Текст книги "The Lady Most Willing"

Автор книги: Connie Brockway

Соавторы: Julia Quinn,Eloisa James
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Текущая страница: 10 (всего у книги 18 страниц)

Chapter 14

Taran was not employing the great hall for dining; a storm this fierce sneaked in through windows and took over the larger rooms. The wind howled as it rounded the corners, scouring under the doors, keeping the air frigid and moving.

Instead, supper was to be served in the antechamber where they’d taken all their meals. It was small and cheery; a boy had been assigned to keep a fire burning there all day. Its small mullioned windows were so crusted with snow and ice that the wind couldn’t even make them rattle.

Byron changed into an evening coat and returned downstairs far faster than his usual wont. He walked over to one window and stared at the snowdrift blocking any view of the storm. He had been making an annual winter trek to Finovair for a decade or more, and he could not remember seeing the snow piled quite so high in the courtyard before.

Fiona was so different from Opal. She didn’t look away from him; she laughed straight to his face. She never seemed to be at a loss for words. She just said what she was thinking. He had a tremendous feeling of rightness,even thinking of the way her eyes shone with mischief.

She wouldn’t lie to him. She would mock him, and argue with him, and probably infuriate him, but she would never lie to him.

And she had told him about Marilla’s theft of her mother’s portrait. Perhaps if Opal and he had talked, really talked, she would have told him that she didn’t care to marry him. She wouldn’t have had to stage that scene with the balding dancing master.

If, instead, it had been Fiona who had decided she didn’t care to marry him, she would tell him face-to-face. Let’s say they were betrothed—a funny shot of heat came under his breastbone at the notion. He would like to put a ring on her finger. A ring that would tell other men that everything about her—from her sweet little nose, to those curved hips, to the perplexed look in her gorgeous eyes—it was all his.

Just hypothetically, if he were betrothed to Fiona, and she decided to throw him over, she wouldn’t do it through a dramatic scene. She would probably glare at him, and then she would tell him that he was a stupid, jealous . . .

Jealous?

He had never been jealous. Marriage wasn’t about jealousy. It was about respect and promises. But then he thought for a moment and realized that a seething cauldron lit in his chest at the very idea of a dancing master approaching Fiona.

This train of thought was insanity.

He leaned his forehead against the icy window, just to see whether he was dreaming. The glass was just as cold to his forehead as to his fingertips. A feeling of profound calm cut through with elation swept through him. He would do it: he would marry Fiona Chisholm, and have a bespectacled, honest, beautiful countess. She would probably be a good mother, but honestly, he didn’t give a damn.

If she was a bad mother, they could get a nanny. Well, of course they would have a nanny. He wanted her for himself. So he could . . .

So he wouldn’t be alone. So he would have a friend, and a lover, and a wife, all in one. The elation spread. How could he be so lucky?

He was never lucky.

The door opened and he turned, heart thumping. Not Fiona. It was Marilla, her breasts barely kept in check by an edging of lace, her eyes lighting up at the sight of him.

“You disappeared this afternoon!” she chided, disapproval softened by forgiving laughter.

“I spent the afternoon in the library,” he said, watching her closely.

She was approaching him, her hips swaying, but she froze for a second. Then her smile grew wider. “But wasn’t my sister, Fiona, hiding there? She’s soreluctant to be in company, you know. I promised her I would have someone send her tea so that she need not be embarrassed by her lack of social skills.”

He held out a chair for her and then said, “I didn’t notice any shyness.” Happiness thrummed low in his chest simply because he was talking about Fiona.

This was ridiculous. Preposterous. Like the sort of lovesickness that is visited on mere boys. He thought he wanted a woman to fall in love with him, but instead he was the one infected. Just like a giddy boy, he discovered he was grinning at Marilla.

“Fiona has no friends,” Marilla said, waving at the seat beside her. “Since we do sit on consequence, Byron, I certainly hope that you will remain at my side.” Her smile was lavish, but then, all of Marilla’s smiles were lavish.

He sat, thinking about what she just said. It didn’t make sense to him. Fiona was funny and wry and altogether delightful. Of course she had friends. But then, perhaps she didn’t have friends . . . perhaps she was as profoundly alone as he was.

