The Lady Most Willing

fell in love. I cannot wait to tell my friends.”

Byron drew his arm away, while Bret threw him a look that said, clear as day, that Marilla wasn’t going within two miles of the duchy of Bretton. Byron grinned back and then watched the puzzlement grow in Bret’s eyes.

His old friend hadn’t figured it out yet. Hell, he had hardly figured it out. All he knew was that his entire being was tense, waiting for Fiona to get out of that bath and join them at the supper table.

Taran blew in the door, followed by a train of his retainers carrying platters. “Lady Cecily dines in her room,” he said briskly. Robin was nowhere in evidence: he was probably hiding in his room as well. And still there was no Fiona.

The laird sat down and scowled rather unexpectedly at Marilla. “Keep your hands to yourself, lass. Your father wouldn’t approve.”

Byron realized that Marilla had once again curled her hand around his forearm. She gave Taran a lofty smile and didn’t move a finger. Instead, she moved even closer and said in a breathy voice, “Byron, do tell me about your castle.”

“I don’t have one,” he said calmly.

“What a pity,” Marilla said. “But I suppose you could always buy one if you wished.”

“No,” Byron said, catching Bret’s eye. Bret was trying not to laugh and not succeeding very well. “I could not. Castles are far and few between in England.”

Without even glancing at Marilla, he knew she was pouting. “Such a pity! This is the first time I’ve stayed in a castle and I find it very, very charming. It’s so grand . . . so much bigger than most houses.”

Naturally, it’s all about size, Byron thought uncharitably.

“My sister is very retiring,” Marilla informed the company when they reached the second course and the plate to his left was still empty. “She likely lost her courage, and will eat in our bedchamber. Of course we must continue without her. In our household, my father and I often forget that she’s there at all.”

Byron was contemplating what Fiona’s life had been like in company with her relatives, when she walked into the room and began heading around the table to the open chair.

She looked a bit pale, but her greeting was cordial enough. But he didn’t care for “Good evening, Lord Oakley.”

He stood and pulled the chair out for her. “I thought we agreed that you would not address me as Oakley,” he said to her, ignoring the conversations that had started around the table.

Not that anyone ignored his statement. Even Marilla’s semiflirtatious conversation with Taran—the woman seemed incapable of conversation that was not suggestive—halted in mid-sentence.

Fiona had just seated herself; she froze and turned a little pink. Her hair was slightly damp from her bath, and enchanting pin curls framed her face. Bret looked swiftly from her face to Byron’s and then leaned over to whisper something to Catriona. There was a huge grin on his face.

Byron just wanted to make it all clear. He was possessed of the happiest emotions of his life, and even though the object of his happiness looked stunned, he was bent on sharing them. Could she really believe that he would kiss her—the way he had kissed her—and mean nothing by it?

He bent down and dropped a swift kiss on her lips, and then another on her damp curls for good measure. She sat as rigid as a statue, not seeming to draw a breath, looking . . . stricken?

“Well, the tone of this gathering has lowered, has it not?” Marilla said shrilly on the other side of Byron. Her voice trembled with fury.

“Marilla,” Fiona whispered.

“I gather I have to protect my sister once again from the illicit lust of ne’er-do-well gentlemen,” Marilla cried, ignoring her plea. “Isn’t it enough that she is branded a whore the length of all Scotland? Must you, Lord Oakley, who has some claim to being a model of propriety, show your contempt for her so openly? Kissing her in an open gathering? When you know perfectly well that a man of your noble heritage would never make her his countess? Shame on you, Lord Oakley, shame on you!”

Byron was so stunned that he stared at Marilla for a moment, registering the cruel gleam of rage in her eyes.

Then he turned, slowly, back to Fiona. Branded a whore? Fiona?

She had turned the color of parchment. As their eyes met, she raised her chin. “I told you repeatedly that I had a reputation. Apparently, you did not believe me.”

“Yes, but did you tell him that your fiance fell to his death from your bedchamber window?” Marilla shrilled.

At this, Taran threw back his chair and stumped around the table. He reached out a hand and jerked Marilla to her feet. “You and I, lassie, are going to have a good talk, because it’s obvious to all of us that the beauty in your face doesn’t match your heart. You’re acting like a mean-spirited little horror, you are.”

Before Marilla could say another word, he pulled her over to the door, pushed it open, and slammed out into the corridor.