He stopped and made some harsh, strangled sound.

“Don’t you agree?” she prodded.

“Yes!” The admission seemed torn from him. “Yes. I concede your point.”

“So you won’t leave?” she said, managing to break free and slide down his body. She felt every inch of that journey . . . her breasts pressed against his shoulders, then against his chest: all the hardness of him and the softness of her.

“Not at once,” he choked, trying to pretend that he didn’t notice the same thing.

“Not at all,” Cecily stated, with a thrill of elation.

“I’ll be leaving as soon as possible.”

But the heat in his eyes belied his promise.







Chapter 25

That afternoon

Robin strode into the library and stopped short. Cecily stood in front of the hearth, silhouetted against the merrily burning fire. She still wore those damned boy’s breeches, but had shed the jacket to reveal the fine, loose shirt beneath. Backlit by the glow from the fireplace, one could easily see every curve through the thin material.

And she had curves.

The effect was breathtaking. Her slight rib cage narrowed into her small waist before flaring gently out again in sweetly rounded hips. And when she bent to poke at the fire, he could see the way her breasts jostled ripely and the delicious manner in which the trousers’ material stretched over her shapely derrière.

Future duchess or not, Catriona Burns ought to be put in the dock for encouraging Cecily’s crime against a man’s self-restraint.

“Hamish said you wanted to see me,” he announced with ill grace. “Here I am.”

She turned around, her eyes lighting up on seeing him. Why was she so happy? Because, he realized, she liked him. She not only liked his kisses . . . she liked him. Something hard and painful knotted in his chest.

“Thank you,” she said, coming round the lumpy old sofa toward him. “I wanted to make sure you were all right. I do hope you understand that I didn’t purposely aim for your head.”

“Of course not. You needn’t trouble your conscience. Byron has always claimed I have the hardest head in England. I’m fine.”

She had a beautiful smile, gamine and spontaneous, and soon he would not be a witness to it. The claims that she was a cipher, a statue, and other, unkinder comments had all been proven false. She was nothing like her reputation, and there was little time left to revel in the company of the unexpected woman she’d proved to be.

One of Taran’s men had returned at noon with the news that the snow was melting quickly and the passes would likely be cleared by the morrow. Maycott’s men were undoubtedly already working on it. Her father would arrive and Robin would play the role she’d assigned him.

He would contrive to look exasperated and indifferent. He might try to keep Maycott from stringing up Taran—though at this moment he was not sure whether he wished to succeed—and then he would take his leave. Perhaps he might catch a glimpse of her someday in London, on the arm of whomever she married.

She stopped in front of him, her smile vanishing. “You are still angry. No, don’t deny it. I can see it in your face.”

Wrong, my girl. That’s anguish, not anger.

“I expect I deserve no less,” she said sadly.

“I’m not angry. I promise you. I am simply”—he cast about for some excuse for his dark expression—“distraught that you did not heed my advice and change into other clothing.”

“You say this because you have a care for my reputation?” she asked. And then, with a heartbreakingly hopeful smile, “Or a care for me?”

A care. A tepid term for what he felt. But why make this harder for anyone, especially her?

“I don’t want you to suffer any consequences for merely trying to keep warm,” he answered.

“I will change as soon as we get word that a carriage approaches,” she said. “But for now, well, what can it hurt?”

“A great deal,” he answered. “You would not want it bandied about London that not only were you closeted for four days with men unrelated to you and without a proper chaperone, but that you also sashayed about in a pair of tightly fitted breeches.”

She bit her lip, and he had the distinct impression it was to keep from laughing. He could hardly blame her. It was absurd but, damn and blast, he had become Byron!

“Who’s here that would describe the scene?” she inquired. “Catriona Burns is distracted by her duke and upcoming nuptials, as is Fiona with hers to Oakley. And I do not think either Bretton or Oakley is the type of gentleman who’d waste his breath tattling about a lady’s choice of clothing.”

“What?”

“I do not think your cousin or Bretton—”

“No, of course not. I meant, what did you say about Miss Chisholm and upcoming nuptials?” he asked, frowning.

“ ’Tis true,” she said. “They told me themselves—or rather Oakley crowed about it—outside in the stable this morning just before you appeared.”

His head was spinning. She must have read his confusion for she spoke again, in slow, distinct accents. “Lord Oakley has proposed to Miss Fiona Chisholm and she agreed to marry him.” She gave a light trill of laughter as she crossed the short distance between them. “It looks like your uncle’s mad plan has met with unexpected success.”

She stopped and tipped her head back to look him squarely in the eye. “Except in your case, of course. And if I recall correctly you were the target of all his machinations. Ironic, isn’t it?”

“Very.”

“You must feel a bit left out,” she teased.

“I am not the only one who failed to fall victim to his machinations. Marilla Chisholm has also escaped heart whole.”

Cecily’s lips flattened and her expression grew haughty. It seemed that she did not like Marilla. “Yes,” she said, ”though I doubt she’s feeling precisely triumphant. But if you are congratulating people on not succumbing to Cupid’s arrow, you must certainly add me to your list. I, too, remain unbetrothed.”

“But that’s only for the time being,” he said, and before he could think better of it, added, “Have you given your choice any further thought?”

She regarded him with an unreadable expression. “Comte de Rocheforte, are you perchance offering me your advice? Your real advice?”

“Good God, no,” he said, thunderstruck. “Of course not. I would never presume.”

She laid her hand against his chest in an unconscious gesture of appeal. He felt the imprint of each finger. “I wish you would. I have only my sisters to act as my advisors—”

“And I am sure they are far better qualified than I to guide you. Besides which, they are privy to your innermost feelings.”

“So might you be,” she said, her voice low and husky. His heart thundered beneath her palm, and he was seized by the impulse to sweep her into his arms and kiss her far more thoroughly than he had in the frozen corridor above.

But he didn’t move. He didn’t say a word, and after a few seconds, she sighed, letting her hand drop from his chest.

“As far as being dependable counselors,” she said, “they are silly girls, moved to raptures by the cut of a gentleman’s coat or the way he sits a horse. The youngest fell in love with her young man because he styled his hair à la Brutus.”

He could not help but laugh at that, and she grinned, edging closer once again. “You, though, with your reputation as a bourreau des coeurs, you can offer me invaluable insights: how to know if a gentleman will be faithful and guard my reputation, become a playmate, advisor, and tender lover.”

He would. But how could he say such a thing? Everything about his past refuted that claim. And even if he were, how could he convince her father?

Lord Maycott, it’s true I’ve bedded a fair number of women, but none of them were virgins and none of them were living with their husbands when I slipped under their sheets. All very up-and-up, don’t you agree? And yes, my title was restored by a regime that could just as easily rescind it tomorrow. Still, it’s a title, what? And no, I haven’t any wealth to speak of, but happily, I will inherit this splendid castle, and there are a few rocky acres in Bordeaux that in, oh, a decade or so, may make enough profit to buy a small cabriolet. But in the meantime I daresay we’ll make do with your daughter’s dowry—not that I care about her inheritance. How could you possibly suspect otherwise?

He should have laughed at the thought of it. He should; he couldn’t, had his life depended on it.

“Robin?”

She had no idea what she was asking him. He scraped the hair back from his forehead, looking anywhere but at her.

“Am I wrong, Robin,” she said, “in thinking there is sympathy between us? That even in so short a time, we have recognized in one another a friend?”