Текст книги "The Lady Most Willing"

Автор книги: Connie Brockway

Соавторы: Julia Quinn,Eloisa James
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Текущая страница: 8 (всего у книги 18 страниц)

Chapter 12

Two hours later

Fiona was firmly under the spell of the cheerful but slightly battered heroine of Persuasion—not to mention Sir Walter and his daughter—when she heard the door to the library open and then quickly shut again.

She was curled up under a toasty red blanket with a comforting doggy smell, and felt vastly disinclined to move.

“Hello?” she asked reluctantly, sitting up.

The earl was standing against the door, finger on his lips. She nodded and lay back onto the sofa.

She had decided to keep her distance from the earl. She could not allow herself to be enticed by that air of confidence and power that he wore like an invisible cloak. It had probably been bestowed in the cradle along with his insignia or crest or however it was that earls distinguished themselves from mere mortals.

She read the next paragraph three times, trying to fix her attention on the words, even though every fiber of her being was dying to know what Byron was doing. Against her better judgment, she had started to think of him as Byron, an inappropriate intimacy, if ever there was one.

When she’d read the paragraph for the fourth time, and still had no idea what it said, she conceded defeat. She sat up again to confront Byron just as the door was slammed open and Marilla appeared, flushed and radiant. If Marilla was exquisite at the best of times, when she was rosy and excited, she was terrifying. “Oh, Byron! I’m very, very sure you’re here!” she caroled.

The moment she noticed Fiona, her eyes narrowed, and her voice lost all claim to charm. “I’m looking for the earl. Has he entered?”

Marilla’s quarry had flattened himself against the wall behind the door. His lips were moving, perhaps in prayer or entreaty; either way, he had the look of a hunted animal. Marilla had obviously overplayed her hand again, but Fiona couldn’t bring herself to care very much.

She quickly looked back to her sister so as not to betray his presence. “No, but I think I heard someone running up the stairs.”

The sparks in Marilla’s eyes faded as she contemplated the significance of this. “Of course! He’s hidden in his bedchamber or mine, so that we may enjoy a moment or two of privacy once I find him.”

Fiona frowned, and Marilla added irritably, “High-society games are little more than opportunities for dalliance, which is something youcould never understand. The forfeit is a kiss. We’ve been playing hide-and-seek all afternoon, but the duke and Catriona insist on finding no one but each other, which is tiresome for the rest of us.”

“In that case,” Fiona said, “perhaps you’d better find the earl before Lady Cecily steals a kiss.”

Marilla smirked. “She’s proved to be a regular sobersides. We’re allplaying, even Taran, and—”

“ Taranran off and hid?”

“I found him in the back of the kitchens! He’s surprisingly fit for a man on the edge of the grave. He actually insisted on the forfeit.”

“Taran is hardly on the edge of the grave,” Fiona pointed out.

Reputation—as distinguished from virtue—seemed to have been declared irrelevant for the duration of the storm-imposed confinement. Fiona was fairly certain that the Duke of Bretton and Miss Burns were not worrying about reputation . . . well, now she thought about it, Catriona’s virtue as well as her reputation might be at risk. But that was hardly Fiona’s problem, and besides, they were betrothed.

“Don’t you dare return upstairs or come to the drawing room,” Marilla ordered. “Our bedchamber may be occupied for some time.” Her smile was more predatory than sweet.

“I’m getting hungry,” Fiona protested. “It’s teatime.”

“You’re plump enough. You could go a whole day without eating, and it would be the better for your waist.”

Fiona’s eyes must have narrowed, because Marilla suddenly looked a bit cautious. “I suppose if you must eat, you could ring for something. I am certainly not the person to wait on you hand and foot.”

“The library has no bell,” Fiona pointed out. “In fact, I doubt the castle has a system to summon the help.”

Marilla sighed. “I’ll have one of those disgusting old fools send you some seedcakes, I suppose.”

“I would like a hot drink as well.”

“Very well,” Marilla said with a flounce. “Just remain in this room. As I said, I do not want the earl to associate the two of us in any way. It’s better that you stay tucked out of sight.”

“I shan’t leave,” Fiona promised.

Characteristically, Marilla slammed the door behind her.

The library fell silent again. Fiona could hear Marilla impatiently delivering orders on the other side of the door, and then the patter of her slippers as she left in hot pursuit of her prey.

