Lucy could feel the hot color stinging her cheeks. She was not going to tell her godmother that she and Lord MacGillivray had planned to spend their wedding night in animated discussion of James MacPherson's epic poems. She opened her fan and flicked it back and forth to cool her hot cheeks. There was an odd, trapped feeling in her chest, as though her laces were drawn too tight. She felt it whenever anyone addressed the topic of her engagement.

The door of the conservatory opened and Robert Methven strode in. He was about the last person Lucy had expected to see, and she felt her heart leap up into her throat at the sheer shock of his appearance. He looked as though he had ridden hard. Rain had spattered his traveling cloak, and as Lucy watched he swung it from his shoulders to reveal a beautifully cut sporting jacket beneath. He did not look at home indoors. There was something too restless and too physical about him to sit comfortably with the elegant furnishings of the conservatory, the pastel shades of the ladies' gowns, the clink of teacup and the polite chatter of conversation.

"What on earth is he doing here?" Lucy exclaimed, too discomposed to phrase the question with her usual courtesy.

Gentlemen were only invited to the meetings of the Highland Ladies Bluestocking Society if they were eminent scholars. She was certain that Robert Methven could not possibly be present in an official capacity. Yet it seemed that he was, for as Lucy watched, Lady Durness sailed forward to greet him, taking his hand warmly in hers. He bent and gallantly pressed a kiss on the back of it. The high-pitched conversation in the room dropped for a moment and then swelled again to an excited babble.

Methven's gaze scoured the room and fixed hard and fast on Lucy. Lucy's heart jolted. Her fan flicked out of her trembling fingers and leaped up in the air, to land on the rug by her feet.

"Ah." Lady Kenton sounded agreeably pleased. "This afternoon's tutor has arrived."

"Tutor!" Lucy was scrabbling to retrieve her fan, grateful that her scarlet face was hidden as she bent down.

"Allow me, Lady Lucy."

Methven had gone down on one knee beside their table, picking up the wayward fan and handing it back to her gravely. Looking up, Lucy saw a fugitive smile in his eyes as he took in her flustered appearance. Damn him.

"Thank you." Lucy knew she sounded ungracious. She took the fan gingerly from him, making sure that their fingers did not touch. He straightened up and bowed. "Perhaps I might join you?" he said.

It was the last thing that Lucy wanted. She felt extremely discomposed.

"It might be better, my lord," she said, staring pointedly at his mud-spattered boots, "if you changed your attire after what must have been an arduous journey. You are hardly dressed for the drawing room."

Methven pulled up a spare chair. "Then it is fortunate we are in the conservatory," he said. "I am persuaded that you will forgive my disorder."

Fizzing with annoyance, Lucy drew her skirts away from the offending boots. Lady Kenton gestured to a footman, who fetched an additional cup and replenished the pot.

"How do you take your tea, Lord Methven?" Lady Kenton inquired.

"Hot and strong," Robert Methven said, looking at Lucy, who was furious to feel herself blushing.

"I hear you are to tutor our meeting this afternoon, Lord Methven," she said. "How singular that will be."

"You do not think me qualified to lecture you, Lady Lucy?" Methven quizzed gently. "Or perhaps you fear my delivery will be lacking?" He stretched and Lucy averted her gaze from the muscles rippling beneath his splashed pantaloons. Until that moment she had not even been aware that she was staring at his thighs. How inappropriate of her.

"You are in good company," Methven added. "My grandmother considers me a complete dullard."

"I could not possibly comment," Lucy said, "until I know your subject. We do, however, have very high standards here at the Highland Ladies Bluestocking Society."

"I am duly warned," Methven said, "and promise not to let the side down."

Lucy waited but he did not enlighten her as to his specialist subject. His silence set the current of irritation coursing through her once again. He knew that she wanted to know, so he was deliberately withholding that information. She supposed her curiosity was vulgar and her implication that he was not qualified to address them was downright rude, but somehow she could not help herself. He ruffled her serenity.

"How did you hear of the Highland Ladies Bluestocking Society, my lord?" she asked.

Methven smiled at her. "So many questions, Lady Lucy. I am flattered by your interest."

