Текст книги "The Lady Most Willing"
Автор книги: Connie Brockway
Соавторы: Julia Quinn,Eloisa James
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Текущая страница: 6 (всего у книги 18 страниц)
Chapter 9
One could hardly say that there was adequate documentation on the matter, but Byron Wotton had always taken hell to be a fiery proposition.
He was wrong. Hell was obviously freezing, decrepit, and located in the Scottish Highlands. What’s more, it was ruled not by Beelzebub, but by an uncle with a fiendish sense of humor and not a single gentlemanly instinct to his name.
Byron had been watching, dumbfounded, as his old friend the Duke of Bretton declared everlasting love for a woman he’d met practically five minutes before, when Taran—alias Chief Tormenter—pulled him to the side.
“I hope ye’re taking some lessons from that English booby,” his uncle hissed.
Byron was watching the besotted look on his friend’s face as he gazed into Catriona Burns’s eyes. It gave him a queer feeling. Not that he could imagine himself in the grip of an emotion of that sort.
“What are you talking about?” he said, looking away as the duke drew his new fiancée into his arms. Actually, he could only assume they were affianced; he hadn’t heard her whispered answer to Bret’s proposal.
Given the way he was embracing Miss Burns, though, it must have been in the affirmative. It was truly odd. Byron knew damned well that the duke hadn’t any plans for marriage. Bret had confided only last summer that he planned to marry at the ripe age of thirty-five, and he was still a good six years from that milestone.
But now . . .
“Did you hear me?” Taran barked at his shoulder. “I gave you nevvies a chance to do the wooing that you don’t have ballocks to do yourselves, and yet you’ve let an Englishman steal a march on you.”
Byron scowled at him. “I have all the balls needful. And may I point out that you’re a single man yourself, Uncle, but you haven’t done a bit of wooing in the last decade or so that I’ve noticed.”
“I’m too old to put up with a woman.”
“More likely one wouldn’t put up with you.”
“No man in his fifties should be asked to make the sacrifice!”
“You’re only a year or two into that decade,” Byron pointed out.
“I’m a widower,” Taran said piously. “Kept your aunt’s memory in my heart, I have.”
Byron snorted. No woman in her right mind would accept the old scoundrel.
“Back to the point,” his uncle persisted. “You’ve lost one heiress already. You know what they say: as you grow older, yer balls grow colder.”
“You are being manifestly rude, Uncle.” He glanced back over his shoulder. Bret and Catriona were still locked in each other’s arms.
“Thank the Lord, he’s too much of a fool to realize that Catriona Burns doesn’t have tuppence to her name,” Taran muttered. “Her da will be kissing my feet for last night’s work, I’ll tell you. Burns would have danced a jig if she’d landed the second son of a baronet, let alone a duke. And he can’t say I didn’t try to chaperone the two of them.”
“Be quiet!” Byron hissed. He’d known the duke since they were both boys, and though Bret was easygoing to a fault, Byron had the firm conviction that no one would ever be allowed to insult his wife without being beaten within an inch of his life.
“As I was saying before,” his uncle said, mercifully abandoning that topic, “I’m giving you two every opportunity to snatch up yer brides, same as that Englishman done. Blindman’s buff seems to be working. I’ll make certain we play it every night. You lads are so lily-livered that you need the help of a blindfold.”
“I do not need help choosing a wife, from you ora blindfold,” Byron responded, keeping his voice even.
“No, yer problem is keeping her, once you’ve proposed,” his uncle scoffed.
The lovers had finally drawn apart, but Bret still held Catriona’s hands in his, and was looking down at her with such an adoring expression that Byron felt a true pulse of envy. He hadn’t deluded himself that either he or his former fiancée, Lady Opal Lambert, had felt that sort of feverish entanglement, but it was a bruise to his vanity to think that Opal wanted someone other than himself to the point of not caring about scandal.
