“Beauty is in the eye of the beholder,” the earl said promptly.
She cast him a glance. She couldn’t imagine the person who would judge him less than beautiful, and that went double for Marilla.
“Don’t you agree, Miss Chisholm, or may I call you Fiona?” the earl said, leaning toward her. His eyes were rather warm. “I think Fiona is a lovely name.”
“I wouldn’t know about beauty,” she said with some severity. “I wear spectacles, as you see. That keeps me from drawing conclusions about people based on something as shallow as their appearance. But I am aware that a gentleman would like to take that into account, and I can assure you that Marilla is one of the most beautiful young ladies in all Scotland. And England as well, from what I’ve seen,” she added, somewhat recklessly.
“Your sister is like a hound in full-blooded chase after a fox. In that metaphor, I am the fox,” he stated.
Fiona shut her eyes for a moment. “She is young. And as I said, she’s wild about titles. Just wild about them.”
“Wild?” His face said it all.
“I assure you that the phrase is used in the most polite households. Miss Austen uses it several times.” She opened the book and found the relevant paragraph in a moment. “ ‘The girls were wild for dancing.’ ”
“Wildness is not a trait I am looking for in my bride.”
“I expect you are not looking for a wild girl,” Fiona said, trying to sound conciliatory. “But if you wouldn’t mind a bit of plain speaking, after the unfortunate affair of the dancing master, the trait that you truly want is an understanding of propriety. Marilla wouldn’t kiss a servant if she were at the point of death. She understands her own worth. I’m her sister, and I should know. That is, I do know.”
“I am not interested in her behavior once married.”
Fiona nodded. There was no hope for Marilla; one had only to take a look at Byron’s stony countenance to know that. “I will tell her.” Honesty compelled her to reiterate, “But she won’t listen to me.”
“Why not? In the absence of your parents, she should pay respect to you.”
“You have no siblings, so I gather you have no idea how ignorant that assumption is.”
“I do not wish to quell her natural spirits. She is quite beautiful, sportive, and charming.”
Fiona flipped open her book. She’d had enough talking about Marilla for the day, and besides, if the earl thought her sister was that charming, he’d probably end up married to her, whether he wished to or no. “I completely understand,” she said, glancing down. “I will inform her that you prefer that she offer no more kisses, and that she keep her bodice firmly in place.”
A moment later she was immersed again in the story, bent on ignoring the man sitting at the other end of the sofa . . . except he did not stir. “I thought you were leaving,” she said finally, peering at him over her spectacles.
“I have been watching you instead.”
“A tiresome occupation,” Fiona observed.
“You mean it, don’t you? Your sister will pay no heed to an admonishment from you.”
Having already been unduly honest, Fiona saw no reason to prevaricate now. “It could be that your absence from the drawing room has turned her attention to someone else . . . the Comte de Rocheforte, perhaps.”
“It is my impression that Rocheforte is looking elsewhere.”
Fiona raised an eyebrow. “Really? That’s quite interesting.”
“He’s my cousin,” Byron explained. “I know him better than any other person in the world. He pretends to be a care-for-nothing, but in fact, he has a great affection for this place. However, without an estate, he cannot afford it, so he acts as if it is not important to him.”
“I’ve seen people act in that manner before,” Fiona said, thinking that she did it herself.
At that moment the door opened behind them. Byron froze and then he turned slowly, his eyes bright and wary.
Chapter 13
Fiona had been looking forward to the next act in the French farce that their kidnapping had become, but rather than Marilla, one of the laird’s men pushed his way through the door, a tray balanced on his shoulder.
“Brought you buttered crumpets,” he said with a grunt. “And mulled cider.” He walked over to the fire and put the tray down on a hassock. Then he set a lidded silver pitcher on the floor close to the hearth. “Leave it here so it’ll stay hot,” he ordered.
“Thank you,” Fiona said. “We will.”
He straightened, caught sight of Byron, and scowled. “Does the laird know that you’re in here?”
“No, and you’ll not tell him.” The words were delivered with a hard tone that seemed to make an impression on the man.
“Wooing!” he said, and turned and spat into the fire. “Time was a man dinna have to do this kind of wooing. Groveling for money, more like.” His gaze moved to Fiona. “Begging from women who has the money. It’s unnatural.” He collected her cold teapot and headed for the door.
Byron strode after him. “You didn’t see me here,” he stated.
The old Scotsman snorted and stomped off.
Oddly enough, that snort made Byron smile. Fiona decided that she didn’t understand him. He was unnerved by Marilla’s advances, but amused by a retainer’s flat rudeness. As she watched, he not only closed the door but turned the key.
“Is that truly necessary?” Fiona inquired.
“If you’re asking whether I’d prefer to avoid the experience of having another strange breast fall into my hand like an overripe plum, the answer is yes.”
Perhaps she should say something to defend her sister. But an overripe plum didn’t sound very nice.
“What if it weren’t a strange breast?” she asked, unable to resist.
“I am not familiar with any woman’s breasts,” Byron replied, walking back to the sofa. “At the moment the world is full of strange breasts. Though I must say, this is a very improper subject.”
“You do need to marry,” Fiona pointed out, struck by his observation. “You should be out there groveling at someone’s feet—Lady Cecily’s for example—in the hopes of gaining an intimate acquaintance with body parts other than her feet.”
“There are better things a man could do with his time than grovel at a woman’s feet,” Byron remarked.
With a start, Fiona realized that he was looking at her as he sat back down. With a lazy smile.
A dangerous smile.
For a moment her heart hiccupped, but she got hold of herself. “Right,” she said briskly. “You may have one of my crumpets, and then I would ask to be left in peace. I don’t have much left to read in this novel, and I’m keen to finish it.”
“If you force me to leave now, I shall starve,” he complained, picking up a linen napkin from the tray.