“Where isyour sister?” he asked, keeping his tone casual.

“Fiona has little regard for the servants. She asked for a bath not long ago, even though it’s not easy for those old men to carry hot water up the stairs.” Marilla slid her hand over his, and frowned with a kind of dewy earnestness. “She has no idea how to run a large household. My father made certain that I was trained in a chatelaine’s arts. One of the most important rules is that the lady of the household must respect those in her service. Yet Fiona asks for separate meals, as she did this luncheon, and baths!” She rolled her eyes. “She bathes every day, and never mind how much work it is to haul pails of hot water up and down the stairs.”

Byron thought with some satisfaction of the newfangled pipes he’d added to his house two years ago. And then he thought of Fiona sitting in his bath, steam rising around her, all that glorious hair curling into smaller ringlets, her creamy skin flushing . . . He hastily put his napkin in his lap.

The door opened and Bret and his betrothed entered, laughing. He had his hand on Catriona’s back, and the way he looked down at her was so resonant with desire that . . . well, the couple was just as improperly intimate as they had been the night before, but now Byron saw it with a different eye, looking not at Catriona’s face, but at Bret’s.

He wanted to put his hand on the small of Fiona’s back. He’d never thought about the gesture, but now he perceived the possessiveness in that light touch. He wanted to hand Fiona into a chair and then sit beside her, a bit too close, and hold hands under the table, the way Bret and Catriona now were. He wanted to escort her to supper with lips that had been kissed the color of dark cherries, as Bret had.

Hell, he wanted to join her in the bath and . . .

After making her his bride, of course.

Marilla’s voice cut into his thoughts again. She had curled her fingers around his forearm, and was leaning forward, saying something to Catriona. “Oh, we feel the same,” she cooed. “Byron and I were just talking about the arduous duties of running a large household. This strange little interlude at Finovair has done so much to bring us all close! I’m thrilled to know that I was there when the Duke and Duchess of Bretton fell in love. I cannot wait to tell my friends.”

Byron drew his arm away, while Bret threw him a look that said, clear as day, that Marilla wasn’t going within two miles of the duchy of Bretton. Byron grinned back and then watched the puzzlement grow in Bret’s eyes.

His old friend hadn’t figured it out yet. Hell, hehad hardly figured it out. All he knew was that his entire being was tense, waiting for Fiona to get out of that bath and join them at the supper table.

Taran blew in the door, followed by a train of his retainers carrying platters. “Lady Cecily dines in her room,” he said briskly. Robin was nowhere in evidence: he was probably hiding in his room as well. And still there was no Fiona.

The laird sat down and scowled rather unexpectedly at Marilla. “Keep your hands to yourself, lass. Your father wouldn’t approve.”

Byron realized that Marilla had once again curled her hand around his forearm. She gave Taran a lofty smile and didn’t move a finger. Instead, she moved even closer and said in a breathy voice, “Byron, do tell me about your castle.”

“I don’t have one,” he said calmly.

“What a pity,” Marilla said. “But I suppose you could always buy one if you wished.”

“No,” Byron said, catching Bret’s eye. Bret was trying not to laugh and not succeeding very well. “I could not. Castles are far and few between in England.”

Without even glancing at Marilla, he knew she was pouting. “Such a pity! This is the first time I’ve stayed in a castle and I find it very, very charming. It’s so grand . . . so much bigger than most houses.”

Naturally, it’s all about size, Byron thought uncharitably.

“My sister is very retiring,” Marilla informed the company when they reached the second course and the plate to his left was still empty. “She likely lost her courage, and will eat in our bedchamber. Of course we must continue without her. In our household, my father and I often forget that she’s there at all.”

Byron was contemplating what Fiona’s life had been like in company with her relatives, when she walked into the room and began heading around the table to the open chair.

She looked a bit pale, but her greeting was cordial enough. But he didn’t care for “Good evening, Lord Oakley.”

He stood and pulled the chair out for her. “I thought we agreed that you would not address me as Oakley,” he said to her, ignoring the conversations that had started around the table.

Not that anyone ignored his statement. Even Marilla’s semiflirtatious conversation with Taran—the woman seemed incapable of conversation that was not suggestive—halted in mid-sentence.