“One more round of blindman’s buff,” his uncle called, surging forward. “Marilla, tie that blindfold back on. Now where’s Robin got to?”
“Robin left the room a good hour ago, when the blindfold first made its appearance,” Byron pointed out. He was rethinking his lifelong policy of courtesy. Why shouldn’t hesimply retire to his room and stay out of the fray, the way Robin had done?
“Dang and balderdash,” Taran muttered. “How does that lad think he’ll catch himself a wife if he can’t even stay put for an evening?” He started barking out orders. Bret, Catriona, and the rest of the guests reluctantly, but obediently, gathered around Marilla again.
The lady was looking distinctly irritated. She had made it obvious that she hoped to lure Bret into the parson’s mousetrap, so she must be vexed that her overly intimate patting of his chest had led to his marriage proposal—to another woman.
But she smiled prettily enough when Taran handed the blindfold to Catriona so that she could cover Marilla’s eyes. “Lord Oakley,” she called, “you simply mustjoin us. This children’s game won’t be at all fun without you.”
Byron stepped forward and Taran scuttled into place beside him.
“ She’sup for anything,” his uncle whispered approvingly. “Blast Robin for leaving the room. Here I got him a lively one with a sweet fortune, and he flees like a sheep at its first shearing.”
“She’s an impudent baggage,” Byron said, taking advantage of the fact that Marilla was surrounded by giggling young ladies adjusting her blindfold and couldn’t hear him. “Didn’t you see how outrageously she behaved with the duke?”
“You are turning into a proper antidote,” his uncle snapped, rounding on him. “A pompous, self-righteous turnip! I heard about what you did to your betrothed, merely because she gave a buss to her dancing master. Likely she meant it no more than as a matter of courtesy, and you ruined her reputation for it.”
Rage swelled in Byron’s chest. He had found his fiancée bent backward over a sofa, one slender leg wrapped around her dancing master’s thigh. If that kiss represented the standard expression of appreciation for a dance, there would be far more men capering about English ballrooms. “I will never allow a strumpet to become Countess of Oakley,” he replied frigidly. “As for her reputation, I never mentioned the kiss; it was she who told her father all.”
“That’s the English for you,” his uncle said, looking disgusted. “A Scotswoman knows to keep such matters to herself. Though ’tis true Scotswomen have no need to stray. One kilt can keep a woman warm all winter long.”
Byron looked away from his uncle and met the eyes of the girl who wore spectacles. Fiona, he thought her name was. Her disdainful expression implied she’d overheard their conversation. He tightened his jaw; he didn’t care what she thought.
He wouldn’t choose a wife from this assembly if someone paid him. In fact, he’d just as soon never return to Finovair again. Next week, he would travel back to London, and in time he would marry a woman who possessed the proper respect for both her person and his title.
A second later he came to the discomforting realization that the emotion in Fiona’s eyes wasn’t disdain. In fact, it looked like pity. Damn.
“Turnip!” his uncle repeated, stamping off to the other side of the circle.
Byron took a deep breath. The game had begun, and one glance told him that the blindfolded girl was heading in his direction, arms outstretched. Presumably, he too was about to be patted down. But in his case, no young lady would leap to his rescue.
Marilla’s giggles were breathy and uninhibited. She sounded like the type of woman who would throw herself into the arms of any man with a gift for capering.
But he stood rigidly still. It wouldn’t be polite to back away from her; the group was watching and laughing, as always seemed to happen during absurd games like this. Taran, for one, was clapping like an organ-grinder’s monkey. She was coming closer and closer . . . He would wager anything that Marilla could see through that blindfold. She was heading straight toward him with as much single-minded purpose as a child who spies a sweetmeat.
He wasn’t the only one who had realized that Marilla was cheating. Fiona had a distinct scowl on her face as she watched her sister’s antics. Even given her spectacles, he could see that she had eyes the color of a dark Scottish forest, the kind that stretches for miles and miles.
