Kieran Kramer: If You Give A Girl A Viscount

“You’re setting high stakes, are you?” Charlie thought for a moment. “How about the prime goer I bought last week? You can draw straws for him.”

Nicholas waved a hand. “Much as I admire his bloodlines, it’s not enough.”

“It’s got to be something you truly can’t replace when your bank accounts open again,” Harry said, “as I’m sure they will.”

“His freedom,” Stephen said flatly.

“What?” Charlie felt like pulling at his cravat, but he restrained himself.

Nicholas let out a whoop of glee. “Exactly. You’ll enter the Marriage Mart, once and for all.”

Charlie shook his head. “Please, no.”

“Yes!” said Harry.

Charlie felt slightly ill. “If your wives get wind of this, they’ll start lining up all sorts of dull, proper ladies well in advance. I’ll feel them encroaching—even when I’m far away in Scotland.” He shuddered. “I can feel them already.”

“Poor sod.” Harry’s eyes gleamed with amusement.

Charlie narrowed his eyes. “Don’t be so quick to pity me. I plan to win. And when I do, what will I receive from you?”

Stephen chuckled. “You mean, in addition to our undying admiration?”

“Yes.” Charlie noted that none of the three immediately came up with an answer.

“We’ll ponder it while you’re gone,” Nicholas finally said.

“It will be … a surprise,” Harry added.

“All right, then.” Charlie grinned. “But make it good,” he warned. “Because I intend to claim it.”

And with that, he saluted them and left the cozy chamber within their club. It was the same room in which they’d encountered Prinny and his mistress, who’d appeared from behind a panel in the wall a long while ago. So much had happened to the other Bachelors since then—namely, new adventures in uncharted territory. Marriage to women they loved. A certain wisdom and maturity. And children.

Now Charlie was ready for something to happen to him, even if it was only an escapade to the far north.

He shivered in his coat when he opened the club door to the dark London night and trotted down the steps. He’d done it thousands of times before. But this time, when his right boot hit the pavement, he made sure to note that it was his first step on a journey to Scotland—

And what he dared to hope would be the adventure of a lifetime.

He was here. Daisy’s viscount. The one who’d told her in his commanding scrawl that he’d be at her beck and call when he arrived. After her initial disappointment that her godmother wasn’t available to assist her, she realized she’d never had anyone offer to be at her beck and call before.

She couldn’t help but feel a bit excited. Although it probably wasn’t done to be excited about receiving a viscount as a temporary gift—

Was it?

She wore a dress of faded strawberry-red striped chintz she’d sewn from the least faded cushions and the back of the old settee that had finally fallen apart in the sitting room. And she’d made sure that Mona, Cassandra, and Perdita were still tucked in their beds. It had been easy enough—the evening previous, Hester had told them the vicar needed them to wash altar cloths at the local kirk the following morning. And as Daisy knew they would, they all claimed colds and had yet to appear downstairs.

Now there was a deep voice in the hall. Clipped. Cold. Very masculine. And then Hester’s thin, rabbity answer.

Oh, dear. Couldn’t Hester work up a bit more nerve?

Daisy clung to the sides of the chair, her palms sweating. The pleasant smile she’d fixed on her face was gone. She’d never been good at playing a part anyway.

Daisy Alice Montgomery! Papa’s voice came to her. Be brave.

Channeling brave with all her might, she loosened her grip, adjusted her curls, and wished for a sudden boost of radiance to infuse her person.

It didn’t work. She didn’t feel radiant in the least.

Not that she had time to worry about the matter. The next moment, Hester flung open the door and walked in, her eyes wide and blinking, her hand curled to her mouth. “Viscount Lumley of London,” she gasped.

And then she scuttled off.

Daisy bit her lip. Why was Hester so jumpy?

When a man strode through the door, Daisy had to wonder—with her heart in her throat—if perhaps the housekeeper had seen what she was seeing now.

There was a fable associated with Castle Vandemere: The Legend of the Two Lovers at the Ceilidh on the Last Night of the Hunt . It was an awfully long name for a legend, but if it held true, it deserved such a title. The story went that long ago, a Golden Prince and his Golden Girl had found true love at the ceilidh —an evening of Scottish dancing—always held at Castle Vandemere on the last night of the great hunt.

Of course, when the hunt and games had been moved to the newer and grander Keep two centuries ago, the legend had faded away. But a lovely stained-glass window with the images of the Golden Prince and the Golden Girl still adorned the west wall of the drawing room, and on particularly fine evenings, the sunset’s glow lit up their faces.

The viscount looked like the Golden Prince.

Almost.

In his state of disarray, Daisy rather thought he looked more like the Golden Prince’s bad twin.

He wore muddy black high-top boots, snug but ripped buckskin breeches, and a form-fitting coat missing all its buttons. Daisy also noted the complete absence of a cravat over the stained white shirt.

But like the Golden Prince, he had the same deep brown hair—wavy and thick—touched with flecks of gold, and eyes the tawny brown color of the hazelnuts heaped in the white crock in the kitchen. He also had the Golden Prince’s square jaw, aquiline nose, proud bearing, and assured stance.

Indeed, if one didn’t count the ghastly black eye and a bloody scab on his nose, the visitor was far too handsome for his own good. Daisy had never seen such a handsome man (who’d obviously been in a brawl. Or two).

Her heart raced not at his good looks, she told herself, but at the insolence in his manner and the scowl on his countenance. He also reeked of cheroots and stale ale.

She shut her gaping mouth and looked full-on at the gentleman. “Welcome to the Highlands,” she said. “I’m Miss Montgomery, daughter of the late Barnabas and Catherine Montgomery.”

“And I’m Lord Lumley,” he said softly, in a take-no-prisoners tone, returning her gaze with cold equanimity. “It’s been a harrowing journey north, as I’ve gotten here by hook or by crook—”

“By hook or by crook?”

A small turnip fell out of his coat.

“What’s that?” she couldn’t help asking.

“A turnip,” he replied in bland tones.

“I know, but why—”

“Don’t ask,” he muttered. “I beg of you. Please.” He held up a palm. “It’s better forgotten. The whole journey.”

“Very well.” She nodded quickly. “If that’s what you’d prefer.”

“Indeed, it is.” He kicked the turnip under a sofa. “The point is, I am here. And I’m at your service.”

At her service?

Daisy put her hand on the back of a chair to steady herself. “Do you really mean that?” she asked in a rush.

“Of course.” His gaze was still hard.

“Good. Very good.” She gulped, not sure how to say what she must. Oh, bother, she simply would. There’d been that turnip, after all. Things weren’t quite the usual. It was the perfect environment to … let loose.

Besides, her passion for her cause was making her desperate. Strong feeling had always been her downfall.

She’s impulsive . Those had been her mother’s words to her father.