Kieran Kramer - If You Give A Girl A Viscount

“What competition?” Daisy asked him.

“Sheep shearing, of course, in front of all the company,” said Mr. King. “Joe explained to me in great detail how to go about it.”

“Of course, he also reminded us that one learns best by doing,” Charlie said, “and that no amount of instruction can prepare us for shearing an actual sheep. Which should keep the match interesting. And perhaps comical.”

“I think that might be Joe’s intention,” Mr. King said dryly. “He’s a simple man, isn’t he? But I think he has a serious bent when it comes to his flock.”

“Sheep shearing is serious business,” Daisy said. “Neither of you will be laughing. Cursing is more like it.”

“The winner is the man who shears his sheep the fastest—and properly, I might add,” said Charlie.

“That’s right,” said Mr. King, “a sloppily shorn sheep won’t count toward our total.”

“Are you sure you’re both ready for this?” Daisy eyed them both warily.

Mr. King laughed. “Sheep aren’t dangerous creatures, Miss Montgomery. We’ll be fine. Aren’t you coming with me, the two of you? I’ve got my eye on a docile ewe for the contest. I want to claim her before Lord Lumley gets to her.”

“Of course,” said Charlie. “She’d best not be the same one I wanted.”

“We might have to fight each other for her, eh?” Mr. King grinned.

“I’m game,” Charlie said.

“Enough, you two, with your silly threats.” Daisy bestowed a polite smile upon Mr. King. “I have to speak to Lord Lumley a moment—about dinner. We’ll catch up with you in a trice.”

“Very well.” He went off whistling.

As soon as he left, she turned to Charlie. “You must let him win.”

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

“I’m certain that if he loses, he’ll be unhappy the rest of his visit. What if he cuts it short?”

Charlie blew out a breath. “Then I’m canceling the match. I won’t lose to anyone intentionally, Daisy. Don’t you know it defeats the whole purpose of the competition and is an insult to the other party?”

“Yes, but—”

“You saw him. This is all in fun. We’re joking about it.” He rubbed her upper arms. “Please don’t worry.”

“I know you’re right, but—”

“I won’t let him win. It will be a fair competition or none at all.”

“Even if it means we’ll be assured of a happy guest?”

“He wouldn’t be happy. No man would be happy to win under false pretenses.” She opened her mouth to speak, but he put a finger over her lips. “I promise that if he beats me fair and square, I won’t pout. Because I know you’ll be happy he won.”

“No I won’t.” Daisy sighed. “The truth is, I’ll be rooting for you, Charlie. I won’t be able to help myself.”

He leaned his forehead against hers and groaned. And then he chuckled. “You’re killing me, Daisy. You can’t have everything.”

“I’m sorry.” She bit her lip, but he saw a grin lurking there. “It’s just that I’m so worried about getting the money. And so confused … about you.”

He pulled back. “About me?”

She nodded. “I told you I like you—and I do, at least at the moment and against all my better judgment. I’m sure I’ll feel differently soon, but—”

“But for now, you can’t resist me.” He arched a brow. “It’s easily understandable.”

She slapped his arm. “See? Already I don’t like you again.”

“Good. The sooner you learn you can’t control everything, the more you’ll be able to let go and enjoy yourself. Don’t you know if you try too hard with anything in life, it usually goes to pieces?”

“Yes, but I don’t have trunkfuls of money to fall back on if that happens. You do.”

Money doesn’t protect you from falling for someone and then having your heart broken, he wanted to say. But he couldn’t. Mainly because he didn’t want to contemplate that he might be falling for her .

“Remember, I’m broke at the moment. But even if I gain access to my family’s coffers again, having trunkfuls of money won’t protect me from everything,” he told her instead.

“I’m sure you’re right.” She sounded a bit blue. “I’ve seen my share of unhappy rich people. But doesn’t money at least lessen the sting when things go wrong?”

“It makes it easier to hide from your problems. And it makes it a damned sight easier not to have to grow up. So is that a good thing?”

She narrowed her eyes at him. “You’re a clever man, Lord Lumley. I’m dying to be rich, and you’re practically begging to be poor.”

“I am at the moment, don’t forget. Poor as a church mouse.” He grabbed her wrist. “You know I want you to call me Charlie when we’re alone.”

“Charlie,” she whispered.

He pulled her close, his lips a mere inch from hers.

He wanted Daisy’s high regard. He wanted it badly. It was stupid of him, and he knew that sheer male pride was involved.

But there it was.

He forced himself to release her. “I’d better go. I really don’t want our smug American guest to pick out all the sleepiest ewes.”

Daisy gasped. “See? I’m afraid this friendly sheep-shearing competition is going to spiral out of control.”

“Don’t be ridiculous.” Charlie tugged on her hand. “Are you coming—or not?”

“No,” she said, still looking worried. “Go choose your sheep. I have better things to do.”

“Such as?”

She gave a short laugh. “I don’t know yet. But I’m sure by the time I get back to the Keep, there will be something.”

Famous last words.

There was something, all right.

And that something was Perdita.

When Daisy got back to the Keep, Perdita was holding court in the elegant drawing room in the main hall. The room was thick with cheroot smoke, and the smell of whisky was strong. A sideboard groaned under the weight of platters of sandwiches, cheeses, fruit, and Scottish shortbread.

All but four of the gentlemen were playing cards. Those four who weren’t were either snoozing or reading.

It was a man’s world, and woe to any woman who entered it, except Mona, of course. She didn’t give a fig what any man thought.

Daisy stood outside the door with Cassandra, watching Perdita in action.

“She’s in her element,” Cassandra whispered.

“I know,” Daisy said. “Everyone’s been sworn to secrecy—are you sure you can keep it a secret, too?”

Cassandra scowled. “Of course. I’ve kept your secret, haven’t I?”

“Yes,” said Daisy.

But for how long?

Her beautiful stepsister strolled away.

Meanwhile, Perdita’s cheroot hung from her mouth, and she eyed her cards carefully. She had the notice of every person in the room, except Mona, whose gaze was disinterested as she watched the proceedings from her perch near Mr. Woo.

“Ye have a good hand, young laird?” one of the gentlemen asked Perdita.

“Aye,” she said in her usual loud voice.

The man from Bavaria, Mr. Gnamm, sighed. “What I would have given to meet your grandfather. Can ye tell us about him, MacFarland?”

MacFarland was the name Daisy had given Perdita.

“Slainte.” Perdita raised her glass and clinked it with Mr. Gnamm’s, ignoring his question.

“Slainte,” he said back.

Perdita took a gulp and went back to her cards.

“Was the old chieftain in any battles?” asked another man.

“Aye,” said Perdita.

A footman came up with a tray of sandwiches and held it before her. She moved all her cards to one hand, picked up a sandwich, took a huge bite, put the rest back on the tray, and then held her cards with both hands again, which were large and mannish, like the rest of her.