Then a fragrant, soft bundle tumbled against him and began laughingly patting him, not on his chest, but his face.
“Oh, I think I know who this is!” Marilla cooed. “Such a resolute chin and powerful brow could only be one man . . .” She burst into a storm of giggles. “And now I must beg forgiveness from the rest of you. Of course, every one of the gentlemen in the room has a strong chin. But this nose . . .’tis a Roman nose.”
Byron clenched his jaw. It wasn’t her fault that he had taken a dislike to being touched since his betrothal fell apart. He wasn’t the sort of man to keep a mistress, and it was something of a shock to realize that he hadn’t been with a woman in months. Not that Opal had touched him in such an intimate fashion, of course.
Marilla was now stroking his neck, which was only slightly less unpleasant than when she touched his face. His repulsion must be some odd response to the dissolution of his engagement.
“Make your guess, Marilla,” her green-eyed sister called, a commanding tone in her voice.
“So who do you think you’ve caught in your arms, lass?” Taran demanded with obvious glee. “Who do you choose?”
“I choose you,” Marilla breathed, so softly that no one except him could have heard her. Then, before he grasped what she meant, she said more loudly, “Of course, we all know there’s only one way to be certain,” and without pause she rose on her toes and brushed his mouth with hers.
Byron reacted reflexively, thrusting her violently away and stepping back. Then, realizing what he’d done, he lunged forward, catching her in his arms as she toppled. “I beg your forgiveness,” he said, carefully placing her back on her feet.
The room had gone silent. Lady Cecily was gazing into a corner, an agonized expression on her face, and the spectacled girl was scowling. Bret had the delighted air of a man realizing that he’d barely escaped a man-eating tiger. Deserting all claims to respectable behavior, the duke dropped a kiss on Catriona’s rosy lips with a distinct air of relief.
“So you should,” Marilla cried with a pout, as she pulled the blindfold from her head. “I could have fallen to the floor and injured myself.” She widened her blue eyes. “ Notthe action of an English gentleman, Lord Oakley. Nor a Scotsman, either, I assure you.”
She was inarguably right. Byron ground his teeth and swept into an apologetic bow. “I offer my sincere regret. I’m afraid I have had a tendency to startle since I was a boy.”
“ Thisnephew is a nervy type,” Taran said, popping up at his elbow like an evil sprite. “Now, my nephew Robin is a real man, the kind who knows how to keep a woman in his arms, though not on her feet!”
This crude jest was greeted with marked silence by everyone except Marilla, who giggled. Byron held out his arm to her. “May I escort you to the stairs? I’m sure we all feel quite tired after our frivolities.” It was just the sort of sticklike comment his father would have made.
“Damned if you don’t sound older than me,” Taran cackled, as if he’d heard Byron’s thought.
Marilla on his arm, Byron followed her sister through the door. Marilla’s figure showed to exquisite advantage in her evening gown, the high waistline emphasizing her breasts, which were magnificent by any man’s measure.
In contrast, Fiona’s gown was conservative. Her evening gown was a sober blue, with long sleeves, and without even the smallest ruffle to relieve its austerity.
Still, you knew with one look that her breasts were luscious as well. And sensual, and feminine, and all the things that he hadn’t felt or tasted in months. Just because Marilla’s were on display didn’t mean that—
With a start, he wrenched his thoughts back into place. “I’m sorry,” he said, looking down at the bright curls of the girl at his side. “I didn’t hear what you said.”
“I saidthat the storm is worsening,” Marilla repeated, an edge of disapproval in her voice. Clearly, she was under the impression that he ought to hang on her every word.
He cast her a glance that conveyed a censorious view of her pretensions. That look—he’d been reliably informed—was feared throughout London. Oakley was one of the oldest earldoms in the country, and Byron had learned at his father’s knee not to tolerate impudent and overfamiliar mushrooms.
Marilla didn’t even flinch. She merely patted his arm and dimpled up at him. “But I will forgive you, Lord Oakley. I know you must have any number of very, very serious matters on your mind. Men are so given to that sort of thinking.”
