Julia James - The Lady Most Willing

For long companionable minutes they were silent and he drank in the sensation, the warmth of her fingers resting on his arm, the elusive scent of vanilla and jasmine that tickled his nostrils every so often, the simple pleasure of her company . . .

“It may be chilly, but Finovair does have considerable charm,” she said after a while. “Yet I take it you think your bride will be happier in London than here.”

He should have demurred, let her comment pass without replying but he needed to tell her—no, he needed to remind himself of how very far above him she stood.

“Bride?” he echoed. “My dear Cecily, I have even less to offer a wife in London than here.”

Any other girl would have blushed or apologized or at the very least looked on him with distaste. After all, he’d just committed one of society’s cardinal sins: he’d acknowledged his poverty. But he was growing used to the unexpected from her, and so it was now.

“But you must want to marry and have a family,” she said earnestly.

“I must,” he agreed. “But I have been told that when one takes a wife, one also has an obligation to take her wants into account, too. Wants I have scant hope of fulfilling. I may be a rake, Lady Cecily, but I am not a scoundrel.”

She stared at him for a long moment and then her eyes flashed and she said, “I see. So, you see your future being similar to that of Marmeduke’s?”

Hell and damnation, no . But before he could rebut this noxious notion, she hurried on in the manner of one trying very hard to be encouraging about a very dismal prospect. “Not that there’s anything wrong with that,” she said, adding under her breath, “I suppose.”

Dear God, in her imagination was he predestined to go hobbling after chambermaids in his old age, gnarled fingers extended in hopes of pinching one last fleet-footed wench? Is that how she saw him? “You horrify me.”

“I do?” she asked. “Why is that, I wonder?”

“I meant your vision of my future horrifies me.”

“Oh? Why? Marmeduke’s really rather a pet,” she said. “He’s a great favorite amongst my younger sisters.”

The idea of dangling cherubic little girls on his knees while offering them well-censored bedtime stories about his youthful exploits sent nearly as great a shiver through Robin as the idea of him chasing chambermaids, and so he ignored her question, asking one of his own instead. “Do you have many siblings?”

“Four. I have two younger brothers, twins. They were sent to Eton last year and I miss them a great deal, as my younger sisters consider games that require physical dexterity beneath them. Though I think they would find such games delightful if they were any good at them,” she confided with an arch twinkle in her eye that he found adorable.

“Have you any brothers or sisters?” she countered.

“No.”

“But you had Oakley to keep tally of your sins?”

He smiled at that. “No. Not really.” His smile faded. “Oakley and I were kept apart.”

Robin hadn’t met Byron until they were adults. After Robin’s parents had died of influenza, pride, not compassion, had prompted Byron’s father to pay for Robin’s education. However, the old tartar had seen no reason that his heir should hobnob with some impecunious Frenchman’s get. So while Byron went to Eton, Robin been sent to Rugby. He had never been invited to spend holidays at Oakley House. Instead, Rugby’s headmaster had been paid to take Robin to his own home during those periods.

But there was no reason to bother her with such details.

“How many sisters?” he asked.

She regarded him thoughtfully for long seconds before answering. “Two. One is nineteen and the other, who is seventeen, was launched just this past season. Quite successfully, too,” she said, with a touch of pride.

She loved them, he realized, her affection for her family wholly uncomplicated and honest, and she felt loved in return. It made him yearn to be included in her magical circle. He frowned at the thought: he’d finished with such nonsense years ago.

“Both have received offers of matrimony from gentlemen of whom they are quite fond,” she continued. They were almost to the end of the corridor now. He could see the great stairway leading down to the inhabited part of the castle, a soft glow rising from the lower level. “They are all aflutter to marry and set up their own households,” she said. “Alas, Papa will not hear of it.”

“The young men are unacceptable?” Robin asked, feeling comradely toward these poor, unworthy swains.

“Not at all,” she said. “It’s just that my father is dreadfully old-fashioned. He refuses to let my younger sisters marry until I am off the market. In fact, that is why we are in Scotland.”

At her words, something swelled in Robin’s throat and his heart thudded dully in his chest. That explained why the Maycotts were here, hosting a house party: the earl was going to announce his daughter’s engagement. Who was the bastard? Scottish perhaps, otherwise why drag society up here in the dead of winter. But who ?

They’d reached the end of the gallery and were at the top of the staircase looking down into the foyer just outside the great hall. The sound of light laughter drifted up to them. Bretton and his ladylove. Cecily belonged down there with them, in light and warmth. Not here, in the chill and ruin.

“You are unflatteringly preoccupied, Robin,” she said reproachfully. “I daresay you haven’t heard a thing I’ve said.”

Every syllable, every breath . He managed a smile. “Of course I have. You have come to Scotland to announce your engagement. “

“No,” she said, her brow wrinkling. “I’ve come to decide which marriage proposal to accept.”

“Which?” he repeated, dumbfounded. “There were so many?”

She tipped her head, watching him closely. “Five.”

“Five?” Somehow he managed to sound only faintly amused, politely interested. Perhaps he should consider a career on the stage.

Five . And doubtless each one able to offer her the things any loving parent wanted for his child: security, wealth, consequence. Otherwise Maycott would have outright refused them. Still, she wasn’t promised to another . Not yet.

“And,” he said, careful to keep his gaze straight ahead of him, “does any one fellow stand above the rest?”

“No,” she said with a small sigh. “That’s the problem. There is not one amongst them for whom I care more than the others.”

Absurd relief washed through him. He was craven. He was ridiculous. Still, it changed nothing.

The pain of that realization cut through him, sharp and deep. He mustn’t let her see. He had pride, if nothing else. It had been the one thing he refused to compromise or cede in a short life filled with concessions and compromises.

“What do you think I ought to do?” she asked intently, her voice no longer light and careless.

This was one part he could not play. Yet play it he must.

“Well,” he drawled, “if you postponed your decision for another season you could probably field another five offers. Then you’d have an entire cricket team and could just choose the best bowler.”

Color washed delicately up her throat and stained her fine, pale cheeks. Wordlessly, she pulled off his jacket and handed it to him.

“Thank you, Comte,” she said icily. “I shall take your suggestion under advisement.” She turned to start down the stairs, taking with her every dream he never realized he harbored but which she had brought to painful light . . .

But not yet.

He grabbed her arm and with not a whit of expertise or urbanity, spun her back around and into his embrace. He tipped her over his arm, and his mouth descended on hers in a ruthless, hungry kiss. All the years he would not touch her, see her, be with her poured into that kiss; loss and urgency, anger and helplessness. Then, as quickly as he’d taken possession of her, he set her back on her feet and stepped away, his hands dropping to his sides.