“You’re very jolly, Catriona,” Marilla said. Although from Marilla’s lips, it sounded more like an accusation.

Catriona opened her mouth to reply, but anything that might have resembled an intelligent comment died upon her lips. For Marilla had abandoned her thoroughly impractical evening dress in favor of a heavy brocade gown dating from sometime in the prior century.

Not that that would have given Catriona pause. She was all for making do, and if Taran’s wardrobes contained nothing but leftovers from Georgian times, then so be it. But Marilla had chosen a dress of the deepest, darkest, most sensual red, with a tightly corseted waist and a square-cut neckline that dipped far lower than it ought.

“Isn’t it lovely?” Marilla said, smoothing her hand along the skirt. “There was an entire trunk full of gowns in the attic. One of Taran’s men brought it down.”

Catriona just stared, speechless. As for the duke, he couldn’t seem to take his eyes off Marilla’s breasts, which trembled like barely set custard with every movement. Catriona would have been irritated, except that she couldn’t take her eyes off them, either. They had been pushed up so high the tops had gone completely flat. She could have balanced a dinner plate on them without losing a crumb.

“Marilla,” Catriona suggested, “perhaps you should . . . er . . .”

“I couldn’t possibly wear the same gown two days in a row,” Marilla remarked.

Catriona, clad in the same green velvet she’d been wearing the night before, decided to refrain from comment.

“It’s a bit like a masquerade,” Marilla said with a jaunty little flick of her wrist.

Catriona and the duke gasped in unison, as Marilla very nearly tumbled free. But Marilla must not have noticed, because she kept jaunting about, chattering on about her room, her sister, her dress . . . and with every movement, Catriona flinched, terrified that Marilla’s breasts were going to burst forth and pummel them all.

“Miss Marilla,” the duke said, finally rising to his feet. He cleared his throat. Twice. “I hope you’re hungry. Mr. Ferguson’s housekeeper has outdone herself.”

“Oh, I rarely eat more than a square of toast in the morning,” Marilla replied. She looked down at the feast before her, then added, “With jam, of course.”

“You might wish to make an exception for this morning,” Catriona said as the duke sat back down. “You will need your strength. His Grace has expressed an interest in caber tossing.”

“Caber tossing?” Marilla echoed. “How very, very noble you are to take an interest in our Scottish customs, Your Grace.”

Catriona wasn’t sure how this made him noble, much less very, very noble, but she decided to let that point pass in favor of: “I think it will be great fun. As long as the duke is here in Scotland, he may as well learn some of our traditions.”

“It will be cold,” Marilla pointed out.

Marilla was right, of course. It would be viciously cold, and were Catriona arguing the point with anyone else, she would have abandoned the suggestion in favor of a hot toddy by the fire. But Marilla had always been a thorn in her side, and more to the point, she kept jiggling herself at the duke.

“It will be invigorating,” Catriona said. Then added, “Of course we will have to cover up.”

“I think it’s a grand idea,” the duke said.

“You do?” Catriona asked.

“You do?” Marilla echoed, followed by: “Of course you do. You have such a very fine sense of sportsmanship, Your Grace.”

“Very, very fine,” Catriona muttered.

“Although we might want to wait until the snow lets up,” he said.

Marilla placed a fluttery hand on her heart. “Is it still snowing, then?”

Catriona motioned to the window. “The window is right in front of you.”

Marilla ignored her. “Oh, what will become of us?”

“I recommend bacon,” Catriona said flatly. “Surely we will need reserves to keep ourselves going for the duration.”

The duke made a choking sort of sound.

“Well,” Marilla said, “perhaps just a piece.”

Or three, apparently.

Marilla came over to the table with her toast, jam, and bacon and sat at the duke’s right, her chair somehow sliding to within inches of his. She smiled prettily at him as her breasts very nearly poked into his arm.

Catriona could only stare in wonderment. Surely those old-fashioned corsets could not have been comfortable. Marilla’s chest preceded the rest of her by at least six inches.

“Did you sleep well?” the duke asked, valiantly trying to keep his eyes aloft.

“Oh heavens, no,” Marilla replied, laying a hand on his arm. “I was frightfully cold.”

“Perhaps Mr. Ferguson might lend you a dog,” he murmured.

Marilla blinked her pretty blue eyes.

Catriona, on the other hand, choked on her tea.

“And my bed was frightfully stiff and hard,” Marilla continued, sighing tremulously. She turned to the duke with melting eyes. “What about yours?”

“My . . . er . . . what?”

“Your bed, Your Grace,” Marilla murmured. “Was it stiff and hard?”

Catriona thought Bretton might expire on the spot. And what was that . . . a blush? He was blushing! He was!

“But the pillows were nice,” Marilla continued. “I do love a soft pillow, don’t you?”

The duke’s eyes immediately fell to Marilla’s soft pillows. Catriona couldn’t fault him for that; so did hers. It was rather like Taran’s scrawny arse when he’d run through the village trying to shock the vicar’s wife. It was impossible not to look.

“Ehrm . . . I . . . ehrm . . .” The duke picked up his teacup and drained the dregs.

“How long do you think it will be before someone saves us?” Marilla said in a breathy voice.

“We are hardly in danger, Miss Marilla,” Bretton replied.

“Still.” She sighed dramatically. “Ripped from our homes.”

“From Lady Cecily’s home,” Catriona corrected, still focusing on her food. She couldn’t look up. She really couldn’t. The way Marilla was shaking about, she was terrified by what she might see.

“Still,” Marilla said, with a touch less sweetness and light than the “still” she’d directed at the duke. “Whatever shall we do to occupy ourselves?” she continued.

“I believe Miss Burns suggested tossing a caber,” Bretton remarked.

Marilla blinked. “Oh, but you cannot be serious.”

Catriona looked up just in time to see him give a falsely modest shrug. “I don’t see why I couldn’t give it a try,” he murmured. “Besides, did you not just praise my fine sense of sportsmanship?”

“But Your Grace,” Marilla said. “Have you ever seen a caber?”

“Miss Burns tells me it’s a log.”

“Yes, but it’s— Oh!”

“Oh my heavens, I’m so sorry,” Catriona said. “I have no idea how my jam flew off my spoon like that.”

Marilla’s eyes narrowed to slits, but she said nothing as she picked up her serviette and wiped the red blob off her chest before it slid into the deep, dark crevasse between her breasts.

If the duke thought that a caber was a simple little log, Catriona wasn’t going to let Marilla tell him otherwise.

“Oh dear me,” Marilla said, leaning toward the duke. “I can’t reach the butter.”

Bretton dutifully reached out for the butter, which was to his right, and Catriona watched with amazement as Marilla scooted even closer to him while he wasn’t looking at her. When he turned around, she was just a few inches away, batting her lashes like butterfly wings.

If Catriona hadn’t disliked Marilla for so many years, she would have been impressed. Really, one had to give the girl credit for persistence.

The duke shot Catriona a look that said clearly, Save me, and she was trying to figure out precisely how she might accomplish this when they all heard the sound of approaching footsteps. Lord Oakley arrived on the scene, and Bretton shot to his feet to greet his friend.

“Oakley!” he said, with enough enthusiasm that Lord Oakley’s expression took on a vague tinge of alarm.