“I do not think it is necessarily a trait of the sex,” came a quiet voice in front of them. Fiona was waiting for her sister at the newel post. “Marilla, it is time that we bid the company good night.”
Marilla did have a very pretty pout. “No, don’t bow again!” she said gaily to Byron, who had no such intention. “We should not be on such terribly formal terms here, don’t you agree?” She pointedly looked behind them. Bret and Miss Burns had made it as far as the drawing room door before they started kissing again. “Obviously,” she added, “at Finovair we are not obligated to adhere to the very, very silly rules that London society requires.”
“Exactly,” Taran chortled, coming up from behind to beam at the girl. “We are all friends here.”
Byron shot him a silent snarl.
“I would contest that,” Fiona stated, putting a hand under her sister’s arm.
Marilla jerked away in a somewhat ill-tempered manner. But her face betrayed nothing but sweetness when she looked back up at Byron. “I think we should all be on familiar terms, don’t you?” she asked. “My name is Marilla.”
She had melting eyes, the color of cornflowers in spring. Ridiculously, Byron felt an overwhelming urge to flee, but stilled himself. It wasn’t her fault that her eyes were the same color as Opal’s.
“You’re asking the wrong person,” Taran said with his usual blustery cheer. “My nephew Robin, now, who will someday own this fine castle, hewill be on the easiest of terms with a lovely lass such as yourself. Byron here is a bit stuffy. Always has been. He got it from his father. I tell you, I thought I’d seen it all when me other sister got married to a Frenchie, but Byron’s da was even worse. When she brought the earl—the old earl, that is—back to Finovair for the first time, I almost fled to the Lowlands. He was a humorless, obstinate old bastard who acted as if every Scotsman should kiss the toes of his withered slippers. I never blamed her when she flew the coop.”
Byron gritted his teeth. He’d heard the story a hundred times . . . from both points of view.
“Course, it only took a Scotsman one well-placed blow to lay the earl out flat,” Taran said, chortling. “Marilla and Fiona’s father did the honors. Took out that Englishman with a doubler to the jaw. No . . .” He paused. “I’ve got a detail wrong, I do believe.”
The company waited, some of them even looking faintly interested.
“It wasn’t a doubler,” Taran finished triumphantly. “It was a roundhouse. We didn’t ever see that pompous fart again in God’s green country. The man never met a Scotsman whom he didn’t find beneath his touch, and the same went for Englishmen. Didn’t have a friend in the world, to my mind.”
“My father had numerous friends,” Byron stated.
“Not one,” Taran contradicted. “Even sadder than that was the fact that Fiona’s da took him out with one blow. The man didn’t even get his hands in position.”
Byron heard a little moan. His eyes met Fiona’s. Apparently, he wasn’t the only one who was finding Finovair Castle less than idyllic.
“My father was not given to common fisticuffs.” But he didn’t stop when he should have. “And I am not stuffy,” he heard himself saying. “As a matter of fact, I am on familiar terms with my manyfriends. My Christian name is Byron, and I invite you all to use it.”
Bret had one eyebrow raised now, and his face radiated compassion. Byron gritted his teeth again.
“As I said before, my name is Marilla,” the blonde chirped, patting his arm once more. “Now we will all be comfortable with each other! I shall look forward to seeing you tomorrow morning, Byron.” She said it with a breathy emphasis that made his jaw tighten.
Don’t be narrow-minded, he reminded himself, as Fiona grabbed her sister’s arm and hauled her up the stairs with what seemed unnecessarily forceful disapproval. True, Marilla was a lively girl.
His father would reject her on those grounds.
“Good work, boy,” Taran said approvingly. “Not that I want you to steal an heiress from under Robin’s nose. He needs the blunt more than you do. Pretty as a picture, ain’t she? I thought she was best of the bunch. Lady Cecily has a bundle of the ready as well. Why don’t you take Marilla, and we’ll reserve Cecily for Robin. Dang that lad, he’s missed all the fun.”
