Julia James - The Lady Most Willing

Catriona’s stomach clenched, and all of a sudden she realized that everyone was looking at her. With pity. With shock. With—

She looked at Bret’s face, terrified at what she might find there.

She looked at Bret’s face, and she saw . . .

John .

John Shevington, the man with whom she’d fallen crazily, spectacularly, and apparently quite publicly in love.

He would never be the Duke of Bretton to her again. He would never even be Bret. He would always be John. Her John. Even if they never saw each other again, if he left Finovair and refused to ever take another step in Scotland, he would be her John. She would never be able to think of him as anything else.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered. Because she’d made such a scene. Because now everyone was looking at him, and he was going to be forced to save the situation, to find a way to laugh it all off.

Because she couldn’t. It was taking her every ounce of strength not to burst into tears then and there.

“No,” he whispered. “Don’t be sorry.”

She swallowed, then looked down at their hands. When had he taken her hands in his?

“You are magnificent,” he said.

Her lips parted in surprise.

And then he smiled. One corner of his mouth tilted up, and he looked so boyish, so handsome, so just plain wonderful, that she thought her heart might burst.

He dropped to one knee.

Catriona gasped.

Marilla gasped even louder. “He is not proposing to her!”

“He is,” John said with a smile. And then he looked up, right into Catriona’s eyes. “Catriona Burns, will you do me the indescribable honor of becoming my wife?”

Catriona tried to speak, but her words tangled and tumbled in her throat, and finally, all she could do was nod her head. But she nodded with everything she had, and finally, when she realized that tears were running down her face, she whispered, “Yes. Yes, I will.”

John reached into his pocket and pulled out an ancient ring. She stared at it for a moment, mesmerized by the delicate etching on its sapphire center. “But this is yours,” she finally said. She had seen it on his finger. On his pinkie. She hadn’t even realized that she’d noticed this about him.

“I am lending it to you,” he said, his voice trembling as he slid it onto her thumb. Then he lifted her hand and kissed it, right where the gold touched her flesh. “So that you may keep it safe for our son.”

“Kiss her!” someone yelled.

John smiled and stood.

“Kiss! Kiss! Kiss!”

Catriona’s lips parted with shock as he drew her close. “Right here? In front of ev—”

It was the last thing she said for quite some time.

Chapter 9

One could hardly say that there was adequate documentation on the matter, but Byron Wotton had always taken hell to be a fiery proposition.

He was wrong. Hell was obviously freezing, decrepit, and located in the Scottish Highlands. What’s more, it was ruled not by Beelzebub, but by an uncle with a fiendish sense of humor and not a single gentlemanly instinct to his name.

Byron had been watching, dumbfounded, as his old friend the Duke of Bretton declared everlasting love for a woman he’d met practically five minutes before, when Taran—alias Chief Tormenter—pulled him to the side.

“I hope ye’re taking some lessons from that English booby,” his uncle hissed.

Byron was watching the besotted look on his friend’s face as he gazed into Catriona Burns’s eyes. It gave him a queer feeling. Not that he could imagine himself in the grip of an emotion of that sort.

“What are you talking about?” he said, looking away as the duke drew his new fiancée into his arms. Actually, he could only assume they were affianced; he hadn’t heard her whispered answer to Bret’s proposal.

Given the way he was embracing Miss Burns, though, it must have been in the affirmative. It was truly odd. Byron knew damned well that the duke hadn’t any plans for marriage. Bret had confided only last summer that he planned to marry at the ripe age of thirty-five, and he was still a good six years from that milestone.

But now . . .

“Did you hear me?” Taran barked at his shoulder. “I gave you nevvies a chance to do the wooing that you don’t have ballocks to do yourselves, and yet you’ve let an Englishman steal a march on you.”

Byron scowled at him. “I have all the balls needful. And may I point out that you’re a single man yourself, Uncle, but you haven’t done a bit of wooing in the last decade or so that I’ve noticed.”

“I’m too old to put up with a woman.”

“More likely one wouldn’t put up with you.”

“No man in his fifties should be asked to make the sacrifice!”

“You’re only a year or two into that decade,” Byron pointed out.

“I’m a widower,” Taran said piously. “Kept your aunt’s memory in my heart, I have.”

Byron snorted. No woman in her right mind would accept the old scoundrel.

“Back to the point,” his uncle persisted. “You’ve lost one heiress already. You know what they say: as you grow older, yer balls grow colder.”

“You are being manifestly rude, Uncle.” He glanced back over his shoulder. Bret and Catriona were still locked in each other’s arms.

“Thank the Lord, he’s too much of a fool to realize that Catriona Burns doesn’t have tuppence to her name,” Taran muttered. “Her da will be kissing my feet for last night’s work, I’ll tell you. Burns would have danced a jig if she’d landed the second son of a baronet, let alone a duke. And he can’t say I didn’t try to chaperone the two of them.”

“Be quiet!” Byron hissed. He’d known the duke since they were both boys, and though Bret was easygoing to a fault, Byron had the firm conviction that no one would ever be allowed to insult his wife without being beaten within an inch of his life.

“As I was saying before,” his uncle said, mercifully abandoning that topic, “I’m giving you two every opportunity to snatch up yer brides, same as that Englishman done. Blindman’s buff seems to be working. I’ll make certain we play it every night. You lads are so lily-livered that you need the help of a blindfold.”

“I do not need help choosing a wife, from you or a blindfold,” Byron responded, keeping his voice even.

“No, yer problem is keeping her, once you’ve proposed,” his uncle scoffed.

The lovers had finally drawn apart, but Bret still held Catriona’s hands in his, and was looking down at her with such an adoring expression that Byron felt a true pulse of envy. He hadn’t deluded himself that either he or his former fiancée, Lady Opal Lambert, had felt that sort of feverish entanglement, but it was a bruise to his vanity to think that Opal wanted someone other than himself to the point of not caring about scandal.

“One more round of blindman’s buff,” his uncle called, surging forward. “Marilla, tie that blindfold back on. Now where’s Robin got to?”

“Robin left the room a good hour ago, when the blindfold first made its appearance,” Byron pointed out. He was rethinking his lifelong policy of courtesy. Why shouldn’t he simply retire to his room and stay out of the fray, the way Robin had done?

“Dang and balderdash,” Taran muttered. “How does that lad think he’ll catch himself a wife if he can’t even stay put for an evening?” He started barking out orders. Bret, Catriona, and the rest of the guests reluctantly, but obediently, gathered around Marilla again.

The lady was looking distinctly irritated. She had made it obvious that she hoped to lure Bret into the parson’s mousetrap, so she must be vexed that her overly intimate patting of his chest had led to his marriage proposal—to another woman.