Текст книги "The Lady Most Willing"

Автор книги: Connie Brockway

Соавторы: Julia Quinn,Eloisa James
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Текущая страница: 4 (всего у книги 18 страниц)

Even at the Icicle Ball he’d been accosted by a pack of young men dying to talk to him about the legendary lady. To say nothing of the rude and raunchy gestures, as if the young dandies could approximate Delilah’s curves by cupping their hands in front of them.

If it was going to be that much workto be with a woman, she ought to be someone whose company he could not live without.

He drew back another inch, and then another, regarding Miss Burns– Catriona—with something approaching wonder. “Was,” he affirmed softly. “I do not have a mistress right now. I could not, I think . . .”

Now that I’ve met you.

But he didn’t say it. How could he say it? It couldn’t possibly be true. A man didn’t fall in love, or like, or anything more than lust in so short a time. It did not happen. And it certainly did not happen to him.

“I think you have bewitched me,” he whispered, because surely that had to be it. It did not matter that he did not believe in fairies or witches or magic of any sort.

He bent down to kiss her again, surrendering himself to the enchantment, but the moment his lips touched hers, they heard a commotion in the great hall, followed by a terrible sound.

Taran Ferguson, bellowing Catriona’s name.

Chapter 6

Catriona supposed she should be thankful. Kissing the duke again was the last thing she should be doing, and it was difficult to imagine anything that might more quickly extinguish her desire than the possibility of Taran Ferguson barging in on them.

“I might have to kill him,” the duke muttered, pulling reluctantly away.

“Catriona Burns!” Taran bellowed.

“I’ve got to go see what he wants,” she said, trying to smooth her skirts. Did she look rumpled? She feltrumpled.

Bretton stepped away with a nod toward the door, but before she could head out into the great hall, Taran burst into the buttery, his eyes narrowing when they settled on its occupants.

“Catriona Burns,” he accused. “What the devil are you doing here?”

“You kidnapped me,” she reminded him.

“Not on purpose!”

Normally, she would have blistered him with a scathing retort, but it was difficult to maintain the moral high ground when Taran had just caught her alone with the Duke of Bretton.

“Ye’re under my roof, lassie,” Taran said sternly, “which means ye’re under my protection.”

“He did not just say that,” the duke remarked, to no one in particular.

“Oh no, you don’t,” Catriona said furiously, jabbing her finger into Taran’s shoulder. “I wouldn’t be in this situation if it weren’t for you. You don’t get to claim dominion—”

“I’ll not return you to your father as damaged goods,” Taran cut in.

“I knowyou did not just say that,” the duke said in a terrifyingly quiet voice. “Because if you did, I might have to kill you.”

“Eh,” Taran grunted, “you were already planning on that.” He waved an impatiently dismissive hand at the duke and turned back to Catriona. “You cannot be left alone with him.”

“You left me alone with him last night,” Catriona reminded him.

Taran looked at her blankly.

“When you were supposedly trying to find us rooms,” she added.

Taran cleared his throat. “Ach, well. You can’t be alone with him anymore. I have known your father for thirty years. I’ll not dishonor him by leaving you alone in the bloody buttery with the Duke of Breedon.”

“Bretton,” came the duke’s clipped voice.

“He knows your name,” Catriona said to the duke, although she did not take her eyes off Taran. “He’s just being contrary.”

“I don’t care what his name is—”

“You should,” Bretton murmured. “You really should.”

“—he’s not spending another moment alone with you,” Taran finished. His large hand made a circle around Catriona’s wrist. “Come along.”

“Let go of me, Taran,” Catriona retorted, trying to shake him off. Good heavens, if her life grew any more farcical she’d have to take to the stage.

“I suggest you release Miss Burns,” Bretton said, and although his voice was light and conversational, there was no mistaking the edge of steel beneath his words.

Taran stared at him with a shocked expression before making a great show of letting go of her wrist.

“You know, Taran,” Catriona said, shaking out her hand, “while I appreciate your concern for my good name, has it even once occurred to you that the other ladies deserve the same consideration?”

