The Lady Most Willing

“Ignominious and yet fascinating,” Fiona remarked, as soon as the sound of her sister’s footsteps had faded completely. Against all reason, she found herself unable to suppress her laughter. “The fabulously rich and powerful Earl of Oakley cowering behind a door, as if the hounds of hell were in hot pursuit. I thought this kind of scene happened only in French farces. And in those, the main characters are already married.”

He strolled forward, his eyes glittering with less-than-suppressed anger. “Your sister,” he stated, “is a threat to every unmarried man in Great Britain.”

“Oh, I doubt that.”

When the earl had first been pointed out to her in a ballroom two years before, she had thought him utterly aloof, in the way of men who are so consumed by their own consequence that they were like ice statues: rigid and cold.

But now his color was heightened. In a man less ferocious, his expression could be deemed an insulted pout.

“Marilla has strong opinions about titles,” Fiona said. “She thinks they improve a man immensely, rather as a vintage does a wine. What did she do to give you such a fright?”

The way Byron glared at her suggested he was prone to murder; she parried it with an even more lavish smile, because it would never do to let him know that all that glowering menace was effective. “One would think that such a big, strong earl as yourself wouldn’t be overcome by fear,” she cooed, “but there’s nothing to be ashamed of. Fear is a natural human emotion.”

One more furious stride, and he was glowering down at her.

He didn’t look frightened: more the opposite. He looked like an enraged beast, roused from a peaceful den by an impudent intruder. Fiona loved it. Her heart sped up, which was utterly perverse.

“Your sister is a menace,” he spat. “Do you have any idea what she did to me? Any idea?”

“No,” Fiona said, tipping back her head in order to see his expression. “I’ve been right here all along. Something lacking sense, no doubt.”

He bared his teeth at her. “I am a calm man.”

“Oh, I can see that,” she said with some enjoyment.

“And I can see that you merely pretend to be a quiet, bookish young lady.”

“Well, I did tell you that I had a bad reputation,” she said, grinning at him the way she smiled only at her closest friends because . . . well . . . this was just so much fun. “But since we both seem to have a hidden dark side, may I say that yours is more interesting? I judged you a chilly aristocrat to the bone, but now you more resemble a barbarian.” She frowned. “Perhaps a barbarian chased by a rhinoceros. Really, what’s the worst Marilla can do to you? There’s no chaperone here to force the two of you to wed simply because of a rash kiss.”

“You think I’m boring and predictable. The sort who would prefer respect to love in matters of marriage.”

Her mouth fell open.

“Don’t you?” He braced his arms on the back of the sofa and leaned over her. The flush of anger in his face was fading, but his eyes were still hawklike. Fiona frowned at him, not sure what she was seeing. Hawklike and wounded?

“Yet even the most liberal gentleman would think it reasonable to avoid a woman who, when her bodice slips to her waist, merely giggles. And what happened thereafter—” He broke off, obviously remembering he was speaking to Marilla’s sister.

“Given our constrained circumstances, we cannot be criticized for wearing ill-fitting garments,” Fiona said, coming to Marilla’s rescue. “Lady Cecily’s clothing is hanging from her like drapes from a narrow window.”

“At least Lady Cecily manages to remain decently covered,” Byron retorted.

“Yet more surprising information about the male sex,” Fiona said. “I was always under the impression that men quite liked a risque glimpse of an ankle and the like.”

“You mock me.”

Fiona couldn’t help it: laughter bubbled out of her, and when he scowled, she found herself practically rolling on the sofa, gasping with laughter until he gave a reluctant smile.

“I’m sorry,” she said, giggling. “I really am. I’ve been indoors too long, obviously. No fresh air.”

“I wish to ask you a question,” Byron said, interrupting. He moved around the sofa to stand in front of the fire, the better to glower at her.

“What happened to the icy earl?” she asked, a last giggle escaping. “I feel as if the fairies stole you and returned with a hot-tempered . . .” She eyed him.

“Hot-tempered what?”

Backlit by the fire, his muscled legs showed to remarkable advantage. Suddenly, he didn’t look like an aristocrat, like an English aristocrat. It was as if he shifted before her eyes, replaced by a big, muscled man emanating a sort of primal heat. And . . .