If You Give a Girl a Viscount (4 page)

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Authors: Kieran Kramer

Tags: #Fiction, #Romance, #Historical, #Regency, #General

BOOK: If You Give a Girl a Viscount
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“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.
 
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.

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