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. Shewas 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 notwritten 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 isit?” 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.”
Cecily’s heartbeat slowed to a dull, heavy thud as her throat constricted with tears she refused to shed.
Catriona frowned, her expression uncertain. “Surely there is something . . .”
He shook his head. “Nothing. Besides, the point is moot. I would never aspire to something so far above my touch.”
So that was it, then. He could not be more clear: she’d receive no offer of marriage from Robin.
She didn’t even realize she had stood until the book she’d won dropped from her lap. And then she was running out the door, Catriona Burns calling after her.
Catriona.
But not Robin.
Chapter 27
Cecily avoided the stairs; she couldn’t go to her room. Kindhearted Catriona Burns was bound to look for her there, and Cecily did not think she could face the other girl’s pity. Better to be unavailable until she could mask her heartbreak.
Instead, she headed for the small family chapel next to the great hall, one of the few other public rooms still in use in this part of the castle, though gauging from the dust on the pew cushions, “use” was a relative word. Like many castle chapels, it rose two stories tall, its height divided horizontally by a small second-floor balcony that overlooked the altar so that the lord and lady could attend daily services directly from their chambers. A wooden staircase led to the balcony so Cecily climbed it, not wanting to be seen by anyone passing the door opening onto the corridor.
The dust lay even thicker above than below, coating a pair of wingback chairs set well back from the wooden rail and a bench that might have served the lord’s children, which now lay toppled on its side. Cecily sought refuge in one of the oversized chairs, curling her feet beneath her and huddling deep into the corner.
What was she to do now? How was she to return to her former life and go about the business of choosing a husband, when the only husband she wanted would not court her? She had done everything she could to charm, beguile, and befriend Robin. Nothing remained in her arsenal of feminine weapons.
Since birth, she’d been taught that whatever a lady wanted, she must wait until it was given, be it a pony, a dress, a party, or a husband . . .