Fiona had just seated herself; she froze and turned a little pink. Her hair was slightly damp from her bath, and enchanting pin curls framed her face. Bret looked swiftly from her face to Byron’s and then leaned over to whisper something to Catriona. There was a huge grin on his face.

Byron just wanted to make it all clear. He was possessed of the happiest emotions of his life, and even though the object of his happiness looked stunned, he was bent on sharing them. Could she really believe that he would kiss her—the way he had kissed her—and mean nothing by it?

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 hethink?

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.

Hewas 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 haveapologized.”

“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.”

Marilla stared at her, her jaw dropped.

Fiona pulled the boots on, and then the gloves. She probably looked like an ancient crone wearing a bear costume inside out. But when she glanced at the mirror, she didn’t even see her own reflection: instead, she saw Oakley’s blue eyes. They were an extraordinary color, the color of the sky on a summer day, when one lay on one’s back in a meadow.

“Good-bye,” she said, walking out and closing the door behind her.

“I didn’t mean it!” Marilla called shrilly. Fiona pretended that she hadn’t heard, and kept walking, down the stairs, through the baize door, and into the kitchen.

She stopped only to grab a bag of apples and a bottle of wine from the kitchen staff. The apples were for the horses, and the wine was for her. She’d never drunk to excess before. Ladies never became inebriated. But she wasn’t a lady. She was ruined, ruined, ruined.

The blowing snow was like a slap to her face, like a scream turned into material fact. Walking away from the warmth of the kitchen and into the howling wind felt like a punishment, but she didn’t mind.

She couldn’t bear to sleep in the room with her sister that night. Nor to be down the corridor from a man who actually thought—howsoever briefly—that she was worth making his countess. Who had kissed her like . . . like that. And then regarded her with no expression at all in his eyes, as if she were no more than a strange, distasteful woman, who happened to be seated beside him at supper.

She bent her head down and kept her hand tight on the cord. Luckily, the wind was scouring the courtyard and driving the snow around the other side, so drifts of snow hadn’t been able to settle the way they would when the wind died down. A wooden wall loomed out of the moving wall of snow before her so suddenly that she bumped into the door.

A second later she was tumbling into the warm, dim stable. “Who’s there?” came a cracked voice. And then, “Ye’re a woman!”

She nodded, throwing back the hood on her cape and shaking herself to remove some of the snow. “Mr. Garvie said you could return to the castle for the night if you wished. I shall remain just long enough to look for my reticule in the carriage, and then I’ll follow you.”

“I ain’t leaving any womanalone with my horses,” the old man cried.

“Away wit’ ye!” she barked, her voice emerging in a perfect Scottish burr.

She reached out and took the lantern from his hand. “Get off with ye, then,” she commanded, with a jerk of her head.

“What are ye doing here?” he demanded. “This ain’t no place for ladies. You won’t have a bit of yer reputation left.”

That did it. “I’m not a lady,” she shrieked. “I’m Fiona Chisholm.” She saw his eyes widen and felt a primitive surge of pleasure at the fact that he recognized her by name. “I’ve got no reputation, and I’ll do whatever in the bloody hell I choose to do. I might stay here all night. You have got no say in it!”

“Ye’re off yer onion,” the man grumbled, moving backward. “There’s no call to scream at me like a banshee. Ye be careful with that lamp, you hear? I don’t want to find my stable on fire.”

“I’ll be careful.”

The moment the door closed behind him, Fiona heaved a sob. But she refused to let herself be dragged into that morass of self-pity. Never again. Instead, she walked down the center aisle of the tiny stable.

The four horses that had drawn the Duke of Bretton’s carriage put their heads over their stalls’ doors and nickered at her when she began offering apples. They were beautiful, with soft noses and shining eyes.

After the four of them came a pretty mare, and finally a gelding who took his apple carefully from her flattened hand, his lips curling as if with disdain.

“They should call you Byron,” she told him, stroking the star on his forehead. His black ears flicked back and forth, and then, as if in sympathy, he rested his chin on her shoulder. His apple-breath was sweet.

“You just want another apple,” Fiona said, choking back tears. She gave him one and realized she’d come to the end of the horse stalls.