Byron headed up the stairs without taking leave of his uncle. There are limits to a man’s patience, and he had reached the limit of his.
He wasn’t pompous, he told himself. Or stuffy, or narrow-minded. That was his father.
He was just . . . irritated.
Chapter 10
The following afternoon
“Iknow it’s exciting to find yourself in a household with two eligible bachelors, even after the Duke of Bretton made that surprising proposal to Catriona,” Fiona said to Marilla, blocking their bedchamber door so that her sister couldn’t push her to the side and rush downstairs in hot pursuit of those very bachelors. “But you mustplay this right, Marilla. Neither of the other two gentlemen would be interested in a minx. Your behavior at blindman’s buff last night did you no credit, and you already have a mark against you as a Scotswoman.”
Marilla scowled at her. “I’m not the trollop; youare.”
“Just don’t play your hand too obviously.”
“If they think I’m a minx, it will be because your reputation ruined my chance at a good marriage before I even left the schoolroom,” Marilla said shrilly.
Fiona took a deep breath. “I am not under the impression that my lost reputation has, in fact, affected your eligibility for marriage. Your fortune has outweighed such concerns.”
“No one could possibly forget what kind of woman youare,” Marilla retorted. “I would likely be happily married by now if it weren’t for you.”
It was certainly true that there are some events from which no woman’s reputation can recover. An immodest kiss? Perhaps. A lascivious grope? Perhaps not. A fiancé falling from her bedchamber window to his death? Never.
Fiona had been labeled an uncaring trollop throughout her village by sunset on that fateful day; by week’s end, she was known throughout Scotland as a reckless fornicator. If not worse. The mother of her former fiancé spat in her path for a good three years at the merest glimpse of Fiona, and she wasn’t the only one.
No one seemed to care that when he fell, the lumbering oaf Dugald Trotter had been climbing up to her window without the slightest encouragement on her part. They were too busy being scandalized by her shameless ways—not to mention the fact that she had, in their version of events, “callously neglected” to inform Dugald that mere ivy cannot hold a man’s weight. Even those inclined to excuse frolicsome behavior between betrothed couples couldn’t seem to forgive her for not warning him.
Of course, any man with a functioning brain could have taken a look at the ivy below her window and come to his own assessment of its strength. But that was how stupid her fiancé had been, at least in Fiona’s uncharitable recollection.
Dugald apparently didn’t think of it, and she hadn’t warned him because—as she kept trying to point out, to no avail—she never planned to welcome him or anyone else to come through her window.
In the aftermath of the tragedy, she often found herself outraged at the universal rejection of her account of the event. Her own father had racketed about the house for months, moaning about how she had besmirched the family name.
“So yousay,” he would bellow, in response to her protests. “What was poor Dugald doing at your window, then? Sharper than a serpent’s tooth is a female child! He wouldna climbed your ivy, you silly goose, if you hadna turned a carnal eye in his direction. Ach, poor Dugald, poor, poor Dugald.”
There the argument would stop, because Fiona didn’t allow herself to comment whenever the chorus of poor Dugaldreached deafening proportions. She knew perfectly well that she had not thrown Dugald any come-hither glances. In fact, she wasn’t even sure what such a glance would look like.
She wouldn’t have learned it from Dugald. He seemed to regard her as a pot of gold rather than a nubile woman, at least until the last evening of his life. In fact, she’d thought him more in pursuit of her fortune than her person.
But that night she had refused to kiss his whiskey-soaked mouth, only to find herself shoved against a brick wall and forcibly dealt a wet kiss accompanied by a rough squeeze to her breast. The very memory made her shudder. She had slapped Dugald so hard that he reeled backward, after which she had run into the ballroom—with every intention of breaking her betrothal on the morning.