“Ignominious and yet fascinating,” Fiona remarked, as soon as the sound of her sister’s footsteps had faded completely. Against all reason, she found herself unable to suppress her laughter. “The fabulously rich and powerful Earl of Oakley cowering behind a door, as if the hounds of hell were in hot pursuit. I thought this kind of scene happened only in French farces. And in those, the main characters are already married.”

He strolled forward, his eyes glittering with less-than-suppressed anger. “Your sister,” he stated, “is a threat to every unmarried man in Great Britain.”

“Oh, I doubt that.”

When the earl had first been pointed out to her in a ballroom two years before, she had thought him utterly aloof, in the way of men who are so consumed by their own consequence that they were like ice statues: rigid and cold.

But now his color was heightened. In a man less ferocious, his expression could be deemed an insulted pout.

“Marilla has strong opinions about titles,” Fiona said. “She thinks they improve a man immensely, rather as a vintage does a wine. What did she do to give you such a fright?”

The way Byron glared at her suggested he was prone to murder; she parried it with an even more lavish smile, because it would never do to let him know that all that glowering menace was effective. “One would think that such a big, strong earl as yourself wouldn’t be overcome by fear,” she cooed, “but there’s nothing to be ashamed of. Fear is a natural human emotion.”

One more furious stride, and he was glowering down at her.

He didn’t look frightened: more the opposite. He looked like an enraged beast, roused from a peaceful den by an impudent intruder. Fiona loved it. Her heart sped up, which was utterly perverse.

“Your sister is a menace,” he spat. “Do you have any idea what she did to me? Any idea?”

“No,” Fiona said, tipping back her head in order to see his expression. “I’ve been right here all along. Something lacking sense, no doubt.”

He bared his teeth at her. “I am a calm man.”

“Oh, I can see that,” she said with some enjoyment.

“And I can see that you merely pretend to be a quiet, bookish young lady.”

“Well, I did tell you that I had a bad reputation,” she said, grinning at him the way she smiled only at her closest friends because . . . well . . . this was just so much fun. “But since we both seem to have a hidden dark side, may I say that yours is more interesting? I judged you a chilly aristocrat to the bone, but now you more resemble a barbarian.” She frowned. “Perhaps a barbarian chased by a rhinoceros. Really, what’s the worst Marilla can do to you? There’s no chaperone here to force the two of you to wed simply because of a rash kiss.”

“You think I’m boring and predictable. The sort who would prefer respect to love in matters of marriage.”

Her mouth fell open.

“Don’t you?” He braced his arms on the back of the sofa and leaned over her. The flush of anger in his face was fading, but his eyes were still hawklike. Fiona frowned at him, not sure what she was seeing. Hawklike and wounded?

“Yet even the most liberal gentleman would think it reasonable to avoid a woman who, when her bodice slips to her waist, merely giggles. And what happened thereafter—” He broke off, obviously remembering he was speaking to Marilla’s sister.

“Given our constrained circumstances, we cannot be criticized for wearing ill-fitting garments,” Fiona said, coming to Marilla’s rescue. “Lady Cecily’s clothing is hanging from her like drapes from a narrow window.”

“At least Lady Cecily manages to remain decently covered,” Byron retorted.

“Yet more surprising information about the male sex,” Fiona said. “ Iwas always under the impression that men quite liked a risqué glimpse of an ankle and the like.”

“You mock me.”

Fiona couldn’t help it: laughter bubbled out of her, and when he scowled, she found herself practically rolling on the sofa, gasping with laughter until he gave a reluctant smile.

“I’m sorry,” she said, giggling. “I really am. I’ve been indoors too long, obviously. No fresh air.”

“I wish to ask you a question,” Byron said, interrupting. He moved around the sofa to stand in front of the fire, the better to glower at her.

“What happened to the icy earl?” she asked, a last giggle escaping. “I feel as if the fairies stole you and returned with a hot-tempered . . .” She eyed him.

“Hot-tempered what?”

Backlit by the fire, his muscled legs showed to remarkable advantage. Suddenly, he didn’t look like an aristocrat, like an English aristocrat. It was as if he shifted before her eyes, replaced by a big, muscled man emanating a sort of primal heat. And . . .

She wrenched her eyes away. Wonderful. Now she was ogling him with as much fervor as her sister probably had done.

“Hot-tempered giant,” she said quickly, sobered by that thought. “What was it you wanted to ask me, Lord Oakley?” Her book had slipped to the floor; she picked it up and smoothed the pages. She had a third of it left. She should bury herself in the plot, and stop thinking about Byron altogether. He was too male, too beautiful . . . too volatile. And he was obviously in the grip of some fierce, barely contained emotion.