The Duke of Bretton’s carriage had been pulled in through wide doors at the opposite end of the stable. It was so large that the shining black end of the vehicle loomed in the dusky light. She walked around, opened the door, and listlessly held up the lamp, but no reticule was visible.

Another row of stalls, mostly empty, lay opposite those she had just visited. The last, back where she had started, contained an ancient pony. The pony lumbered to her feet as Fiona approached, her belly almost as round as she was long.

A tear slid down Fiona’s cheek, because the self-pity she had sworn not to allow herself wasn’t easily vanquished. She would never have a child, and so never have a pony . . . Still, she made herself stop after one quivering sob. She slipped into the stall with the pony, who ate an apple and promptly lay down in the straw once again.

She hung the lantern safely from a hook on the wall, and then removed her cloak and dropped it in the straw. Finally she sat down and, leaning against the pony’s fat tummy, pulled the cork from her bottle of wine.

The wine was rich and fruity, like the earth in the springtime, if dirt was good to eat. She took another swig. It was peppery too, like . . . like pepper. She peered at the label. It was quite dim in the stable even with the lantern, but she could make out that the wine had come from Italy.

As she upended the bottle again, it came to her: she needn’t stay in Scotland with a father who didn’t care very much for her, and a sister who cared not at all. She had money. No—she had a fortune. She could leave Scotland.

She slowly put down the bottle, the happiness caused by this epiphany exploding in her heart. She would go to Italy and travel to the vineyards. She would buy a little house in the countryside . . . or in Venice . . . or Rome. She needn’t even stay in Italy; she would travel wherever she wished. She need never see an English earl again in her life.

Idea after idea came to her: she would like to see the Parthenon, and a camel, though she had the vague sense they weren’t to be found together. A camel had come through the village in a fair when she was a child. She had never forgotten his long, curled eyelashes, and the way he chewed, thoughtfully, as if he were solving the world’s problems and just not bothering to share the solutions.

Lying there, drinking as she considered the adventures she would have, she began to feel chilled. A bit of a search turned up some horse blankets, and she made a nest with these. Then she curled up and pulled her cloak over herself, fur side down, and resumed her reverie. Only when the bottle was nearly half gone did she come to another epiphany.

She could take a lover. An Italian lover. A man with loopy black curls and golden skin, as far from a pallid, blond earl as could be imagined. “I don’t have any reputation anyway,” she told the pony. “Everybody thinks I did all . . . all thatwith Dugald. I didn’t. But that doesn’t mean I can’t do as I wish. Maybe I’ll have a child after all.”

The pony twitched her ears encouragingly.

“I willhave a child,” Fiona decided, taking another drink. “I’ll tell people I’m a widow. I have more than enough money for the two of us. Who needs Scotland anyway? My father won’t even notice I’m gone.”

Her tiresome conscience had just reminded her that her father likely would notice if his elder daughter never returned, when she became aware of a banging noise coming from the wall next to her stall.

“What’s that?” she asked the pony, who didn’t seem to have an answer. Fiona balled up her fist and thumped back on the wall.

No one answered. “I won’t ever think about him,” Fiona told the pony. “Never, ever, ever.” She looked at her bottle. It was dangerously close to half empty. Tomorrow she’d probably have a “head,” as her father called it.

Never mind; it would pass. Tomorrow she would be planning her trip. There were likely travel guides in Taran’s library. She’d be halfway to Italy before anyone noticed she was gone.

“An’ I’ll never even think of him,” she said, hiccupping as she put the bottle down.

There was a crash as the stable door flew open and bounced off the wall.

“Lords a mercy,” Fiona murmured, huddling deeper into her furry nest. She had just begun to feel sleepy.

Then the door slammed shut, and footsteps stamped down the corridor to the accompaniment of someone cursing a blue streak. An Englishman, she thought, not caring much. Probably the duke’s coachman, coming to check on his horses.

“ Fiona!” Her name emerged from the Englishman’s lips in a dark growl that had her eyes springing open.

It wasn’t the coachman.

“What in the bloody hell are you doing here?”

“We say bloudy ’ellin Scotland,” Fiona told him, pulling her fur a little higher around her shoulders. “When in Scotland, do as the Scots.” And, because she really didn’t want to see those blue eyes ever again, she closed her own.