“What is my rival’s full name, may I ask?” Somehow, he managed to sound no more than curious.
“Marmeduke, Lord Goodhue.”
He frowned. He could have sworn he knew every roué in London. “I don’t believe I’ve ever met the gentleman.”
“I shouldn’t be surprised. He rarely visits London, staying solely in Surrey,” she replied.
“He lives near your family’s country estate?” he asked. Wherein Surrey? He’d always meant to visit Surrey.
“Not nearour house. Inour house. He became our permanent houseguest after having become insolvent a few years ago and having nowhere else to go. Indeed, my parents assigned him chambers right next to mine.”
He stared at her, an odd sensation rising within him. Damnation, he believed he was shocked. He hadn’t been shocked since he was fifteen and the Latin teacher’s wife had offered him different sorts of lessons.
“Well, we couldn’t very well put him in the servants’ hall,” she said defensively. “Though I have little doubt he’d much prefer it. The chambermaids are always threatening to give notice as it is.”
It wasn’t simply a marvel the girl’s reputation was intact; it was a bloody miracle.
“Damn, you say,” he muttered under his breath, and she burst out laughing. Her whole face bloomed with merriment, her eyes dancing, the laughter bubbling from her lips, her teeth flashing in an open grin. She took his breath away.
“Of course, as he’s eighty-three years old and suffers from gout, he stands a better chance of winning the Derby than he does catching a housemaid,” she managed to say between giggles. “Or me. Not that he’d ever make an attempt. He has some standards, as do all rakes.” She gave him a sidelong glance. “Or so Marmeduke assures me.”
She started laughing again and damned if he didn’t join her. She’d been leading him along all the while, paying him back for making her praise his kisses.
“ Touché, ma petite,” he said, when they finally stopped laughing. He offered her his arm and she took it, and once again they commenced their much-protracted journey down the frozen hallway.
For long companionable minutes they were silent and he drank in the sensation, the warmth of her fingers resting on his arm, the elusive scent of vanilla and jasmine that tickled his nostrils every so often, the simple pleasure of her company . . .
“It may be chilly, but Finovair does have considerable charm,” she said after a while. “Yet I take it you think your bride will be happier in London than here.”
He should have demurred, let her comment pass without replying but he needed to tell her—no, he needed to remind himself of how very far above him she stood.
“Bride?” he echoed. “My dear Cecily, I have even less to offer a wife in London than here.”
Any other girl would have blushed or apologized or at the very least looked on him with distaste. After all, he’d just committed one of society’s cardinal sins: he’d acknowledged his poverty. But he was growing used to the unexpected from her, and so it was now.
“But you must want to marry and have a family,” she said earnestly.
“I must,” he agreed. “But I have been told that when one takes a wife, one also has an obligation to take her wants into account, too. Wants I have scant hope of fulfilling. I may be a rake, Lady Cecily, but I am not a scoundrel.”
She stared at him for a long moment and then her eyes flashed and she said, “I see. So, you see your future being similar to that of Marmeduke’s?”
Hell and damnation, no. But before he could rebut this noxious notion, she hurried on in the manner of one trying very hard to be encouraging about a very dismal prospect. “Not that there’s anything wrong with that,” she said, adding under her breath, “I suppose.”
Dear God, in her imagination was he predestined to go hobbling after chambermaids in his old age, gnarled fingers extended in hopes of pinching one last fleet-footed wench? Is that how she saw him? “You horrify me.”
“I do?” she asked. “Why is that, I wonder?”
“I meant your vision of my future horrifies me.”
“Oh? Why? Marmeduke’s really rather a pet,” she said. “He’s a great favorite amongst my younger sisters.”
The idea of dangling cherubic little girls on his knees while offering them well-censored bedtime stories about his youthful exploits sent nearly as great a shiver through Robin as the idea of him chasing chambermaids, and so he ignored her question, asking one of his own instead. “Do you have many siblings?”
“Four. I have two younger brothers, twins. They were sent to Eton last year and I miss them a great deal, as my younger sisters consider games that require physical dexterity beneath them. Though I think they would find such games delightful if they were any good at them,” she confided with an arch twinkle in her eye that he found adorable.
“Have you any brothers or sisters?” she countered.
“No.”
“But you had Oakley to keep tally of your sins?”
He smiled at that. “No. Not really.” His smile faded. “Oakley and I were kept apart.”
Robin hadn’t met Byron until they were adults. After Robin’s parents had died of influenza, pride, not compassion, had prompted Byron’s father to pay for Robin’s education. However, the old tartar had seen no reason that his heir should hobnob with some impecunious Frenchman’s get. So while Byron went to Eton, Robin been sent to Rugby. He had never been invited to spend holidays at Oakley House. Instead, Rugby’s headmaster had been paid to take Robin to his own home during those periods.
But there was no reason to bother her with such details.
“How many sisters?” he asked.
She regarded him thoughtfully for long seconds before answering. “Two. One is nineteen and the other, who is seventeen, was launched just this past season. Quite successfully, too,” she said, with a touch of pride.
She loved them, he realized, her affection for her family wholly uncomplicated and honest, and she felt loved in return. It made him yearn to be included in her magical circle. He frowned at the thought: he’d finished with such nonsense years ago.
“Both have received offers of matrimony from gentlemen of whom they are quite fond,” she continued. They were almost to the end of the corridor now. He could see the great stairway leading down to the inhabited part of the castle, a soft glow rising from the lower level. “They are all aflutter to marry and set up their own households,” she said. “Alas, Papa will not hear of it.”
“The young men are unacceptable?” Robin asked, feeling comradely toward these poor, unworthy swains.
“Not at all,” she said. “It’s just that my father is dreadfully old-fashioned. He refuses to let my younger sisters marry until I am off the market. In fact, that is why we are in Scotland.”
At her words, something swelled in Robin’s throat and his heart thudded dully in his chest. That explained why the Maycotts were here, hosting a house party: the earl was going to announce his daughter’s engagement. Who was the bastard? Scottish perhaps, otherwise why drag society up here in the dead of winter. But who?
They’d reached the end of the gallery and were at the top of the staircase looking down into the foyer just outside the great hall. The sound of light laughter drifted up to them. Bretton and his ladylove. Cecily belonged down there with them, in light and warmth. Not here, in the chill and ruin.
“You are unflatteringly preoccupied, Robin,” she said reproachfully. “I daresay you haven’t heard a thing I’ve said.”
Every syllable, every breath. He managed a smile. “Of course I have. You have come to Scotland to announce your engagement. “