It couldn’t be that Marilla had roused all that passion.

Or perhaps she had.

He glanced down at the book in her hand. “I see you are still reading. What is the title again?”

“Persuasion, by Miss Jane Austen.”

“And are you enjoying it?”

She looked at him and hardened her heart. Men as beautiful as he were surely accustomed to fighting off the advances of young ladies. “Yes,” she said shortly. “I am. But surely, Lord Oakley, that is not the question you wished to ask me.”

“It’s not a question, precisely. I was hoping that you could inform your sister that I am an unlikely focus for her attentions.”

“Everyone knows that you are looking for a bride,” Fiona said, feeling her way into a further defense of Marilla. “News of your broken betrothal traveled before you. I’m afraid that I cannot alter the tide of public opinion. Every unmarried young lady considers you a suitable focus for her attentions. Morethan suitable.”

His brows drew together. “Perhaps you might tell her that I have determined not to marry.”

Fiona rolled her eyes. “Please. Marilla will no more believe that than I would. You still need a wife; you merely need to find a woman who isn’t interested in kissing other men. Marilla, for one, would never kiss a footman. As I told you, she’s mad about titles.”

“My fiancée was not kissing a footman,” he said, giving the distinct impression that his teeth were clenched together. “It was her dancing master.” To her shock, he strode over to the sofa, pushed her legs aside, and sat down.

Then he folded his arms and looked at her challengingly. “It’s not a matter of my being overly punctilious, either. Do you see what I just did? WhereI am? I pushed you aside and sat down without being asked. I’m sitting in this room with a young lady who has identified herself as having a less-than-perfect reputation.”

Another giggle broke from Fiona’s lips before she could suppress it. Was she supposed to congratulate him on his bravery? Or his finesse?

He gave her a narrow-eyed glance. “I may be a dunce, but I’m not a self-righteous turnip.”

“I would never think of you in terms of a garden vegetable,” she said encouragingly.

“At any rate, a dancing master is not precisely a servant.” He paused. “Although lately I begin to think that she set up the entire event so that I would break off the engagement.”

Fiona reached over and patted his knee. The stuffy earl was obviously having some sort of stuffy person’s crisis, and she was thoroughly enjoying watching it, even though such pleasure cast a dubious light on her own claims to being a kindly soul. “Oh, don’t underestimate the allure of a dancing master. Somuch more understandable than a footman. Was he French?”

“If you are warming up to casting aspersions on my ability to dance, as has my cousin, I would prefer that you refrain.”

Fiona had been planning to do just that, so she started over. “Marilla hasn’t the faintest interest in kissing anyone—except, of course, her husband, once she has one. And she would neverkiss a commoner; she has very high standards. Therefore, she will be a perfect match for you.”

“Your sister has already kissed me,” he stated. “I played only a passive role in the incident. I am well aware that my uncle’s foolishness has thrown us all together without a chaperone, but—”

“Exactly!” Fiona said, grasping thankfully on to that excuse. “Marilla is overcome by a heady sense of freedom.”

“Then youshould act as her chaperone.”

“Unfortunately, my sister pays me no mind,” Fiona said, more honestly than was perhaps advisable.

“I had given her hardly any encouragement,” the earl said, a heavy frown indicating something that she had long suspected. Men liked to seduce, rather than be seduced.

“You’re very attractive,” Fiona said, silently cursing Marilla’s propensity to overplay her hand. “She was overcome by your . . . your . . .” To her horror, her mind went blank; the only thing she could think of was his thighs and that ferocious maleness about him. “Your charm,” she cried. “Overcome by your charm, she has temporarily forsaken her maidenly modesty.”

A smile curled one side of his mouth. Really, a man shouldn’t have such a full lower lip. It wasn’t fair to the female sex. “I feel a bit wounded that it took you such a time to come up with a single attribute about me that might attract a young lady such as your sister, apart from my title, of course.”

Fiona ignored this. “Marilla would make a perfect countess.”

“I beg to disagree.”

She persisted. “Yes, she would.” She raised a finger to enumerate. “She’s an heiress. You do know that land isn’t entailed here in Scotland, don’t you? She will inherit my father’s entire estate, and it is considerable.”

“Your father bequeathed her everything? What about you? Don’t you have a dowry?”

“I have my own fortune from my mother,” Fiona said. “My father had no need to provide a dowry.”

There was a gleam in his eye that made her frown.