“It’s different,” Taran grunted.

Whatever patience she’d had with the man snapped entirely. “ How?”

Taran jerked his head at the duke, who was still regarding him icily. “He’s not going to marry you.”

“I realize that,” Catriona shot back, “but your nephew is hardly going to marry all three of the other young ladies.”

“I have two nephews,” Taran muttered.

“ Taran,” Catriona ground out.

But Taran Ferguson had never been one for logic or consistency. He crossed his beefy arms, jutted out his chin, and stared down at her like a hawk.

An infantile hawk.

“Fine,” Catriona said with a sigh. “I’ll come with you, there’s no need to be so dramatic.”

“No!” the duke said suddenly.

Catriona turned. So did Taran.

The duke pointed his index finger at her. “You promised.”

Taran’s head whipped back and forth between the two of them. “What is he talking about?”

Marilla.

“I have to go with him,” Catriona said, tipping her head toward Taran. She had told Bretton that she could not spend the day alone with him. Finovair might be remote, and the circumstances of their gathering might be unusual (to say the least), but the rules of propriety could not be abandoned completely. When all was said and done, the Duke of Bretton was not going to marry Miss Catriona Burns of Kilkarnity. And Marilla Chisholm would still be the biggest gossip north of Dunbar.

Catriona might be headstrong, but she was no rebel, and she did not think she could face a life as a social pariah. More to the point, she did not think her parents could face it.

She would not shame them that way. She could not.

With a weary sigh, she looked at the duke, willing herself not to drown in his blue eyes, and said, “Taran is right.”

Taran uncrossed his arms and let out a sound that would have put a crow to shame.

“Much as it pains me to admit it,” Catriona ground out.

“Then I’m coming with you,” the duke said.

Catriona tried to ignore the warm bubble of pleasure his words brought forth. She liked the Duke of Bretton. It didn’t matter if he sought her company as protection from Marilla. Because somewhere, deep down where she was afraid to acknowledge it, she knew that Marilla wasn’t the only reason he was insisting upon remaining by her side.

He liked her, too.

And even though nothing could ever come of it, Catriona decided that for once she was going to be utterly impractical and seize the day. Well, perhaps not utterly. She had, after all, just agreed with Taran that she should not remain alone in Bretton’s company. But if she was going to be stuck here at Finovair for heaven only knew how long, then by God she was going to enjoy herself.

“Taran,” she said, turning back to the older man with a devilish smile, “do you have a caber?”

“I’m cold,” Marilla whined.

“Stuff it,” Catriona said, without sparing her a glance. The men—Bretton, Oakley, and Rocheforte—were gathered around Taran, who was clearly relishing his role as man-in-charge. Catriona couldn’t hear what he was saying, but he was waving his arms with great vigor.

“Oh, look,” Marilla said, with a decided lack of interest. “Here comes my sister.”

Catriona pulled her attention away from the men to see Fiona Chisholm dashing across the snow-covered lawn, hugging an ancient cloak around her. Catriona could see that she, too, had chosen to wear the same long-sleeved gown she’d had on the night before.

“Have they started yet?” Fiona asked breathlessly.

“I thought you were planning on remaining in your room all day,” Marilla said in a sulky voice.

“I was, but then Mrs. McVittie told me that they were bringing out a caber.” Fiona’s eyes danced merrily behind her spectacles. “There is no way I would miss this.”

“Taran won’t let us get too close,” Marilla complained. “He said the caber field is no place for the sexes to mingle.”

“When did he become such a stickler for propriety?” Fiona asked.

“You’d be surprised,” Catriona muttered.

The three ladies stood in silence for a few moments, instinctively huddling together for warmth as they watched the men from afar. Catriona still couldn’t believe they were going to try to toss a caber, although truth be told, it hadn’t required much prodding on her part. The men had been almost absurdly eager to show off their prowess; truly, the only difficulty had lay in obtaining a caber. And even that hadn’t been that difficult. Taran’s men were presently hauling it up from the west field.

