If You Give A Girl A Viscount

by Kieran Kramer

  It was really happening. The plan to raise money to save Castle Vandemere was under way.

  She was terrified. Absolutely terrified. It was her one chance, this Highland experience—her one chance to earn that money. Which was why she drank two glasses of wine in short order, even though she’d thought she didn’t particularly care for wine.

  But this wine came from the Keep’s cellars, and it was fine, very fine. And she noticed that the more wine she drank, the more she understood that nothing was coincidence. Nothing.

  She wished she could sing about it. Or write a poem.

  Immediately.

  But at that moment, the roasted pheasant arrived, so she had to content herself with knowing that she had nothing to worry about. The signs were clear. The ten days would be a raging success, and she’d make her money to pay the feu duty on the castle.

  But that was only part of the reason she was so happy.

  She’d figured out a way to rid herself of the Furies.

  Oh, Mr. King!

  She could weep for looking at him. He was perfect for Cassandra—

  Simply perfect.

  Daisy wouldn’t feel a bit of guilt foisting her selfish stepsister on him. Cassandra would be that bride at his wrought-iron balcony at his plantation house on the James River in Virginia.

  And she’d take her mother and sister to America with her.

  Just as Daisy lifted her wine glass to her mouth to celebrate again, she caught Charlie’s eye. He was glaring at her, in that understated way that only she was meant to understand. She had no idea why he was glaring at her, so she glared back in her secret way that only he would comprehend.

  She felt a bit smug as she swallowed a gulp of wine. As she matured, she found she was becoming increasingly more sophisticated. Especially about men. She was now a woman who could give hidden signals.

  She never thought the day would come.

  “Is something wrong?” Mr. King asked her from across the table. “You’re glaring, Miss Montgomery.”

  She gave a nervous chuckle. “Not at all. It was a piece of dust in my eye.” And to cover her embarrassment, she held up her nearly empty wine glass to make a toast.

  What would she say? The only thing on her mind was Mr. King and Cassandra. Cassandra King. Matthew and Cassandra King. The King family. Mrs. Matthew King.

  Well, that and the way Charlie’s throat was tanned and extremely kissable at the moment, even if he was still glaring at her. She had a mad fantasy to pull up her skirt and part her legs right now and let him come to her under the table and—

  God, she must stop her silly daydreaming.

  But just as she opened her mouth to toast the cooks, who were hovering outside the door and peeking in, a Mr. Woo, an impossibly short angler at the other end of the table, said loudly, “Where’s the son of the son of a Highland chief?”

  Oh, no.

  Daisy put down her wine glass and looked at Charlie.

  What was Mr. Woo talking about?

  “Mr. Beebs told us we’d have the son of a son of a Highland chief here,” the diminutive sportsman explained. “I refused to come, otherwise. The fish were biting well at Brawton.”

  Oh, God. They should have thought to have the descendant of a Highland chief. It would have made the experience so much more authentic.

  Yesterday, if Daisy had only spent less time allowing Charlie to suckle her breasts while he teased her softest flesh with his fingers, she would have thought of—

  What would she have thought of?

  Besides Charlie’s mouth?

  And his manhood straining against his breeches?

  She wished she’d seen it. She’d never seen a man’s privates before, and she longed to see Charlie’s!

  Daisy was losing her breath and her train of thought.

  Charlie cleared his throat. “I’m so sorry, Mr. Woo. The chief’s grandson is delayed tonight.”

  Oh, right. The son of a son of a Highland chief.

  “Actually,” Daisy added with a shrug, “he said he couldn’t be bothered.”

  Mr. Woo’s eyes widened. “Surely he intends to come eventually.”

  “Yes,” Daisy replied. “Probably tomorrow. But no one can tell him what to do. He works on his own schedule, and woe to anyone who pushes him.”

  Mr. Woo’s face drooped. “I am most disappointed.”

  “Just don’t tell him that,” Daisy said, “or he’ll leave. He’s very sensitive and proud. All descendants of Highland chiefs are.”

  “We can’t have him upset,” Mr. Woo said hurriedly.

