Текст книги "The Lady Most Willing"

Автор книги: Connie Brockway

Соавторы: Julia Quinn,Eloisa James
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Текущая страница: 3 (всего у книги 18 страниц)

Chapter 4

The following morning

Catriona had always been an early riser and was well used to breaking her fast with only herself for company, but when she walked into the dining room, the Duke of Bretton was already seated at the table, slathering butter on a piece of toast.

“Good morning, Miss Burns,” he said, coming instantly to his feet.

Catriona dipped into a brief curtsy, bowing her head less out of respect than the desire to hide the faint blush that had stolen across her cheeks.

She’d kissed him the night before. She’d kissed a duke. Good heavens, her first kiss and she had to start with a duke?

“Are you enjoying your breakfast?” she asked, turning to the well-laid sideboard. Whatever Taran Ferguson’s faults, he’d provided an excellent morning meal. There were two kinds of meat, eggs prepared three ways, salted herring, and toast and scones. And, of course, homemade butter and jam.

“In all honesty,” the duke said, “I can’t remember the last time I enjoyed a breakfast more.”

“Mrs. McVittie is the best housekeeper in the district,” Catriona confirmed, loading her plate with food. “I don’t know why she stays at Finovair. Everyone is always trying to steal her away.”

“I recommend the scones,” Bretton said.

Catriona nodded as she took a seat across from him. “I always recommend Mrs. McVittie’s scones.”

“I wonder why we can’t get them right in England?” he mused.

“I shall not answer that,” Catriona said pertly, “for fear of insulting an entire country.”

He chuckled at that, as she’d hoped he would. She needed to keep this conversation light, her observations wry. If she could manage that, she could forget that less than twelve hours earlier, his lips had been on hers. Or at the very least, make himforget it.

It was going to be a very long few days if he thought she was pining after him. Good heavens, if he so much as thought she might be trying to trap him into marriage, he’d run screaming for the trees.

A distinctly non-noble Scotswoman and an English duke. It was ludicrous.

“You’ll have to pour your own tea,” the duke said with a nod toward the pot. “One of Ferguson’s . . . Well, I don’t know what you’d call him, certainly not a footman . . .”

“Men,” Catriona said.

The duke looked up at her, clearly startled.

“One of his men,” she said quickly. “That’s what he calls them. I don’t think there’s a one below the age of sixty, but they are fiercely loyal.”

“Indeed,” Bretton said in a very dry tone.

“Loyal enough to steal women from a ballroom,” Catriona said for him, for surely that was what he had meant.

Bretton looked to his left and then his right, presumably to make sure none of Taran’s men were in earshot. “Whatever he wishes to call the gentleman who was here earlier, I would not trust his grizzled hands to aim the tea into the cup.”

“I see,” Catriona murmured, and she reached out to pour for herself.

“It is probably no longer hot,” the duke said.

“I shall endure.”

He smiled faintly into his own teacup.

“Would you like some more?” Catriona asked. At his nod, she refilled his cup with the lukewarm tea, then set about spreading jam on her scone.

“Did you sleep well?” he asked.

“No,” she answered, “but I did not expect to.” She would not complain about having been put in a maid’s room. In truth, she’d been grateful just to get a bed; she’d been half expecting Taran to try to stick her out in the stables. Still, the tiny garret room had lacked a fireplace, and although Lord Oakley had handed her three blankets, they were all quite thin.

At least with Mrs. McVittie as the housekeeper, Catriona could be assured that the mattress was aired out and clean. Bedbugs truly would have been the final insult.

“And you, Your Grace? Did you sleep well?” she asked politely. He’d been given Lord Oakley’s room, which had to have been more comfortable than hers. Certainly not up to ducal standards, but still, presumably the best that Finovair had to offer.

“I’m afraid not, but as you said, I shall endure.” The duke cut off a piece of bacon, ate it, and then asked, “Is it always this cold?”

“In December?” Her lips parted with surprise . . . and perhaps a bit of disappointment. Surely he had not just asked her such a stupid question. And here she’d been thinking she rather liked the highborn Englishman. “Er, yes.”