Taran said something that made the men laugh, and then Rocheforte grinned and raised his arms as if to make his muscles bulge. Catriona felt herself grinning along with him. She’d had no cause to speak with him this day, but he certainly did seem an easygoing sort.

“Do you know where Lady Cecily is?” Fiona asked.

“No, I haven’t seen her at all,” Catriona replied. “Of course I’ve been stuck with Taran since breakfast.”

“Except when you ran off with the duke,” Marilla said in a waspish voice.

Fiona turned to Catriona with unconcealed interest.

“I didn’t run off with the duke,” Catriona retorted. “We merely finished breakfast at the same time.”

“And left me alone,” Marilla sniffed.

“With the Earl of Oakley!”

“You had breakfast with Lord Oakley?” Fiona asked her sister.

“I washaving breakfast with the Duke of Bretton until Catriona ran off with him,” Marilla said.

Catriona let out an exasperated sigh. There had never been any point in arguing with Marilla. Instead, she turned to Fiona and asked, “What have you been doing all day?”

“Altering dresses,” Fiona told her. “That’s probably what’s caught up Lady Cecily, too. Did no one tell you about the trunks that were brought down from the attic?”

“Not until I saw Marilla at breakfast,” Catriona told her. “My room is in an entirely different part of the castle.”

“The servants’ wing,” Marilla murmured, not taking her eyes off the men. Lord Oakley was laughing at something that his cousin had said. He looked quite different when he smiled. Much more pleasing to the eye, Catriona decided.

Although still nothing compared to the duke.

Fiona gave her sister an annoyed glance before turning back to Catriona. “If you’re comfortable in the dress you came with, you’re not missing out. Most of the gowns in Taran’s attic were for ladies of more ample endowment than we possess.”

Marilla shot her a supercilious look.

“Well, than some of us possess,” Fiona corrected. “You really should have let me take your gown out a bit, Marilla.”

Marilla ignored her. Fiona shrugged and turned back to Catriona. “Do you think they know what a caber is?” she asked, the corners of her lips tilting into a tiny smile.

“His Grace is aware that it is a log,” Catriona replied, biting back a smile of her own. “Of what length or girth he imagines it, I do not know.”

“The other two are part Scottish,” Fiona mused. “They must be, if they are related to Taran.”

“I’ve never seen them here before.”

“Nor I.” There was a beat of silence, then Fiona murmured, “It’s possible . . .”

“. . . that they have absolutely no idea what they’re getting into?” Catriona finished for her.

Fiona grinned in response.

“Well, I think you’re very unwise to have suggested this,” Marilla announced. “When they see the caber and realize they can’t lift it, they are going to feel like fools. And men do notlike being made fun of.”

“That presupposes that none of them are in possession of a sense of humor,” Catriona responded. She looked over at the men again. Or rather, still. She hadn’t taken her eyes off them even once. The duke appeared to be having a grand time, laughing heartily at something Mr. Rocheforte had said.

Then he turned, and their eyes met.

And he smiled. Grinned, really.

Catriona’s heart stopped. She felt it, thumping loud, then skipping three beats.

“Did you see that?” Marilla said excitedly. “His Grace just smiled at me.”

“I thought he was looking at Catriona,” Fiona said.

“Don’t be silly.”

“Bait to which I shall not rise,” Catriona murmured.

“What did you say?” Marilla demanded.

Catriona didn’t bother to answer.

“Oh, look,” Fiona said. “Here come the men with the caber. I daresay the snow is making it easier to transport.”

Catriona craned her neck to watch as four of Taran’s men brought the caber into view. It was an enormous thing, at least fifteen feet long. They’d looped chains around the enormous log, pulling it along like a sleigh.

“Time to prove your manhood, boys!” Taran announced, loudly enough for the women to hear. His arm swept through the air in a majestic arc. “The ancient, ceremonial caber.”

It was gloriously massive. At least sixteen stone and thick as a man’s leg.