“Money is not everything,” she pointed out. “I’m not eligible for marriage, at least not to anyone like yourself. I have already told you of my reputation, though Taran must have forgotten about it when he scooped up his potential brides. To return to the matter at hand.” She raised a second finger. “Marilla is not only an heiress, but she’s very beautiful.”

“Beauty is in the eye of the beholder,” the earl said promptly.

She cast him a glance. She couldn’t imagine the person who would judge himless than beautiful, and that went double for Marilla.

“Don’t you agree, Miss Chisholm, or may I call you Fiona?” the earl said, leaning toward her. His eyes were rather warm. “I think Fiona is a lovely name.”

“I wouldn’t know about beauty,” she said with some severity. “I wear spectacles, as you see. That keeps me from drawing conclusions about people based on something as shallow as their appearance. But I am aware that a gentleman would like to take that into account, and I can assure you that Marilla is one of the most beautiful young ladies in all Scotland. And England as well, from what I’ve seen,” she added, somewhat recklessly.

“Your sister is like a hound in full-blooded chase after a fox. In that metaphor, I am the fox,” he stated.

Fiona shut her eyes for a moment. “She is young. And as I said, she’s wild about titles. Just wildabout them.”

“ Wild?” His face said it all.

“I assure you that the phrase is used in the most polite households. Miss Austen uses it several times.” She opened the book and found the relevant paragraph in a moment. “ ‘The girls were wild for dancing.’ ”

“Wildness is not a trait I am looking for in my bride.”

“I expect you are not looking for a wild girl,” Fiona said, trying to sound conciliatory. “But if you wouldn’t mind a bit of plain speaking, after the unfortunate affair of the dancing master, the trait that you truly want is an understanding of propriety. Marilla wouldn’t kiss a servant if she were at the point of death. She understands her own worth. I’m her sister, and I should know. That is, I doknow.”

“I am not interested in her behavior once married.”

Fiona nodded. There was no hope for Marilla; one had only to take a look at Byron’s stony countenance to know that. “I will tell her.” Honesty compelled her to reiterate, “But she won’t listen to me.”

“Why not? In the absence of your parents, she should pay respect to you.”

“You have no siblings, so I gather you have no idea how ignorant that assumption is.”

“I do not wish to quell her natural spirits. She is quite beautiful, sportive, and charming.”

Fiona flipped open her book. She’d had enough talking about Marilla for the day, and besides, if the earl thought her sister was that charming, he’d probably end up married to her, whether he wished to or no. “I completely understand,” she said, glancing down. “I will inform her that you prefer that she offer no more kisses, and that she keep her bodice firmly in place.”

A moment later she was immersed again in the story, bent on ignoring the man sitting at the other end of the sofa . . . except he did not stir. “I thought you were leaving,” she said finally, peering at him over her spectacles.

“I have been watching you instead.”

“A tiresome occupation,” Fiona observed.

“You mean it, don’t you? Your sister will pay no heed to an admonishment from you.”

Having already been unduly honest, Fiona saw no reason to prevaricate now. “It could be that your absence from the drawing room has turned her attention to someone else . . . the Comte de Rocheforte, perhaps.”

“It is my impression that Rocheforte is looking elsewhere.”

Fiona raised an eyebrow. “Really? That’s quite interesting.”

“He’s my cousin,” Byron explained. “I know him better than any other person in the world. He pretends to be a care-for-nothing, but in fact, he has a great affection for this place. However, without an estate, he cannot afford it, so he acts as if it is not important to him.”

“I’ve seen people act in that manner before,” Fiona said, thinking that she did it herself.

At that moment the door opened behind them. Byron froze and then he turned slowly, his eyes bright and wary.

Chapter 13

Fiona had been looking forward to the next act in the French farce that their kidnapping had become, but rather than Marilla, one of the laird’s men pushed his way through the door, a tray balanced on his shoulder.

“Brought you buttered crumpets,” he said with a grunt. “And mulled cider.” He walked over to the fire and put the tray down on a hassock. Then he set a lidded silver pitcher on the floor close to the hearth. “Leave it here so it’ll stay hot,” he ordered.

“Thank you,” Fiona said. “We will.”

He straightened, caught sight of Byron, and scowled. “Does the laird know that you’re in here?”

“No, and you’ll not tell him.” The words were delivered with a hard tone that seemed to make an impression on the man.

“Wooing!” he said, and turned and spat into the fire. “Time was a man dinna have to do this kind of wooing. Groveling for money, more like.” His gaze moved to Fiona. “Begging from women who has the money. It’s unnatural.” He collected her cold teapot and headed for the door.

Byron strode after him. “You didn’t see me here,” he stated.

