Julia James: The Lady Most Willing

Him.

She wanted him in every possible way.

Dear God above.

With a gasp she broke away, stumbling back, away from the fire and away from the duke.

She would have stumbled away from herself if she could have figured out how to do it.

“Well,” she said, brushing at her skirts as if everything were normal, and she hadn’t just thrown herself at a man who probably took tea with the king. “Well,” she said again.

“Well,” he repeated.

She looked up sharply. Was he mocking her?

But his eyes were warm. No, they were hot. And they made her feel things in parts of her she was quite sure she wasn’t supposed to know about until she was in her marriage bed. “Stop that,” she said.

“Stop what?”

“Looking at me. Like . . . like . . .”

He smiled slowly. “Like I like you?”

“No!”

“Like I think you kiss very well?”

“Oh God,” she moaned, covering her face with her hands. It was not her habit to blaspheme, but then it was not her habit to kiss a duke, and it was definitely not her habit to be thrown into a carriage and transported ten snowy miles across impassable roads.

“I promise you,” she said, her face still in her hands, “I don’t usually do this.”

“This I know,” he said.

She looked up.

He smiled again, that lazy, boyish tilt of his lips that flipped her insides upside down. “The madness of the moment. Of the entire evening. Surely we can all be forgiven uncharacteristic behavior. But I must say . . .”

His words trailed off, and Catriona found herself holding her breath.

“I’m honored that your moment of uncharacteristic madness was with me.”

She backed up a step. Not because she feared him but because she feared herself. “I’m a respectable lady.”

“I know.”

She swallowed nervously. “I would appreciate it if you didn’t . . . ehrm . . .” She couldn’t finish the statement. He would know what she meant.

The duke turned to face the fire, holding his hands out toward the warmth. It was as clear a signal as any that they would put their momentary insanity behind them. “I am just as susceptible to the strangeness of the situation,” he remarked. “I don’t usually do this sort of thing, either.”

Delilah .

Catriona fairly jumped. Back in the carriage, when he’d been intoxicated . . . He’d called her Delilah.

He obviously did this sort of thing with her .

“Where’s Taran?” she practically groaned.

“Didn’t you say he likely forgot about us?”

She sighed.

“Oakley won’t,” the duke said.

She turned and blinked. “I beg your pardon.”

“Lord Oakley. He won’t forget to find us rooms. I’ve known him for years. The only thing that is making this bearable is that he must be dying inside over all this.”

“You don’t like him?”

“On the contrary. I’ve long considered him a friend. It’s why I enjoy his misery so much.”

Men were very strange, Catriona decided.

“He’s quite proper,” the duke explained.

“And you’re not?” She bit her lip. She should not have asked that.

The duke did not turn, but she saw a faint smile play across his mouth. “I’m not as proper as he is,” he said. Then he glanced her way. “Apparently.”

Catriona blushed. To the tips of her toes, she blushed.

The duke shrugged and turned back to the fire. “Trust me when I tell you that nothing could give him greater agony than to be party to something like this. I’m sure he’d much rather be the aggrieved than the perpetrator.”

“But he’s not—”

“Oh, he’ll still feel like he is. Ferguson is his uncle.”

“I suppose.” She was quiet for a moment, then asked, “What about the other one?”

“Rocheforte, you mean?” he asked, after the tiniest pause.

She nodded. “Yes, although . . . Is he Mr. Rocheforte or Lord Rocheforte? I feel quite awkward not knowing what to call him. I’ve never met a French comte before.”

The duke gave a little shrug. “Mr. Rocheforte, I believe. It would depend upon the recent Royal Charter.”

Catriona had no idea what he was talking about.

“He won’t mind whatever you call him,” the duke continued. “He takes nothing seriously. He never has.”

Catriona was silent for a moment. “An odd set of cousins,” she finally said.

“Yes, they are.” Then he turned to her abruptly and commanded, “Tell me about the rest of them.”

For a moment she just stared in surprise. His tone had been so imperious. But she did not take offense. It was likely a more usual tone of voice than the one he had been using. He was a duke, after all.

“We’re to be stuck together for several days,” he said. “I should know who everyone is.”

“Oh. Well . . .” She cleared her throat. “There is Lady Cecily, of course. But her father is the Earl of Maycott. Since you were at Bellemere, you must know her already.”

“A bit,” he said offhandedly.

“Well, that’s more than I know of her. Her family has been renovating Bellemere for nearly two years. It seems a folly to me, but . . .” She shrugged.

“You’re quite practical, aren’t you?”

“May I take it as a compliment?”

“Of course,” he murmured.

She smiled to herself. “I don’t think the Maycotts plan to be in residence for more than two weeks per year. It seems an inordinate amount of money to spend on a house one rarely uses.”

“It’s lovely, though.”

“Well, yes. And I cannot complain. The village has not been prosperous since—” She stopped herself. Better not introduce politics with an Englishman. Especially one who likely owned half of England. “The Earl of Maycott has provided many jobs for the villagers, and for that I am grateful.”

“And the others?” he asked.

“The Chisholm sisters,” Catriona said. Dear heavens, how to explain them ? “They are half sisters, actually, and . . . not terribly fond of each other. I don’t really know Fiona that well—it’s Marilla who is my same age.” She pressed her lips together, trying to adhere to the whole if-you-don’t-have-anything-nice-to-say doctrine. “They’ve both been down to London, of course,” she finally said.

“Have you?” the duke asked.

“Been to London?” she asked with surprise. “Of course not. But I had a season in Edinburgh. Well, not really a season, but several families do gather for a few weeks.”

“I like Edinburgh,” he said agreeably.

“I do, too.”

And just like that she realized that she no longer felt on edge with him. She did not know how it was possible, that she could kiss a man until she barely remembered how to speak, and then just a few minutes later could feel utterly normal.

But she did.

And of course that was when Lord Oakley returned, scowling mightily. “My apologies,” he said the moment he entered the room. “Miss Burns, we’ve found a room for you. I’m sorry to say it’s not elegant, but it is clean.”

“Thank you,” she said.

“You can have my room, Bret,” Lord Oakley said.

“And where will you sleep?”

Lord Oakley waved off the question. “Robin will be down in a moment. He’ll show you the way.” He turned back to Catriona. “May I show you to your chamber, Miss Burns? I apologize for the lack of a chaperone, but there isn’t a female available who might take my place. And I assure you, your virtue is safe with me.”

Catriona glanced over at the duke. She trusted him, she realized, although she could not have articulated why. He gave a little nod, so she said, “That will not be a problem, Lord Oakley. Your escort is the least improper event of the evening, I’m sure.”