Kieran Kramer - If You Give A Girl A Viscount

But enough of Mr. King. At the moment, Charlie was handsomer than she had ever seen him. She couldn’t help thinking that she was a beginner in the art of making love. So it was Charlie’s duty—wasn’t it?—to be at her beck and call and teach her everything he knew.

Everything .

She found she’d parted her lips and was rubbing the top one over the rim of her wine glass.

Charlie stared at her. So did Mr. King.

And so did everyone else.

“Excuse me,” she said to the table. “I felt faint for a moment. I was gasping for tea and … and I had only wine.”

“I see,” said Mr. King.

Daisy ignored the uncomfortable pause and went back to her new favorite subject—Cassandra. “You really should meet my stepsister,” she said to Mr. King. “She’s a beauty. And according to her mother, she belongs in a peer’s bed.”

Charlie nudged her knee under the table with his own knee and gave her a pointed look.

Oh, no! She’d forgotten. Mr. King wasn’t a peer at all, poor man.

“Pardon me, no doubt she belongs in the bed of any man who’s powerful,” Daisy said. “And rich.”

She noticed Cassandra making a horrible face at her.

Dear God, the girl was sitting only two seats down on the other side, to Mr. King’s right. Which meant she could hear everything Daisy had said about her.

“I’d like to go with you to Castle Vandemere,” said Mr. King to Charlie in a change of subject. “Every day that I’m in residence. Whatever interests you, interests me.”

Charlie inhaled a breath. “What did Mr. Beebs tell you?”

Mr. King slapped Charlie on the back. “He says you’re not some lofty lord—you like to do chores over at Miss Montgomery’s castle. He said you’ll get down in the dirt and work if you must. Nothing worse than a man in his prime going to seed because he’s too important to do the things that make life worth living, right?”

“Right,” said Charlie.

“Beebs also said the one thing you’ve never attempted is shearing sheep. Neither have I. Since we’re on level playing ground there, perhaps I can challenge you to a sheep-shearing contest for a lark. When shall we take each other on?”

Daisy noticed Charlie had a small tic in his jaw. He was not happy, and she couldn’t help but wonder why.

“Tomorrow, perhaps?” Charlie said woodenly, and drained his glass of wine.

“It’s very good wine,” Daisy whispered to him. “Isn’t it?”

The meal finished without incident, and the men repaired to the library for cheroots and their choice of brandy or Joe’s whisky while the four ladies at the table gathered in the drawing room with their various sewing projects.

The effects of the wine were beginning to wear off, Daisy thought thankfully. Or maybe it wasn’t such a good thing. She dreaded confronting Cassandra.

“How could you?” Cassandra said accusingly to her from an elaborate blue velvet sofa.

Daisy was seated on a hard, Egyptian-style chair herself. “What did I do?”

Cassandra huffed. “You made it sound as if I would simply jump into Mr. King’s bed. Or that I was a cow at market, ready to be bought.”

Mona had begun work on a pillow. Her tongue stuck out of her mouth at the most awful angle as she attempted to jab the thread through the needle. But then she skewered Daisy with a knowing look. “I suspect I know why you’re fobbing Cassandra off on the Virginian.”

“Oh?” Daisy longed for more wine.

Mona narrowed her eyes. “ You want the viscount. We told you to stay away from him.”

Cassandra twirled a curl. “I care nothing for the American bird-watcher.”

“Perhaps you should,” said Daisy. “He might be more wealthy than the viscount. And he does have that house with the balcony.”

Cassandra furrowed her brow. “I don’t care. Lord Lumley is a far better catch, and if you continue to interfere with my getting him, Daisy, I’ll tell him everything I know.”

Daisy bit her lip. “You already told him about the fire.”

“I’ll tell him the rest,” Cassandra insisted. “I’ll tell him about Cousin Roman. You drank too much with him that night, too.”

“No I didn’t,” Daisy protested. “I had one glass of sour wine with Roman, no more than you had. This is the very first time I’ve ever drunk more than one glass. And no wonder. Tonight’s was a fine vintage.”

The others snickered, and Daisy’s heart sank. She would never win. Ever.

Drinking wine tonight hadn’t helped her in the least. Her fuzzy glow was now gone.

Everything was bleak.

Perdita sighed, oblivious to the tension. “I like Mr. King. In fact, I’d like to make him”—she gazed round the company to see if they were paying attention—“the king of my heart.”

Daisy couldn’t help being a bit scornful of her stepsister’s attempt at rendering the mushy feelings she felt toward Mr. King into something poetic.

But Charlie’s the king of your heart, Daisy, a ridiculous voice inside her head told her.

Right, she told it back. And I’m a beautiful, wealthy heiress with a large bosom and a saint for a stepmother.

She did not have a tendre for Lord Lumley, not in the least. She only wanted to kiss him sometimes. And lie with him naked.

And receive great pleasure from him—give it to him, too, if she only knew how—although that was neither here nor there.

None of that had anything to do with love.

Of course, she was still clueless as to what love actually was, but at least she knew what love wasn’t . That was almost as helpful.

She knew tingly feelings all over your body when you looked at someone didn’t necessarily mean that you were in love.

Nor did the odd daydream wondering how a certain man must appear with no clothes on signify you were in love.

And looking forward to private time so you could discuss a money-raising project you were working on together—a project that was a bit dicey and could fail and that might get one kicked out of one’s home, fear of which only a warm, naked hug and perhaps a few hot kisses could alleviate—well, that didn’t mean one was in love, either.

She was sure she was becoming very wise, in her own way, about love.

“Well, Perdita,” she said, “you barely know Mr. King, so it would be prudent not to get your hopes up in that direction. Did you notice how much the Spanish marquis liked you?”

Perdita glared at her. “ He is not the king of my heart.”

“I hear the castles in Spain, particularly those along the coast in southern Spain, are much warmer than the ones up here,” Daisy said nonchalantly.

“I don’t care,” Perdita said. “Wait a minute. Is that my old gown you’re wearing?”

Daisy shrugged. “What if it is? You put it in the rag basket ages ago. I merely altered it.”

“It has no frills anymore.”

“Precisely,” said Daisy. “As you’ve proven tonight with your new sense of style, frills and flounces are all well and good in moderation, but too many of them mask a lady’s true beauty. You are more beautiful tonight than I’ve ever seen you, Perdita.”

Which was still a long way from beauty, but it wasn’t a lie. Perdita had inched closer to being acceptable in appearance, and Daisy wanted to give her every bit of encouragement she could to stay on a less flouncy, frilly path.

“You’re just complimenting me because you took my gown without asking.” Perdita roared.

“Ssshh!” Daisy held her finger to her mouth.

“Besides,” Perdita whispered loudly, “what would someone as plain as you know about true beauty?”

Daisy threw down her needlework and stood. “That’s enough. I don’t have to listen to your insults. I’m your stepsister, Perdita, or have you forgotten?”