“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 not kissing 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 he would 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 men who 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.

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 work to 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 felt rumpled.

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 know you 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.”