Kieran Kramer - If You Give A Girl A Viscount

Charlie was dreading this part. “She wanted to raise the feu duty for Castle Vandemere so she wouldn’t lose her home. That’s it in a nutshell.”

And then he explained what he knew about the history of the property and how he’d unknowingly acquired it five years before.

Harry shook his head. “So you’re the one she owes the money to?”

Charlie nodded, feeling a bit sick to his stomach. “Yes. Neither of us knew that, of course. I was to help her earn the funds.”

And then he told them all about the international visitors and the attempt to create a Highland experience for them. “It started off well but turned into a huge disaster.”

He told them the details, including the portion about how Miss Montgomery and her family vacated Castle Vandemere. There was an uncomfortable silence in the room.

Charlie winced. “I told her she could stay, but she refused. And now they’re all living in a little cottage in the glen, and I hear they could put down only six months’ rent. I have no idea what will happen to her after the lease is up.”

The silence went on for a bit longer.

“Well?” Charlie looked around at his friends. Every one of them was brooding, staring at the floor or at his boots or the fire.

Finally, Harry cleared his throat. “It seems to me she’s much worse off than she was when you came up here to help her.”

Nicholas shook his head. “God, man, this is a disaster.”

“A veritable catastrophe,” echoed Stephen.

Charlie stood up. “That’s not the worst of it.” He went to the fire and turned around to face them. “I love her. I love her desperately. And she hates me. I’m almost sure of it.”

“Why?” asked Nicholas.

Charlie sighed. “She told me she loved me, and I—I rejected her. I told her I couldn’t trust her, that I would never know if she loved me or simply wanted Castle Vandemere back.”

“You ass,” said Stephen.

Charlie rubbed a palm over his face. “I deserve that,” he muttered.

“Yes, you do,” Stephen said, “but every man in this room has been an ass to the woman he loves. So cheer up. We’ll help you get through this.”

“Right,” said Harry.

“With flying colors,” added Nicholas. “You’ll win her back.”

“I already have a plan,” Charlie said.

“That’s what this is all about, isn’t it?” asked Harry. “Rebuilding and inviting us up here. Entertaining us in style and throwing a lavish ball.”

“Yes,” said Charlie. “It’s all to win the girl. But it’s funny. If I can get her back, I’m confident it will be on my own merits. Not because of the money.”

“That’s the spirit,” Stephen said. “And that’s the kind of girl we want for you, someone who loves Charlie-the-charmer and merely puts up with Charlie-the-moneybags.”

“Yeah.” Harry rolled his eyes. “The moneybags is a bit sickening, but we’ll endure him.”

“Right,” said Charlie, throwing an unlit cheroot at Harry and hitting him in the forehead.

Harry leaped from his chair and put Charlie in a headlock, which Charlie promptly broke and then pinned Harry to the floor. But then Harry swiped him with a strong leg thrust and rolled away, in the process knocking over an end table with a vase on it—a vase Stephen caught handily.

While Charlie and Harry lay breathless on the floor, Nicholas put his foot on Harry’s stomach. Stephen did the same to Charlie.

Nicholas raised his glass, and Stephen followed suit, replacing the vase with his snifter.

“Come on, now,” said Harry. “We need to join you.”

So Nicholas and Stephen let their two friends stand and take their own glasses to the air.

“To Charlie,” Nicholas said. “He lost his bet to us in a very big way.”

“Slainte,” Charlie said.

And as his friends repeated the toast, he felt a spark of hope.

When the invitation to the ceilidh at Castle Vandemere came, Daisy pulled out a sheet of paper, a quill, and ink to write a reply on behalf of all the residents of Rose Cottage. She noted without surprise that Mona wanted to go, of course. She was still hoping to meet that rich man who’d carry her off.

“I’ll never get a better chance,” Mona said, “at least while I’m stuck in this godforsaken land. Besides, I’d like to see the improvements the viscount has made.”

Daisy turned to Perdita. “Do you want to go to the dance?”

Perdita merely glowered at Daisy and broke a larch twig in half. That was her new job, providing kindling for the fire. Hester had been the brilliant one to come upon that solution to Perdita’s tirades. But as big as Perdita’s supply of twigs had become—she’d filled five large fish baskets—the practice hadn’t seemed to alleviate her general pique one bit.

“Very well,” Daisy told her. “You may stay home if you wish. But I think you’re foolish to do so. The Spanish marquis isn’t the only man in the world.”

“He is for me,” Perdita said, snapping a particularly sturdy twig.

“Well, nothing’s stopping you from writing him then and confessing your true feelings,” Daisy replied smoothly.

Perdita sniffed. “I already did. I’ve received no reply.” She broke another twig.

“Where did you send it?”

“To the Spanish Marquis. Castle de Salazar. Spain.”

“That’s all you wrote as the address?”

“Yes.”

“Perhaps it will find him. But it’s not been more than five weeks. He’s still traveling.”

Which was why Daisy had written him herself. The day after he’d left, she’d sent a missive with Benjamin MacAdoo, one of Mrs. MacAdoo’s sons, to carry with him on his trip south via horseback. He’d surely overtake the more lumbering carriages of the international visitors. Benjamin had reported back that he had, indeed, met up with the Spanish marquis and delivered the letter himself.

But nothing had come of it, sadly.

Daisy would never let Perdita know.

Cassandra was happily dusting. Mr. Beebs had come round to see her enough times that any day now, Daisy expected a marriage proposal.

“And you, Cassandra?” she asked her. “Do you want to go to the ceilidh ?”

Her sister turned to her, her eyes bright. “If Mr. Beebs will be there.”

“I’m sure he will.”

“Will you go?” Cassandra asked her.

Daisy tapped her quill on the edge of the ink pot. “I’m staying behind.”

Cassandra’s eyes widened. “But why?”

Daisy shrugged and pretended to be indifferent. “I’m not fond of Scottish dancing. All that hopping and leaping and, well … sometimes it’s simply too much for me.”

“Ye know darned well you can hop and leap with the best of us,” Hester said.

“I’m sure I could if I wanted to,” said Daisy, “but I don’t. I’m preoccupied with … sewing. So everyone, please leave me alone about the ceilidh. ”

“How’s the whisky making going, Joe?” Daisy asked to change the subject, but she was also truly interested.

“Verra well,” he replied. Perdita’s larch twigs were spilling out of the latest fish basket, and he was stacking them back neatly. But not nearly fast enough to keep up with Perdita. Talk of the ceilidh seemed to have riled her more than usual. “Now we just have to wait ten years.”

“Ten years?” Daisy couldn’t believe it.

“Tha’s how long it takes me to make a good batch,” said Joe.

She tried not to sigh with impatience. “But we need money sooner.”

Joe shrugged. “Whisky’s currency around here. We can always fetch the casks in the secret cellar in Castle Vandemere, if no one’s found the stash yet.”