The Earl With the Secret Tattoo (12 page)

Liar
.

She refused to let the warm, bold pressure of his fingers on her own disconcert her.
“It’s been rather a long while,” she returned, striving for cool.

He stood tall again. “Not more than our usual year,” he teased her with a twinkle
in his eye. “I’m flattered you thought it longer.”

“A year is still a year,” she choked out. “An awfully long time.”

What a stupid thing to say. It sounded as if she’d pined away for him—the last thing
she wanted him to think.

“Don’t you remember?” he goaded her. “I left for America the morning after Uncle Bertie’s
party. I wouldn’t miss it. I never do.”

She knew that. His unceasing loyalty to Uncle Bertie was the primary reason she put
up with him. “And how was that … that tour?” she asked faintly.

Another inane bunch of words spilling from her mouth.

He shot her a devastating grin. “You’ll be pleased to know it was marvelous. I connected
with several good friends from Boston to Richmond to Savannah and managed to see quite
a number of the country’s best architecture, as well.”

Huh. He’d probably done much more so-called connecting in America than he had studying
architecture.

Just last week, Pippa had seen the cartoon of his homecoming in one of the papers
Bertie had brought back from a trip to London. Lord Westdale had been striding down
the gangplank of a ship—shirtless, mildly drunk, a lovesick young lady of the
ton
on either side of him, a lustful look in his eye, a scrap of paper with a draftsman’s
sketch of a fragmented heart upon it in his hand, and a banner above his head proclaiming,
“The Ignoble Architect of Disappointed Hopes Returns.”

The message was clear: Respectable young ladies were not to risk falling in love with
the heir to the Marquess of Brady unless they were willing to be disappointed. Lord
Westdale was far more interested in carousing than in settling down with a wife, and
as for his chosen profession of architecture, it appeared to hold his attention far
more than any one woman.

I’m ahead of the game
, Pippa told herself now.
I already
do
stay away from him.

Which perhaps wasn’t exactly accurate. It could very well be that he stayed away from
her
. They were forced to see each other at Bertie’s annual birthday dinner, of course,
in the country, but in Town, she, er, occasionally used to follow Lord Westdale to
design lectures and tried to gain entrance by pretending to be his male secretary.
Not that he ever knew—until last year in a hideously embarrassing unveiling which
led to consequences she’d never forget.

But she wouldn’t dwell on it now, not with him acting as if nothing had ever gone
wrong between them. She would do the same, for Uncle Bertie’s sake.

In a great scarlet chair facing a modest fire, her uncle sat with his stocky legs
apart, his back straight, his stomach protruding like a pillow, all because he refused
to remove the corgi sleeping behind him. After a few more minutes of desultory conversation,
his mouth drew down and he lowered his brows at Lord Westdale.

It was his recitation mode.

Pippa braced herself.

“Lady Pippa’s latest admirer—” Uncle Bertie began in a ponderous tone.

“An unsuspecting fool from Scotland,” interjected Sir Harold in that nasal whine of
his from his station in the corner.

“—is young Laird Dunwallop of Perth,” Uncle Bertie finished.

Pippa was unnerved that her uncle didn’t rebuke Sir Harold for his rude remark, but
then the corgi popped out onto the floor from behind him, and she chalked it up to
his being distracted.

“Dunwallop’s coming to London”—Uncle Bertie wriggled his great girth back into the
chair—“presumably to lecture on the merits of sheep farming and to please his mother
by attending a few balls. But I know what he’s really after. My money and—” He angled
his head at Pippa.

Uncle Bertie!
Pippa almost sank through the floor. Her uncle winked at her and chuckled, which
meant—

She must gird herself for even further humiliation, of the absolute sort. Slowly,
she sank onto a chair, her toes curling in her slippers, her stomach taut with tension,
her head dizzy with apprehension. Mother pulled at her pearls, her face ashen-white.

“Never heard of Dunwallop.” Lord Westdale took his seat again on the sofa next to
Mother. His brow furrowed, then cleared. “But he’s a lucky man if he wins Lady Pippa.”

Sir Harold chortled.

“You think so?” Bertie lifted a quizzing glass to his eye and pointedly studied his
godson.

“Of course.” The earl crossed one leg over the other and stared right back.

Suddenly, Pippa was angry. Irrationally, stupidly angry at Lord Westdale. Couldn’t
he be the least bit uncomfortable at this predictable plotting by her uncle?

But it’s not his fault
, she reminded herself.
It’s
not.
It’s Uncle Bertie’s
.

She inhaled a slow, calm breath that didn’t work. Her heart still pounded too fast;
her thoughts, bitter and furious, jangled. Every year she had to go through this awful
scenario, and it only got worse. It was like having a perpetual headache and someone
shouting in your ear one year, playing the cymbals the next, and the following year,
firing off a cannon.

Bertie leaned forward and pushed at Lord Westdale’s knee with his hammy fist.

Oh, dear. The push.
Pippa bit the inside of her lip. The push meant the excruciating moment had finally
arrived.

“You ought to ask for her hand yourself,” Uncle Bertie told the earl. “I’ll see her
settled before I die, and with the right man.
You’re
the right man, godson, and you’ll never do better than my Pippa.”

Dear God!

She wished she could be grateful—a tiny part of her heart was always touched at this
speech of Uncle Bertie’s—but instead, she felt a great affinity with the corgi by
the hearth scratching his fat, bald hindquarters and whining.

Lord Westdale looked calmly into his godfather’s eyes. “Bertie—” he began.

Uncle Bertie’s face took on a stubborn look. “It’s my birthday wish, young man.”

“Bertie,” Lord Westdale said again in a perfectly calm manner, although he didn’t
look at her. “Lady Pippa is lovely, yes, but—”

“She bolts,” supplied Sir Harold. “Three times now.”

“Only twice from the altar,” Mother protested.

The beleaguered corgi at the hearth gave up his self-ministrations and approached
Uncle Bertie’s leg. Her uncle shooed it off, a rare event. “I’ll see it happen,” he
announced to the whole room, his tone determined. “These two will marry. The sooner
the better.”

Also by
KIERAN KRAMER

WHEN HARRY MET MOLLY

DUKES TO THE LEFT OF ME, PRINCES TO THE RIGHT

CLOUDY WITH A CHANCE OF MARRIAGE

IF YOU GIVE A GIRL A VISCOUNT

LOVING LADY MARCIA

About the Author

Photo by: Marni Rothschild

USA Today
bestselling author
Kieran Kramer
is a former CIA employee, journalist, and English teacher who lives in the Lowcountry
of South Carolina with her family. Game show veteran, karaoke enthusiast, and general
adventurer, her motto is, “Life rewards action.” Find her on Facebook, Twitter, and
at
www.kierankramerbooks.com
. Or stay connected to Kieran on-the-go with her FREE mobile app available for iPhone
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