“I understand,” he said. “Let us begin.”
He went over to the table and picked up Fiona’s spectacles. “Here we have nothing less than a piece of magic. Nineteenth-century glass, I believe, rumored to allow its wearer to detect the very nearly imperceptible.”
“How so?” Bretton called out, looking vastly amused.
“Why,” Robin said, “legend has it that the current owner was even able to discern the heart beating beneath the wooden effigy of a certain earl.”
At this Bretton burst out laughing and Oakley joined him.
“Well, as they are magic, how can I resist?” Oakley said. “I will offer my boots for them.”
“Boots?” Robin scoffed. “Magic comes at a far greater price than a pair of Hoby boots, sir. Who else will bid?”
“As their current owner I must insist they are returned to me, for I am not done yet with my perusal of that earlish effigy you mentioned. I am convinced there is a great deal more yet to discover, and I am well and truly committed to the endeavor.”
“I applaud your commitment, Miss Chisholm, but what forfeit will you give?”
“A kiss!” Taran shouted.
Robin grinned wolfishly at Fiona, who looked away, flustered. “Aye,” he said. “A kiss might buy these spectacles. But whom should she kiss? I would, of course, suggest myself, but I would hate it to be said that I took unfair advantage of the situation.”
“Since when?” Oakley demanded.
“The lass can kiss me!” Taran suggested magnanimously.
“Miss Marilla said the price must be high, not extortionate,” Robin said, winning more laughter. “No, there’s nothing for it, but that she must kiss Oakley to retrieve her glasses.”
Oakley wasted no time in seeing that Fiona’s glasses were returned. He surged to his feet, catching Fiona by the hand and hauling her into a tight embrace. Cecily glanced away; the passion in their kiss made her heart ache.
When Oakley finally released her, Robin shook his head. “Coz, you really must learn to attend. She was to kiss you. Not vice versa.”
At once, Fiona stretched on her tiptoes, clasped Oakley’s face between her hands, pulled his head down, and planted a hearty buss upon his mouth. “Satisfied?” she asked, with an unexpected note of coquetry in her voice.
“My dear, alas, I am in no position to answer,” Robin replied rakishly. “That is a question for Oakley.”
Cecily’s heart thudded dully in her chest. She wanted a lifetime of Robin’s roguish smiles and unaffected humor, his teasing laughter and warmth.
Next, he picked up the watch and fob. “What am I to make of this? Is it one or two pieces?”
“It is two pieces that must perforce be bought together,” Marilla explained.
Robin snorted derisively. “One need not guess whose idea this was. You always seemed to me a possessive sort, Bret.”
“Always,” the duke agreed amiably.
“And I suspect any attempt to outbid you would be futile.”
“Entirely,” Bretton agreed. “You might ask Miss Burns to offer a kiss.”
“No. I don’t think my sensibilities could tolerate another such exhibition,” Robin said.
“I’ll bid a dance. A dance with the comte,” Marilla said, standing up as though Robin’s acceptance were a foregone conclusion.
The little group broke into a smattering of approving applause.
Cecily did not think she could bear to watch Marilla in Robin’s arms. “I will bid a dance, also,” she said. “With the laird of Finovair.”
This met with even greater approval. Soon, everyone was bidding against one another, the antics growing ever greater. At one point, Taran even bid to waltz with Hamish, sending the entire company into gales of hilarity. Bretton finally announced he would throw himself on the altar of ignominy in order to spare the ladies so haunting a spectacle, and recite Lord Byron’s latest poem in order to win the bid.
Robin awarded him the auction, and Bretton rose to his feet and proceeded to recite . . . something. Just what it was would forever after be the subject of much debate, but whatever it was, it most decidedly was not written by Byron. There were naiads in it and a few fauns, a character named Despot, and a whole gaggle of talking swans. And it was set in some country that rhymed with “puce.”
The rest of the auction went much the same, everyone seeming to have a grand good time. Not unexpectedly, Marilla continued to bid her lips, her limbs, and her company to Robin for the various items. And Cecily continued to outbid Marilla’s offers with her own, and from there the others inevitably joined in to bid all sorts of japery and antics. Fiona balanced a spoon on her nose; Taran sang “The Bonnie Lass of Fyvie” in a very credible baritone, and Cecily juggled three pinecones.
When, near the end, Marilla bid a kiss to retrieve her hank of hair and Taran was the only man who took her up on it, she was a good enough sport not to pout but to give as good as she got—and Cecily was surprised at how good what she got looked to be.
Finally, only Cecily’s shawl remained on the table.
“Do tell us what wondrous thing you have there, Comte,” Miss Burns encouraged.
“This?” Robin said softly. For a moment he simply ran a finger along the velvet nape, his expression softening. He lifted it up, swishing it lightly in the air. “This is most rare, indeed. A relic, in fact.”
“But what is it?” Fiona asked, dimpling.
“I believe this once cloaked the form of a creature as rare in these parts as hen’s teeth.”
Cecily’s heart began beating faster. His voice was warm and sad, wry and bittersweet.
“What creature is that?” Marilla asked.
“Why the Angliae optimatium heres.”
“What’s that?” Taran demanded.
“The English heiress,” Fiona translated with a laugh.
Cecily felt warmth rise in her cheeks and looked away.
“Rob!” Oakley said in a low voice. “You’ve embarrassed Lady Cecily with your reference to her wealth.”
The smile stiffened on Robin’s dark, handsome countenance. “That was never my aim,” he said. His gaze caught Cecily’s and he inclined his head. “My pardon, Lady Cecily. But you must certainly know that your value far exceeds anything that can be counted in coin.”
“Fine,” Marilla broke in abruptly, “Robin’s made a pretty apology. Now who is going to bid on that?”
“I’ll kiss Miss Marilla Chisholm for it,” Taran offered.
Marilla giggled.
Catriona raised her voice and said, “What of you, Rocheforte? I heard no rule against the auctioneer bidding, and you have yet to do so. Surely you must want to possess so rare a relic?”
She caught Cecily’s eye, her own shining with a teasing light.
Cecily’s heart trip-hammered in her chest and she found herself holding her breath, waiting for Robin’s reply.
He had gone very still at Catriona’s words, staring at the tawdry piece of cloth he held as though it were gossamer that might dissolve before his eyes. Carefully, almost reverently, he replaced it on the table, smoothing a fold away. He looked up.
“I am afraid I have nothing of value with which to barter, Miss Burns. Neither goods nor talents.”