"I am not interested in you," Lucy said, "merely in the source of your information."

"Ah." He sounded amused. "Because the Highland Ladies is a secret society?"

"Quite so."

"You may trust my discretion."

Again it was no answer and again Lucy felt annoyed by his deliberate evasion. She watched as he finished his tea and replaced the china cup gently on the table. He stood and bowed to her.

"Excuse me. I must go and prepare for my lecture. I shall hope to see you there, Lady Lucy."

"That depends on the topic," Lucy said.

He laughed. "Are you always so impatient? I had no idea." He put one hand on the back of her chair and bent close so that his lips brushed her ear.

"Sometimes," he said softly, "the anticipation is the best part."

He straightened and strolled away.

"How very provoking that man is!" Lucy burst out. Normally she would not dream of expressing a view of an acquaintance, especially not in public, but Robert Methven had got under her guard. Sensation fluttered in her belly. He was looking back at her now and she felt the awareness like a flame rise and scorch her. It was not unpleasant, but it was disturbing. There was a flicker of excitement in her blood that she had never felt before she had met him.

"I wonder why you dislike him," Lady Kenton said. Her gaze was thoughtful as it rested on Lucy's face.

"The boot is on the other foot," Lucy said shortly. She fidgeted with her teaspoon, avoiding Lady Kenton's gaze. "He does not like me."

"He is direct, perhaps," Lady Kenton conceded. "Not like your Edinburgh beaux. But I saw no sign that he dislikes you. Far from it."

"I am not comfortable with him," Lucy said. It was the closest she had ever come to admitting that there was something about Robert Methven that both fascinated and troubled her. Or, more accurately, something about her reaction to him that troubled her.

"You have lived too much amongst scholars," Lady Kenton said. "Not that a man of taste and education is a bad thing, but it must be tempered by something a little more earthy, more masculine. Now, Robert Methven is very much a man. Rich, personable and intelligent and I'll wager he is most lusty in the marriage bed. I would think he could give a woman great pleasure."

Lucy closed her eyes and shuddered. Lady Kenton was of a generation that was so much more outspoken in its language, but hearing her godmother's frank assessment of the Marquis of Methven's sexual prowess when she was looking directly at him across a tearoom was more than a little disturbing.

"I did not look for lustiness in my marriage, Aunt Emily," she said. "I wished for a meeting of minds, not bodies. Lord MacGillivray was sober in his conduct and intellectual in his studies."

Lady Kenton stifled a broad yawn. "I am well aware of that, my love," she said, "and thought him a dead bore for it. Why, in my day we wanted so much more than that, a hero fresh from the battlefield with a sword in his hand. The youth of today have let their standards slip, I fear."

A hero fresh from the battlefield...

Lucy paused. Yes, that was it. There was something primitive about Lord Methven; something disturbing that invoked the warriors of the previous century, the wild men of the northern isles who had Viking blood in their veins along with their fierce Scots heritage. A long, slow shiver brushed across her skin. That was not what she wanted. She had never wanted passion. Her life was smooth and ordered, with a calm and perfect surface, which was exactly as it should be, and that was the way it was going to stay.

CHAPTER SEVEN.

ROBERT'S LECTURE ON astronomy and navigation, illustrated with anecdotes from his travels, was received rapturously. The Highland Ladies gave him a hearty round of applause and pressed him to stay for dinner. Since all he had waiting for him was a cold supper and a lumpy bed at the Durness Inn, Robert was quick to agree. His courtship of Lady Lucy MacMorlan would progress all the better through proximity.

Robert had thought long and hard about that courtship. And come up with absolutely no plan whatsoever. His preferred course of action would have been the direct one, but to propose directly to Lady Lucy would be to invite an equally direct refusal. He had also considered the idea of abducting her. It held more than a little appeal, especially after those hot stolen moments between them at Brodrie Castle. Abduction was generally frowned upon these days, but he thought he could probably get away with it. The drawback was that it would make Lucy even less inclined to wed him, and forcing a woman to the altar would not, under normal circumstances, be the way he would behave. But these were not normal circumstances.

