The Lady Most Willing

now. He had the nerve to drag me from the dinner table and lecture me on nice behavior.”

Robin was frankly astonished because Taran was the last person to whom one would apply the definition of “nice behavior.”

“He was most unpleasant to me.”

“That’s because he is most unpleasant,” Robin said. “But what are you doing here, Miss Marilla? Looking for your sister?”

“Good heavens, no. She’s off somewhere in a snit,” Marilla said dismissively then smiled, sidling closer. “You aren’t offended by my concern for my reputation, are you? A lady is nothing without her reputation. Take Fiona—” She stopped suddenly, her hand once more flying to cover her mouth, feigning shock at her near indiscretion.

“Alas, tempting as that is, I must decline,” Robin said.

“Oh.” Marilla frowned, her hand falling away. “Oh! That was a very naughty thing to say, wasn’t it?”

“Again, my pardon.”

Marilla tapped his chest playfully, then let the tap become a caress, pleating his shirt’s placket between her fingers. “But then, you are a very, very naughty man, aren’t you?” Her fingers snuck beneath his buttons to find bare flesh beneath.

The poor thing was so obvious it was almost endearing. Almost. Clearly, Marilla must be doubting her ability to bring Byron to heel and was hedging her bets. He supposed he ought to be flattered she even considered him a possible matrimonial candidate.

“My dear Miss Chisholm,” he said, clasping her busy hand and pulling it away from his person, “ ‘naughty’ though I undoubtedly am, I am not so far gone to propriety that I would take advantage of you or in any manner whatsoever importune you.” He smiled to take the sting out of his next words. “Let alone compromise you.”

She had been in the process of working her free hand back beneath his shirt but now she froze, pouting. “You wouldn’t?”

Trying to maintain a grave countenance, he shook his head.

“Why not?” she burst out, her expression clouding with vexation.

“Because then I would be obliged to wed you.”

“Well, yes. Of course,” she said, rolling her eyes. “That’s how this sort of thing works. What of it?”

Good God, had she an ounce of intelligence the girl would be terrifying. “You don’t want to marry me.”

“Well, not initially,” she admitted. “You weren’t my first choice. You haven’t any money and you aren’t even a real count, being only a French comte—and I must say I think it most shoddy that you go about letting decent people labor under the assumption that you are a real count, but I shall let that pass.”

“I appreciate your forbearance.”

She sniffed. “I mean, really, how could you be my or anyone’s first choice, especially since there’s both a real duke and a real earl available?”

“But of course, I couldn’t be.”

A sly look came into her round blue eyes. “But then I realized how much I would like being chatelaine of my very own castle, especially one I could redecorate to my very own liking. So . . . I have the money; you have the castle. And we are in Scotland. All we are in want of is a pair of witnesses.”

He took it back. Even without intelligence, she was terrifying.

“What can I possibly say? You honor me unduly.” And in truth, she did. He really ought to consider what was being offered. She was a better match than any to which he had the right to aspire. But then, he remembered with heartfelt relief, he had no aspirations. “Am I to take it neither Bretton nor Byron have come up to scratch?”

She eyed him, clearly considering whether to lie, but apparently decided that either he would not be gulled or it wasn’t worth her effort. “Yes. I mean no. Not yet.”

By God, he should marry her if only because such indiscriminate ambition surely deserved to be rewarded. Except . . . except . . . Cecily. What a fool he was. What a ridiculous, pathetic creature. He burst out laughing.

She scowled. “Are you laughing at me?”

“No. I am laughing at myself. Though I am flattered by your kind interest, I am afraid I cannot make you the sort of offer you want.”

At this, she drew back, and for a moment, Robin was afraid he was about to be slapped. It had happened a few times before under similar circumstances—young virgins with a fancy to taste some forbidden fruit—so he recognized the signs: her beautiful face grew thunderous; her brows snapped together; her lower lip thrust out. But then, abruptly, the anger vanished and she shrugged. She edged closer, her hands once more dancing up his chest. “How do you know?” she purred. “I may be more open to suggestions than you expect.”

And with that, she lifted herself up on her tiptoes and planted a kiss full on his