If You Give A Girl A Viscount

CHAPTER FOUR

He braced himself for a dire response, but Miss Montgomery didn’t appear as if she’d faint. Or cry.

She merely nodded. “Very well. We’ll begin with our various talents, the eleven pounds I’ve already saved, and luck. And then we’ll go from there. Surely we’ll be able to amass four hundred pounds putting our heads together.”

“Four hundred pounds?”

She might as well be asking for the moon!

He stood. “I can’t stay long enough to help you amass such a sum. It could take years.”

“I don’t have years.”

“Exactly why do you need so much? Drapes, sideboards, and drawbridge repairs shouldn’t cost a tenth of that amount.”

She sighed. “A very good question. The first one hundred pounds are needed immediately. They’ll go to paying the annual feu duty to the landlord at the Keep. Without it, we could be removed from the property—as soon as the first of July, mere weeks away. Another hundred will be put aside for next year’s feu duty. The rest will be invested in the estate, mainly in the sheep herd, to get us back on our feet so that we no longer have to suffer the indignity of borrowing from anyone.”

“Pardon my mentioning this”—he looked round at the faded room—“but it’s evident the castle’s not in the best of condition. And the estate appears unwieldy for a young, untried lady to oversee. Surely it would be best if you moved elsewhere.”

“No other place will do.” She raised her chin. “I have people to worry about. Hester and Joe, the servants. They’ve lived here since well before I was born. And this is my home. My home, sir. Not merely an abode.”

Her eyes glistened with a hint of moisture, but she didn’t acknowledge the sheen of tears in the least.

He understood that sense of pride and attachment. He’d acquired many properties on his family’s behalf, but not a one of them meant anything to him—other than his ancestral home in Devon.

“But you do comprehend,” he said, “how much four hundred pounds is? It would take most citizens of Britain decades—many of them their whole lives, if ever—to earn such a sum.”

“Oh, yes, I know. It’s a bundle.” She distractedly tapped a finger on her mouth while looking him over. “I’m perfectly willing to hope that even in your penurious—and I might add, downtrodden—state you’ll be useful in acquiring it, however. What can you do?”

“Ride, fence, box, and … and sing. I’m very good at singing.” How pathetic that sounded.

“I’m afraid riding, fencing, boxing, and singing won’t be much use.” She tilted her head. “Anything else you forgot to mention?”

He hesitated. “I know how to make money. But I can’t do it from scratch. I need starter funds.”

Miss Montgomery actually clapped her hands. “That’s perfect.” She grinned. “That’s exactly what I need, someone who knows how to make money.”

Somehow she’d wound up a mere foot from him. She studied him closely, and as she did, he couldn’t help being fascinated by her blue eyes, the way they slanted up ever so slightly, as if she were a fairy.

“Do you have money to invest?” he asked her.

“No.” She wrapped her thin arms around her too-thin body. “And you’ve already said you don’t.”

“No. Unfortunately.”

Her expression drooped.

There was a short, sad silence.

“Now that you’ve been enlightened as to the stark particulars of our arrangement,” he said, “no doubt you’re sorry you contacted my grandmother at all.”

She gave him a wan smile. “No, that’s not it in the least. I’m disappointed because I need someone who believes we can make something from nothing.” She sighed. “But you don’t believe it’s possible, do you?”

“I never said—”

“You rely on money to solve your woes,” she said flatly. “Not that I blame you. I’m trying to reach the point that I have enough money to do the same thing. But there’s one good thing about not having any. When you’re poor, you develop a very good imagination. You need it to survive. To have hope. Because sometimes … there’s nothing else.”

There was a split second of silence, and she puckered up her brow, as if she were thinking.

Thinking hard.

It was rather adorable of her. And yet she’d unsettled him, too.

“That’s not it at all,” he answered, but inside, he felt she was dangerously close to understanding him. Surely it had been a lucky guess. “Have you ever considered that you’re asking too much of a godmother—or a godmother’s grandson?”

