For in that moment, an odd welling had arisen from deep within Lady Cecily’s heart alongside a bone-deep sense of rightness, of finally having arrived at a destination she hadn’t even known she’d been journeying toward. So it was that Lady Cecily Tarleton, the dutiful, proper daughter of the Earl of Maycott, recognized with absolute certainty that she’d found in Robin, Comte de Rocheforte, unapologetic scoundrel, self-proclaimed pauper, the scandalous Prince of Rakes, the man she would marry.

She’d known who he was and all about his reputation, of course. He had been pointed out to her on the streets of London. It didn’t matter. The only question was what she was to do about it.

It was a question that had her hourly more anxious, especially since Robin had spent the last two days as conspicuous in his absence as, well, Marilla was conspicuous in her availability. In point of fact, his determined nonappearance was beginning to substantially threaten her plan to marry him. Which is what she planned to do, because having finally found love, she saw no reason to relinquish it.

However, she couldn’t just tell him that she loved him. Since birth, it had been deeply ingrained in her that a lady waited for a gentleman to notice her and then commence his courtship. That wasn’t going to work here. Time was of the essence. Soon the storm would end, the passes clear, and her father arrive.

So when Robin had once more failed to appear for dinner, she’d gone looking for him and now stood in a dark hall outside the castle library, her cheeks scalding and tears welling in her eyes. It had taken all her self-control to keep from stomping back into the library, shoving Marilla Chisholm out of Robin’s arms, and taking her place.

Only one thing had kept her from doing so: what if Robin did not want her to take Marilla’s place?

She had no reason to believe he did. She had nothing on which to base her certainty that he felt this . . . this connection, too, other than the way he’d looked at her outside Byron’s carriage, the profound awareness that had penetrated his amusement and left him, for one telling instant, looking staggered and vulnerable.

She edged away from the doorway and began walking, her thoughts floundering between hope and despair. She didn’t note the direction her feet took until she heard a masculine voice hailing her.

“Lady Cecily. Are you all right?”

She turned to find Lord Oakley striding toward her. He looked anything but pleased to see her.

“Did you take a wrong turn? Are you lost?”

“Pardon?” She glanced about and realized that in her distraction she’d wandered into a part of the castle she didn’t recognize. The hallway was unlit and uncarpeted and chilly. “I may be.”

“You must be near frozen,” he said.

“No. I’m quite comfortable,” she said, which was true. The velvet material she’d scavenged from her room to act as a shawl was warm if not fashionable.

Beneath the shawl she’d once more donned the dimity blue ball gown in which she’d arrived, the black morning dress having fallen apart at the seams earlier in the day.

“I doubt that,” Oakley said, recalling her attention. “Allow me to see you back to a warmer part of the castle.”

His attitude was impatient, and clearly, his thoughts were on other matters.

“Thank you,” she said, turning in the direction he indicated.

Though she’d never met Oakley in London, she knew his reputation as a stickler of the highest order. She had seen him several times in the company of Lord Burbett, her most solemn suitor, but had never asked for an introduction. He seemed the sort of man who would always find fault with a person, and she never purposely courted self-doubt.

Now Oakley was scowling deeply, his hands behind his back as he walked alongside her. “I am sorry about all this,” he finally said. “Burbett will have my head when he hears about it.”

She frowned. Apparently, Oakley thought Burbett entertained a position of greater importance in her life than he did. She could hardly inform Oakley that she had turned down his friend’s offer. It was Burbett’s place to reveal that information in whatever light he chose.

Taking her ensuing silence for a rebuke against overfamiliarity, Oakley flushed. “And now I must apologize again.”

“Good heavens, m’lord,” she said, “this is the eighth or ninth time you’ve apologized for something or other. You can’t possibly blame yourself for everything. I assure you, I do not.”

“As no one else in my family seems to comprehend the gravity of the situation or claim culpability in bringing it about, if only for pride’s sake, I must.”

“You do not consider your uncle or . . .” She hesitated. “ . . . your cousin to be properly conscience-stricken?”

“Uncle Taran has no conscience,” Oakley muttered.

“And your cousin?” she prodded.

For a moment she thought he might rebuff this overture but then the stiffness that seemed an essential part of his demeanor dissolved. He smiled rather ruefully.

“I suppose in all fairness if you are going to acquit me of blame, you must do the same for Robin,” he said. “Though it is nigh well impossible to tell from outward appearances, I suspect he is as shocked as I am by Taran’s fool antics.”

“Is he?” Now here was a topic far more interesting than Burbett.

Again that unexpected—and unexpectedly charming—smile. “One can but hope.”

The opportunity to learn more about Robin was irresistible. “For a gentleman noted for his, ah, appreciation of young ladies, the comte certainly makes himself absent a great deal of the time.” It was an appallingly bold thing to say and she could scarce believe she’d uttered it.

Oakley glanced at her in some surprise, but answered nonetheless, “My cousin prefers to give his appreciation only to ladies who are no longer young misses.”

Ha! Cecily thought grimly, not if Marilla Chisholm had her way.

“Well, it isn’t very polite,” she said.

“You mustn’t take it personally,” Oakley said. The earl must be distracted by something—or someone—indeed, to forget his legendary reserve. “I suspect that Robin is trying to ensure that no one’s reputation suffers through association with him.”

“Or he is simply bound and determined not to fall in with your uncle’s matrimonial plans for him?” she suggested.

“It is, of course, possible, but I doubt it.”

“Why is that?”

“Because I don’t think Robin believes any reputable young lady would consider him a viable matrimonial candidate. No, something else is making him act strangely, and his concern for your reputations is the best reason I can deduce.”

“You sound vexed,” she said lightly.

“That’s because Robin is vexing. And aggravating. And wholly a dunderhead.”

“By all appearances, he is quite your opposite, m’lord,” she retorted icily, unable to refrain from coming to Robin’s defense. “One could see how so congenial a gentleman might try the patience of someone who appears so sober.”

His lips tightened. “Who a person appears to be to the world and who that person knows himself to be are not always the same thing.”

She understood better than most. She knew society considered her insipid, but as long as her family and intimate friends knew better, she didn’t care. But looking at Oakley, a thought occurred to her. “Of whom are you speaking?” she asked. “Yourself or the comte?”

“Perhaps both of us. Even you, Lady Cecily. Burbett proclaimed you to be the most circumspect young lady of his acquaintance and yet here you are interrogating me about my cousin.”

Heat flooded up her neck and into her cheeks.

“But then, what do I know of ladies?” he continued on a note of savagery that surprised her. “Nothing. Forgive me. I didn’t mean to chastise you. Fool that I am, I insist on seeing things through society’s eye and not my own.” His jaw tensed. “As it were, I was speaking of Robin’s insouciance. It’s a pose he’s adopted.”

She waited, hoping he would elaborate, and after a moment, her silence was rewarded.

“Robin’s willingness—or one ought to say willfulness—to undervalue himself invites others to do the same. He inherited a vineyard from his father and through sheer determination he’s wrested it back from the brink of ruination. Within a decade or so it will be producing some of the finest Bordeaux in the world.

“The gossips”—he spat the word—“and tattle tellers and daily rags never mention that, however. The fools only speak of his expertise in other areas. And he encourages it.” He ground out this last bit. “He readily admits not only to those things he has done, but to crimes he has not even committed. Can you think why anyone would do such a thing?”