Catriona felt her lips pressing together, hard, just to keep from laughing. She couldn’t see the expressions on Lord Oakley’s or Mr. Rocheforte’s faces, but the Duke of Bretton’s mouth had come positively unhinged.

“Respect the caber!” Taran yelled. “Ye’re going first, Duke!”

Bretton stared at it.

“Now remember,” Taran said loudly, “it doesn’t matter how far you throw it, it’s all about landing it on its end.”

“You’re joking,” the duke said.

“It’ll balance,” Taran assured him, “if you do it right.”

Catriona tried not to giggle.

“Excuse me,” the duke said.

“Pfft. Brrrght.” All sorts of ungraceful noises were spit forth from Catriona’s mouth until she finally just gave up and laughed.

“Uh-oh,” Fiona said, but Catriona was laughing too hard to have any idea what she was talking about.

“Catriona,” Fiona said in a warning voice.

“Oh! Oh!” Catriona yelped, gasping for breath.

“I told you so,” Marilla crowed.

Catriona wiped her eyes and looked up just in time to see the duke barreling toward her. “Your Grace,” she chirped, the squeaky noise just about all she could manage.

He pointed a finger at her. “You said it was a log.”

“It isa log,” she said, not that her words were remotely intelligible through her giggles.

“It’s a bloody maypole!”

“Oh, I think it’s bigger than a maypole.”

His lips clamped together in a straight line, but he couldn’t fool her. The Duke of Bretton, it seemed, was in possession of an excellent sense of humor. In three seconds, he’d be laughing just as hard as she was.

“Still think you can toss it?” Catriona said daringly.

He stepped forward. To the rest of the observers, he must have looked furious, but she could see the mirth dancing in his eyes. “Not . . . even . . . an . . . inch.”

And then she lost herself entirely. She laughed so hard she doubled over, so hard she feared she might faint from lack of breath. “Your face! Your face!” she gasped. “You should have seen your face!”

“Catriona!” Marilla exclaimed, horrified. And it was true, Catriona supposed. One wasn’t supposed to talk to a duke in such a way.

But his face! His face! It had been priceless.

She laughed even harder, grabbing on to Fiona for support. The other men had ambled over, grinning at her uncontrollable mirth, and out of the corner of her eye, Catriona saw that Lady Cecily had joined the party, too. The poor girl was clad in some sort of antique mourning gown, the heavy black bombazine dragging through the snow.

“Miss Burns needs air,” the duke announced, and before anyone could offer an opinion, he scooped her up in his arms and said, “I’m taking her inside.”

And just like that, all the chill left the air. Catriona allowed herself the indulgence of resting her cheek against Bretton’s chest, and as she lay there, listening to the steady beat of his heart, she could not help but think that this was where she was meant to be.

But then, of course, Lord Oakley had to spoil the whole thing. “You’re taking her inside so that she might get air?”

“Shut up,” the duke said.

Catriona had a feeling she might be falling in love.

“Wait!” Taran yelled, tramping over through the snow. “She needs a chaperone!”

“I’ll go,” Fiona offered.

Taran blinked in surprise. “You will?”

“I’m cold,” Fiona said with a deceptively placid smile. “And I still have sewing to complete before supper.”

“Do you think you might help me?” Lady Cecily asked, fidgeting beneath her cloak. “Nothing they brought down fits, and I am a terrible hand with a needle.”

“Of course,” Fiona said. “Why don’t you come with me? We’ll take tea in my room and see to the gowns.”

“You’re supposed to be chaperoning Miss Burns,” Taran reminded her.

“Oh, but Catriona will take tea with us as well,” Fiona said. She looked over at Catriona. “If that is amenable.”

“I would be delighted,” Catriona said, although not, perhaps, as delighted as this very moment, wrapped as she was in Bretton’s arms.

“Marilla, you must stay and watch the caber tossing,” Fiona instructed. Marilla looked about to argue, but then Fiona added, “The gentlemen must have an audience.”

