On the other hand, his person could easily be the subject of poetry. From the top of his ice-blond head to the toes of his perfectly shined boots, he was flawless. Even in the width of his shoulders and the clear blue of his eyes.
He had finished his crumpet, so he picked up the pitcher and poured hot cider into her empty teacup.
“Brandied cider,” she said happily. “What a perfect drink for an afternoon such as this.”
“It’s not afternoon; it must be going on six in the evening,” Byron said, pouring himself a mug. “At any rate, I could write poetry if I wished.” Stubbornness echoed in every word.
She eyed him. “Are you this competitive in every aspect of your life?”
“It is not competitive to understand that poetry presents very little challenge. A rhyme here or there is hardly problematical.” He tossed back his cider.
Fiona thought precisely the opposite, but she kept prudently silent. It had just occurred to her that he might have had a rather sad childhood. Still, thinking that an earl—a man immersed in privilege and luxury—could have been neglected was absurd. She was mistaking innate arrogance for something else.
“Did your governess teach you the fine art of writing lyrics?” he asked, reaching past her toward the plate of crumpets. “Or were you sent to school?” His lips had taken on a buttery shine. If she had the nerve—and life were completely different—she would kiss him just there, on the bow of his lower lip.
Snow was dashing itself against the windows, and the library felt like a very warm, very snug nest. “We were largely raised by a nanny and a governess,” she told him. “We had different mothers, but unfortunately, neither survived past our early years. My governess was not poetical, to the best of my memory.”
“Mine felt that nursery rhymes were poor substitutes for biblical verses,” the earl said.
“That sounds . . . tedious,” Fiona said honestly.
He nodded. “I think it would have been better had I a sibling. I would have guessed that Marilla was spoiled. ‘Too pretty for her own good,’ my nanny would have said.”
“Did your nanny say that of you?”
“I’m not pretty,” he said, reaching for the last crumpet.
“Please save at least
“Oh, I don’t know,” he replied. To her surprise, there was a wicked amusement in his eyes. “I’m sure Marilla would say I should eat them all, the better to protect your waistline.”
“Beast,” she said, but without heat. His gaze made it perfectly clear that he thought her waistline was fine as it was. In fact, that was probably the kind of carnal look that her father thought she’d given Dugald. She hadn’t. Ever.
“I wouldn’t want us to quarrel over crumpets,” Bryon said, a glimmer of a smile at one corner of his mouth. Then he did something that she would never in a million years have expected: he held the crumpet up to her lips.
She looked at him.
“Open your mouth and take a bite,” he ordered.
He watched her lips so intently that she felt a curl of heat in her stomach. He couldn’t truly be attracted to her.
Not that it mattered. At the moment he knew next to nothing about her past, yet all too soon he would. But then . . . his eyes met hers as she took the bite, and the curl of heat grew a little more intense.
It was as though they were having two completely distinct, yet simultaneous conversations. It was most disconcerting.
“Marilla was a beautiful infant,” she told him, unable to think what else to say. He took a bite of her crumpet, still watching her intently. “The adoration her curls inspired wasn’t terribly good for her.”
“I suppose it led her to believe that she was the most endearing child in the Highlands, as opposed to the most willful.” He held out the crumpet again.
“Lord Oakley,” she asked with some curiosity, “do you feel that you might have a fever?”
“Absolutely not.”
“You seem to be acting out of character. Do you think your friends would recognize you if they could see you now?”
“Of course they would.”
She hesitated. “You do know that Marilla and I attended the London season the last two years?”
A slight frown creased his brow. “Will you eat this crumpet, or shall I finish it?”
She accepted what little remained of the crumpet and finished it in two bites. Butter dripped onto the back of her hand, and without thinking she licked it off. Their eyes met again, and the warmth in her stomach spread to her legs.