He did not so much roll his eyes as flick them upward in impatience. “No, I meant here. At Finovair. I was shivering all night.”

“Didn’t you have a fire in your room?”

“Yes, but I fear it was a mirage. And it was dead by morning.”

Catriona gave him a sympathetic nod. “My father says it’s why Scots marry young.”

At this, the duke paused. “I beg your pardon?”

“For warmth,” she clarified. “It’s tremendously difficult to heat these old castles. I usually sleep with my dog.”

Bretton nearly spit out his tea.

“Laugh all you want,” Catriona said with an arch little smile, “but Limmerick weighs seven stone. He’s like a giant furry hot water bottle that never goes cold.”

“Limmerick?”

She turned back to her food. “My grandfather was Irish.”

“Since I can only assume Ferguson did not loose the dogs on you,” Bretton said dryly, “were you warm enough last night?”

“Not really.” She shrugged, resigned to her fate. “I’m in a maid’s room. No fireplace, I’m afraid. And, as you surmised, no dog.”

His expression turned ominous. “You were put in the servants’ hall?”

“ ‘Hall’ might be a bit of a stretch,” Catriona demurred.

“Bloody . . . sorry,” the duke apologized, but not before Catriona heard the beginnings of “hell.” “I will speak to Oakley immediately,” he said. “I will not have you insulted by—”

“It’s hardly an insult,” she interrupted. “No more so, at least, than being informed I was kidnapped by accident.” She set down her toast and regarded him with an arched brow. “If I must go through the bother of being kidnapped, I should have liked it to have been deliberate.”

The duke stared at her for a moment, then smiled, almost reluctantly. “I commend you on maintaining your good humor.”

“There is nothing else to do,” she said with a shrug. “We are stuck here for the foreseeable future. It behooves no one to flounce about in hysterics.”

He nodded approvingly, then said, “Still, the arrangement is unacceptable. I told Oakley you could have my room.”

“Not to put too fine a point on it,” Catriona said, trying not to be delighted at his ire on her behalf, “but your room is his room, and the last thing he will wish to do is offend the dignity of a duke.”

“I have been kidnapped by a caber-wielding relic,” Bretton muttered. “My dignity has already suffered a mortal blow.”

Catriona tried not to laugh; she really did.

“Oh, go ahead,” he told her.

She brought her serviette to her lips, smothered her giggle, then adopted a most serious expression before saying, “It was a claymore, Your Grace, not a caber.”

“There’s a difference?”

“If Hamish had been wielding a caber, you’d hardly be talking about it over breakfast.”

He stared at her blankly.

“It’s a log, Your Grace. A log. And it’s not really used for fighting. We just like to toss them about. Well, the men do.”

A good long moment passed before Bretton said, “You Scots have very strange games.”

Her brows rose daringly, then she turned back to her tea.

“What does that mean?” he demanded.

“I’m sure I have no idea what you are talking about.”

“That look,” he accused.

“Look?” she echoed.

His eyes narrowed. “You don’t think I can toss a caber.”

“Well, I know Ican’t toss a caber.”

“You’re a woman,” he sputtered.

“Yes,” she said.

“I can toss a bloody caber.”

She arched a brow. “The question would really be, how far?”

He must have realized he’d begun to resemble a strutting peacock, because he had the grace to look a little bit sheepish. And then he completely surprised her by saying, “A few inches, at the very least.”

Catriona held her supercilious expression for precisely two seconds before she lost control entirely and burst out laughing. “Oh my,” she gasped, wiping her eyes. “Oh my.”

Which was precisely the moment Marilla chose to enter the dining room. Marilla, who Catriona was certain rarely rose before noon. Clearly, someone had tipped her off that the duke was an early riser.

“You’re very jolly, Catriona,” Marilla said. Although from Marilla’s lips, it sounded more like an accusation.

Catriona opened her mouth to reply, but anything that might have resembled an intelligent comment died upon her lips. For Marilla had abandoned her thoroughly impractical evening dress in favor of a heavy brocade gown dating from sometime in the prior century.

