Kieran Kramer - If You Give A Girl A Viscount

It all made more sense now.

Daisy needed to say something out loud about the situation, or she would burst from all the mixed emotions she felt. Into the looking glass in her bedchamber, she whispered, “Cassandra is my father’s daughter. My sister.”

Not only did they share the same father, Cassandra wanted to steal away Daisy’s viscount!

Daisy’s fear and jealousy compounded.

You’re being illogical, she told herself. Cassandra is rude and unhelpful, even cruel . Charlie can’t stand her .

But still. Her own father had been taken in by Mona.

Could Charlie go the same route and be fooled by Cassandra?

The entire revelation was still too big a notion to take in … Daisy would have to spend some time contemplating it.

Meanwhile, she also had to deal with the second verbal grenade Mona had thrown her way. It involved the old letter Daisy still had tucked away in her turret room at Castle Vandemere, the note from Lady Pinckney to Barnabas—the one that had spurred Daisy on to write Lady Pinckney for help with getting the four hundred pounds.

After reading the second letter, now Daisy knew Lady Pinckney was more than someone who’d once been an old friend or paramour of her father’s— she was Cassandra’s godmother, not hers.

It was time for the sheep-shearing contest at Castle Vandemere, but Charlie wasn’t feeling in a competitive mood. He was worried about Daisy. She’d been acting distracted all afternoon, and he could swear she’d been crying. But she wouldn’t tell him anything.

She stayed busy with the guests, which was typical of her.

“You asked for a godmother’s help, so let me help,” he’d told her.

“No,” she’d said flatly. “But thank you.”

And moved on.

And then taken a step back. “Sorry,” she’d whispered, and thrown him a small smile. “I do appreciate your concern.”

Charlie didn’t know if he’d ever understand women. He also didn’t know if he’d ever understand what being a godmother was about, and he wished with all his heart that he didn’t have to worry about such matters.

Except that serving as his grandmother’s stand-in had brought him to Daisy, and he couldn’t regret that.

Now that the contest was about to begin, he felt compelled to find her in the crowd and reassure himself that she was all right.

A moment later, he saw her in conversation with Miss Cassandra, slightly apart from the crowd, and neither of them looked at all happy.

Mr. King saw them, too. “What are they doing?” He stared at them with his hands on his hips, ignoring the noise of the crowd surrounding them.

“I don’t know.” Charlie was equally fascinated, but he was trying to be low-key about it.

“They appear to be in an argument of some kind.” The American watched the pair avidly. “I wonder who started it?”

“I don’t know.”

Charlie was glad no one else was paying the young ladies the least bit of attention.

“She’s stunning,” Mr. King said. “The stepsister. I never noticed her before now because she’s always staring daggers at your fiancée. But she has a fine figure. And some spirit, doesn’t she?”

“I suppose she does,” said Charlie, not willing to dash her character to this stranger. He wouldn’t be much of a gentleman if he did that.

Mr. King gave a little laugh. “She’s the one who belongs in a peer’s bed. Or anyone’s bed who’s powerful and rich.”

“No,” Charlie replied strongly. “No, she doesn’t. Miss Montgomery was in her cups when she said that, and I’m sure she regrets it.”

They both watched as Miss Cassandra put her nose in the air.

Daisy’s throat and cheeks turned pink.

And then the two women walked in different directions.

“They don’t like each other,” Mr. King said. “That’s for certain.”

Charlie saw, too, that something ugly was going on between them, but he’d have to stave off his curiosity—and concern—for a little while.

He had this nuisance of a contest to win.

Yes, he liked to be the best at everything, but these were sheep.

Sheep .

If they were dragons, he’d be more interested in looking manly and courageous in front of Daisy and the crowd. As it was, if Mr. King somehow beat him, he’d just be glad his London friends weren’t here to see him make a fool of himself—and Daisy probably wouldn’t care that he’d lost, either.

“What’s the prize if you win?” one of the visiting men called out as he and Mr. King pushed their ewes into position within circles Joe had drawn with chalk on the grass.

“No prize,” replied Charlie, “just the glory of winning!”

The man grinned and gave him a thumbs-up.

Charlie was a bit distracted—his first sheep was perhaps more stubborn than he’d realized—and he wondered if his shears were sharp enough. The crowd was also bigger than he’d imagined.

Perdita, dressed in her Highland garb, sat in a large chair ready to cast judgment on the proceedings, although a village elder was the real judge.

Even so, Perdita was obviously in her element.

Suddenly, there was a loud roar of approval—about what, Charlie had no idea.

Mr. King grinned. “Absolutely,” he said to the crowd, then looked at Charlie. “What do you say?”

“To what?”

“The loser must buy a round of drinks for everyone at the new pub in Glen Dewey,” Mr. King replied.

A handsome man stepped forward. “At the grand opening which I, Gavin MacKee, will hold this very night!”

All the men shouted, clapped, and whistled.

“I’ll do one better,” Charlie told them. “If I lose, I’ll bring down another cask of Joe’s whisky to pass round instead.”

“Oh no, ye won’t, Lord Lumley,” Gavin chided him. “I needs must make my living at the pub. Ye’ll be buying the round if ye lose, my friend.”

“If you don’t win today, you need to feel the pain of losing in your pocket, lad!” someone else called out.

“Tha’s right,” an old man said. “Whichever rich nabob loses must pay!”

The crowd endorsed his remark with a hearty “Hurrah!”

It was a simple, friendly bet.

But it was a dangerous one to Charlie.

He couldn’t afford to lose any longer .

If he did, he’d have to borrow money from Daisy. A man didn’t shirk a bet. He’d have to buy a round of drinks for the men of the village.

Which would mean he’d lose the bet with his friends in London.

Which meant he’d be thrown onto the Marriage Mart because he was an honorable man, and honorable men confessed when they lost bets.

Why, oh why, couldn’t it have been anything but a sheep-shearing contest?

Inhaling a breath, he held his ewe still while the village elder walked to the center of the pen and lifted a scarlet handkerchief high in the air. “Just remember, gentlemen, you’re being evaluated on your speed and the quality of the shearing. No nicks on those poor ewes, mind you. And the fewer cuts the better. On your mark, get set, go!” The man brought the handkerchief down on the word go, and the match was on.

Do it right, Charlie told himself.

Finding the place to start was the hardest part of all. He put his arm under the ewe’s neck, just as Joe had shown him. When she tried to leap away with her hind legs, Charlie was able to tilt her back so she sat up like a person. Grabbing a fold of wool and skin on her belly, he made the first vital cut and prayed he wouldn’t nick her.

And he didn’t. Breathing a discreet sigh of relief, he vowed not to observe what strategies Mr. King employed. Charlie would stay focused. Extremely focused.