The Lady Most Willing

He could not help but laugh at that, and she grinned, edging closer once again. “You, though, with your reputation as a bourreau des coeurs, you can offer me invaluable insights: how to know if a gentleman will be faithful and guard my reputation, become a playmate, advisor, and tender lover.”

He would. But how could he say such a thing? Everything about his past refuted that claim. And even if he were, how could he convince her father?

Lord Maycott, it’s true I’ve bedded a fair number of women, but none of them were virgins and none of them were living with their husbands when I slipped under their sheets. All very up-and-up, don’t you agree? And yes, my title was restored by a regime that could just as easily rescind it tomorrow. Still, it’s a title, what? And no, I haven’t any wealth to speak of, but happily, I will inherit this splendid castle, and there are a few rocky acres in Bordeaux that in, oh, a decade or so, may make enough profit to buy a small cabriolet. But in the meantime I daresay we’ll make do with your daughter’s dowry—not that I care about her inheritance. How could you possibly suspect otherwise?

He should have laughed at the thought of it. He should; he couldn’t, had his life depended on it.

“Robin?”

She had no idea what she was asking him. He scraped the hair back from his forehead, looking anywhere but at her.

“Am I wrong, Robin,” she said, “in thinking there is sympathy between us? That even in so short a time, we have recognized in one another a friend?”

He could not resist the appeal in her voice. He looked down at Cecily and instantly became caught in the somber depths of her eyes, her earnest expression.

“If I am wrong, pray, correct me now. I shall not take offense,” she said. “Only be honest with me,” she added, extending her hand.

How could he refuse her? He enveloped her hand in his own.

“You asked my advice. Here it is,” he said. “Choose the gentleman whom your father most approves, a man who can command his respect, and to whom he will be overjoyed to entrust your future.”

The firelight licked at her tresses, turning them into polished mahogany. “My father wants my happiness. He would approve whomever I loved.”

He gave a short, humorless laugh. “I would not wager a single penny on that assumption.”

He was pulling her gently but inexorably closer as he spoke, his body having a will separate from his mind. She showed no signs of resisting. But then, as she herself had said, he was good at this.

Of their own volition, his fingertips traced a path up the gentle valley of her spine to the back of her neck and beneath the heavy knot of hair, scattering the pins holding it in place. Her loosened tresses cascaded down over the backs of his hands, cool as silk and just as fine. A fragrance of lavender and soap, homely and yet incredibly erotic, rose from the unleashed tresses. Without thinking, he leaned closer to breathe in the scent.

She regarded him somberly, the delicate fabric of her blouse shivering with each breath she took. She wet her lips with the tip of her tongue, and his gaze fell on it like a thief on a jewel. In his mind he was tasting her again, plumbing the sweet depth of her mouth.

“He would accept my decision,” she whispered.

His lips curved in a slight smile, distracted by her beauty. “Only if it were the right decision. Take someone like me, for example.”

“What of you?” she asked, her body very still.

“What if someone of my stamp were to approach your father and ask for your hand?”

Her gaze searched his, but he barely noted it, drawing a feather-light stroke along the line of her jaw with the backs of his knuckles. Unable to stop himself, he went further, outlining the plump curve of her lip with his thumb. She trembled. He shifted closer.

“Let us say that some brain fever takes you and you are persuaded by whim or madness that you are in love with someone of my ilk.”

“Let us say that,” she repeated, in an odd voice.

“How would your father react?” He went very, very still, awaiting her answer as though his life depended on it, even though he already knew what it must be.

Her mouth curved in a partial smile, and she drew in her breath on a tiny sob and gave a small, shaky laugh.

“But the point is entirely moot,” she said, eyes sparkling with . . . merriment? “I would never ask my father—”

“There you are!”

Robin’s hands dropped and he fell back a step, feeling as though he’d taken a blow from a battering ram squarely in his chest. Fool. Fool!

“I have been looking everywhere for you!”