Not that thatwould have given Catriona pause. She was all for making do, and if Taran’s wardrobes contained nothing but leftovers from Georgian times, then so be it. But Marilla had chosen a dress of the deepest, darkest, most sensual red, with a tightly corseted waist and a square-cut neckline that dipped far lower than it ought.

“Isn’t it lovely?” Marilla said, smoothing her hand along the skirt. “There was an entire trunk full of gowns in the attic. One of Taran’s men brought it down.”

Catriona just stared, speechless. As for the duke, he couldn’t seem to take his eyes off Marilla’s breasts, which trembled like barely set custard with every movement. Catriona would have been irritated, except that she couldn’t take her eyes off them, either. They had been pushed up so high the tops had gone completely flat. She could have balanced a dinner plate on them without losing a crumb.

“Marilla,” Catriona suggested, “perhaps you should . . . er . . .”

“I couldn’t possibly wear the same gown two days in a row,” Marilla remarked.

Catriona, clad in the same green velvet she’d been wearing the night before, decided to refrain from comment.

“It’s a bit like a masquerade,” Marilla said with a jaunty little flick of her wrist.

Catriona and the duke gasped in unison, as Marilla very nearly tumbled free. But Marilla must not have noticed, because she kept jaunting about, chattering on about her room, her sister, her dress . . . and with every movement, Catriona flinched, terrified that Marilla’s breasts were going to burst forth and pummel them all.

“Miss Marilla,” the duke said, finally rising to his feet. He cleared his throat. Twice. “I hope you’re hungry. Mr. Ferguson’s housekeeper has outdone herself.”

“Oh, I rarely eat more than a square of toast in the morning,” Marilla replied. She looked down at the feast before her, then added, “With jam, of course.”

“You might wish to make an exception for this morning,” Catriona said as the duke sat back down. “You will need your strength. His Grace has expressed an interest in caber tossing.”

“Caber tossing?” Marilla echoed. “How very, very noble you are to take an interest in our Scottish customs, Your Grace.”

Catriona wasn’t sure how this made him noble, much less very, very noble, but she decided to let that point pass in favor of: “I think it will be great fun. As long as the duke is here in Scotland, he may as well learn some of our traditions.”

“It will be cold,” Marilla pointed out.

Marilla was right, of course. It would be viciously cold, and were Catriona arguing the point with anyone else, she would have abandoned the suggestion in favor of a hot toddy by the fire. But Marilla had always been a thorn in her side, and more to the point, she kept jigglingherself at the duke.

“It will be invigorating,” Catriona said. Then added, “Of course we will have to cover up.”

“I think it’s a grand idea,” the duke said.

“You do?” Catriona asked.

“You do?” Marilla echoed, followed by: “Of course you do. You have such a very fine sense of sportsmanship, Your Grace.”

“Very, very fine,” Catriona muttered.

“Although we might want to wait until the snow lets up,” he said.

Marilla placed a fluttery hand on her heart. “Is it still snowing, then?”

Catriona motioned to the window. “The window is right in front of you.”

Marilla ignored her. “Oh, what will become of us?”

“I recommend bacon,” Catriona said flatly. “Surely we will need reserves to keep ourselves going for the duration.”

The duke made a choking sort of sound.

“Well,” Marilla said, “perhaps just a piece.”

Or three, apparently.

Marilla came over to the table with her toast, jam, and bacon and sat at the duke’s right, her chair somehow sliding to within inches of his. She smiled prettily at him as her breasts very nearly poked into his arm.

Catriona could only stare in wonderment. Surely those old-fashioned corsets could not have been comfortable. Marilla’s chest preceded the rest of her by at least six inches.

“Did you sleep well?” the duke asked, valiantly trying to keep his eyes aloft.

“Oh heavens, no,” Marilla replied, laying a hand on his arm. “I was frightfully cold.”

“Perhaps Mr. Ferguson might lend you a dog,” he murmured.

Marilla blinked her pretty blue eyes.

Catriona, on the other hand, choked on her tea.

“And my bed was frightfully stiff and hard,” Marilla continued, sighing tremulously. She turned to the duke with melting eyes. “What about yours?”

“My . . . er . . . what?”