The old Scotsman snorted and stomped off.

Oddly enough, that snort made Byron smile. Fiona decided that she didn’t understand him. He was unnerved by Marilla’s advances, but amused by a retainer’s flat rudeness. As she watched, he not only closed the door but turned the key.

“Is that truly necessary?” Fiona inquired.

“If you’re asking whether I’d prefer to avoid the experience of having another strange breast fall into my hand like an overripe plum, the answer is yes.”

Perhaps she should say something to defend her sister. But an overripe plum didn’t sound very nice.

“What if it weren’t a strangebreast?” she asked, unable to resist.

“I am not familiar with any woman’s breasts,” Byron replied, walking back to the sofa. “At the moment the world is full of strange breasts. Though I must say, this is a very improper subject.”

“You doneed to marry,” Fiona pointed out, struck by his observation. “You should be out there groveling at someone’s feet—Lady Cecily’s for example—in the hopes of gaining an intimate acquaintance with body parts other than her feet.”

“There are better things a man could do with his time than grovel at a woman’s feet,” Byron remarked.

With a start, Fiona realized that he was looking at heras he sat back down. With a lazy smile.

A dangerous smile.

For a moment her heart hiccupped, but she got hold of herself. “Right,” she said briskly. “You may have one of my crumpets, and then I would ask to be left in peace. I don’t have much left to read in this novel, and I’m keen to finish it.”

“If you force me to leave now, I shall starve,” he complained, picking up a linen napkin from the tray.

“Only because you’re afraid to go into the drawing room for tea.”

He reached a powerful hand toward the crumpets. Devil take the man, his limbs were probably as beautifully knit as his fingers. “More cautious than afraid,” he said. “Have you noticed how much worse the storm has grown today?”

She didn’t even glance at the windows. She’d lived in the Highlands all her life, and she knew the howl of the wind. “It will worsen through tomorrow evening, I should guess. You are now in the Highlands proper, Lord Oakley.”

“My name is Byron,” he said, for the third or fourth time, as he handed her the napkin and a crumpet.

The incongruity of this man being named Byron flashed across her mind. Byron was a poet, a man who wrote of love, midnight, and a woman’s smile. The earl, though, was of a different character altogether.

He obviously read her expression. “I have no connection whatsoever to that paltry rhymester Lord Byron. The name has been in my family for generations.”

“You’re not a poet, then?” She smiled at him, acknowledging that the mere notion was ridiculous. In fact, his christening had to be some sort of jest on destiny’s part. ThisByron was the least poetic man she’d ever met.

On the other hand, his person could easily be the subject of poetry. From the top of his ice-blond head to the toes of his perfectly shined boots, he was flawless. Even in the width of his shoulders and the clear blue of his eyes.

He had finished his crumpet, so he picked up the pitcher and poured hot cider into her empty teacup.

“Brandied cider,” she said happily. “What a perfect drink for an afternoon such as this.”

“It’s not afternoon; it must be going on six in the evening,” Byron said, pouring himself a mug. “At any rate, I could write poetry if I wished.” Stubbornness echoed in every word.

She eyed him. “Are you this competitive in every aspect of your life?”

“It is not competitive to understand that poetry presents very little challenge. A rhyme here or there is hardly problematical.” He tossed back his cider.

Fiona thought precisely the opposite, but she kept prudently silent. It had just occurred to her that he might have had a rather sad childhood. Still, thinking that an earl—a man immersed in privilege and luxury—could have been neglected was absurd. She was mistaking innate arrogance for something else.

“Did your governess teach you the fine art of writing lyrics?” he asked, reaching past her toward the plate of crumpets. “Or were you sent to school?” His lips had taken on a buttery shine. If she had the nerve—and life were completely different—she would kiss him just there, on the bow of his lower lip.

Snow was dashing itself against the windows, and the library felt like a very warm, very snug nest. “We were largely raised by a nanny and a governess,” she told him. “We had different mothers, but unfortunately, neither survived past our early years. My governess was not poetical, to the best of my memory.”

“Mine felt that nursery rhymes were poor substitutes for biblical verses,” the earl said.

“That sounds . . . tedious,” Fiona said honestly.

He nodded. “I think it would have been better had I a sibling. I would have guessed that Marilla was spoiled. ‘Too pretty for her own good,’ my nanny would have said.”

“Did your nanny say that of you?”

“I’m not pretty,” he said, reaching for the last crumpet.

“Please save at least onecrumpet for me,” she asked pointedly.

