The Lady Most Willing

“Remember,” Marilla lectured him with mock severity, “You must make us pay very, very steep prices for those things we wish to secure.”

“I understand,” he said. “Let us begin.”

He went over to the table and picked up Fiona’s spectacles. “Here we have nothing less than a piece of magic. Nineteenth-century glass, I believe, rumored to allow its wearer to detect the very nearly imperceptible.”

“How so?” Bretton called out, looking vastly amused.

“Why,” Robin said, “legend has it that the current owner was even able to discern the heart beating beneath the wooden effigy of a certain earl.”

At this Bretton burst out laughing and Oakley joined him.

“Well, as they are magic, how can I resist?” Oakley said. “I will offer my boots for them.”

“Boots?” Robin scoffed. “Magic comes at a far greater price than a pair of Hoby boots, sir. Who else will bid?”

“As their current owner I must insist they are returned to me, for I am not done yet with my perusal of that earlish effigy you mentioned. I am convinced there is a great deal more yet to discover, and I am well and truly committed to the endeavor.”

“I applaud your commitment, Miss Chisholm, but what forfeit will you give?”

“A kiss!” Taran shouted.

Robin grinned wolfishly at Fiona, who looked away, flustered. “Aye,” he said. “A kiss might buy these spectacles. But whom should she kiss? I would, of course, suggest myself, but I would hate it to be said that I took unfair advantage of the situation.”

“Since when?” Oakley demanded.

“The lass can kiss me!” Taran suggested magnanimously.

“Miss Marilla said the price must be high, not extortionate,” Robin said, winning more laughter. “No, there’s nothing for it, but that she must kiss Oakley to retrieve her glasses.”

Oakley wasted no time in seeing that Fiona’s glasses were returned. He surged to his feet, catching Fiona by the hand and hauling her into a tight embrace. Cecily glanced away; the passion in their kiss made her heart ache.

When Oakley finally released her, Robin shook his head. “Coz, you really must learn to attend. She was to kiss you. Not vice versa.”

At once, Fiona stretched on her tiptoes, clasped Oakley’s face between her hands, pulled his head down, and planted a hearty buss upon his mouth. “Satisfied?” she asked, with an unexpected note of coquetry in her voice.

“My dear, alas, I am in no position to answer,” Robin replied rakishly. “That is a question for Oakley.”

Cecily’s heart thudded dully in her chest. She wanted a lifetime of Robin’s roguish smiles and unaffected humor, his teasing laughter and warmth.

Next, he picked up the watch and fob. “What am I to make of this? Is it one or two pieces?”

“It is two pieces that must perforce be bought together,” Marilla explained.

Robin snorted derisively. “One need not guess whose idea this was. You always seemed to me a possessive sort, Bret.”

“Always,” the duke agreed amiably.

“And I suspect any attempt to outbid you would be futile.”

“Entirely,” Bretton agreed. “You might ask Miss Burns to offer a kiss.”

“No. I don’t think my sensibilities could tolerate another such exhibition,” Robin said.

“I’ll bid a dance. A dance with the comte,” Marilla said, standing up as though Robin’s acceptance were a foregone conclusion.

The little group broke into a smattering of approving applause.

Cecily did not think she could bear to watch Marilla in Robin’s arms. “I will bid a dance, also,” she said. “With the laird of Finovair.”

This met with even greater approval. Soon, everyone was bidding against one another, the antics growing ever greater. At one point, Taran even bid to waltz with Hamish, sending the entire company into gales of hilarity. Bretton finally announced he would throw himself on the altar of ignominy in order to spare the ladies so haunting a spectacle, and recite Lord Byron’s latest poem in order to win the bid.

Robin awarded him the auction, and Bretton rose to his feet and proceeded to recite . . . something. Just what it was would forever after be the subject of much debate, but whatever it was, it most decidedly was not written by Byron. There were naiads in it and a few fauns, a character named Despot, and a whole gaggle of talking swans. And it was set in some country that rhymed with “puce.”

The rest of the auction went much the same, everyone seeming to have a grand good