As for what he was doing climbing up to her window later that night . . . she could only think that he had decided to take matters into his own hands. Presumably, he had planned to force her to accept the marriage, and the only thing that had saved her virtue was the fragility of the ivy.
She certainly could not suggest such a terrible thing aloud. God forbid she would dishonor a man’s name after death by suggesting he might have had something so sordid as rape in mind. Poor Dugaldhad killed himself, to her mind.
Besides, she came to think of herself as lucky. What was ruination compared to being married to a beast of a man? She proceeded to shape a life that was happily husband-free, regularly offering prayerful thanks to her late mother for leaving her the fortune that made such a decision possible.
By five years after the “incident,” as her father called it, most people had stopped crossing the street when she approached. The last two seasons she had even ventured to London as Marilla’s chaperone; her half sister seemed likely to cause a nasty scandal if she wasn’t closely watched.
And though Fiona was not precisely fond of her sister—it was hard to imagine who could be—she did love her. Somewhat.
In short, during the last five years Fiona had arrived at the conclusion that the fatefully flimsy ivy had preserved not only her virtue, but her happiness.
A wealthy, unmarried woman has all the time she likes to read whatever she wishes. She can learn cheese making and experiment with medicinal salves for the pure pleasure of it. She can brew dyes from red currants, and then try making wines from the berries instead.
Freed from the need to hunt and catch a man, she could eschew crimping irons and chilly, yet seductive, gowns. She need not blunder around a ballroom pretending that she has perfect eyesight; instead, she can balance a pair of spectacles on her nose and accept the fact that she resembles someone’s maiden aunt.
Which status she would presumably attain, someday.
She was free.
“Please do not spontaneously offer either gentleman a kiss,” she said now. “From where I stood, Oakley looked mortified rather than flattered.”
“Kissing means very little.” Marilla tossed her curls. “You’ve been out of society too long, Fiona. I can assure you that heunderstood it as a jest, even if youdid not.”
Fiona silently counted to five. Then: “If kissing means very little, I still think it would nevertheless be better to allow a gentleman to kiss you, if he shows the inclination, rather than chasing him yourself.”
“As if I would do something that fast!” Marilla caught a glimpse of herself in the glass and froze for a moment to coax an errant lock into place.
She was extraordinarily beautiful; you had to give her that. Fiona crossed the room and picked up a hairbrush to shape the long lock that fell down Marilla’s back. Her sister accepted the attention as her due; she was smiling at herself with a tilt of her head that she likely considered sophisticated.
Indeed, Marilla was so exquisite that men could hardly stop themselves from falling at her feet . . .
Though they seemed to fall out of love just as quickly, once they came to know her. As Fiona had bluntly told their father on Marilla’s debut, he should have matched her quickly, before news of her temperament circulated among eligible men.
Regrettably, that hadn’t happened, though Marilla was only beginning to notice the lack of offers; her vanity was such that she deemed virtually all potential suitors beneath her notice.
“We have only a few days before the pass is cleared,” Fiona told Marilla, giving her hair a little tug to get her attention. “Perhaps three or four . . . five at the outside.”
“I know that,” her sister said, twitching her curl free.
“I have no doubt but that Rocheforte or Oakley will fall in love with you. But I would suggest that you make sure of the man before the three days are up.”
“Rocheforte?” Marilla snorted. “Granted, he is very handsome and he’s reputed to have a sportive disposition—in every way. But he could have fled back to France for all I’ve seen him. He hasn’t spent more than five minutes with us. ’Sides, I want a title. A realtitle, not some French sham.”
“All right, Oakley will fall in love with you,” Fiona said patiently. “But not unless you play your cards right.”
“Are you implying that I cannot do so?” Marilla cried. “That nun of an English heiress can’t hold a candle to me. Though I was shocked to see the duke fall prey to that dreadful Catriona Burns. I’ve never liked her.”
“I have always liked her,” Fiona said. “She’s exceedingly nice.”
