If You Give A Girl A Viscount

CHAPTER THREE

He was here. Daisy’s viscount. The one who’d told her in his commanding scrawl that he’d be at her beck and call when he arrived. After her initial disappointment that her godmother wasn’t available to assist her, she realized she’d never had anyone offer to be at her beck and call before.

She couldn’t help but feel a bit excited. Although it probably wasn’t done to be excited about receiving a viscount as a temporary gift—

Was it?

She wore a dress of faded strawberry-red striped chintz she’d sewn from the least faded cushions and the back of the old settee that had finally fallen apart in the sitting room. And she’d made sure that Mona, Cassandra, and Perdita were still tucked in their beds. It had been easy enough—the evening previous, Hester had told them the vicar needed them to wash altar cloths at the local kirk the following morning. And as Daisy knew they would, they all claimed colds and had yet to appear downstairs.

Now there was a deep voice in the hall. Clipped. Cold. Very masculine. And then Hester’s thin, rabbity answer.

Oh, dear. Couldn’t Hester work up a bit more nerve?

Daisy clung to the sides of the chair, her palms sweating. The pleasant smile she’d fixed on her face was gone. She’d never been good at playing a part anyway.

Daisy Alice Montgomery! Papa’s voice came to her. Be brave.

Channeling brave with all her might, she loosened her grip, adjusted her curls, and wished for a sudden boost of radiance to infuse her person.

It didn’t work. She didn’t feel radiant in the least.

Not that she had time to worry about the matter. The next moment, Hester flung open the door and walked in, her eyes wide and blinking, her hand curled to her mouth. “Viscount Lumley of London,” she gasped.

And then she scuttled off.

Daisy bit her lip. Why was Hester so jumpy?

When a man strode through the door, Daisy had to wonder—with her heart in her throat—if perhaps the housekeeper had seen what she was seeing now.

There was a fable associated with Castle Vandemere: The Legend of the Two Lovers at the Ceilidh on the Last Night of the Hunt. It was an awfully long name for a legend, but if it held true, it deserved such a title. The story went that long ago, a Golden Prince and his Golden Girl had found true love at the ceilidh—an evening of Scottish dancing—always held at Castle Vandemere on the last night of the great hunt.

Of course, when the hunt and games had been moved to the newer and grander Keep two centuries ago, the legend had faded away. But a lovely stained-glass window with the images of the Golden Prince and the Golden Girl still adorned the west wall of the drawing room, and on particularly fine evenings, the sunset’s glow lit up their faces.

The viscount looked like the Golden Prince.

Almost.

In his state of disarray, Daisy rather thought he looked more like the Golden Prince’s bad twin.

He wore muddy black high-top boots, snug but ripped buckskin breeches, and a form-fitting coat missing all its buttons. Daisy also noted the complete absence of a cravat over the stained white shirt.

But like the Golden Prince, he had the same deep brown hair—wavy and thick—touched with flecks of gold, and eyes the tawny brown color of the hazelnuts heaped in the white crock in the kitchen. He also had the Golden Prince’s square jaw, aquiline nose, proud bearing, and assured stance.

Indeed, if one didn’t count the ghastly black eye and a bloody scab on his nose, the visitor was far too handsome for his own good. Daisy had never seen such a handsome man (who’d obviously been in a brawl. Or two).

Her heart raced not at his good looks, she told herself, but at the insolence in his manner and the scowl on his countenance. He also reeked of cheroots and stale ale.

She shut her gaping mouth and looked full-on at the gentleman. “Welcome to the Highlands,” she said. “I’m Miss Montgomery, daughter of the late Barnabas and Catherine Montgomery.”

“And I’m Lord Lumley,” he said softly, in a take-no-prisoners tone, returning her gaze with cold equanimity. “It’s been a harrowing journey north, as I’ve gotten here by hook or by crook—”

“By hook or by crook?”

A small turnip fell out of his coat.

“What’s that?” she couldn’t help asking.

“A turnip,” he replied in bland tones.

“I know, but why—”

“Don’t ask,” he muttered. “I beg of you. Please.” He held up a palm. “It’s better forgotten. The whole journey.”

“Very well.” She nodded quickly. “If that’s what you’d prefer.”

“Indeed, it is.” He kicked the turnip under a sofa. “The point is, I am here. And I’m at your service.”

At her service?