“Your bed, Your Grace,” Marilla murmured. “Was it stiff and hard?”

Catriona thought Bretton might expire on the spot. And what was that . . . a blush? He was blushing! He was!

“But the pillows were nice,” Marilla continued. “I do love a soft pillow, don’t you?”

The duke’s eyes immediately fell to Marilla’s soft pillows. Catriona couldn’t fault him for that; so did hers. It was rather like Taran’s scrawny arse when he’d run through the village trying to shock the vicar’s wife. It was impossible not to look.

“Ehrm . . . I . . . ehrm . . .” The duke picked up his teacup and drained the dregs.

“How long do you think it will be before someone saves us?” Marilla said in a breathy voice.

“We are hardly in danger, Miss Marilla,” Bretton replied.

“Still.” She sighed dramatically. “Ripped from our homes.”

“From Lady Cecily’s home,” Catriona corrected, still focusing on her food. She couldn’t look up. She really couldn’t. The way Marilla was shaking about, she was terrified by what she might see.

“Still,” Marilla said, with a touch less sweetness and light than the “still” she’d directed at the duke. “Whatever shall we do to occupy ourselves?” she continued.

“I believe Miss Burns suggested tossing a caber,” Bretton remarked.

Marilla blinked. “Oh, but you cannot be serious.”

Catriona looked up just in time to see him give a falsely modest shrug. “I don’t see why I couldn’t give it a try,” he murmured. “Besides, did you not just praise my fine sense of sportsmanship?”

“But Your Grace,” Marilla said. “Have you ever seen a caber?”

“Miss Burns tells me it’s a log.”

“Yes, but it’s– Oh!”

“Oh my heavens, I’m so sorry,” Catriona said. “I have no idea how my jam flew off my spoon like that.”

Marilla’s eyes narrowed to slits, but she said nothing as she picked up her serviette and wiped the red blob off her chest before it slid into the deep, dark crevasse between her breasts.

If the duke thought that a caber was a simple little log, Catriona wasn’t going to let Marilla tell him otherwise.

“Oh dear me,” Marilla said, leaning toward the duke. “I can’t reach the butter.”

Bretton dutifully reached out for the butter, which was to his right, and Catriona watched with amazement as Marilla scooted even closer to him while he wasn’t looking at her. When he turned around, she was just a few inches away, batting her lashes like butterfly wings.

If Catriona hadn’t disliked Marilla for so many years, she would have been impressed. Really, one had to give the girl credit for persistence.

The duke shot Catriona a look that said clearly, Save me, and she was trying to figure out precisely how she might accomplish this when they all heard the sound of approaching footsteps. Lord Oakley arrived on the scene, and Bretton shot to his feet to greet his friend.

“Oakley!” he said, with enough enthusiasm that Lord Oakley’s expression took on a vague tinge of alarm.

“Bret,” Lord Oakley said slowly, glancing about the room as if waiting for someone to jump out and yell, “Surprise!”

“Join us,” the duke ordered. “Now.”

“Good morning, Lord Oakley,” Marilla said.

Oakley glanced down at her and flinched.

“You remember Miss Marilla,” Bretton said.

“Oh, don’t be silly,” Marilla said with a laugh that set her all a-quivering. “How could he possibly forget any of us?”

Lord Oakley made haste to the sideboard, piling his plate with food.

“Miss Burns and I were just finishing,” Bretton said quickly.

Catriona felt her lips part, and she almost said, We were?But the duke shot her a look of such desperation, all she could do was nod and grunt, “Mmm-hmm,” over the giant forkful of eggs she’d just thrust into her mouth.

“You may keep Miss Marilla company,” the duke said to Lord Oakley.

Catriona shoveled two more bites of food into her mouth, watching Marilla as she eyed Lord Oakley assessingly.

The poor man was an earl, Catriona thought with a twinge of guilt. Marilla was going to be on to him like . . .

Well, like she’d been on to the duke.

Still, Catriona couldn’t be expected to save everyone from Marilla, and the duke had asked first . . .

Silently, but still. She’d got his meaning.

“Miss Burns?” the duke said, holding out his arm impatiently.