The ladies had another tutorial between his lecture and dinner. There was a choice of two classes, but to these Robert was not invited. He had no idea what they were and he found his curiosity piqued. As he wandered along Durness Castle's extravagantly furnished corridors, he could hear strains of music drifting from within one of the salons. The music was exotic and Eastern, punctuated by voices and laughter. He wandered toward the sound; immediately a burly footman barred his way.

"May I help you, my lord?" The man's expression belied his courteous tone. His firmly folded arms and aggressive stance made it clear to Robert that he was not going to find out what was going on behind that closed door. The activities of the Highland Ladies Bluestocking Society were indeed a closed book. It piqued Robert's curiosity extremely.

He strolled out onto the terrace. The air was fresh and cold, threatening snow even though it was now well into spring. The shutters of the salon were closed against prying eyes, but behind them Robert could see light and undulating shadows. He could hear someone tapping out the beat of the music, sensual music that wove its spell of temptation and promise. Not wishing to appear a Peeping Tom, he retreated from the weather and sought out the library. This door was locked, as well. A different burly footman materialized and informed him civilly that the ladies were taking an art class. What there was about such a venture that necessitated the locking of the door was anyone's guess, but Robert took the hint and retired to his chamber.

In the drawing room prior to dinner, the ladies all appeared to be in very high spirits. Robert was not the only gentleman present; there was a plump and jolly fellow with a luxuriant gray mustache who was introduced as Mr. Florence the art master and two very handsome young men whose precise role was left rather vague. Robert began to suspect that the reason that the Highland Ladies Bluestocking Society proceedings were veiled in secrecy was that some of their activities were considerably more risque than others. His ideas of them reading dry intellectual tracts before dinner were clearly misplaced.

He found Lady Lucy seated with her sister Lady Mairi MacLeod on one of the silver velvet chaise longues and asked if he might join them. Lucy looked inclined to refuse. Mairi, however, seemed very happy to see him and patted the seat beside her.

"We did so enjoy your lecture, Lord Methven," Mairi said, her blue eyes sparkling. "Lucy was particularly impressed. She said she would not have believed you had it in you to be so interesting."

Robert saw Lucy press her lips together in a very tight line. He smiled at her. "I am always glad to be able to confound your prejudices, Lady Lucy," he said. He glanced toward the two stalwart young men who were surrounded by a positive bevy of eager ladies.

"I do hope," he added, "that you enjoyed the subsequent class as much as my lecture. Life drawing, was it not?"

Lucy's blue gaze flickered up to meet his. "I did not attend the art class," she said. "I am very poor at drawing."

"All the more reason to practice," Mairi said, "especially with such willing subjects." She popped a sugared almond into her mouth and crunched it. "Don't you agree, Lord Methven?"

"I am sure that the gentlemen concerned displayed to advantage," Robert said, "and that would be sufficient to inspire any lady."

Mairi giggled. Lucy looked unimpressed. "Life drawing is a serious art form," she said. "It is an intellectual pursuit."

"And a lot of fun, as well," Mairi corrected. She gave Robert a comprehensive look. "Should you ever wish to model for us, Lord Methven, we should be delighted."

Mairi MacLeod, Robert thought, was a flirt. She had a widow's confidence around the masculine sex, a confidence no doubt born of experience. Lucy, in contrast, was no flirt, but neither was she a naive debutante. Robert thought of her untutored but wholly inflammatory response to his kiss. Then he wished he had not, as Mairi was looking pointedly at his pantaloons. He shifted uncomfortably.

"I am honored that you should invite me to pose for you all," he said. "However, I fear I might not measure up."

"I doubt you have any fears on that score, Lord Methven," Mairi said, still staring. "You strike me as a very able man in all particulars."

Robert smiled, turning to Lucy. "If you did not attend the art class, Lady Lucy," he said, "I assume you were learning the Eastern dancing?"

Lucy's eyes opened very wide. In that moment she looked every inch the startled debutante.

"How did you know that was what we were doing?" she demanded. "Were you watching?"

"I have not been looking through keyholes," Robert said. "I recognized the type of music and guessed you must have been dancing. Did you enjoy it?"

