out, tossed the fur cape to the side, and crawled forward until his hands were on either side of her shoulders.
She frowned up at him. “You’re not the lord of the manor, you know.” She hiccupped. “The lord of the stable. Don’t think I will kiss you again, because I will not. I’m done with kissing.”
He gazed down at the rose flush in her cheeks, her liquid, slightly hazy eyes, her plump lips, and felt that surge of gladness again. “You’re done with kissing forever?”
“Oh no,” she said, her forehead wrinkling in thought. “I’ve decided to make exceptions.”
“Good,” he said silkily. “You can make one for me.”
“No.” She shook her head. “Only for my Italian lover.”
The hiss that came from between his teeth wasn’t a noise a civilized man would make. “Dugald wasn’t Italian, was he?”
“What? No.” She frowned at him. “Would you mind not crouching over me like some sort of demented housecat grown large?”
Byron dropped to his elbows and, very deliberately, lowered his body onto hers. There was a gasp from her, and a barely stifled groan from him. “There will be no Italian lover,” he said, clenching his teeth so that he didn’t resort to a ridiculous, primitive display of manhood.
“Who are you to say that?” she demanded, her eyes darkening, even as her arms looped around his neck. “You are not my fiance.”
“I know; he’s dead.”
“And ruined me in the process,” she pointed out, yet again.
“Right.” Byron had already decided that he didn’t give a damn about Dugald. If he, the Earl of Oakley, was going to throw over his father’s principles, he was going to do it in style. In other words, he would not only marry the most notorious woman in Scotland (if she was to be believed), but he would never tax his wife with the fact that she came to their bed less than innocent, tarnished by a blackguard fiance with the stupidity to compromise her as he plummeted to his death.
“You really must stop flirting with me.” She scowled at him. “Though this can hardly be called flirting.”
“What is it?” Byron asked, settling his body a bit more firmly on top of hers. All the right parts of him were pressing against the right parts of her.
“Something worse,” she said darkly.
“Or better,” he said, leaning down so he could give her earlobe a little nip.
“I know it doesn’t matter to you, but I’d rather not have everyone think that I’ve dallied with you as well as with Dugald. I’m already next thing to a Babylonian scarlet woman. A Highlands version, of course.”
“That bad?” Her ear was delightful: small and round and feminine.
“I told you that Dugald’s mother crosses the street when she sees me. After spitting.”
“What about the Italian lover?”
“What about him?”
“What’s his name?” Byron asked, keeping his tone easy. He didn’t want her to know that the Italian was about to plunge from his own metaphoric ivy.
“Well, how should I know? I haven’t met him yet.”
A great burst of joy spread through Byron’s chest, so he bent his head to her mouth. She tasted like wine and Fiona, a combination more potent than the strongest whiskey.
“Ach, man,” she whispered, when he slipped away from her lips and kissed a path along her jaw. “Ye do drive me mad, ye truly do.”
“Your burr comes out when you’re drunk,” he whispered back.
“I’m not drunk! I’m a little tipsy, that’s all.”
“And you’ve decided to take an Italian lover?”
She nodded. She seemed not to notice that her hands were exploring his back, each touch making him press more firmly into the cradle of her legs.
“
“I suppose you’re trying to make me think that you’re Italian, rather than the most punctilious earl in all London?”
Byron dropped a careful line of kisses down her neck. “I’m not your Italian lover. I’m your Italian husband.”
Her eyes were closed, but at that she opened one and squinted at him. “Don’t you understand who I am?”
He smiled down at her. “Most scandalous woman in all Scotland. Seducer and killer of an idiot by the name of Dugald. Have I missed anything?”
“Probably not.”