She tilted her head. “Isn’t it a godmother’s duty to demonstrate the great virtues for her charges? Courage, fortitude, nobility, and usefulness?”

“It might be, but must I remind you, I’m—”

“And it’s been my impression,” she went on equably, “that the duty of your English peerage is to demonstrate those same virtues for the masses. Therefore, you’re under double obligation here, sir.”

She folded her hands in front of her.

“Miss Montgomery, you’re carrying this idea of duty a bit too far—” He pulled a squashed cheroot from his pocket, leaned round her—coming perilously close to brushing her waist with his arm—and lit the cheroot on a taper.

The expression on her face as she waited for him to take a puff—half annoyed, half impatient—was surely going to ruin a good smoke.

Why was it that women tended to do that? Sure enough, after one measly draw, her brow furrowed deeper, and his pleasure in the cheroot evaporated.

Thank God he wasn’t married.

She put her hands on her slender hips. “Lord Lumley.” Her tone was point-blank. “You’re obviously a devoted grandson to have traveled such a long way on your grandmother’s behalf. And I already know that when your purse isn’t under lock and key, you’re a wealthy viscount. But what kind of man are you? For the purposes of my project—the Restore-Castle-Vandemere-to-Its-Former-Glory project, I’ve just now dubbed it—that’s what I’d like to know. What I need to know.”

A beat of charged silence passed. He felt an odd thrill at her boldness of speech.

“Well?” She peered at him with genuine curiosity and not a little impatience.

He needed to think on the question a moment, so he inhaled on his cheroot. “I’m the sort of man who keeps his promises,” he eventually said. “I told you I’d stay and see you through, and I shall.”

“In that case, you’ll need to become noble and useful immediately.” She stared at his black eye. “If that’s possible for a bachelor of your ilk.”

“And what kind of ilk is that?”

“The naughty kind, of course.”

“How astute of you to peg me so quickly,” he countered, and took a step toward her, the way a cold man instinctively takes a step toward a fire. He felt the need for some feminine attention. But not from a tavern wench or a milkmaid with a wandering eye. He wanted it from a girl who wasn’t so easy to land. A girl like this one. Then the notice would feel hard-won.

Nothing was hard-won in his world.

“I wouldn’t mind kissing you,” he said, “to prove to you that your suspicions about my ilk are founded. I should tell you that after I conclude my duties here, the very same ilk will travel the world with fancy women and get stinking drunk wherever it goes, while your ilk will stay bored in the north of Scotland.”

She stood staring at him, completely unfazed by his shocking speech. And the number of times he’d said ilk.

“Meanwhile”—he came closer, lifting her chin—“I’d like to find out what an indignant maiden’s lips taste like. Scones? Sugar? Or scorn?”

She attempted to swat his hand away smartly, but he caught it.

“I’m not one of your London playthings,” she said boldly, and yanked her wrist free.

He couldn’t help but be impressed.

She took a small cracked china bowl off a marble-topped side table and thrust the container at him. “Please put it out.”

She angled her chin at the cheroot.

He studied her pouting lips and took another drag of smoke. He wanted to kiss her more than ever now.

“Did you hear me?” she asked in that honey-bee voice of hers and pushed the bowl at him once more. “We’ve just washed the drapes. My stepmother wouldn’t care for the smell of smoke in them. We get enough from the chimneys.”

He narrowed his eyes even further and reluctantly complied, smashing the smoking stick into the bowl while her arm remained steady, her too-thin wrist strong, her demeanor unshaken.

Charlie was impressed again. Or irritated. It was too much trouble to discern which.

Plain though she was, she piqued his temper, which was a good thing as he had no desire ever to be happy again. His head hurt too much. He didn’t have his lucky penny. And he didn’t have anyone to love.

Not that he wanted someone to love.

Blast it all, he did need that poultice. And a rum punch. And a warm bed in which he wouldn’t fear for his life as he slept. He was getting maudlin, perhaps hallucinating, imagining himself one of those men who suddenly found the bachelor lifestyle unpalatable.