“Oh, I don’t know,” he replied. To her surprise, there was a wicked amusement in his eyes. “I’m sure Marilla would say I should eat them all, the better to protect your waistline.”

“Beast,” she said, but without heat. His gaze made it perfectly clear that he thought her waistline was fine as it was. In fact, that was probably the kind of carnal look that her father thought she’d given Dugald. She hadn’t. Ever.

“I wouldn’t want us to quarrel over crumpets,” Bryon said, a glimmer of a smile at one corner of his mouth. Then he did something that she would never in a million years have expected: he held the crumpet up to her lips.

She looked at him.

“Open your mouth and take a bite,” he ordered.

He watched her lips so intently that she felt a curl of heat in her stomach. He couldn’t truly be attracted to her.

Not that it mattered. At the moment he knew next to nothing about her past, yet all too soon he would. But then . . . his eyes met hers as she took the bite, and the curl of heat grew a little more intense.

It was as though they were having two completely distinct, yet simultaneous conversations. It was most disconcerting.

“Marilla was a beautiful infant,” she told him, unable to think what else to say. He took a bite of her crumpet, still watching her intently. “The adoration her curls inspired wasn’t terribly good for her.”

“I suppose it led her to believe that she was the most endearing child in the Highlands, as opposed to the most willful.” He held out the crumpet again.

“Lord Oakley,” she asked with some curiosity, “do you feel that you might have a fever?”

“Absolutely not.”

“You seem to be acting out of character. Do you think your friends would recognize you if they could see you now?”

“Of course they would.”

She hesitated. “You do know that Marilla and I attended the London season the last two years?”

A slight frown creased his brow. “Will you eat this crumpet, or shall I finish it?”

She accepted what little remained of the crumpet and finished it in two bites. Butter dripped onto the back of her hand, and without thinking she licked it off. Their eyes met again, and the warmth in her stomach spread to her legs.

“I glimpsed you at two balls in the last season,” she said, straightening her back. “You were pointed out to me as one of the most eligible men in London—that was before you asked for Lady Opal’s hand in marriage, of course.”

“But we were not introduced.” He frowned in a rather irresistible way. “I would have remembered you.”

“Of course we were not introduced,” she said, almost laughing at him. “Marilla and I are as far beneath your notice as butterflies are to a . . . a . . .”

“Hawk?” he suggested.

“Elephant?”

The right side of his mouth hitched up in an enchantingly hesitant smile.

“At any rate,” she said hastily, reminding herself that this flirtation had no future, “I rather think your friends might believe you’d lost your mind if they could spy on you.”

“I would like to know what it was like to grow up with a sibling,” he said, ignoring her comment. “Did she steal your toys? I believe that is common behavior.”

“Surely Rocheforte stole your things when you were boys?”

“My father did not consider Robin suitable company for his heir,” the earl said. “A matter of his French blood, you understand. We met only as adults, so I did not share my nursery with anyone.”

Her hunch had been right, then: his had indeed been a lonely childhood. “Marilla did borrow my things occasionally,” Fiona admitted. She took a sip of the cider and broke into a fit of coughing.

He leaned over, slipped a hand behind her, and gave her a gentle clap on her shoulder. “Are you all right?”

Excepting the fact that she could feel the touch of his fingers all the way through ancient velvet, two chemises, and a corset, she was fine. Just fine. “Your uncle’s cider is a trifle stronger than I’m used to.”

Byron poured himself a new cup, and took a healthy swallow. “Brandy with a touch of cider, rather than the reverse,” he said with obvious pleasure. “It isn’t as though we have to do anything requiring coordination.”

Fiona took another sip. The drink burned on the way down to her stomach, reminding her that one crumpet, plus two bites of another, wasn’t much of a meal.

“Let’s return to the subject of your childhood,” Byron said, settling into his corner of the sofa.

“Let’s not,” Fiona said. “We ought to join the others in the drawing room. It must be nearly time for supper.”

There was something wild and boyish about the earl’s face, as if he’d thrown his entire personality—at least, what she’d seen of it in London—out the window. “Not after I went to all that trouble to sneak in here,” he said. “Besides, I’m enjoying this. Very much.”

Fiona felt a blush creep up her neck.

“Lord Oakley,” she said cautiously, “did you take anything to drink before that cider?”

“No,” he said, tipping his head against the back of the sofa. “I did not. But I might drink that whole pitcher; I may never return to the drawing room.” He turned his head and looked into her eyes. “I don’t want to be kissed by your sister again. And that’s even though I gave some thought to marrying her.”