Kieran Kramer - If You Give A Girl A Viscount

There’d been a great silence because all three of them realized Mr. King was from America, which was much farther away from Scotland than England, and look how much he knew about Scottish castle architecture!

God, Daisy had thought the man remarkable.

Remarkably annoying, that was.

At first, she’d been thrilled to meet him for two reasons: he was an American (she’d never met one before), and he was accomplished. But on the castle tour, his talk about himself began to wear thin, especially as in every room with a mirror, he found a way to stop and look at himself while pretending to admire a piece of furniture, or the view. And when he laughed, he brayed like a donkey, which came as quite a shock. A man of consequence should have a fine, rich laugh, like Charlie’s.

Now as the third course of a delicious Highland dinner was about to be served, Daisy—who was wearing Perdita’s emerald shot silk, cut down and with all the ruffles ripped off—felt a deep calm beneath her outer excitement, which she must admit was mixed with a bit of nerves.

It was really happening. The plan to raise money to save Castle Vandemere was under way.

She was terrified. Absolutely terrified. It was her one chance, this Highland experience—her one chance to earn that money. Which was why she drank two glasses of wine in short order, even though she’d thought she didn’t particularly care for wine.

But this wine came from the Keep’s cellars, and it was fine, very fine. And she noticed that the more wine she drank, the more she understood that nothing was coincidence. Nothing.

She wished she could sing about it. Or write a poem.

Immediately.

But at that moment, the roasted pheasant arrived, so she had to content herself with knowing that she had nothing to worry about. The signs were clear. The ten days would be a raging success, and she’d make her money to pay the feu duty on the castle.

But that was only part of the reason she was so happy.

She’d figured out a way to rid herself of the Furies.

Oh, Mr. King!

She could weep for looking at him. He was perfect for Cassandra—

Simply perfect.

Daisy wouldn’t feel a bit of guilt foisting her selfish stepsister on him. Cassandra would be that bride at his wrought-iron balcony at his plantation house on the James River in Virginia.

And she’d take her mother and sister to America with her.

Just as Daisy lifted her wine glass to her mouth to celebrate again, she caught Charlie’s eye. He was glaring at her, in that understated way that only she was meant to understand. She had no idea why he was glaring at her, so she glared back in her secret way that only he would comprehend.

She felt a bit smug as she swallowed a gulp of wine. As she matured, she found she was becoming increasingly more sophisticated. Especially about men. She was now a woman who could give hidden signals.

She never thought the day would come.

“Is something wrong?” Mr. King asked her from across the table. “You’re glaring, Miss Montgomery.”

She gave a nervous chuckle. “Not at all. It was a piece of dust in my eye.” And to cover her embarrassment, she held up her nearly empty wine glass to make a toast.

What would she say? The only thing on her mind was Mr. King and Cassandra. Cassandra King. Matthew and Cassandra King. The King family. Mrs. Matthew King.

Well, that and the way Charlie’s throat was tanned and extremely kissable at the moment, even if he was still glaring at her. She had a mad fantasy to pull up her skirt and part her legs right now and let him come to her under the table and—

God, she must stop her silly daydreaming.

But just as she opened her mouth to toast the cooks, who were hovering outside the door and peeking in, a Mr. Woo, an impossibly short angler at the other end of the table, said loudly, “Where’s the son of the son of a Highland chief?”

Oh, no.

Daisy put down her wine glass and looked at Charlie.

What was Mr. Woo talking about?

“Mr. Beebs told us we’d have the son of a son of a Highland chief here,” the diminutive sportsman explained. “I refused to come, otherwise. The fish were biting well at Brawton.”

Oh, God. They should have thought to have the descendant of a Highland chief. It would have made the experience so much more authentic.

Yesterday, if Daisy had only spent less time allowing Charlie to suckle her breasts while he teased her softest flesh with his fingers, she would have thought of—

What would she have thought of?

Besides Charlie’s mouth?

And his manhood straining against his breeches?

She wished she’d seen it. She’d never seen a man’s privates before, and she longed to see Charlie’s!

Daisy was losing her breath and her train of thought.

Charlie cleared his throat. “I’m so sorry, Mr. Woo. The chief’s grandson is delayed tonight.”

Oh, right. The son of a son of a Highland chief.

“Actually,” Daisy added with a shrug, “he said he couldn’t be bothered.”

Mr. Woo’s eyes widened. “Surely he intends to come eventually.”

“Yes,” Daisy replied. “Probably tomorrow. But no one can tell him what to do. He works on his own schedule, and woe to anyone who pushes him.”

Mr. Woo’s face drooped. “I am most disappointed.”

“Just don’t tell him that,” Daisy said, “or he’ll leave. He’s very sensitive and proud. All descendants of Highland chiefs are.”

“We can’t have him upset,” Mr. Woo said hurriedly.

She sent Charlie a subtle message: I really wish we’d thought about this sooner, and we’ll have to talk about it in the library after dinner, and you look very handsome tonight, especially with Papa’s tartan pin stuck in your cravat.

But amazingly, Charlie didn’t seem to get the message. He angled his head at her and squinted as if he had no idea what she’d been trying to say!

Men.

They weren’t nearly as perceptive as women—women other than Perdita and Cassandra, that is, who were about as perceptive as logs. Daisy had to grant that her stepmother would be perceptive if she weren’t always focused on hating people and devising plans to make them miserable.

Indeed, at that very moment Mona was telling the man to her left some of the best ways to make someone deathly ill without getting caught, all of which she’d learned in the lurid novels of which she was overly fond.

Perdita, meanwhile, was staring lovelorn at Mr. King. Daisy had made her much more attractive with her hair sleekly pulled back. She’d also made Perdita don a plain white muslin gown that used to be one of the girl’s older night rails. It still had a flounce, but it wasn’t nearly as bad as her usual. Daisy had pinned a lovely brooch at the vee of the neckline and flung a simple paisley shawl over her stepsister’s broad shoulders.

The most clever thing Daisy had done was tell her not to speak.

Perdita had “lost” her voice.

A bucktoothed marquis from Spain was leaning over to look down Perdita’s décolletage, which was good news, as far as Daisy was concerned.

“Miss Montgomery?” Mr. King called to her across the table.

“Yes?”

“Tell us about your home.”

Her heart warmed to him. “Castle Vandemere has its own special charm.”

“Why do you find it so?” Mr. King’s dark eyes were focused only on her.

Daisy wasn’t used to being the center of attention, particularly at a large gathering. “Its great beauty lies in its simplicity,” she said.

“I like that answer.” The visitor from Virginia smiled at her.

Daisy found herself blushing once more. She couldn’t help thinking that someday, if she had her way, he’d become her brother-in-law—her step brother-in-law—who would live far, far away. So far away, in fact, she’d never visit. And never have to see Cassandra (along with Mona and Perdita) again.