She put the bowl back down on the table, and he noticed above her head a charming stained-glass window depicting a solemn man and woman, in medieval garb, holding hands.

“You’re playing with another sort of fire,” he told her. “You’re brazen in your requests and your demands. Your behavior has been as outrageous as my own would have been—had I given you that kiss.” He hooked her waist and pulled her close. “In short, you Highland girls are a handful.”

Something hummed between them, but she didn’t even blink. “You’re in Scotland now, my lord. Not England. Highland girls speak their minds.”

“And London boys, dammit all, steal kisses. It’s what we do. For good reason.”

So he did. He stole a kiss and was surprised at how perfectly soft her lips were—

At how perfectly naturally their mouths and bodies fit together.

“Dai-seee!” A shrill voice interrupted the suddenly cozy tête-à-tête Charlie was having with Miss Montgomery.

She drew back.

He allowed his hand to slide off her waist.

“Well,” she said. “I see your point about London boys.”

Which was a perfectly amusing remark to make. It made it easier for him to forget the primal beat of the blood in his veins. He could focus on the fact that the girl before him had a certain wit and aplomb.

Never mind about the fire he’d sensed beneath that proper exterior. That was not to be an issue. He’d already been wayward enough. Grandmother wouldn’t approve of his taking advantage of her charge.

Not that Miss Montgomery appeared easy to take advantage of … she was rather like a small battleship, the sneaky kind that can render great destruction if it so chooses—all cannon and harpoons and diabolical strategies and worn sails that needed replacing.

The worn sails … that came from the fact that she could use a decent gown. It had character, but it didn’t do her justice. Not that he admired her particularly and wanted to see her in a nicer gown.

No, he didn’t. He was wary of her more than anything.

Of course, he wouldn’t mind seeing her out of a gown, just for curiosity’s sake.

Now Miss Montgomery looked over her shoulder, and when her gaze returned to his, her eyes were blue-black. “We’ll have to make something up. At least until we get our plan solidly under way. Otherwise, my stepmother will sabotage it, even if what I’m after is in her best interests. She’s stupid and cruel that way. Not only that, when she finds out your rank, she’ll do her best to make my stepsister your viscountess. Are you engaged?”

“Good God, no.”

“Well, for your own self-preservation, pretend you are.”

Before he could agree, she turned her head toward the door just as it slammed open and three females tried to push their way through the entryway at the same time.

One young lady was quite beautiful, with masses of black curls and delicate features. Were she in London, she’d turn many a dandy’s head at first glance. But Charlie saw right away that she knew she was striking, which led him to believe she probably had little else to recommend her. She was accompanied by another young woman who was taller than most men and as broad-shouldered as a dock worker. She had small eyes, a sour mouth, and a wide jaw, offset by tightly curled tresses of dull brown.

The oldest of the three, obviously the stepmother, was of average height and had a handsome enough face. Charlie surmised she’d probably been a beauty not too many years ago. Her hair was the same dull brown as the homely one, but a lock of white hair that started from her crown and descended in a bold line to her left ear gave her quite the dramatic look.

Unlike Miss Montgomery, the three of them appeared well fed. The beauty was a curvaceous pocket Venus. The other two had square torsos rounded by ample bosoms and large hips.

“Move,” the matron snarled beneath her breath and made a motion to discreetly elbow her companions, but the movement was sloppy and obvious.

The pretty one moved, but only after gasping in real or supposed pain at the intended jab. The giantess stood aside, a surly expression on her face. It wasn’t until all three locked gazes with him that their irritated expressions became cloyingly sweet.

And then irritated again, once they’d a chance to take in his shabby clothes.

“Who are you?” the stepmother demanded in a flat London accent.

“Yes, who are you?” The beauty looked him boldly up and down.

The large one said, “I’ve never seen such a handsome man, even if he is dirty.”

