“I’d like a bath, if you please,” she told a stray retainer she encountered in the hallway.

He put up a protest, but she fixed him with a tiger’s eye and he backed down. “You’ll miss supper,” he said in a parting shot.

Hopefully, he would be right.







Chapter 14

Taran was not employing the great hall for dining; a storm this fierce sneaked in through windows and took over the larger rooms. The wind howled as it rounded the corners, scouring under the doors, keeping the air frigid and moving.

Instead, supper was to be served in the antechamber where they’d taken all their meals. It was small and cheery; a boy had been assigned to keep a fire burning there all day. Its small mullioned windows were so crusted with snow and ice that the wind couldn’t even make them rattle.

Byron changed into an evening coat and returned downstairs far faster than his usual wont. He walked over to one window and stared at the snowdrift blocking any view of the storm. He had been making an annual winter trek to Finovair for a decade or more, and he could not remember seeing the snow piled quite so high in the courtyard before.

Fiona was so different from Opal. She didn’t look away from him; she laughed straight to his face. She never seemed to be at a loss for words. She just said what she was thinking. He had a tremendous feeling of rightness, even thinking of the way her eyes shone with mischief.

She wouldn’t lie to him. She would mock him, and argue with him, and probably infuriate him, but she would never lie to him.

And she had told him about Marilla’s theft of her mother’s portrait. Perhaps if Opal and he had talked, really talked, she would have told him that she didn’t care to marry him. She wouldn’t have had to stage that scene with the balding dancing master.

If, instead, it had been Fiona who had decided she didn’t care to marry him, she would tell him face-to-face. Let’s say they were betrothed—a funny shot of heat came under his breastbone at the notion. He would like to put a ring on her finger. A ring that would tell other men that everything about her—from her sweet little nose, to those curved hips, to the perplexed look in her gorgeous eyes—it was all his.

Just hypothetically, if he were betrothed to Fiona, and she decided to throw him over, she wouldn’t do it through a dramatic scene. She would probably glare at him, and then she would tell him that he was a stupid, jealous . . .

Jealous?

He had never been jealous. Marriage wasn’t about jealousy. It was about respect and promises. But then he thought for a moment and realized that a seething cauldron lit in his chest at the very idea of a dancing master approaching Fiona.

This train of thought was insanity.

He leaned his forehead against the icy window, just to see whether he was dreaming. The glass was just as cold to his forehead as to his fingertips. A feeling of profound calm cut through with elation swept through him. He would do it: he would marry Fiona Chisholm, and have a bespectacled, honest, beautiful countess. She would probably be a good mother, but honestly, he didn’t give a damn.

If she was a bad mother, they could get a nanny. Well, of course they would have a nanny. He wanted her for himself. So he could . . .

So he wouldn’t be alone. So he would have a friend, and a lover, and a wife, all in one. The elation spread. How could he be so lucky?

He was never lucky.

The door opened and he turned, heart thumping. Not Fiona. It was Marilla, her breasts barely kept in check by an edging of lace, her eyes lighting up at the sight of him.

“You disappeared this afternoon!” she chided, disapproval softened by forgiving laughter.

“I spent the afternoon in the library,” he said, watching her closely.

She was approaching him, her hips swaying, but she froze for a second. Then her smile grew wider. “But wasn’t my sister, Fiona, hiding there? She’s so reluctant to be in company, you know. I promised her I would have someone send her tea so that she need not be embarrassed by her lack of social skills.”

He held out a chair for her and then said, “I didn’t notice any shyness.” Happiness thrummed low in his chest simply because he was talking about Fiona.

This was ridiculous. Preposterous. Like the sort of lovesickness that is visited on mere boys. He thought he wanted a woman to fall in love with him, but instead he was the one infected. Just like a giddy boy, he discovered he was grinning at Marilla.

“Fiona has no friends,” Marilla said, waving at the seat beside her. “Since we do sit on consequence, Byron, I certainly hope that you will remain at my side.” Her smile was lavish, but then, all of Marilla’s smiles were lavish.

He sat, thinking about what she just said. It didn’t make sense to him. Fiona was funny and wry and altogether delightful. Of course she had friends. But then, perhaps she didn’t have friends . . . perhaps she was as profoundly alone as he was.

“Where is your sister?” he asked, keeping his tone casual.

“Fiona has little regard for the servants. She asked for a bath not long ago, even though it’s not easy for those old men to carry hot water up the stairs.” Marilla slid her hand over his, and frowned with a kind of dewy earnestness. “She has no idea how to run a large household. My father made certain that I was trained in a chatelaine’s arts. One of the most important rules is that the lady of the household must respect those in her service. Yet Fiona asks for separate meals, as she did this luncheon, and baths!” She rolled her eyes. “She bathes every day, and never mind how much work it is to haul pails of hot water up and down the stairs.”

Byron thought with some satisfaction of the newfangled pipes he’d added to his house two years ago. And then he thought of Fiona sitting in his bath, steam rising around her, all that glorious hair curling into smaller ringlets, her creamy skin flushing . . . He hastily put his napkin in his lap.

The door opened and Bret and his betrothed entered, laughing. He had his hand on Catriona’s back, and the way he looked down at her was so resonant with desire that . . . well, the couple was just as improperly intimate as they had been the night before, but now Byron saw it with a different eye, looking not at Catriona’s face, but at Bret’s.

He wanted to put his hand on the small of Fiona’s back. He’d never thought about the gesture, but now he perceived the possessiveness in that light touch. He wanted to hand Fiona into a chair and then sit beside her, a bit too close, and hold hands under the table, the way Bret and Catriona now were. He wanted to escort her to supper with lips that had been kissed the color of dark cherries, as Bret had.

Hell, he wanted to join her in the bath and . . .

After making her his bride, of course.

Marilla’s voice cut into his thoughts again. She had curled her fingers around his forearm, and was leaning forward, saying something to Catriona. “Oh, we feel the same,” she cooed. “Byron and I were just talking about the arduous duties of running a large household. This strange little interlude at Finovair has done so much to bring us all close! I’m thrilled to know that I was there when the Duke and Duchess of Bretton fell in love. I cannot wait to tell my friends.”

Byron drew his arm away, while Bret threw him a look that said, clear as day, that Marilla wasn’t going within two miles of the duchy of Bretton. Byron grinned back and then watched the puzzlement grow in Bret’s eyes.

His old friend hadn’t figured it out yet. Hell, he had hardly figured it out. All he knew was that his entire being was tense, waiting for Fiona to get out of that bath and join them at the supper table.

Taran blew in the door, followed by a train of his retainers carrying platters. “Lady Cecily dines in her room,” he said briskly. Robin was nowhere in evidence: he was probably hiding in his room as well. And still there was no Fiona.

The laird sat down and scowled rather unexpectedly at Marilla. “Keep your hands to yourself, lass. Your father wouldn’t approve.”

Byron realized that Marilla had once again curled her hand around his forearm. She gave Taran a lofty smile and didn’t move a finger. Instead, she moved even closer and said in a breathy voice, “Byron, do tell me about your castle.”

“I don’t have one,” he said calmly.

“What a pity,” Marilla said. “But I suppose you could always buy one if you wished.”

“No,” Byron said, catching Bret’s eye. Bret was trying not to laugh and not succeeding very well. “I could not. Castles are far and few between in England.”