Marilla must have decided that one earl plus one French comte equaled something more than a duke, because her expression quicksilvered into one of utter enchantment. “I cannot imagine a more pleasing activity.” She placed a delicate hand on Lord Oakley’s muscular arm. “It is all so very, very exciting.”

“Very,” Catriona thought she heard Lady Cecily say under her breath.

“Back to the caber, then!” Taran hollered. “The old laird and his nephews,” he chortled, elbowing Mr. Rocheforte in the ribs. “The way it should be, vying to impress the fairest maiden in the county.”

Mr. Rocheforte smiled, but it was a queasy thing, quite unlike his normal expression.

“That’s the one I wanted for you in the first place,” Taran said in a loud whisper. “Prettiest girl in town. She’s got some money. Andshe’s Scottish.”

Mr. Rocheforte said something Catriona could not hear, and then Taran’s bushy brows came together as he grumbled, “It was a whisper! Nobody heard me.”

And then, before anyone could contradict, Taran pumped a fist in the air and once again yelled, “To the caber!”

“To the house,” Fiona Chisholm said in urgent response, and she hurried off, Lady Cecily right at her heels.

As for the duke, his pace back to Finovair was much more measured. Catriona, snug and warm in his arms, could find no reason to complain.

Chapter 7

By the time Bret reached the drawing room, Miss Chisholm and Lady Cecily were nowhere to be found. “Your friends seem to have deserted us,” he said to Catriona as he set her down upon an ancient chaise longue.

“Perhaps we were meant to follow them to Fiona’s room?”

“Oh, but I could not venture into a lady’s chamber,” Bret said, placing one hand over his heart for emphasis.

Catriona gave a look that was dubious in the extreme.

“And at any rate,” he added, “I don’t know where her room is.”

Catriona cocked her head, then said, “Do you know, neither do I.”

He grinned at that. “We seem to be stuck here, then.”

“On our own,” she said, a small smile touching her lips.

“You’re not concerned for your reputation?”

She tilted her head toward the door. “The door is open.”

“Pity, that,” Bret murmured. He perched on the table directly across from her, testing it first before settling his entire weight; like everything in Finovair, it was chipped and rickety.

“Your Grace!”

“I think you should call me by my given name, don’t you?”

“Absolutely not,” she said firmly. “And at any rate, I don’t know what it is.”

“John,” he said, and he tried to remember the last time anyone had called him such. His mother did, but only occasionally. His friends all called him Bret. He thought of himself as Bret. But as he looked at Catriona Burns, who had already shifted herself to a sitting position on the chaise, he wondered what it would be like to have someone in his life who would call him John.

“I heard Lord Oakley call you Bret,” Catriona said.

“Many people do,” he said with a small shrug. He looked down, finding it suddenly awkward to meet her gaze. The conversation had made him wistful, almost self-conscious—a sensation to which he had never been accustomed.

But this feeling that seemed to wash over him whenever he was with Catriona—it was growing, changing. He’d thought it lust, then desire, and then something that was far, far sweeter. But now, swirling amid all this was an unfamiliar longing. For her, certainly for her, but also for something else. For a feeling, for an existence.

For someone to know him, completely.

And the strangest part was, he wasn’t scared.

“I couldn’t possibly call you Bret in front of the others,” Catriona said, pulling his attention back to her face.

“No,” he agreed softly. It would be improper in the extreme, not that anything in the past day had been proper, normal, or customary.

“And I should not call you Bret when we are alone,” she added, but there was the tiniest question in her voice.

He brought her hand to his lips. “I would not want that.”

Her eyes widened with surprise, and—dare he hope it?—disappointment. “You wouldn’t?”

“John,” he said, with quiet determination. “You must call me John.”

“But nobody else does,” she whispered.

He gazed at her over her hand, thinking he could stare at her forever. “I know,” he said, and at that moment something within him shifted. He knew—and by all that was holy, he hoped she knew, too—that their lives would never be the same.

Catriona stopped at her small garret before making her way to Fiona’s bedchamber for tea. She needed a moment. She needed a thousand moments.

She needed to breathe.

She needed to think.