  She sent Charlie a subtle message: I really wish we’d thought about this sooner, and we’ll have to talk about it in the library after dinner, and you look very handsome tonight, especially with Papa’s tartan pin stuck in your cravat.

  But amazingly, Charlie didn’t seem to get the message. He angled his head at her and squinted as if he had no idea what she’d been trying to say!

  Men.

  They weren’t nearly as perceptive as women—women other than Perdita and Cassandra, that is, who were about as perceptive as logs. Daisy had to grant that her stepmother would be perceptive if she weren’t always focused on hating people and devising plans to make them miserable.

  Indeed, at that very moment Mona was telling the man to her left some of the best ways to make someone deathly ill without getting caught, all of which she’d learned in the lurid novels of which she was overly fond.

  Perdita, meanwhile, was staring lovelorn at Mr. King. Daisy had made her much more attractive with her hair sleekly pulled back. She’d also made Perdita don a plain white muslin gown that used to be one of the girl’s older night rails. It still had a flounce, but it wasn’t nearly as bad as her usual. Daisy had pinned a lovely brooch at the vee of the neckline and flung a simple paisley shawl over her stepsister’s broad shoulders.

  The most clever thing Daisy had done was tell her not to speak.

  Perdita had “lost” her voice.

  A bucktoothed marquis from Spain was leaning over to look down Perdita’s décolletage, which was good news, as far as Daisy was concerned.

  “Miss Montgomery?” Mr. King called to her across the table.

  “Yes?”

  “Tell us about your home.”

  Her heart warmed to him. “Castle Vandemere has its own special charm.”

  “Why do you find it so?” Mr. King’s dark eyes were focused only on her.

  Daisy wasn’t used to being the center of attention, particularly at a large gathering. “Its great beauty lies in its simplicity,” she said.

  “I like that answer.” The visitor from Virginia smiled at her.

  Daisy found herself blushing once more. She couldn’t help thinking that someday, if she had her way, he’d become her brother-in-law—her stepbrother-in-law—who would live far, far away. So far away, in fact, she’d never visit. And never have to see Cassandra (along with Mona and Perdita) again.

  But enough of Mr. King. At the moment, Charlie was handsomer than she had ever seen him. She couldn’t help thinking that she was a beginner in the art of making love. So it was Charlie’s duty—wasn’t it?—to be at her beck and call and teach her everything he knew.

  Everything.

  She found she’d parted her lips and was rubbing the top one over the rim of her wine glass.

  Charlie stared at her. So did Mr. King.

  And so did everyone else.

  “Excuse me,” she said to the table. “I felt faint for a moment. I was gasping for tea and … and I had only wine.”

  “I see,” said Mr. King.

  Daisy ignored the uncomfortable pause and went back to her new favorite subject—Cassandra. “You really should meet my stepsister,” she said to Mr. King. “She’s a beauty. And according to her mother, she belongs in a peer’s bed.”

  Charlie nudged her knee under the table with his own knee and gave her a pointed look.

  Oh, no! She’d forgotten. Mr. King wasn’t a peer at a
ll, poor man.

  “Pardon me, no doubt she belongs in the bed of any man who’s powerful,” Daisy said. “And rich.”

  She noticed Cassandra making a horrible face at her.

  Dear God, the girl was sitting only two seats down on the other side, to Mr. King’s right. Which meant she could hear everything Daisy had said about her.

  “I’d like to go with you to Castle Vandemere,” said Mr. King to Charlie in a change of subject. “Every day that I’m in residence. Whatever interests you, interests me.”

  Charlie inhaled a breath. “What did Mr. Beebs tell you?”

  Mr. King slapped Charlie on the back. “He says you’re not some lofty lord—you like to do chores over at Miss Montgomery’s castle. He said you’ll get down in the dirt and work if you must. Nothing worse than a man in his prime going to seed because he’s too important to do the things that make life worth living, right?”

  “Right,” said Charlie.

  “Beebs also said the one thing you’ve never attempted is shearing sheep. Neither have I. Since we’re on level playing ground there, perhaps I can challenge you to a sheep-shearing contest for a lark. When shall we take each other on?”

