The Lady Most Willing

through society’s eye and not my own.” His jaw tensed. “As it were, I was speaking of Robin’s insouciance. It’s a pose he’s adopted.”

She waited, hoping he would elaborate, and after a moment, her silence was rewarded.

“Robin’s willingness—or one ought to say willfulness—to undervalue himself invites others to do the same. He inherited a vineyard from his father and through sheer determination he’s wrested it back from the brink of ruination. Within a decade or so it will be producing some of the finest Bordeaux in the world.

“The gossips”—he spat the word—“and tattle tellers and daily rags never mention that, however. The fools only speak of his expertise in other areas. And he encourages it.” He ground out this last bit. “He readily admits not only to those things he has done, but to crimes he has not even committed. Can you think why anyone would do such a thing?”

Good heavens, whatever had become of the ironclad reserve of London’s most famous stone face? She had the odd feeling he was no longer speaking of Robin but something, or someone, else entirely.

She answered, nonetheless. “Perhaps he hopes to preempt the gossips by getting there first, and in doing so at least have the satisfaction of stealing their thunder and, perhaps, avoiding the sting unfounded accusations can bring.”

He regarded her sharply. “You may be right,” he murmured. “Robin is in many ways as fine a man as I would hope to know. But I would be a poor host indeed were I to allow my guests to unintentionally expose themselves to gossip.

“Be careful, Lady Cecily,” he added roughly, but not unkindly. “We have a mutual friend who would never allow his name to be associated, even tangentially, with anything remotely inappropriate. ”

He was talking about Burbett again, warning her that if she dallied with Robin, Burbett would break off his courtship. “You needn’t concern yourself, Lord Oakley. I have no intention of entering into a flirtation with your cousin.”

No. She had other ideas altogether.

“I would never presume such a thing, Lady Cecily,” Oakley said, stiffening once more. “You are obviously not the sort of woman who encourages men to . . .” His lips curled in a snarl that looked more frustrated than enraged. “ . . . to climb the ivy outside their bedchambers.”

She had no idea what he meant by this last, but clearly, it meant something important. She did not wonder for long, however, being wholly caught up in an idea that had taken root with his words.

“Ivy,” she muttered, her brow furrowed in concentration. What man could possibly mistake the intentions of a lady driven to such an act? He couldn’t.

She was thinking metaphorically, of course, but if Robin would not pursue her, then she would simply have to seduce the Prince of Rakes.

Chapter 20

Very early the next morning

The sky was still a deep cobalt paling to orchid on the horizons when Robin began prowling Finovair’s long-abandoned portrait gallery. The storm had passed, and Finovair stood cloaked in heavy white robes, her turrets and tumbled curtain wall shimmering with ice. It was as pretty now as ever it would be or, in all likelihood, ever had been. But Robin barely noted its beauty. His imagination was fixed on quite a different kind of beauty.

Who would have guessed that Lady Cecily Tarleton would prove to be the most dangerous woman in Great Britain? Oh, not to the world at large, but to a very small population of one, she most decidedly was that.

“Were it not so amusing, it would be pathetic,” he murmured, his breath turning to a cloud in the unheated corridor’s frigid air, glad to find his humor restored.

It had gone mostly missing since he’d first seen her, standing before Bretton’s carriage in a pool of torchlight. Snow caught in her lashes, spangled her rich, dark hair like the diadems in fairy queen’s veil, and melted on her rosy cheeks. Subtle bemusement had flickered over the cameo smoothness of her face, a sense of wonder growing in her amber-colored eyes as she looked around for all the world as if abduction were a regular occurrence, and she needed merely to enjoy the interim between theft and rescue.

Having been thrown at birth on the mercy of Fate and Fortune—and having discovered therefore that amused acceptance was the best ally against despair—Robin appreciated the same attitude in another. Especially such a lovely “other.”

When Byron had taken her hand, Robin had realized he had wanted to be the one taking her hand, and since Robin rarely denied himself anything he wanted, especially as he always made certain his wants were well within his means, he had fairly shoved Oakley aside and presented himself. As expected of a rake, he’d made some slightly outre comment and grinned wickedly, anticipating her gasp—de rigueur in such situations—or, possibly, if she was a rompish miss, a snicker.

She hadn’t done either.

She’d looked up at him. A strange, heart-stealing expression of recognition had arisen in her honeyed eyes, and her ripe, luscious lips had parted but not a word escaped