Not that anyone showed an inclination to gape at her ankles.

Fiona sighed and made her way down the wide stone steps leading to the great hall. A fire burned in the huge hearth, but the room was as echoing and cold as it had been the previous night. Even the ancient retainers who were knocking about last night seemed to have disappeared.

She hesitated for a moment, wondering where she might find the others, and was moving toward the drawing room door when she heard Marilla’s laughter.

There must be some other room to which she could retreat, perhaps a library or a study; she didn’t want to watch Marilla chase the earl around a sofa. Her sister apparently thought a man who displayed that kind of icy precision would make a complacent husband.

Oakley wouldn’t.

There was something buried and formidable about him, something that made all his control seem a façade. He would not be comfortable. She was sure of that. But she was also sure that if Marilla wanted him, she would take him.

When they were in London, Marilla was hemmed in by society’s strictures. But there was nothing to stop her here, in this isolated castle. Ever since she was a little girl, Marilla had taken whatever she wanted—including Fiona’s toys and Fiona’s clothing. Faced by a little angel with buttery curls, their father had always given in.

Just then Marilla burst out of the drawing room, but the smile dropped from her face the moment she saw Fiona. “Go away!” she hissed. “You’ll ruin everything. This bodice is a trifle chilly, so I’m going to fetch a shawl. Then I’m returning to the card game.”

“I’ll find the library,” Fiona said.

“Just stay in your chamber,” Marilla ordered. “The earl hasn’t come down since luncheon, but he is obviously very punctilious about his reputation. I don’t want him to recall that we’re sisters, in case he knows of your disgrace.”

The laird’s ancient butler emerged from the dining room on the far side of the great hall as Marilla trotted up the stairs. “May I be of assistance, miss?” he asked.

Fiona gave him a warm smile. “Could you advise me as to a room to which I might retire for a spell? The library, perhaps?”

“In there,” he said, nodding at a door. “Nobody goes in but the gentlemen after supper, for a smoke and a bit of brandy. If you don’t mind the smell of dogs and good tobacco, you’ll be comfortable.”

“That sounds perfect,” Fiona said. “You’re my savior, Mr. Garvie, indeed you are.”

“I shouldna be doing it,” Garvie said. “You’re supposed to be marrying the young comte. By all rights, you oughta be in the drawing room with the rest of them. The laird won’t be pleased.”

“I’m not the right one,” she assured him. “Any of the other ladies will make a better mistress of the castle than I. May I beg you to have some tea sent to me, Mr. Garvie?”

Fiona pushed open the door to the library and found it surprisingly cozy, given that the castle ceilings were so high. Its walls were lined with books, and the roaring fire in the fireplace didn’t hurt, either.

This was much better than joining the party in the drawing room, playing some sort of game devised by Marilla to throw herself into the arms of the chilly earl.

She wandered along the shelves, trailing a finger over the leather-covered volumes. Books on crop cultivation, on iron working, on terracing . . .

Old plays, poetry . . . and Persuasion: a Novel by the Author of Sense & Sensibility! How in the world did such a novel end up in the laird’s library? It could not have been published more than a few months ago.

She read the first couple of pages and instantly began smiling. Sir Walter Elliot—he who read no book for amusement but the Baronetage—was surely a parallel to Lord Oakley. Sir Walter viewed those below his estimation with pity and contempt, which was a fair summary of the way that the earl looked at lesser beings such as she.

She threw herself happily onto the sofa before the fire. It wasn’t exactly a comfortable piece of furniture—more lumpy than soft—but the inimitable Sir Walter promised to make her forget any discomfort.

It was a good forty minutes before Mrs. McVittie appeared with a pot of tea, but Fiona was so engrossed in the novel that she scarcely noticed.

By then she had wriggled into a more comfortable position: head propped on one arm of the sofa, feet crossed on the other arm. Marilla would squeal like a stuck pig if she walked in and saw Fiona’s ankles, clad in pale pink silk, but Marilla was in the drawing room, presumably chasing a blindfolded peer around the furniture, if they had moved on from cards.

“This is heaven,” she said to Mrs. McVittie, swinging her feet to the floor and smiling at her. “Thank you so much.”

“Mr. Garvie’s taken a shine to you,” Mrs. McVittie confided, bending over to put another log on the fire. “He reckons that you’re not the sort to marry, so you might as well be comfortable. The rest of them are all in the drawing room playing at Pope Joan and the like.”

“He’s right,” Fiona said. “I am not the type of woman who marries.” She felt only a tiny pang at that idea, which was quite a triumph.

In no time, she had sunk deeply back into the book and had realized that the prescient Miss Austen had, in addition to creating Sir Walter—who bore such a similarity to the Earl of Oakley—created in Elizabeth Elliot a perfect portrait of her own sister, Marilla, who like Elizabeth was indeed “fully satisfied of being still quite as handsome as ever,” but “felt her approach to the years of danger.” Granted, Marilla was only twenty-one, but even she had begun to notice the reluctance of English gentlemen to offer for her hand during her three seasons in London.

Englishmen seemed to be remarkably canny. They buzzed about Marilla like flies in honey, but they didn’t come up to scratch.

It was much more satisfactory to read about Sir Walter and his daughter than to be trapped in a cold castle with two versions of the same. While the aggravations and extravagances of polite society were funny on the page, they were deeply irritating in real life.







Chapter 11

After luncheon Byron couldn’t stop thinking about the way Catriona Burns looked up at Bret, eyes shining, her love obvious. His own expectation of marriage did not include feelings of that nature. His father had taught him well: one’s wife should be a chaste woman of good breeding. Passion between a husband and wife was out of the question.

The new Countess of Oakley, as his father had instructed him time out of mind, should be virtuous, well mannered, and above all, show respect if not fawning submission to her husband.

Respect and submission wasn’t what Catriona felt for Bret.

Envy was an uncomfortable emotion. It felt like a dark, raging burn in his veins.

Before he chose Opal to wed, he had danced with every maiden on the marriage market who fell into his purview—which left Scottish girls such as Marilla and Fiona to the side—and then he had made what he thought was a reasoned, intelligent decision.

His thought process had been a bit embarrassing, in retrospect. He had decided that Opal would make a good mother. He hadn’t known his own mother well, since she had run away with his uncle—his father’s younger brother—when he was just a child. They had gone to the Americas, and for all he knew, they were there still.

Still, it didn’t help to know that he had a reason to feel unsure of himself around women. His father’s freezing tirades, which invariably emphasized female lust, had clearly affected him.

He would have sworn that Opal was chaste; among other signs, he had never detected the faintest shadow of desire when she looked at him. Now he thought back to the docility with which she accepted his compliments, her downturned eyes, and the way she turned her head to the side . . . He had been a fool.

It wasn’t that he wanted to make a fast woman his countess. An unblemished reputation was of supreme importance. But . . . he would like to have his wife love him. Enough so that she wouldn’t leap to another man’s bed.

What’s more, if Bret could make a woman love him, Byron damn well could as well. His competitive edge rose to the surface. He could make a woman look at him with wild delight. He could bind her to him so persuasively that she would never look at another.

Marilla Chisholm was an obvious candidate. She was pretty, devastatingly so. Her curls were soft as butter, and her eyes a delightful blue.

And the fact that her youthful spirits led her to behavior that would be classified as outrageous by the strict matrons who ruled the ton . . . well, that was all to the better. After all, she was trying to kiss him, rather than a dancing master. She was probably just innocent of the ways of the world.