Daisy put her hand on the back of a chair to steady herself. “Do you really mean that?” she asked in a rush.

“Of course.” His gaze was still hard.

“Good. Very good.” She gulped, not sure how to say what she must. Oh, bother, she simply would. There’d been that turnip, after all. Things weren’t quite the usual. It was the perfect environment to … let loose.

Besides, her passion for her cause was making her desperate. Strong feeling had always been her downfall.

She’s impulsive. Those had been her mother’s words to her father.

Madcap. Her father’s words to her mother.

Thoughtless. Her stepmother’s take on the matter.

Harebrained. Stepmother again.

Selfish. Cassandra’s refrain.

Daisy held tighter to the chair. “I need you, Viscount.”

She really, really did!

“Need me?” A spark of something fierce and frightening flashed in his stony gaze.

His disdain almost made her flinch. But she couldn’t. She wouldn’t. She must be bold.

The words burned to be said: “I need your help procuring my godmother’s money. Gobs of it.”

Of course.

She wanted money.

Wait until the boys hear about this, Charlie thought, and tried to ignore the fact that he felt an embarrassing sense of disappointment that for a moment there, he’d thought she’d needed him—followed swiftly by a ripple of unwanted interest in her that had nothing to do with her brazen speech.

Were all Highlanders so … raw?

Her hair, yellow as freshly cut straw, was scraped back into a tight bun. She had a weary, gaunt expression about her eyes, which she didn’t bother to disguise. And her skin was pale, almost translucent, like rice paper, over cheekbones that were high and sharp.

She exuded neediness.

Yet there was no cringing, no wheedling in her voice. She’d made her outlandish request in a brisk, businesslike manner, as if she’d been negotiating the price of a ribbon at market.

Even so, there was something rich and full that drew his notice. Perhaps it was the sound of her voice. He couldn’t help thinking of buzzing bumblebees and honey. Cozy, unmade beds with feather pillows. Rich blue velvets, the same sky blue color as her eyes, and glossy fur muffs with deep silken pockets—even though she was wearing a threadbare gown.

“We can’t solicit my grandmother for anything,” he informed her. “She’s abroad and left me no authority to open her accounts.”

The girl didn’t even attempt to hide her disappointment. “Oh, well, that’s a shame. I’d so hoped.”

He had trouble breathing for a moment. He was flummoxed. Thoroughly flummoxed. He was tempted to shake his head in wonder that he was dreaming. No one—save the burly highwayman who’d held a pistol to his head on the road north—had ever, ever petitioned him for money in such a direct manner. Even street beggars touched their forelocks or looked at the ground when asking him for a farthing.

“You so hoped to meet my grandmother … or so hoped to draw from her accounts?” he asked smoothly to cover the fact that he was sorely rattled.

And oddly fascinated.

She made a wry face, which made her look a bit like a naughty pixie, then let out a short sigh. “Both. I’ll admit when I saw the name Lady Pinckney in your letter, I had a small, happy vision.” She spread her sturdily booted feet a delicate space apart and put her small palms up in front of her as if she were setting up a glorious story. “A vision of a doting godmother hugging me close. Followed swiftly by another vision of her opening a trunkful of gold, the coins spilling into my lap, and all our troubles ending because I’d restore Castle Vandemere to its former glory.”

“Is that so?”

“Yes, which would mean silken pennants flying from the turrets, a repaired drawbridge, and new drapes. Yes, new drapes in every room. And perhaps a massive sideboard, in the great hall, and a new suit of armor. Ours is so shabby. The left arm fell off last week and suffered yet another dent, thanks to Jinx, our overly curious tabby cat, knocking it over again.” She paused, lost in her daydream, then said, “Of course, the castle will never be as grand as the Keep, but there are possibilities here. Distinct possibilities.”

This was theater, wasn’t it? A woman prosing on about how to spend his family’s money?

“Do go on,” he said, highly entertained in spite of himself.

“Oh, yes,” she replied with enthusiasm. “I never mentioned the bedchambers. All of them need renovating.”

“What good ideas you have.”

“I must admit I do,” she said. “But I see now that such a perfect scenario is merely a silly fantasy.”

“Indeed, it is.” His voice was rough now. “I’m appalled at your avarice. You do nothing to hide it. I’ve never met a lady as audacious as you.”

“Then you’ve not met my stepmother,” Miss Montgomery replied, unfazed.