She needed to find a way to face her friends and speak like a normal human being.

Because she did not feel like a normal human being, and she very much feared that Fiona and Lady Cecily would take one look at her and know that she’d been kissing the Duke of Bretton in the sitting room with the door open, and before he’d finally pulled away, his hands had been on her skin, and she’d liked it.

Good God above, she’d liked it.

If he hadn’t stopped, she didn’t know if she could have done so. But he had lifted his lips from hers, cradled her face in his hands, and looked into her eyes with such tenderness. And then he’d whispered, “Say my name.”

“John.” She’d barely been able to make a sound, but he was staring at her lips; surely he’d seen his name upon them.

He’d taken her hand, helped her to her feet, and said something about her joining the other ladies before they became concerned. Then he bowed and headed to the nearest exit.

“You’re going outside?” she asked. “It’s freezing out there.”

“I know,” he replied, his voice a little strange. He bowed, then said, “Until supper.”

And so Catriona made her own way through Finovair’s twisty halls, gathering her thoughts, tidying her appearance in her room, and then finally locating Fiona’s sparse bedchamber.

Tea had already arrived, and Fiona and Lady Cecily were deep in conversation. Fiona was expertly pulling a seam out of an ancient blue gown. Lady Cecily was sucking on her finger.

“I’ve stabbed myself,” Cecily said.

Fiona shook her head. “I told you to let me do it.”

“I know,” Cecily replied. “I just didn’t want to feel so useless.”

“I should think,” Catriona opined as she took a seat next to Fiona on the bed, “that given all we’ve been through, we’re entitled to feel anything we please.”

The two ladies turned to her with identical expressions. Expressions which, Catriona was alarmed to realize, she did not know how to interpret. Finally, after she could no longer stand it, she turned to Fiona (since she could hardly be so rude to an earl’s daughter she’d met only the day before) and said, “What?”

“You’ve fallen in love with the Duke of Bretton,” Fiona said.

“Oh, don’t be ridiculous,” Catriona tried to scoff. But her voice did not come out as briskly as she would have liked.

Fiona stared at her from behind her vexing little spectacles, lifting her auburn brows as if to say—

Well, Catriona didn’t know what she might be saying, or rather, implying, since it wasn’t as if Fiona could speak with her eyebrows. Still and all, Catriona knew she had to nip this in the bud, so she said, very firmly, “You can’t fall in love with someone on so short an acquaintance.” It was what she believed. It was what she’d always believed.

“Actually,” Lady Cecily said softly, “I think you can.”

That got the other ladies’ attention, so much so that Lady Cecily blushed and explained, “My parents have a love match. It has made me a romantic, I suppose.”

There was a moment of silence, and then Catriona, grateful for a change of subject, voiced the obvious question. “What do you suppose they are all thinking?”

“Our parents?” Fiona asked.

Catriona nodded.

“They’ll be angry, of course,” Fiona said slowly, “but once they realize it’s only Taran who has taken us, they won’t worry for our lives. Or our virtue,” she added, almost as an afterthought.

“They won’t?” Lady Cecily asked.

“No,” Catriona agreed. “Taran may leave our reputations in tatters, but we will be returned every bit as alive and virginal as when we were taken.”

And then, with an aching gasp, she realized what she’d said. But if Fiona took offense, she did not show it. In fact, Fiona’s voice was completely unaffected as she explained, “It is well known that while Taran’s sense of honor is unique, it does exist. He would never allow us to be harmed in any way.”

Catriona wanted to say that she had never believed the gossip about Fiona, but she could hardly bring up the subject in front of Lady Cecily. Now she felt a little knot of shame in the pit of her stomach. Why hadn’t she gone out of her way to offer Fiona her support? It was true that their paths hadn’t often crossed; Catriona had always been much more likely to come across Marilla at local gatherings.

“I’m afraid I won’t be able to have a dress altered for you before supper this evening,” Fiona said to Lady Cecily, expertly steering the conversation back to mundane waters. She frowned down at the ice blue brocade in her hands. “I promised Marilla I’d finish this one first. Then I’ll do yours.”

