Julia James: The Lady Most Willing

“There’s a fire in the drawing room,” Lord Oakley said, hurrying everyone along. It was difficult to believe that he was related to Taran; they looked nothing alike, and as they passed the candlelit sconces, Catriona could see that Lord Oakley’s features were uncommonly stern and severe.

As opposed to Mr. Lord Rocheforte, who had one of those faces that looked as if it didn’t know how not to smile. He was chuckling as they made their way through the cavernous great hall, although Catriona did hear him say to the duke, “Oh, come now, Bret, surely you see the humor in this.”

Catriona pricked up her ears, but she didn’t hear “Bret’s” response. She didn’t dare steal a glance at the duke, not when they were all in such close proximity. There was something about him that made her feel uneasy, and it wasn’t just the fact that he was certainly the highest-ranking individual to whom she had ever been introduced.

Except she hadn’t been introduced to him. She’d only watched him from across the Maycott ballroom, as had the rest of the local peons. The Earl of Maycott was one of the richest men in England, and heaven only knew why he had wanted his own Scottish castle, but want it he had, badly enough to spend a fortune restoring Bellemere to a level of magnificence that Catriona was fairly certain it had never enjoyed, even when it was in its supposed glory.

Once the work was completed, the Maycotts had decided to hold a ball, inviting a few of their London friends but, for the most part, the local gentry. Only so that their first annual Icicle Ball would be a crush.

Or at least that was what the local gossips said. And while Catriona knew better than to believe everything she heard, she always listened.

The Chisholm daughters had been brought to meet the duke, of course. They were heiresses, quite possibly the only heiresses this corner of Scotland had ever seen, and they’d each had a season in London. But not Catriona. Her father was a local squire, and her mother was the daughter of a local squire, and as Catriona fully expected one day to marry a local squire, she didn’t see much sense in begging an introduction to the visiting aristocracy.

Until .

Catriona still wasn’t sure how she had come to be snatched up along with Lady Cecily and the Chisholm daughters, but she’d been the first to be tossed into the carriage. She’d landed squarely atop the duke, who responded first with a snore, and then with a frisky hand to her bottom.

Then he’d called her Delilah and started nuzzling her neck!

She’d jumped away before she could dwell upon the fact that it all felt rather nice, and then the duke had fallen back asleep.

Someone, Catriona had decided acerbically, had got into the Maycotts’ good brandy.

Catriona had only a minute alone with the sleeping duke before the other three ladies were tossed into the carriage, and then he had woken up. She shuddered to think how much brandy he’d have had to drink to sleep through that . Marilla was shrieking, Lady Cecily was banging on the ceiling with her fist, and Fiona was yelling at Marilla, trying to get her to shut up.

Sisters the Chisholm girls might be, but there had never been any love lost there.

The duke had tried to get everyone to be quiet, but even he wasn’t able to break through the din until he bellowed, “Silence!”

It was at that moment that Catriona realized that the other ladies had not yet noticed he was in the carriage. Lady Cecily’s jaw dropped so fast Catriona was surprised it stayed hinged. And Marilla—good Lord, but Catriona had never liked Marilla—she had been immediately tossed onto his lap by a nonexistent bump in the road.

He had not, Catriona had noticed with some satisfaction, responded by squeezing her bottom.

She wasn’t certain how long they’d been trapped in the swiftly moving carriage. Ninety minutes at least, perhaps two hours. Long enough for the duke to announce that no one was to utter a sound until they arrived at their godforsaken destination. Then he went back to sleep.

Or if not sleep, then a crackingly good imitation of it. Even Marilla had not dared to disturb him.

But whatever good sense Marilla possessed had fled when she’d stepped out of the carriage, because now she was chattering to the duke like an outraged magpie, clutching his arm—his arm!—as she went on about “shocking” this and “insupportable” that.

The duke gave a little tug, but Marilla had no intention of releasing her prey, and he gave up. Catriona could only think that he’d decided the heat of her hand was worth the annoyance.

Catriona couldn’t fault him for that. She’d have cuddled up to Marilla just then if it meant raising her temperature a few degrees. The only people who didn’t seem to be shivering madly were Taran’s two nephews, who, it had to be said, were almost as pleasing to the eye as the duke, and not the sort of men one would think would need to have women snatched from a party.

Then again, Taran Ferguson was as eccentric as the summer day was long. And the last time she’d seen him he’d been going on about the fate of Finovair after he was dead and in the ground, so she supposed she shouldn’t be too surprised that he’d go to such lengths to secure brides for his nephews.

Lord Oakley led the entire crowd into a small sitting room off the great hall. It was shabby but clean, just like most of Finovair, and most importantly, there was a fire in the grate. Everyone rushed forward, desperate to warm his limbs.

“We’ll need blankets,” Oakley directed.

“Got some in that trunk,” Taran replied, jerking his head toward an ancient chest near the wall. His nephews went to retrieve them, and soon they were passing the blankets along like a chain until everyone had one draped across his shoulders. The wool was rough and scratchy, and Catriona wouldn’t have been surprised if a flotilla of moths had come spewing forth, but she didn’t care. She would have donned a hair shirt for warmth at that point.

“Once again,” Lord Oakley said to the ladies, “I must apologize on behalf of my uncle. I can’t even begin to imagine what he might have been thinking—”

“You know what I was thinking,” Taran cut in. “Robin’s dragging his feet, pussyfooting around—”

“ Uncle ,” Oakley said warningly.

“As no one is going anywhere tonight,” Mr. Rocheforte said, “we might as well get some sleep.”

“Oh, but we must all be introduced,” Marilla said grandly.

“Of course,” Taran said, with great enthusiasm. “Where are my manners?”

“There are so many possible replies I can hardly bring myself to choose,” the duke said.

“I am, as you all know, the laird of Finovair,” Taran announced. “And these are my two nephews, Oakley and Rocheforte, but I call them Byron and Robin.”

“Byron?” Fiona Chisholm murmured.

Lord Oakley glared at her.

“You seem to be the Duke of Bretton,” Taran continued, “although I don’t know why you’re here.”

“It was my carriage,” Bretton growled.

Taran looked back at his men, one of whom was still toting his claymore. “That’s what I don’t understand. Didn’t we bring a carriage of our own?”

“Uncle,” Rocheforte reminded him, “the introductions?”

“Right. Maycott’s probably busted it up for kindling by now, anyway.” Taran let out a sorrowful sigh. “Speaking of Maycott, though, this one is his daughter Cecilia.”

“Cecily,” Lady Cecily corrected. It was the first word she had spoken since their arrival.

Taran blinked in surprise. “Really?”

“Really,” Lady Cecily confirmed, one of her brows lifting in a delicately wry arch.