He nearly choked. “She’s worse?”

“Tenfold. But unlike her, I’m not greedy in the least. Nor would I have accepted your grandmother’s charity. It would have been a loan only, I’ll have you know, and I’d only have done it because I’m responsible for other people’s welfare.” Her cheeks were bright red now. “So you can stop your rude judgments of my character. I could say plenty about your own, by the way, but I won’t. Because you look awful. If I were a man and looked as bad as you, I’d be rude, too. But after tonight, when you get a good night’s rest, I’ll not tolerate such boorish behavior anymore.”

How had she done that? How had she turned everything around and made him look bad?

She was the grasping one. She was the one—

He opened his mouth to speak—he wasn’t sure what he was going to say—but she put up a hand. “Enough with our disagreement. Let’s appreciate the irony that in place of my silly fantasy, what I got instead is a quarrelsome man with a black eye, reeking of the tavern and the stables.” She gave a genuine chuckle and clapped her hand over her mouth to restrain herself. But she couldn’t stop. She let her hand fall away and laughed outright. “How funny life can be! Don’t you agree?”

“Yes, it can be.” What a compelling creature! Perhaps because she was being so blasted honest. He wasn’t used to that.

That and she was almost enchanting when she laughed.

Not quite, of course, considering she was laughing at him.

But almost.

“Are you all right?” Miss Montgomery asked him. “I mean, you look as though”—she made an ungraceful looping motion with one hand—“as if you’ve been—”

“To hell and back?” He completed the sentence for her.

“Well, yes. Surely someone who’s been to hell and back requires tea.” Her tone was pert.

A very small corner of his mind was still hale enough to find her lack of artifice amusing.

“Brandy would do better,” he said.

“We’ve none of that. We have some whisky, however. But”—she paused—“are you sure you need … more? You don’t look as if more would help. Perhaps less would be better. Or none.” She inhaled. “None is what I meant, actually.”

“There’s a tipping point, you know,” he told her. “Forbearance would be counterproductive at this stage. It might lead to a massive headache.”

“You don’t have one already?”

Devil take it, must she remind him?

He’d try for a new subject. “It was a long trek up the hill from your village. Glen Dewey must be the remotest outpost in the Highlands. I had to walk the last three miles to get to it from the main road.”

“Yes, we’re isolated here.” Miss Montgomery didn’t sound at all apologetic. “I’m shocked you found us at all.”

She smiled at him, ignoring the fact that he refused to smile back at her.

“You’re in pain,” Miss Montgomery remarked. “Please, my lord. Do sit down and make yourself comfortable. I promise I won’t—”

“Mention money?” He lowered himself onto an ancient sofa.

She winced. “Yes. At least for—at least until you feel better.”

He longed to tell her that his stomach ached from lack of food, too much drink, and not enough sleep. He’d also love to confess that he’d played cards all night with a roomful of crofters just to get here today. He’d lost his last gold button and then—

His lucky penny, the one responsible for all his good fortune … the one he’d hidden from his friends when they’d taken his last farthing. He hadn’t had any compunctions about concealing it—it wasn’t as if he were ever going to spend it.

It was merely a talisman, the lucky penny his Scottish grandfather had given him when he was but six years old. Granddad had said, “Here’s your lucky penny. What you see is what you get. Dinnae forget that, laddie.”

Charlie remembered clutching the penny in his chubby fist and crying when his mother had tried to remove it that night at dinner. And so he’d stowed it away in his pocket.

Every day.

For the rest of his life.

Through Eton, Oxford, Granddad’s funeral, all the weddings of Charlie’s friends, and every purchase of castle or property on behalf of his family, he’d had the lucky penny on his person. He was convinced that it had everything to do with the fact that whatever business prospect he touched turned to gold.

But by some odd chance, the penny had appeared on the faded green baize table last night. Had one of the barmaids removed it from his pocket? He still didn’t know. The Highland whisky had been flowing freely and—

The next thing he’d known, the lucky penny had been won.

Won away from him by a toothless old man who’d roared at Charlie when he’d tried to win it back, “Stay away! It’s mah lucky penny noo!” And had disappeared into the eerie white night of the Highland summer.

Charlie had watched him disappear around the stables and let him go. At the time, he could barely stand straight as it was.