“My point is that Oakley will not pose any particular challenge for me.”
“Of course not.” There was no point in taking issue with Marilla’s overweening self-regard. It was as infinite as a starry night. “Do try to control your temper. Be docile and chaste.”
“Why should I be docile? I hate to fawn over an Englishman. I—”
“Because you want to marry into the peerage,” Fiona interrupted. “The Englisharistocracy. Though I have to say that Rocheforte’s title is an ancient and honored one, not a sham in any sense of the word.”
“That’s right,” Marilla agreed, the little smile coming back to her mouth. “I do want to marry an aristocrat. But I don’t care how old Rocheforte’s title is. He could crawl on his knees across Scotland begging for my hand, and I wouldn’t marry him. The man was too superior to join us for games after supper. I’m sure I don’t know what right he has to be so haughty; the duke and the earl are perfectly happy to join us.”
“In order to marry the earl, you must be docile, courteous, and gentle, as in gentlewoman.” Fiona felt like a governess reciting the alphabet, but that was the reality of being Marilla’s older sister.
“Gentleness doesn’t suit me.” Marilla’s nose wrinkled. One thing you could say about her was that she did not bother to lie to herself.
“Pretend,” Fiona said, rather grimly. “No more behavior such as you exhibited last night.”
“Blindman’s buff invites that sort of playfulness,” Marilla said, with an edge to her voice. “You know how much I love frolics of that nature. Every man in the room tried to find meas soon as he had a blindfold over his eyes.” She squared her shoulders and readjusted the bodice on the ice blue gown she’d chosen from Taran’s ancient selection. “I think I would prefer to carry your reticule than mine. It would better suit the color of this gown. Give it to me, please.”
“I can’t seem to find it,” Fiona said. “I must have dropped it during the kidnapping. Or perhaps I left it in the carriage.”
Marilla raised an eyebrow. “Careless of you,” she drawled. But her eyes returned to the mirror. “These clothes are terribly old-fashioned, but I rather like them.”
“I didn’t think the neckline would be quite so low on you when I altered the gown,” Fiona said, wondering how shocked the room would be if Marilla bared a breast to all and sundry.
“Actually, you didn’t do an adequate job altering the dress, so I had to adjust it myself,” Marilla replied, carefully arranging a long, silky ringlet so that it lay in the valley between her breasts.
“Be careful with your tone,” Fiona warned. “I’m no subservient Cinderella here to do your bidding. I sewed on your gown all morning so that you wouldn’t be stalking the castle half-naked, but if you are rude about it, I shan’t even thread a needle tomorrow.”
Marilla glared back. “You want me to marry, if you remember. It’s to your benefit that I leave the house, so that you can have Father all to yourself.”
“And I would remind you that you want to be married,” Fiona replied. “So kindly remember not to gesture too enthusiastically. Your bodice may well lose its claims to propriety.”
“I doubt it.”
“From all I’ve heard, Englishmen like their wives chilly and chaste.”
“That puts you out of the hunt,” Marilla said with a spiteful giggle. “I’m sure they already know all about you and your infamous bedchamber window.”
“Perhaps,” Fiona said. “But it would be better for you if the news doesn’t leak out.”
“You tarnish my reputation just by existing, do you know that?”
“So you have reminded me, many times,” Fiona said, adding, “You sound like a shrew, rather than the docile virgin you should be playing.”
“I ama virgin,” Marilla retorted. “Which is more than I can say for you!” She turned up her nose and flew out the door in a flutter of skirts.
Fiona lingered for a moment to look in the glass.
The clothing she’d found in her wardrobe actually flattered her. She had a figure meant for gowns that hugged her curves in a way that current fashion did not; the tiny velvet balls that adorned the snugly fitted bodice and danced along the curve of her breasts were a particularly nice touch. In fact, she looked better in this gown than she did in her usual garments. She fancied it would draw male eyes to her best features. What’s more, her skirts were a trifle short and revealed her ankles.