At that, Charlie had a difficult time keeping his face perfectly neutral. She sounded exactly like a man trying to sound like a woman in a play. Could she be a male dressed in women’s clothing?

He peered closer at her. No. He didn’t think so. That would be too odd. But he couldn’t be entirely sure. The abundance of fabric and flounce she wore could camouflage a whole platoon.

He made no attempt at a jovial smile but, in a herculean effort, did lift up one corner of his mouth. “Good afternoon, ladies. I’m—”

“For all we know,” the stepmother interrupted him, “you—with your black eye and your tattered but fine clothes—could be a crazy vagabond who’s perhaps tied up or, God forbid, murdered a gentleman, stolen his breeches and coat, and arrived here intent on seducing the lady of the house into letting you stay.”

Charlie made an immediate assumption: she was shrewd but eccentric, a dangerous combination. “Of course I’m not that sort of fellow,” he said. “But if I were, I wouldn’t tell you, would I?”

All three ladies gasped, but the stepmother appeared—

No. She couldn’t be excited at the idea, could she?

“He’s Viscount Lumley, Stepmother,” explained Miss Montgomery.

“Viscount, indeed,” the older woman said scornfully.

“I am a viscount,” he said. “Why don’t you check DeBrett’s Peerage? My name’s right there, and I’m rich as Croesus. Properties all over England. I’ve got a castle here in Scotland, too … somewhere near a glen.”

“There are tens of thousands of glens!” Perdita said.

“Hundreds of glens,” Miss Montgomery corrected her.

Lord Lumley shrugged. “I mean to visit it someday and shear some sheep as a lark. If I ever get around to it. Of course, it might be years … London’s never dull.”

“Where do you live in London?” the stepmother demanded to know.

“Mayfair. On Grosvenor Square. If you still don’t believe me, write my good friend and neighbor, the Duke of Drummond. He’ll tell you.”

“I’ve heard of the Duke of Drummond,” the older woman murmured.

By now her cunning expression also showed hints of ambition, as Miss Montgomery had predicted.

Miss Montgomery smiled pleasantly and looked him square in the eye. “The poor viscount has been set upon by footpads and lost his way. A kind soul in Glen Dewey sent him to us.”

“Good thing,” he said, “as my fiancée”—he made sure to emphasize the word—“would be terribly concerned, otherwise.”

“You’re engaged?” the stepmother demanded to know.

“Yes. I am.” Charlie felt the full threat of her words and was vastly relieved to have a lie to tell. “To a lovely young lady.”

He tried to think of a name. And then he tried to imagine what his imaginary fiancée looked like and couldn’t decide if she were blond, dark, or chestnut haired. Tall or short. She was most definitely the belle of every ball she attended, which she went to alone—as balls bored him.

She was also a perfect virgin by day and a vixen by night.

Even though that was impossible.

But as she was only make-believe, he could make her anybody he wanted. She’d never speak of their impending nuptials, which somehow would never occur. And she certainly wouldn’t make outrageous demands, the way Miss Montgomery did.

Of course, if she kissed the way Miss Montgomery did, that would be ideal. But in no other way would she be similar.

“What’s your fiancée’s name, Viscount?” the giantess yelled.

“W-would you like some tea?” Miss Montgomery asked him at the exact same time.

Thank God for the tea question because he was hoping to avoid answering the first.

But when he opened his mouth to say something, the pocket Venus interrupted. “I’ll see that he’s looked after, Daisy.” She raked him with a shrewd glance. “Go prepare his bedchamber immediately, and don’t dawdle.”

“Bring us that tea first,” the stepmother ordered Miss Montgomery.

“And don’t forget the milk,” the large one added in a booming voice. “You always do.”

Charlie put aside for study later the discomfiting fact that the others were treating Miss Montgomery like a servant. Instead, he focused on her name.

Daisy.

He liked it.

It suited her.

Not that it mattered. It didn’t matter at all.

But when she moved aside and the dark-haired siren took her place, he felt a lack—a lack he couldn’t put his finger on.

Yet it was there, just the same.