She nodded and held up a hand in a just-one-moment gesture as she gulped down the rest of her tea.

“We’re going for a walk,” the duke said to Lord Oakley.

“That sounds lovely,” Marilla said.

“Oh, but you must finish your breakfast,” Catriona said quickly. “And keep Lord Oakley company.”

“I would love that above all things,” Marilla said. She turned to Lord Oakley, who had taken a seat next to her, and smiled seductively at him over her bosom.

Catriona thought she might have heard Lord Oakley gulp. But she couldn’t be sure. The duke had already taken her arm and was hauling her toward the door.

Chapter 5

Bret did not let go of Miss Burns’s arm until they had put three full rooms between them and Marilla Chisholm. Only then did he turn to her and say, “Thank you.” And then, because once was not even remotely enough: “ Thank you.”

“You’re quite welcome,” she said, looking down at something in her hand.

“You brought a scone?” he asked.

She shrugged. “I was still hungry.”

His fault. But surely she’d forgive him.

She glanced toward the door through which they’d just come. “I think I may have left a trail of crumbs.”

“My deepest apologies,” Bret said, “but I—”

“There is no need to apologize,” Miss Burns said, “as long as you don’t mind if I finish eating while we’re standing here.”

“Please.”

She took a dainty little bite, then said, “I thought Marilla was going to attack you.”

“Is she always so . . .”

“Forward?”

A kinder version of the word he might have used. “Yes,” he said.

“No,” Miss Burns admitted. “But you’re a duke.” She looked up from her food, her eyes large and filled with the same amusement that played across her lips. “Sorry.”

“That I’m a duke?”

“It can’t be a good thing at times like this.”

He opened his mouth to say . . .

What?

His mouth hung open. What had he meant to say?

“Your Grace?” She looked at him curiously.

“You’re right,” he said. Because as lovely as it was to be a duke, and it was—really, what sort of idiot complained about money, power, and prestige?—it still had to be said, with Marilla Chisholm on the prowl, life as a stablehand was looking rather tempting.

“I’m sure most of the time it’s delightful,” she said, licking strawberry jam from her fingers. “Being a duke, I mean.”

He stared, unable to take his eyes from her mouth, from her lips, pink and full. And her tongue, darting out to capture every last bit of sticky-sweet jam.

Her tongue. Why was he staring at her tongue?

“You needn’t worry about me,” she said.

He blinked his way up from her mouth back to her eyes. “I beg your pardon?”

“Dangling after you,” she explained, sounding somewhat relieved to get it out in the open. “And I think you’re safe from Fiona as well.”

“Fiona?”

“The elder Miss Chisholm. She’s as unlike Marilla as, well, as I am, I suppose. She has no intention to marry.”

Bret regarded Miss Burns curiously. “Does that mean that you don’t, either?”

“Oh no, I do. But I don’t intend to marry you.”

“Of course not,” he said stiffly, because a man did have his pride. His first marriage rejection, and he had not even proposed.

Her eyes met his, and for the briefest moment, her gaze was devoid of levity. “It would be very foolish of me to even consider it,” she said quietly.

There didn’t seem to be an appropriate response. To agree would be a grave insult, and yet of course she was correct. He knew his position; he had a duty to marry well. The dukedom was thriving, but it had always been wealthier in land than in funds. The Duchesses of Bretton always entered the family with a dowry. It would be highly impractical otherwise.

He hadn’t given marriage much thought, really, except to think– not yet. He needed someone wellborn, who came with money, but whoever she turned out to be, he didn’t need her right away.

And yet, if he wereto choose a duchess . . .

He looked at Miss Burns, peering into her bottomless brown eyes before his gaze dropped to the corner of her lips, where a tiny spot of strawberry jam lay temptingly pink and sweet.

“You’re not going to marry me,” he murmured.

“Well, no.” She sounded confused.

“So what you’re saying,” he said with soft calculation, “is that, for my own safety, I ought to remain in your company for the duration of our incarceration.”

“No!” she exclaimed, clearly horrified by his leap of logic. “That’s not what I meant at all.”

“But it makes sense,” he pressed. “Surely you can see the wisdom of it.”

