Free The Lady Most Willing . . . by and Connie Brockway Eloisa James Julia Quinn

in a majestic arc. “The ancient, ceremonial caber.”
    It was gloriously massive. At least sixteen stone and thick as a man’s leg.
    Catriona felt her lips pressing together, hard, just to keep from laughing. She couldn’t
     see the expressions on Lord Oakley’s or Mr. Rocheforte’s faces, but the Duke of Bretton’s
     mouth had come positively unhinged.
    “Respect the caber!” Taran yelled. “Ye’re going first, Duke!”
    Bretton stared at it.
    “Now remember,” Taran said loudly, “it doesn’t matter how far you throw it, it’s all
     about landing it on its end.”
    “You’re joking,” the duke said.
    “It’ll balance,” Taran assured him, “if you do it right.”
    Catriona tried not to giggle.
    “Excuse me,” the duke said.
    “Pfft. Brrrght.” All sorts of ungraceful noises were spit forth from Catriona’s mouth
     until she finally just gave up and laughed.
    “Uh-oh,” Fiona said, but Catriona was laughing too hard to have any idea what she
     was talking about.
    “Catriona,” Fiona said in a warning voice.
    “Oh! Oh!” Catriona yelped, gasping for breath.
    “I told you so,” Marilla crowed.
    Catriona wiped her eyes and looked up just in time to see the duke barreling toward
     her. “Your Grace,” she chirped, the squeaky noise just about all she could manage.
    He pointed a finger at her. “You said it was a log.”
    “It is a log,” she said, not that her words were remotely intelligible through her giggles.
    “It’s a bloody maypole!”
    “Oh, I think it’s bigger than a maypole.”
    His lips clamped together in a straight line, but he couldn’t fool her. The Duke of
     Bretton, it seemed, was in possession of an excellent sense of humor. In three seconds,
     he’d be laughing just as hard as she was.
    “Still think you can toss it?” Catriona said daringly.
    He stepped forward. To the rest of the observers, he must have looked furious, but
     she could see the mirth dancing in his eyes. “Not . . . even . . . an . . . inch.”
    And then she lost herself entirely. She laughed so hard she doubled over, so hard
     she feared she might faint from lack of breath. “Your face! Your face!” she gasped.
     “You should have seen your face!”
    “Catriona!” Marilla exclaimed, horrified. And it was true, Catriona supposed. One
     wasn’t supposed to talk to a duke in such a way.
    But his face! His face! It had been priceless.
    She laughed even harder, grabbing on to Fiona for support. The other men had ambled
     over, grinning at her uncontrollable mirth, and out of the corner of her eye, Catriona
     saw that Lady Cecily had joined the party, too. The poor girl was clad in some sort
     of antique mourning gown, the heavy black bombazine dragging through the snow.
    “Miss Burns needs air,” the duke announced, and before anyone could offer an opinion,
     he scooped her up in his arms and said, “I’m taking her inside.”
    And just like that, all the chill left the air. Catriona allowed herself the indulgence
     of resting her cheek against Bretton’s chest, and as she lay there, listening to the
     steady beat of his heart, she could not help but think that this was where she was
     meant to be.
    But then, of course, Lord Oakley had to spoil the whole thing. “You’re taking her
     inside so that she might get air?”
    “Shut up,” the duke said.
    Catriona had a feeling she might be falling in love.
    “Wait!” Taran yelled, tramping over through the snow. “She needs a chaperone!”
    “I’ll go,” Fiona offered.
    Taran blinked in surprise. “You will?”
    “I’m cold,” Fiona said with a deceptively placid smile. “And I still have sewing to
     complete before supper.”
    “Do you think you might help me?” Lady Cecily asked, fidgeting beneath her cloak.
     “Nothing they brought down fits, and I am a terrible hand with a needle.”
    “Of course,” Fiona said. “Why don’t you come with me? We’ll take tea in my room and
     see to the gowns.”
    “You’re