  Daisy noticed Charlie had a small tic in his jaw. He was not happy, and she couldn’t help but wonder why.

  “Tomorrow, perhaps?” Charlie said woodenly, and drained his glass of wine.

  “It’s very good wine,” Daisy whispered to him. “Isn’t it?”

  The meal finished without incident, and the men repaired to the library for cheroots and their choice of brandy or Joe’s whisky while the four ladies at the table gathered in the drawing room with their various sewing projects.

  The effects of the wine were beginning to wear off, Daisy thought thankfully. Or maybe it wasn’t such a good thing. She dreaded confronting Cassandra.

  “How could you?” Cassandra said accusingly to her from an elaborate blue velvet sofa.

  Daisy was seated on a hard, Egyptian-style chair herself. “What did I do?”

  Cassandra huffed. “You made it sound as if I would simply jump into Mr. King’s bed. Or that I was a cow at market, ready to be bought.”

  Mona had begun work on a pillow. Her tongue stuck out of her mouth at the most awful angle as she attempted to jab the thread through the needle. But then she skewered Daisy with a knowing look. “I suspect I know why you’re fobbing Cassandra off on the Virginian.”

  “Oh?” Daisy longed for more wine.

  Mona narrowed her eyes. “You want the viscount. We told you to stay away from him.”

  Cassandra twirled a curl. “I care nothing for the American bird-watcher.”

  “Perhaps you should,” said Daisy. “He might be more wealthy than the viscount. And he does have that house with the balcony.”

  Cassandra furrowed her brow. “I don’t care. Lord Lumley is a far better catch, and if you continue to interfere with my getting him, Daisy, I’ll tell him everything I know.”

  Daisy bit her lip. “You already told him about the fire.”

  “I’ll tell him the rest,” Cassandra insisted. “I’ll tell him about Cousin Roman. You drank too much with him that night, too.”

  “No I didn’t,” Daisy protested. “I had one glass of sour wine with Roman, no more than you had. This is the very first time I’ve ever drunk more than one glass. And no wonder. Tonight’s was a fine vintage.”

  The others snickered, and Daisy’s heart sank. She would never win. Ever.

  Drinking wine tonight hadn’t helped her in the least. Her fuzzy glow was now gone.

  Everything was bleak.

  Perdita sighed, oblivious to the tension. “I like Mr. King. In fact, I’d like to make him”—she gazed round the company to see if they were paying attention—“the king of my heart.”

  Daisy couldn’t help being a bit scornful of her stepsister’s attempt at rendering the mushy feelings she felt toward Mr. King into something poetic.

  But Charlie’s the king of your heart, Daisy, a ridiculous voice inside her head told her.

  Right, she told it back. And I’m a beautiful, wealthy heiress with a large bosom and a saint for a stepmother.

  She did not have a tendre for Lord Lumley, not in the least. She only wanted to kiss him sometimes. And lie with him naked.

  And receive great pleasure from him—give it to him, too, if she only knew how—although that was neither here nor there.

  None of that had anything to do with love.

  Of course, she was still clueless as to what love actually was, but at least she knew what love wasn’t. That was almost as helpful.

  She knew tingly feelings all over your body when you looked at someone didn’t necessarily mean that you were in love.

  Nor did the odd daydream wondering how a certain man must appear with no clothes on signify you were in love.

  And looking forward to private time so you could discuss a money-raising project you were working on together—a project that was a bit dicey and could fail and that might get one kicked out of one’s home, fear of which only a warm, naked hug and perhaps a few hot kisses could alleviate—well, that didn’t mean one was in love, either.

  She was sure she was becoming very wise, in her own way, about love.

  “Well, Perdita,” she said, “you barely know Mr. King, so it would be prudent not to get your hopes up in that direction. Did you notice how much the Spanish marquis liked you?”

  Perdita glared at her. “He is not the king of my heart.”

  “I hear the castles in Spain, particularly those along the coast in southern Spain, are much warmer than the ones up here,” Daisy said nonchalantly.