“Not for me!” When he did not answer quickly enough, she planted her hands on her hips. “I have a reputation to consider, even if you do not.”

“True, but we need not steal away from the rest, as delightful as that sounds.”

She blushed. He quite liked that she blushed.

“All I really need,” he continued, “is for you to act as a deterrent.”

“A deterrent?” she choked out.

“A human shield, if you will.”

“ What?”

“I cannot be left alone with that woman,” he said, and he felt no remorse at the low desperation in his voice. “Please, if you have any care for your fellow man.”

Her lips clamped together in a suspicious line. “I’m not certain what Iget out of the equation.”

“You mean besides the joy of my delightful company?”

“Yes,” she said, with an impressive lack of inflection, “besides that.”

He chuckled. “I shall be honest . . . I don’t know. The joy of thwarting Miss Marilla?”

Her head tilted thoughtfully to the side. “That would be a joy,” she conceded.

He waited for a few more seconds, then said simply, “Please.”

Her lips parted, but whatever word she’d had resting on her tongue remained there for an endless frozen moment. “All right,” she finally agreed. “But if there is a hint—even a whisper—of anything improper . . .”

“You can be assured there will not.”

“You can’t kiss me again,” she said in a low voice.

Normally, he would have pointed out that she had been doing her fair share of the kissing, but he was far too desperate for her agreement to argue. “I will do my best,” he said.

Her eyes narrowed.

“It is all I can promise,” he said quite truthfully.

“Very well,” she said. “What shall we do?”

“Do?”

“Or hadn’t you thought that far ahead?”

“Apparently not,” he said, flashing her what he hoped was a winning grin.

“We can’t just stand here all day in the old buttery.”

For the first time, Bret paused to take a look about. They were in a pass-through room, with one door that opened to the great hall, and another that was presently shut but probably led to the kitchens. There were a couple of tables, but other than that, the small chamber was mostly empty, save for a few ancient barrels in the corner. “Is that where we are?” he remarked.

She gave him a look of mild disdain. “You do know what a buttery is, don’t you?”

“Of course I do. I livein a castle.”

“An English castle,” she said with a sniff.

“It’s a castle,” he ground out. Not as ancient as Finovair, of course, but the Brettons predated the Tudors by at least two hundred years.

“You do know that we don’t make butter in a buttery?” Miss Burns said.

“We don’t make anything in the buttery,” he shot back. And then, when her face still did not release its expression of skepticism, he said, “The buttery was where one got a beer. From wooden butts.” He raised a brow. “Satisfied?”

“This was hardly a test.”

“Wasn’t it, though?” he countered. But he felt a smile approaching. It was a little frightening how much he was enjoying himself.

“We Scots are proud of our history,” she admitted.

He gazed longingly at the dried-up old barrel. “I could use a beer right now.”

“Beer? A duke?”

“Bait to which I shall not rise,” he said archly.

She smiled at that.

“I suppose you’ll say it’s too early for spirits of any kind,” he grumbled.

“Not this morning I won’t,” she said with feeling.

He regarded her with curiosity. And admiration.

“Well, let’s see,” she said, ticking off her fingers. “I was kidnapped . . .”

“So was I,” he pointed out.

“. . . thrown into a carriage . . .”

“You have me there,” he acknowledged.

“. . . groped . . .”

“By whom?” he demanded.

“You,” she said, seemingly without ire, “but don’t worry, I got away very quickly.”

“Now see here,” Bret sputtered. He had never claimed to understand the female mind, but he did understand the female body, and there was no way she hadn’t enjoyed the previous night’s kiss every bit as much as he did. “When I kissed you . . .”

“I’m not talking about the kiss,” she said.

He stared at her, flummoxed.

She cleared her throat. “It was when . . . ah . . . Never mind.”

“Oh no, you don’t,” he warned. “You cannot introduce such a topic and then not follow through.”

“In the carriage,” she mumbled. And then: “Why wereyou in the carriage?”

“It was my carriage,” he reminded her.

“Yes, but the rest of us were in the ballroom.”

