Kieran Kramer - If You Give A Girl A Viscount

In other words, he was very much like Charlie.

Mr. King grinned. “Lead on, sir,” he said with jaunty confidence.

“My lord,” Daisy stammered to Charlie, “may I present to you Mr. Matthew King, of Smithfield, Virginia? Mr. King, this is Charles Thorpe, Viscount Lumley.”

“It’s a pleasure to welcome you to the Keep.” Charlie inclined his head while Mr. King stood unmoving.

Granted, the trunk made it difficult to do anything else.

“I’m most grateful to be here,” the handsome visitor replied with enthusiasm. “It must be quite something to be master of such a place. I envy you, Lord Lumley.”

Daisy’s eyes widened at him. Play along, they said.

Charlie decided it was becoming rather a thing with them, this role-playing. He stood tall and cleared his throat. “Thank you, sir. It’s a great privilege. I hope my fiancée—”

“I usually reside at the neighboring castle,” Daisy interjected, as if she were afraid of scandal.

“Yes.” Charlie smiled patiently. “I hope Miss Montgomery’s informed you that the Keep is yours to explore for the next ten days. We want you to have the full Highland experience.”

“Indeed, she did,” said Mr. King in the warmest of tones. “And I intend to take full advantage.”

He looked directly at Daisy when he said so, and she appeared delighted, clasping her hands together and giving one little hop, as if she were a child in front of a window full of sweets.

She’d never hopped for Charlie before.

And in exactly what quarter did Mr. King plan to take full advantage?

“Mr. King is not only an avid bird-watcher,” Daisy told Charlie, “he’s a self-made man.”

Mr. King chuckled. “Yes, we Americans have to start from scratch, as they say.”

“He’s invented several important agricultural tools that have saved innumerable farmers from bankruptcy and thousands from starvation,” Daisy went on.

“How … inventive of you,” Charlie said.

He hated the man already.

“He also designed and built his own home,” Daisy waxed on, “a three-story Elizabethan-style mansion on a large plantation on the James River.”

And she’d learned all this in the one or two minutes since they’d met?

“I didn’t hammer in every nail or lay every brick,” their esteemed guest said. “But I certainly did my fair share. I enjoy that sort of thing.”

“Do you?” Charlie asked politely.

“Oh, yes. A life of leisure bores me. Bird-watching is only one of my hobbies.”

Oh, right. Mr. Beebs had collected not only Charlie’s anglers from Brawton but some bird-watchers staying at Lower Cross Junction.

“My newest passion,” Mr. King prosed on, “is working with wrought iron. I’m still a beginner, but I made a lovely balcony railing for whoever is going to be my bride.” He grinned, his white teeth sparkling like jewels. “I like to think ahead.”

“It sounds lovely, Mr. King.” Daisy’s admiration appeared sincere, although Charlie felt it was misplaced.

She should be admiring him . Of course, he’d never built a house or designed a wrought-iron balcony, but he had skills. Skills she’d assessed as being nice . Surely that counted for something.

“I’ll not hold you up, Mr. King,” said Charlie. “Let me show you where to put that trunk. No doubt the footmen are itching to take it from you. You’re our guest, after all.”

“I’m in no hurry,” Mr. King replied. “And I’ve little need of servants. I find they hamper my independence.”

Was he going to stand there all day with that bloody trunk on his shoulder and wax on about how marvelous and independent he was?

Charlie knew exactly how much Miss Perdita’s trunk weighed—as much as Mrs. Montgomery’s, which surely meant the man’s back was aching by now.

“Oh, but we’d like you trunk-free so we can show you about the grounds,” Charlie said in the amiable way a good host should.

“Yes,” Daisy piped up. “I’d like to take him around myself. I’ll wait right here until you come back, Mr. King.”

“Fantastic.” Their guest bestowed a charming smile on her. “I’d love a private tour with you, Miss Montgomery, while my traveling companions settle in.”

“We’ll be happy to provide that for you,” Charlie responded smoothly.

Emphasis on we .

“Excellent,” the man said just as smoothly back.

Oh, he was good!

“Shall we?” Charlie gritted his teeth and began the circuitous route to Miss Perdita’s room, Mr. King following easily along beside him with that blasted trunk.

They chatted about what wealthy, powerful men usually do: the state of international affairs, horses—“We keep very few up here,” said Charlie, “although the stable is large and will accommodate yours quite well”—and the condition of his wine cellar and his library, both of which he said were in fine shape, although he really had no idea.

By some miracle, they avoided Miss Perdita and Miss Cassandra.

In the bedchamber, Mr. King refused to let Charlie take the trunk from his shoulder and, in one swift, graceful movement, placed it at the foot of the bed. When he stood again, he smiled cheerfully.

“Miss Montgomery has a piquant face and an expansive personality, doesn’t she? I can see why you’re attached to her, even though she dresses as if she comes from little wealth. She has other charms, eh? I wouldn’t mind a little flirtation with a Scottish lass myself.”

Charlie’s expression turned to stone. “I don’t discuss my personal business with strangers,” he said, “particularly my relationship with Miss Montgomery. She, by the way, shall be treated with all the respect due one of your hostesses and my future wife.”

A slight shift occurred in Mr. King’s eyes, but his expression remained affable. “Of course, Lumley. No offense meant.”

Charlie refused to say none taken . “I’m rather busy overseeing things, so I’ll leave you to find your way back,” he said gruffly. “If you get lost, consider it that private tour you wanted.”

And he left without a backward glance, torn between wanting to evict the man immediately and needing to keep him on for the money.

The money Daisy needs, he reminded himself sternly.

But it wasn’t enough to make him turn around and escort Mr. King back to the front hall. Nor, he determined, would he ever treat the man with anything but common civility. Even that, he knew, would tax him.

The truth was, Mr. King’s careless remark—revealing his obvious lack of respect for Daisy—had made Charlie eager to pummel him until his patrician American nose bled profusely.

Why was that? All men made careless remarks about comely females.

Ah, but this was different—just as Daisy was different. Different from any girl he’d ever known. She was a danger to his Impossible Bachelor’s heart.

To Daisy, the afternoon had been a blur of activities: situating very important gentlemen in their bedchambers; reminding Perdita to stand up straight; on Mona’s orders, hiding her secret stash of chocolates beneath her bed (Mona couldn’t bend that far); and allowing the travelers some time to rest—all except Mr. King, who’d insisted on seeing the castle from top to bottom with her.

Daisy didn’t know why, but Charlie had put on his worst viscount expression and accompanied them. Not only was his bearing aloof, his expression was more than a bit condescending.

Mr. King appeared unfazed. In fact, he was so well versed in Scottish castle architecture he’d been able to tell her and Charlie more about the castle than she’d ever known.

And when Mr. King asked Charlie what tidbits of information he’d picked up about the Keep since owning it, he’d said, “Nothing. I’m from England, so what do you expect?”