The Lady Most Willing

a time to come up with a single attribute about me that might attract a young lady such as your sister, apart from my title, of course.”

Fiona ignored this. “Marilla would make a perfect countess.”

“I beg to disagree.”

She persisted. “Yes, she would.” She raised a finger to enumerate. “She’s an heiress. You do know that land isn’t entailed here in Scotland, don’t you? She will inherit my father’s entire estate, and it is considerable.”

“Your father bequeathed her everything? What about you? Don’t you have a dowry?”

“I have my own fortune from my mother,” Fiona said. “My father had no need to provide a dowry.”

There was a gleam in his eye that made her frown.

“Money is not everything,” she pointed out. “I’m not eligible for marriage, at least not to anyone like yourself. I have already told you of my reputation, though Taran must have forgotten about it when he scooped up his potential brides. To return to the matter at hand.” She raised a second finger. “Marilla is not only an heiress, but she’s very beautiful.”

“Beauty is in the eye of the beholder,” the earl said promptly.

She cast him a glance. She couldn’t imagine the person who would judge him less than beautiful, and that went double for Marilla.

“Don’t you agree, Miss Chisholm, or may I call you Fiona?” the earl said, leaning toward her. His eyes were rather warm. “I think Fiona is a lovely name.”

“I wouldn’t know about beauty,” she said with some severity. “I wear spectacles, as you see. That keeps me from drawing conclusions about people based on something as shallow as their appearance. But I am aware that a gentleman would like to take that into account, and I can assure you that Marilla is one of the most beautiful young ladies in all Scotland. And England as well, from what I’ve seen,” she added, somewhat recklessly.

“Your sister is like a hound in full-blooded chase after a fox. In that metaphor, I am the fox,” he stated.

Fiona shut her eyes for a moment. “She is young. And as I said, she’s wild about titles. Just wild about them.”

“Wild?” His face said it all.

“I assure you that the phrase is used in the most polite households. Miss Austen uses it several times.” She opened the book and found the relevant paragraph in a moment. “ ‘The girls were wild for dancing.’ ”

“Wildness is not a trait I am looking for in my bride.”

“I expect you are not looking for a wild girl,” Fiona said, trying to sound conciliatory. “But if you wouldn’t mind a bit of plain speaking, after the unfortunate affair of the dancing master, the trait that you truly want is an understanding of propriety. Marilla wouldn’t kiss a servant if she were at the point of death. She understands her own worth. I’m her sister, and I should know. That is, I do know.”

“I am not interested in her behavior once married.”

Fiona nodded. There was no hope for Marilla; one had only to take a look at Byron’s stony countenance to know that. “I will tell her.” Honesty compelled her to reiterate, “But she won’t listen to me.”

“Why not? In the absence of your parents, she should pay respect to you.”

“You have no siblings, so I gather you have no idea how ignorant that assumption is.”

“I do not wish to quell her natural spirits. She is quite beautiful, sportive, and charming.”

Fiona flipped open her book. She’d had enough talking about Marilla for the day, and besides, if the earl thought her sister was that charming, he’d probably end up married to her, whether he wished to or no. “I completely understand,” she said, glancing down. “I will inform her that you prefer that she offer no more kisses, and that she keep her bodice firmly in place.”

A moment later she was immersed again in the story, bent on ignoring the man sitting at the other end of the sofa . . . except he did not stir. “I thought you were leaving,” she said finally, peering at him over her spectacles.

“I have been watching you instead.”

“A tiresome occupation,” Fiona observed.

“You mean it, don’t you? Your sister will pay no heed to an admonishment from you.”

Having already been unduly honest, Fiona saw no reason to prevaricate now. “It could be that your absence from the drawing room has turned her attention to someone else . . . the Comte de Rocheforte, perhaps.”

“It is my impression that Rocheforte is looking elsewhere.”

Fiona raised an eyebrow. “Really? That’s quite interesting.”

“He’s my cousin,” Byron explained. “I know him better than any other person in the world. He pretends to be a care-for-nothing, but in fact, he has a great affection for this place. However, without an estate, he cannot afford it, so he acts as if