmen like their wives chilly and chaste.”

“That puts you out of the hunt,” Marilla said with a spiteful giggle. “I’m sure they already know all about you and your infamous bedchamber window.”

“Perhaps,” Fiona said. “But it would be better for you if the news doesn’t leak out.”

“You tarnish my reputation just by existing, do you know that?”

“So you have reminded me, many times,” Fiona said, adding, “You sound like a shrew, rather than the docile virgin you should be playing.”

“I am a virgin,” Marilla retorted. “Which is more than I can say for you!” She turned up her nose and flew out the door in a flutter of skirts.

Fiona lingered for a moment to look in the glass.

The clothing she’d found in her wardrobe actually flattered her. She had a figure meant for gowns that hugged her curves in a way that current fashion did not; the tiny velvet balls that adorned the snugly fitted bodice and danced along the curve of her breasts were a particularly nice touch. In fact, she looked better in this gown than she did in her usual garments. She fancied it would draw male eyes to her best features. What’s more, her skirts were a trifle short and revealed her ankles.

Not that anyone showed an inclination to gape at her ankles.

Fiona sighed and made her way down the wide stone steps leading to the great hall. A fire burned in the huge hearth, but the room was as echoing and cold as it had been the previous night. Even the ancient retainers who were knocking about last night seemed to have disappeared.

She hesitated for a moment, wondering where she might find the others, and was moving toward the drawing room door when she heard Marilla’s laughter.

There must be some other room to which she could retreat, perhaps a library or a study; she didn’t want to watch Marilla chase the earl around a sofa. Her sister apparently thought a man who displayed that kind of icy precision would make a complacent husband.

Oakley wouldn’t.

There was something buried and formidable about him, something that made all his control seem a facade. He would not be comfortable. She was sure of that. But she was also sure that if Marilla wanted him, she would take him.

When they were in London, Marilla was hemmed in by society’s strictures. But there was nothing to stop her here, in this isolated castle. Ever since she was a little girl, Marilla had taken whatever she wanted—including Fiona’s toys and Fiona’s clothing. Faced by a little angel with buttery curls, their father had always given in.

Just then Marilla burst out of the drawing room, but the smile dropped from her face the moment she saw Fiona. “Go away!” she hissed. “You’ll ruin everything. This bodice is a trifle chilly, so I’m going to fetch a shawl. Then I’m returning to the card game.”

“I’ll find the library,” Fiona said.

“Just stay in your chamber,” Marilla ordered. “The earl hasn’t come down since luncheon, but he is obviously very punctilious about his reputation. I don’t want him to recall that we’re sisters, in case he knows of your disgrace.”

The laird’s ancient butler emerged from the dining room on the far side of the great hall as Marilla trotted up the stairs. “May I be of assistance, miss?” he asked.

Fiona gave him a warm smile. “Could you advise me as to a room to which I might retire for a spell? The library, perhaps?”

“In there,” he said, nodding at a door. “Nobody goes in but the gentlemen after supper, for a smoke and a bit of brandy. If you don’t mind the smell of dogs and good tobacco, you’ll be comfortable.”

“That sounds perfect,” Fiona said. “You’re my savior, Mr. Garvie, indeed you are.”

“I shouldna be doing it,” Garvie said. “You’re supposed to be marrying the young comte. By all rights, you oughta be in the drawing room with the rest of them. The laird won’t be pleased.”

“I’m not the right one,” she assured him. “Any of the other ladies will make a better mistress of the castle than I. May I beg you to have some tea sent to me, Mr. Garvie?”

Fiona pushed open the door to the library and found it surprisingly cozy, given that the castle ceilings were so high. Its walls were lined with books, and the roaring fire in the fireplace didn’t hurt, either.

This was much better than joining the party in the drawing room, playing some sort of game devised by Marilla to throw herself into the arms of the chilly earl.

She wandered along the shelves, trailing a finger over the leather-covered volumes. Books on crop cultivation, on iron working, on terracing . . .