“Surely Marilla can wait,” Catriona said. “Didn’t you already see to that red dress she was wearing today?”

Fiona snorted. “If I had seen to that red dress, you can be sure I’d have yanked the bodice up a few inches.”

“But what about you?” Lady Cecily asked. “I insist that you see to your own gown before mine.”

“Nonsense,” Fiona replied. “I can—”

“I will not take no for an answer,” Lady Cecily said forcefully, “and even if you alter a frock for me, I won’t wear it until yours is done.”

Fiona looked up at her and blinked behind her spectacles. “That is very generous of you,” she finally said.

Lady Cecily shrugged, as if walking around in ill-fitting gowns was nothing to the daughter of an earl. “There is nothing to be gained by complaining about our situation,” she said.

“Try telling that to my sister,” Fiona muttered.

Catriona and Lady Cecily looked at her with identical expressions of sympathy.

Fiona just rolled her eyes and went back to her sewing. A few moments later, Lady Cecily turned to Catriona and asked, “Have Mr. Ferguson’s nephews visited Finovair before?”

Catriona shook her head. “First of all, no one calls him Mr. Ferguson. It’s always Taran. I don’t know why; it’s not as if we’re so shockingly familiar with anyone else. And secondly, I’m not sure.” She glanced over at Fiona. “We were talking about that earlier. Certainly, I’ve never met them.”

“Nor I,” Fiona agreed.

“Do you know them?” Catriona asked Cecily. “I would think you would have been much more likely to cross their paths in London.”

“I know of them, of course,” Lady Cecily said, “and I’ve been introduced to Lord Oakley. But not the Comte de Rocheforte.”

“Why not?” Fiona asked.

Lady Cecily appeared to hesitate, and a faint blush stole across her cheeks. “I suppose our paths did not cross.”

That was a clanker if ever Catriona had heard one. But she certainly wasn’t going to say anything about it.

Fiona, however, must not have shared her reticence, because she murmured, “He strikes me as a bit of a rake.”

“Yes,” Lady Cecily admitted. “I imagine that’s why our paths did not cross.”

“It seems to me that he ought notto be a rake,” Catriona said.

Lady Cecily turned to face her with wide, interested eyes. “What do you mean?”

“Just that his is such a ready smile. I haven’t shared more than two words with him, but he strikes me as being altogether too niceto be a rake.”

“He is very handsome, of course,” Fiona observed.

“Well, perhaps,” Catriona murmured.

Fiona grinned. “You’re just saying that because you have fallen in love with the duke.”

“I haven’t!” Catriona insisted.

Fiona replied with an arch look, then said, “You may thank me later for securing you time alone in the drawing room.”

Lady Cecily pressed her lips together—presumably so as not to laugh—then said, “I havebeen introduced to the Duke of Bretton.”

“Really?” Fiona asked with great interest, saving Catriona the trouble of pretending that she wasn’t dying for more information.

“Oh yes. Not that I would pretend any great friendship, but our fathers were at Cambridge together. The duke generally pencils his name on my dance card whenever our paths cross at a ball.”

Catriona wondered what it would be like to dance in John’s arms, to feel his hand pressing gently at the small of her back. He would hold her close, maybe even a little too close for propriety, and she would feel the heat of him rippling through the air until it landed on her like a kiss.

She felt herself growing warm, which was ludicrous. It was the dead of winter, barely a week before Christmas, and she was trapped in Taran Ferguson’s underheated, crumbledown castle. She should be freezing. But apparently, the mere thought of the Duke of Bretton sent her into an overheated tizzy.

“Would you like some tea?” Fiona asked.

“ Yes!” Catriona responded, with perhaps more eagerness than the question called for.

“It only just arrived before you got here,” Fiona told her, “but it wasn’t hot even then.”

“It’s quite all right,” Catriona said quickly, thinking she could almost do with an iced lemonade right now, she felt so flushed. She set to work preparing her cup, moving slowly and methodically, needing the time to compose herself.