“I do not need help choosing a wife, from you or a blindfold,” Byron responded, keeping his voice even.

“No, yer problem is keeping her, once you’ve proposed,” his uncle scoffed.

The lovers had finally drawn apart, but Bret still held Catriona’s hands in his, and was looking down at her with such an adoring expression that Byron felt a true pulse of envy. He hadn’t deluded himself that either he or his former fiancée, Lady Opal Lambert, had felt that sort of feverish entanglement, but it was a bruise to his vanity to think that Opal wanted someone other than himself to the point of not caring about scandal.

“One more round of blindman’s buff,” his uncle called, surging forward. “Marilla, tie that blindfold back on. Now where’s Robin got to?”

“Robin left the room a good hour ago, when the blindfold first made its appearance,” Byron pointed out. He was rethinking his lifelong policy of courtesy. Why shouldn’t he simply retire to his room and stay out of the fray, the way Robin had done?

“Dang and balderdash,” Taran muttered. “How does that lad think he’ll catch himself a wife if he can’t even stay put for an evening?” He started barking out orders. Bret, Catriona, and the rest of the guests reluctantly, but obediently, gathered around Marilla again.

The lady was looking distinctly irritated. She had made it obvious that she hoped to lure Bret into the parson’s mousetrap, so she must be vexed that her overly intimate patting of his chest had led to his marriage proposal—to another woman.

But she smiled prettily enough when Taran handed the blindfold to Catriona so that she could cover Marilla’s eyes. “Lord Oakley,” she called, “you simply must join us. This children’s game won’t be at all fun without you.”

Byron stepped forward and Taran scuttled into place beside him.

“She’s up for anything,” his uncle whispered approvingly. “Blast Robin for leaving the room. Here I got him a lively one with a sweet fortune, and he flees like a sheep at its first shearing.”

“She’s an impudent baggage,” Byron said, taking advantage of the fact that Marilla was surrounded by giggling young ladies adjusting her blindfold and couldn’t hear him. “Didn’t you see how outrageously she behaved with the duke?”

“You are turning into a proper antidote,” his uncle snapped, rounding on him. “A pompous, self-righteous turnip! I heard about what you did to your betrothed, merely because she gave a buss to her dancing master. Likely she meant it no more than as a matter of courtesy, and you ruined her reputation for it.”

Rage swelled in Byron’s chest. He had found his fiancée bent backward over a sofa, one slender leg wrapped around her dancing master’s thigh. If that kiss represented the standard expression of appreciation for a dance, there would be far more men capering about English ballrooms. “I will never allow a strumpet to become Countess of Oakley,” he replied frigidly. “As for her reputation, I never mentioned the kiss; it was she who told her father all.”

“That’s the English for you,” his uncle said, looking disgusted. “A Scotswoman knows to keep such matters to herself. Though ’tis true Scotswomen have no need to stray. One kilt can keep a woman warm all winter long.”

Byron looked away from his uncle and met the eyes of the girl who wore spectacles. Fiona, he thought her name was. Her disdainful expression implied she’d overheard their conversation. He tightened his jaw; he didn’t care what she thought.

He wouldn’t choose a wife from this assembly if someone paid him. In fact, he’d just as soon never return to Finovair again. Next week, he would travel back to London, and in time he would marry a woman who possessed the proper respect for both her person and his title.

A second later he came to the discomforting realization that the emotion in Fiona’s eyes wasn’t disdain. In fact, it looked like pity. Damn.

“Turnip!” his uncle repeated, stamping off to the other side of the circle.

Byron took a deep breath. The game had begun, and one glance told him that the blindfolded girl was heading in his direction, arms outstretched. Presumably, he too was about to be patted down. But in his case, no young lady would leap to his rescue.

Marilla’s giggles were breathy and uninhibited. She sounded like the type of woman who would throw herself into the arms of any man with a gift for capering.

But he stood rigidly still. It wouldn’t be polite to back away from her; the group was watching and laughing, as always seemed to happen during absurd games like this. Taran, for one, was clapping like an organ-grinder’s monkey. She was coming closer and closer . . . He would wager anything that Marilla could see through that blindfold. She was heading straight toward him with as much single-minded purpose as a child who spies a sweetmeat.

He wasn’t the only one who had realized that Marilla was cheating. Fiona had a distinct scowl on her face as she watched her sister’s antics. Even given her spectacles, he could see that she had eyes the color of a dark Scottish forest, the kind that stretches for miles and miles.

Then a fragrant, soft bundle tumbled against him and began laughingly patting him, not on his chest, but his face.

“Oh, I think I know who this is!” Marilla cooed. “Such a resolute chin and powerful brow could only be one man . . .” She burst into a storm of giggles. “And now I must beg forgiveness from the rest of you. Of course, every one of the gentlemen in the room has a strong chin. But this nose . . .’tis a Roman nose.”

Byron clenched his jaw. It wasn’t her fault that he had taken a dislike to being touched since his betrothal fell apart. He wasn’t the sort of man to keep a mistress, and it was something of a shock to realize that he hadn’t been with a woman in months. Not that Opal had touched him in such an intimate fashion, of course.

