Julia James - The Lady Most Willing

He bent down and dropped a swift kiss on her lips, and then another on her damp curls for good measure. She sat as rigid as a statue, not seeming to draw a breath, looking . . . stricken?

“Well, the tone of this gathering has lowered, has it not?” Marilla said shrilly on the other side of Byron. Her voice trembled with fury.

“Marilla,” Fiona whispered.

“I gather I have to protect my sister once again from the illicit lust of ne’er-do-well gentlemen,” Marilla cried, ignoring her plea. “Isn’t it enough that she is branded a whore the length of all Scotland? Must you , Lord Oakley, who has some claim to being a model of propriety, show your contempt for her so openly? Kissing her in an open gathering? When you know perfectly well that a man of your noble heritage would never make her his countess? Shame on you, Lord Oakley, shame on you!”

Byron was so stunned that he stared at Marilla for a moment, registering the cruel gleam of rage in her eyes.

Then he turned, slowly, back to Fiona. Branded a whore? Fiona?

She had turned the color of parchment. As their eyes met, she raised her chin. “I told you repeatedly that I had a reputation. Apparently, you did not believe me.”

“Yes, but did you tell him that your fiancé fell to his death from your bedchamber window?” Marilla shrilled.

At this, Taran threw back his chair and stumped around the table. He reached out a hand and jerked Marilla to her feet. “You and I, lassie, are going to have a good talk, because it’s obvious to all of us that the beauty in your face doesn’t match your heart. You’re acting like a mean-spirited little horror, you are.”

Before Marilla could say another word, he pulled her over to the door, pushed it open, and slammed out into the corridor.

“I’m sorry,” Fiona said to Byron, her beautiful green eyes as grave as a monk’s. “I kept trying to tell you what happened.”

“He fell from your window?” Byron echoed, finally sitting down himself.

He could feel all the joy draining from his body. It felt as if he had turned back to a brass automaton, to the half-dead man he’d been when he arrived in Scotland. His father’s double. Obviously, women were as lustful as his father had warned, even sweet ones from Scotland who smelled like fresh bread and innocence.

There was dead silence around the table. Fiona nodded. “Yes. My fiancé, Dugald, lost his life in a fall. All Scotland knows it. I am sure that our friends at the table will be gracious enough to forget the implications of what you said a moment ago.”

Bending her head, she spread her napkin in her lap.

“I never believed it,” Catriona said with a note of ferocity in her voice, “and neither did my mother. She should know, since she was godmother to Dugald himself. How could a man who was as fat as a distillery pig think to climb a strand of ivy?”

“The window was there, as was the ivy, and unfortunately, so was Dugald,” Fiona said. “Yes, I would like some roast, if you please. Catriona, what games did you play this afternoon?”

Catriona looked as if she wanted to continue her defense, but she succumbed to the pleading expression on Fiona’s face.

Byron endured three more courses without saying another word. Taran strolled back in at length, looking pleased with himself, but Marilla never reappeared. Byron was aware of the warmth of Fiona’s arm next to his, though they never touched, even accidentally. The conversation stumbled along until finally the subject of Robert Burns’s poetry was brought up, which provoked a spirited dispute.

“As full of air as a piper’s bag,” Taran shouted, in response to Catriona’s praise of the poet.

“I rather like the poem about how he’ll love his betrothed until the rocks melt into the sun,” Bretton murmured, looking (of course) at Catriona.

“Until the sands of life run dry,” she whispered back to him, but Byron heard her.

After that, he just sat still, thinking. Really thinking.

If his father weren’t already dead, the thought of a notorious woman becoming the Countess of Oakley would have killed him.

He didn’t know what his mother would think, because after she ran away with his uncle, he never heard from her again.

But the question, obviously, was what did he think?

Fiona was still pale, but she had joined the conversation about Burns. He watched her talk and even laugh when Taran said something particularly outrageous, without ever glancing at him.

He felt as if he’d been given a glimpse of heaven, only to have it torn from his hands. How could he dishonor his ancient name? Breach his father’s memory in such a fashion?

This had been a momentary madness, that’s all.

“You’re mad as May butter!” Taran shouted at Catriona, who was thoroughly enjoying sparring with him, to all appearances.

Not Catriona: him.

He was as mad as May butter.

Chapter 15

Fiona had been humiliated before. Having to sit through a homily on the evils of lust, read at Dugald’s funeral, came to mind. But in its own way, this was worse. She had been in shock during the funeral, and she had gone through it as if in a trance, still not understanding that no one believed her, and that no one ever would.

Now she was older, and thoroughly clearheaded. She would never be able to forget the moment when Byron’s eyes turned cold. His face had gone completely blank, and stayed that way. It was as if he put on a mask, and all there was to be seen was the arrogant, haughty Earl of Oakley, the man whom she saw from afar in English ballrooms.

When supper finally, mercifully, ended, Fiona excused herself and ran up the stairs. She opened the door to the bedchamber to find Marilla sitting on the bed. Acid rose in Fiona’s throat. She couldn’t—she really couldn’t— bear to speak to her sister at the moment.

Without a word, she headed directly for the ancient wardrobe and pulled out the fur-lined cloak she’d worn for the caber-throwing contest. It appeared to be as old as the wardrobe, and could have belonged to Queen Elizabeth herself, but it would keep her warm.

“I’m to apologize,” Marilla said, her voice scratchy from crying. “Taran insists.”

Fiona didn’t even glance over her shoulder. “I accept. I’m going to the carriage to find my reticule. I’m sure it must be there.”

“What are you talking about? You’re going out in the snow?”

“The carriage is in the stables.”

“Just tell a footman to fetch it for you!”

“I would welcome some fresh air. Do go to sleep without me.”

“You cannot do such a stupid thing as walk out into this storm! You’re pouting, Fiona, and it’s a very unpleasant, childish thing to do. I have apologized.”

“There’s a cord that leads from the kitchen to the stables. Mr. Garvie told me about it the first night.” She almost added, So don’t worry about me , but the words died in her mouth. She was tired of pretending that there was something more between them than the potent reek of Marilla’s dislike.

“I truly am sorry I told the earl about Dugald’s death,” her sister said.

Fiona had discovered a pair of gloves that, although ancient and cracked, were lined with fur like the cloak. All that remained was to find something warmer than her slippers to put on her feet. She began poking at the bottom of the wardrobe.

“Are you ignoring what I just said?” Marilla’s voice rose a bit.

Fiona had exhumed something that felt like a sturdy pair of boots; she backed out of the cupboard, straightened, and turned around. Her sister was looking at her with tearstained defiance. “No,” she stated. “It will never be all right with me. Once this accursed storm ends, I shall move to my own house. It will be easier for all of us. Papa can hire a chaperone for your next season.”