He shrugged. “I was tired.” It was true. And bored, too, although he would not tell her that. The Maycotts’ Icicle Ball had been pleasant enough, but he’d really wanted to be home.

“I suppose it was late—” Miss Burns started to say.

“Don’t change the subject,” he cut in.

She didn’t even try to look innocent.

“The groping,” he reminded her.

Her cheeks went every bit as pink as they should. “You were asleep,” she mumbled.

He had groped her while he was asleep? “I’m sure you must be mistaken.”

Thatgot her goat. “You called me Delilah,” she ground out.

“Oh.” He had a sinking suspicion that his cheeks were also going every bit as pink as they should. Which was to say, quite a lot.

“Who’s Delilah?” she asked.

“No one whom you would ever have cause to meet.”

“Who’s Delilah?”

This could not end well. “Surely this is not an appropriate—”

“ Who’s Delilah?”

He paused, taking a good look at her face. Miss Burns was lovely with her color high and eyes flashing. His eyes dropped to her lips, and there it was again, that amazing, overwhelming desire to kiss her. It wasn’t an urge so much as a need. He could stop himself if he had to, but oh, what a sad and colorless place the world would be if he did.

“What are you looking at?” she asked suspiciously.

“Are you jealous?” he asked with a slow smile.

“Of course not. We just got through—”

“You’re jealous,” he declared.

“I said I’m not– What are you doing?”

“Kicking the door shut,” he said, just as he did so. It was a small room, and only three steps were required to bring him back to her side. “About that kiss,” he said, pulling her into his arms.

Her lips parted, just in time for his to brush gently against them.

“I said I would do my best,” he murmured.

“Your best not to kiss me,” she reminded him, her voice trembling softly into a whisper.

He nibbled at her lower lip, then gently explored the corner of her mouth. “My best, apparently, has nothing to do with notkissing you.”

She made some sort of inarticulate sound. But it wasn’t a no. It definitely wasn’t a no.

Bret deepened the kiss, nearly shuddering with desire when he felt her body relax against his. He didn’t know what it was about this woman, what mystery she possessed that made him want to possess her. But he did. He wanted her with an intensity that should have terrified him. He’d never dallied with gently bred women, and he wasn’t angling for a bride. Catriona Burns was all wrong for him, in almost every possible way.

Almost.

Because the thing was, when she was in his arms . . . No, even when she was merely in the room with him . . .

He was happy.

Not content, not pleased. Happy. Joyful.

Good God, he sounded like a hymn.

But that was what it felt like, as if a chorus of angels were singing through him, infusing him with such pleasure that he could not contain it. It spilled out through his smile, through his kiss and his hands, and he had to share it with her. He had to make her feel it, too.

“Please tell me you’re enjoying this,” he begged.

“I shouldn’t,” she said raggedly.

“But you do.”

“I do,” she admitted, moaning as his hands cupped her bottom.

“You don’t lie,” he said, hearing his smile in his words.

“Not about this.”

“Catriona,” he murmured, then drew back a few inches. “Do people call you Cat?”

“Never.”

He gazed down at her for a moment, his first inclination to declare that hewould call her that. He wanted something special for her, something all his own. But it didn’t fit, he realized. She would never be Cat. Her eyes were too round, too open and honest. There was nothing slinky about her, nothing cunning or calculated.

Which wasn’t to say she wasn’t enormously clever.

And witty.

And sensible.

“Who is Delilah?” she whispered. While she was kissing him.

And stubborn, apparently.

He pulled back, just far enough to settle his nose against hers. “She was my mistress,” he said, unable to be anything but honest with her.

“Was?”

If his life had been written by Shakespeare, he might have said that Delilah had entered the past tense of his story when he first laid eyes on Catriona. That he had been so squarely struck by Cupid’s arrow that all other women were made insubstantial and colorless.

But the truth was, Bret had broken it off with “Delicious Delilah” some weeks earlier. It was exhausting keeping company with London’s most renowned opera singer. Forget her temperament, which was full of drama, both on and off the stage. It was the other menwho were driving him to the edge. He couldn’t get a quiet drink at White’s without a pack of young bucks edging over to his table with winks and leers and drunken elbows jabbing in his shoulder.