Marilla was now stroking his neck, which was only slightly less unpleasant than when she touched his face. His repulsion must be some odd response to the dissolution of his engagement.

“Make your guess, Marilla,” her green-eyed sister called, a commanding tone in her voice.

“So who do you think you’ve caught in your arms, lass?” Taran demanded with obvious glee. “Who do you choose?”

“I choose you,” Marilla breathed, so softly that no one except him could have heard her. Then, before he grasped what she meant, she said more loudly, “Of course, we all know there’s only one way to be certain,” and without pause she rose on her toes and brushed his mouth with hers.

Byron reacted reflexively, thrusting her violently away and stepping back. Then, realizing what he’d done, he lunged forward, catching her in his arms as she toppled. “I beg your forgiveness,” he said, carefully placing her back on her feet.

The room had gone silent. Lady Cecily was gazing into a corner, an agonized expression on her face, and the spectacled girl was scowling. Bret had the delighted air of a man realizing that he’d barely escaped a man-eating tiger. Deserting all claims to respectable behavior, the duke dropped a kiss on Catriona’s rosy lips with a distinct air of relief.

“So you should,” Marilla cried with a pout, as she pulled the blindfold from her head. “I could have fallen to the floor and injured myself.” She widened her blue eyes. “Not the action of an English gentleman, Lord Oakley. Nor a Scotsman, either, I assure you.”

She was inarguably right. Byron ground his teeth and swept into an apologetic bow. “I offer my sincere regret. I’m afraid I have had a tendency to startle since I was a boy.”

“This nephew is a nervy type,” Taran said, popping up at his elbow like an evil sprite. “Now, my nephew Robin is a real man, the kind who knows how to keep a woman in his arms, though not on her feet!”

This crude jest was greeted with marked silence by everyone except Marilla, who giggled. Byron held out his arm to her. “May I escort you to the stairs? I’m sure we all feel quite tired after our frivolities.” It was just the sort of sticklike comment his father would have made.

“Damned if you don’t sound older than me,” Taran cackled, as if he’d heard Byron’s thought.

Marilla on his arm, Byron followed her sister through the door. Marilla’s figure showed to exquisite advantage in her evening gown, the high waistline emphasizing her breasts, which were magnificent by any man’s measure.

In contrast, Fiona’s gown was conservative. Her evening gown was a sober blue, with long sleeves, and without even the smallest ruffle to relieve its austerity.

Still, you knew with one look that her breasts were luscious as well. And sensual, and feminine, and all the things that he hadn’t felt or tasted in months. Just because Marilla’s were on display didn’t mean that—

With a start, he wrenched his thoughts back into place. “I’m sorry,” he said, looking down at the bright curls of the girl at his side. “I didn’t hear what you said.”

“I said that the storm is worsening,” Marilla repeated, an edge of disapproval in her voice. Clearly, she was under the impression that he ought to hang on her every word.

He cast her a glance that conveyed a censorious view of her pretensions. That look—he’d been reliably informed—was feared throughout London. Oakley was one of the oldest earldoms in the country, and Byron had learned at his father’s knee not to tolerate impudent and overfamiliar mushrooms.

Marilla didn’t even flinch. She merely patted his arm and dimpled up at him. “But I will forgive you, Lord Oakley. I know you must have any number of very, very serious matters on your mind. Men are so given to that sort of thinking.”

“I do not think it is necessarily a trait of the sex,” came a quiet voice in front of them. Fiona was waiting for her sister at the newel post. “Marilla, it is time that we bid the company good night.”

Marilla did have a very pretty pout. “No, don’t bow again!” she said gaily to Byron, who had no such intention. “We should not be on such terribly formal terms here, don’t you agree?” She pointedly looked behind them. Bret and Miss Burns had made it as far as the drawing room door before they started kissing again. “Obviously,” she added, “at Finovair we are not obligated to adhere to the very, very silly rules that London society requires.”

“Exactly,” Taran chortled, coming up from behind to beam at the girl. “We are all friends here.”

Byron shot him a silent snarl.

“I would contest that,” Fiona stated, putting a hand under her sister’s arm.

Marilla jerked away in a somewhat ill-tempered manner. But her face betrayed nothing but sweetness when she looked back up at Byron. “I think we should all be on familiar terms, don’t you?” she asked. “My name is Marilla.”

She had melting eyes, the color of cornflowers in spring. Ridiculously, Byron felt an overwhelming urge to flee, but stilled himself. It wasn’t her fault that her eyes were the same color as Opal’s.

“You’re asking the wrong person,” Taran said with his usual blustery cheer. “My nephew Robin, now, who will someday own this fine castle, he will be on the easiest of terms with a lovely lass such as yourself. Byron here is a bit stuffy. Always has been. He got it from his father. I tell you, I thought I’d seen it all when me other sister got married to a Frenchie, but Byron’s da was even worse. When she brought the earl—the old earl, that is—back to Finovair for the first time, I almost fled to the Lowlands. He was a humorless, obstinate old bastard who acted as if every Scotsman should kiss the toes of his withered slippers. I never blamed her when she flew the coop.”