Things had gone rapidly downhill. First, there’d been the fight over—nothing. He’d been in many of those the last month. People in dire straits tended to be in bad moods when they were hungry or looking for a place to sleep. And then after his black eye, a large-eared drover had required him to sing “Will Ye Go, Lassie?” on the bartop before he’d allow Charlie on the back of his wagon. He’d been dumped at the nearest market town and fortunately picked up by one of several coaches filled with anglers heading north of Glen Dewey to the village of Brawton.

Miss Montgomery bit her lip. “I’m sorry. I’m being a terrible hostess.” She ran a hand through her curls. “Let me get you a poultice for that eye.”

“No, thank you.” Charlie told himself that he was being curt, yet he couldn’t help making excuses.

He was half drunk.

He was in an ill temper.

He was an Impossible Bachelor.

With no money.

It was hell being poor. He’d found no redeeming value in it. The irony was, whether he was in rags or in a London ballroom, he was pursued for his purse either way.

“You need a poultice,” Miss Montgomery said. “To stop the swelling—”

“No poultices,” he snapped.

He couldn’t bother being pleasant. There was that low level of throbbing all over his head, coupled with the fact that he had no desire to be his grandmother’s emissary anymore. The trip had lost its luster after the third or fourth time he’d seen his life flash before his eyes in the numerous perilous encounters with man or nature he’d had since leaving London.

The girl halted. “All right,” she said. “Have it your way.”

Her tone was just dry enough to suggest that he was spoiled, which he certainly was not.

All right, perhaps he was, but he was new at the discomfort business, wasn’t he? That night at his club in London when he’d agreed to leave off money for a while, he’d been thrown to the wolves, as it were, and was simply glad that he’d made it this far north in one piece.

“You will have received my note,” he said. How brazen the young lady must think him, to assume that a letter of introduction written by his own hand from a seedy inn days before would excuse his present appearance and behavior. He knew it did not.

Nevertheless, there was a moment’s awkward silence which he took pitiless pleasure in not breaking. But for this woman, he’d be happily ensconced in a chair at his club in Town. And he wouldn’t have lost his lucky penny. In other words—

Everything was all her fault.

But Miss Montgomery didn’t seem to notice his resentment.

She took a breath and crossed her arms over her modest bosom. “Yes,” she said breezily. “Do you care to explain your letter further? You said that per your grandmother’s wishes, you’d be at my ceaseless beck and call.”

“Ceaseless?”

“Don’t you remember? And you went on to say that noble words and deeds are what define a man, not the depth of his pockets. An admirable sentiment.”

Did he really say that? He’d been in his cups when he’d written it. It sounded like something Arrow would profess.

“It’s true,” he said, trying to gain his bearings. “It’s true that a man shouldn’t be defined by how rich or poor he is.”

“I had no idea you meant it quite so literally.” Her face took on a regretful expression. “How kind of you to journey all the way up here—to suffer such indignities”—she cast a swift glance under the sofa where the turnip now lay—“when you’re obviously short of funds.”

She made an effort to look sympathetic, but her disappointment was palpable.

“Of course, there’s always the chance you keep your coins in a very deep pocket,” she added, her face brightening.

Good God, the woman was unashamedly transparent. She was after his money now.

“I’m penniless at the moment.” He merely shrugged. “As for the journey, it was nothing.”

Nothing, his arse. It was damned well something, and he never wanted to go through it again. He couldn’t wait to leave this place and get back home to his luxurious town house in London.

“You’ve shown true dedication to the responsibilities inherent in being a godmother,” she managed to compliment him.

He not only questioned her sincerity, he seethed under such an incongruous label. “I’m merely the emissary, if you’ll recall. It’s my grandmother you should admire. The woman has an unnatural penchant for collecting goddaughters.”

“Does she?”

“Yes.”

“Have you ever helped one before?”

“No.”

Her brow furrowed.

“Miss Montgomery,” he said, “you needn’t worry. Yes, it’s true that whatever your problem is, we’ll have to settle it without my family’s money. Due to an unfortunate series of events, I’ve lost complete access to it, and I’ve no idea if or when I’ll get it back. And your godmother is inaccessible for a goodly while. But rest assured, I shall offer you my sage counsel, and I’m committed to staying until your dilemma is resolved.”

There. He’d let her know in no uncertain terms that he could offer her no money.

So why did he feel more vulnerable than he had when he’d offered his paramours expensive baubles?

He had no idea.

But he did.

And he didn’t like it.