  “I don’t care,” Perdita said. “Wait a minute. Is that my old gown you’re wearing?”

  Daisy shrugged. “What if it is? You put it in the rag basket ages ago. I merely altered it.”

  “It has no frills anymore.”

  “Precisely,” said Daisy. “As you’ve proven tonight with your new sense of style, frills and flounces are all well and good in moderation, but too many of them mask a lady’s true beauty. You are more beautiful tonight than I’ve ever seen you, Perdita.”

  Which was still a long way from beauty, but it wasn’t a lie. Perdita had inched closer to being acceptable in appearance, and Daisy wanted to give her every bit of encouragement she could to stay on a less flouncy, frilly path.

  “You’re just complimenting me because you took my gown without asking.” Perdita roared.

  “Ssshh!” Daisy held her finger to her mouth.

  “Besides,” Perdita whispered loudly, “what would someone as plain as you know about true beauty?”

  Daisy threw down her needlework and stood. “That’s enough. I don’t have to listen to your insults. I’m your stepsister, Perdita, or have you forgotten?”

  Perdita made a disgusting scoffing noise that sounded as if she were sick to her stomach.

  Daisy flinched. “Do you have any love for me at all?” she asked her.

  Mona snorted. “Are you going to let her get by with spouting that nonsense, Perdy?” She always enjoyed a good sparring match between Daisy and Perdita and made no secret of the fact that she always wanted Perdita to win.

  Perdita ignored Daisy’s question. “Your future is over. Mine has only begun.”

  “Why do you say that?” Daisy felt hot anger rising through her body.

  Perdita shrugged. “I don’t know. But it’s true.”

  Daisy’s anger burst from her in a torrent of words: “Don’t be so sure. I’ve had it with all three of you. I don’t intend to endure your lack of feeling much longer.”

  Mona sucked in her cheeks. “Exactly what do you mean by that, young lady?”

  Daisy instantly regretted speaking. “I won’t tolerate your cruelties.”

  Mona was as still as a cat in the seconds before it catches its prey. “Don’t think you can fob me off. You speak as if you plan to leave us. But you wouldn’t leave Hester or Joe. And you certainly couldn’
t support them if you took them with you. So I’m left to conclude that you’re suggesting that we shall be the ones leaving, Perdita, Cassandra, and I.”

  There was a beat of silence. Daisy had no idea what to say. A deep-seated fear of her stepmother gripped her throat like a chokehold.

  Cassandra sat up straighter. “Why, you’re wicked!”

  “No,” said Daisy. “I never said that. And I’m not wicked. You are, not me. All three of you are.” That great anger was threatening to overwhelm her again.

  “You’re up to something,” Mona said in menacing tones, “and I intend to find out what it is. And when I do, you’d best be prepared. Because a stepmother betrayed is a stepmother who will make you pay. Until it hurts. Oh, excuse me.” She put a finger to her mouth and reconsidered. “Until it hurts very badly.”

  Perdita and Cassandra laughed. Thank God the Keep was so large and that the library was far enough away that the gentlemen couldn’t hear.

  Shivers of disgust and fear ran down Daisy’s spine. “What have I ever done to you, except try to be a good sister and daughter? Why do all of you hate me so much?”

  Mona merely arched one eyebrow.

  Perdita stuffed a chocolate in her mouth and chomped in Daisy’s general direction.

  Cassandra wore an awful smirk on her beautiful face.

  “I’ll leave you to yourselves,” Daisy told them, sick to her stomach that they hadn’t bothered to answer.

  Their mocking laughter followed her out. She’d never felt so miserable and alone in her life.

  But even worse, she felt afraid. Mona had caught on that Daisy didn’t want her at Castle Vandemere.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Surrounded by a dozen gentlemen as wealthy or more than he and whose interests somewhat overlapped (Charlie had never claimed to be a bird-watcher), he decided he’d never felt so miserable and alone in his life. The whisky and brandy had made the travelers talkative, but eventually, even they grew tired. So it was with much relief that he stood when the men eventually called it a night a little after midnight.

  “Sleep well, gentlemen,” he told them as they filed past him at the door to the library.