He was interested to see that she blushed. "It was...different."

"From the formality of the quadrille and the cotillion?"

"Yes, and even from the energy of the Scottish reels. It felt..." Lucy paused. Her blush deepened. "I had always thought that music was mathematical in the skill it requires to write it. Yet this..." Her gaze, bright blue and very hot, met his and then slid away. "This music was strangely sensual."

In that moment Robert wished that Lady Mairi were not there. He wished that he and Lucy were somewhere else entirely, preferably somewhere warm and comfortable and where they would be quite alone to pursue the conversation wherever it might lead. Lucy's cool, crisp intellectual approach to all things passionate was both naive and intriguing. He remembered thinking at Brodrie Castle that she had a rational rather than an emotional approach to life. Now it seemed she had the same view of music: music, which could be stirring, vivid and sensual.

It was high time Lady Lucy MacMorlan was awakened to all the intriguing possibilities that passion offered.

Frustratingly, however, this was not the time. The room was bright and full and buzzing with people. Mairi, perhaps sensing something of his feelings, rose ostentatiously to her feet and murmured something about speaking to Lady Kenton before dinner. Robert saw Lucy put out a hand as though to stop her sister from leaving them together. Her lips parted. She seemed on the verge of objecting. She half rose from her seat, as though about to abandon him too.

"I do hope," Robert said, "that you will not leave me alone at the mercy of so many ladies, Lady Lucy."

"I am sure you would cope quite admirably," Lucy said. "You would be fighting them off with sticks."

"Which is precisely what I do not wish to happen," Robert said. "Only consider how rude that would appear. Offense would be taken."

Lucy almost smiled. After a moment she relaxed back into her seat. "I thought," she said, "that you had no compunction about being very honest indeed, even if it gives offense."

"Even I have to draw the line somewhere," Robert said. "I do believe," he added, "that you are uncomfortable in my company. That is why you seek to escape me."

Her eyes met his. They were completely expressionless. "I assure you I am perfectly comfortable with anyone," Lucy said coolly.

"So there is nothing special about me? How quelling." Robert settled himself back against the cushions and looked at her thoughtfully. "I thought that perhaps after our last encounter-"

Her blush deepened. Her gaze slid from his. All of a sudden the layers of sophistication were stripped away and she looked stricken.

"I really am sorry," she said. "I profoundly regret ruining your betrothal."

She sounded utterly sincere. There was a vulnerable set to her mouth and a defeated slope to her shoulders that sparked a most inappropriate feeling of tenderness in him. Up until that moment Robert would have said it did not matter whether she regretted it or not, or whether he believed her or not. Whether she was sorry for her actions and whether he had forgiven her were irrelevant. But now, seeing her vulnerability, he felt quite differently. He felt protective.

He did not care much for the feeling. It muddied the waters. He had no time for sentiment; all he wanted to do was secure his bride.

"I'm not angry anymore." He spoke abruptly.

Her eyes widened. "You have every right to be."

"Perhaps." He shrugged, keeping his gaze on the shifting crowd of people filling the drawing room. Anything to avoid looking at Lucy again and feeling that strange tug of emotion.

"I thought I could help you." She leaned forward. "Perhaps I could write some letters for you to use to woo another lady..." She stopped. Robert looked at her. That eager, appealing look was still on her face and it made him feel a scoundrel because he knew exactly how she could help him.

"It would probably be better if you did not," he said.

Her face fell. "I suppose not. Tactless of me." She bit her lip. "Well, if you think of anything..."

"I will be sure to let you know." Robert smiled at her, deliberately changing the subject. "Lord Brodrie was quite annoyed to discover so much of his finest claret had gone missing, by the way." He raised an eyebrow. "I assumed you had consumed it. I apologize if my kisses drove you to drink. Not the outcome I would have desired."

Lucy was pulling threads out of the silver tassels on the cushions. Her fidgeting fingers were all that betrayed her discomfort.

"Must we speak of it?" she asked.

"That bad?" Robert queried.

She looked up and met his eyes. "I drank the claret for the shock," she said.

"Worse and worse," Robert said. "I had no idea that my technique lacked so much finesse."