Kieran Kramer: If You Give A Girl A Viscount

Madcap . Her father’s words to her mother.

Thoughtless . Her stepmother’s take on the matter.

Harebrained . Stepmother again.

Selfish . Cassandra’s refrain.

Daisy held tighter to the chair. “I need you, Viscount.”

She really, really did!

“Need me?” A spark of something fierce and frightening flashed in his stony gaze.

His disdain almost made her flinch. But she couldn’t. She wouldn’t. She must be bold.

The words burned to be said: “I need your help procuring my godmother’s money. Gobs of it.”

Of course.

She wanted money.

Wait until the boys hear about this, Charlie thought, and tried to ignore the fact that he felt an embarrassing sense of disappointment that for a moment there, he’d thought she’d needed him —followed swiftly by a ripple of unwanted interest in her that had nothing to do with her brazen speech.

Were all Highlanders so … raw?

Her hair, yellow as freshly cut straw, was scraped back into a tight bun. She had a weary, gaunt expression about her eyes, which she didn’t bother to disguise. And her skin was pale, almost translucent, like rice paper, over cheekbones that were high and sharp.

She exuded neediness.

Yet there was no cringing, no wheedling in her voice. She’d made her outlandish request in a brisk, businesslike manner, as if she’d been negotiating the price of a ribbon at market.

Even so, there was something rich and full that drew his notice. Perhaps it was the sound of her voice. He couldn’t help thinking of buzzing bumblebees and honey. Cozy, unmade beds with feather pillows. Rich blue velvets, the same sky blue color as her eyes, and glossy fur muffs with deep silken pockets—even though she was wearing a threadbare gown.

“We can’t solicit my grandmother for anything,” he informed her. “She’s abroad and left me no authority to open her accounts.”

The girl didn’t even attempt to hide her disappointment. “Oh, well, that’s a shame. I’d so hoped.”

He had trouble breathing for a moment. He was flummoxed. Thoroughly flummoxed. He was tempted to shake his head in wonder that he was dreaming. No one—save the burly highwayman who’d held a pistol to his head on the road north—had ever, ever petitioned him for money in such a direct manner. Even street beggars touched their forelocks or looked at the ground when asking him for a farthing.

“You so hoped to meet my grandmother … or so hoped to draw from her accounts?” he asked smoothly to cover the fact that he was sorely rattled.

And oddly fascinated.

She made a wry face, which made her look a bit like a naughty pixie, then let out a short sigh. “Both. I’ll admit when I saw the name Lady Pinckney in your letter, I had a small, happy vision.” She spread her sturdily booted feet a delicate space apart and put her small palms up in front of her as if she were setting up a glorious story. “A vision of a doting godmother hugging me close. Followed swiftly by another vision of her opening a trunkful of gold, the coins spilling into my lap, and all our troubles ending because I’d restore Castle Vandemere to its former glory.”

“Is that so?”

“Yes, which would mean silken pennants flying from the turrets, a repaired drawbridge, and new drapes. Yes, new drapes in every room. And perhaps a massive sideboard, in the great hall, and a new suit of armor. Ours is so shabby. The left arm fell off last week and suffered yet another dent, thanks to Jinx, our overly curious tabby cat, knocking it over again.” She paused, lost in her daydream, then said, “Of course, the castle will never be as grand as the Keep, but there are possibilities here. Distinct possibilities.”

This was theater, wasn’t it? A woman prosing on about how to spend his family’s money?

“Do go on,” he said, highly entertained in spite of himself.

“Oh, yes,” she replied with enthusiasm. “I never mentioned the bedchambers. All of them need renovating.”

“What good ideas you have.”

“I must admit I do,” she said. “But I see now that such a perfect scenario is merely a silly fantasy.”

“Indeed, it is.” His voice was rough now. “I’m appalled at your avarice. You do nothing to hide it. I’ve never met a lady as audacious as you.”

“Then you’ve not met my stepmother,” Miss Montgomery replied, unfazed.

He nearly choked. “She’s worse ?”

“Tenfold. But unlike her, I’m not greedy in the least. Nor would I have accepted your grandmother’s charity. It would have been a loan only, I’ll have you know, and I’d only have done it because I’m responsible for other people’s welfare.” Her cheeks were bright red now. “So you can stop your rude judgments of my character. I could say plenty about your own, by the way, but I won’t. Because you look awful. If I were a man and looked as bad as you, I’d be rude, too. But after tonight, when you get a good night’s rest, I’ll not tolerate such boorish behavior anymore.”

How had she done that? How had she turned everything around and made him look bad?

She was the grasping one. She was the one—

He opened his mouth to speak—he wasn’t sure what he was going to say—but she put up a hand. “Enough with our disagreement. Let’s appreciate the irony that in place of my silly fantasy, what I got instead is a quarrelsome man with a black eye, reeking of the tavern and the stables.” She gave a genuine chuckle and clapped her hand over her mouth to restrain herself. But she couldn’t stop. She let her hand fall away and laughed outright. “How funny life can be! Don’t you agree?”

“Yes, it can be.” What a compelling creature! Perhaps because she was being so blasted honest. He wasn’t used to that.

That and she was almost enchanting when she laughed.

Not quite, of course, considering she was laughing at him .

But almost.

“Are you all right?” Miss Montgomery asked him. “I mean, you look as though”—she made an ungraceful looping motion with one hand—“as if you’ve been—”

“To hell and back?” He completed the sentence for her.

“Well, yes. Surely someone who’s been to hell and back requires tea.” Her tone was pert.

A very small corner of his mind was still hale enough to find her lack of artifice amusing.

“Brandy would do better,” he said.

“We’ve none of that. We have some whisky, however. But”—she paused—“are you sure you need … more ? You don’t look as if more would help. Perhaps less would be better. Or none.” She inhaled. “None is what I meant, actually.”

“There’s a tipping point, you know,” he told her. “Forbearance would be counterproductive at this stage. It might lead to a massive headache.”

“You don’t have one already?”

Devil take it, must she remind him?

He’d try for a new subject. “It was a long trek up the hill from your village. Glen Dewey must be the remotest outpost in the Highlands. I had to walk the last three miles to get to it from the main road.”

“Yes, we’re isolated here.” Miss Montgomery didn’t sound at all apologetic. “I’m shocked you found us at all.”

She smiled at him, ignoring the fact that he refused to smile back at her.

“You’re in pain,” Miss Montgomery remarked. “Please, my lord. Do sit down and make yourself comfortable. I promise I won’t—”

“Mention money?” He lowered himself onto an ancient sofa.

She winced. “Yes. At least for—at least until you feel better .”

He longed to tell her that his stomach ached from lack of food, too much drink, and not enough sleep. He’d also love to confess that he’d played cards all night with a roomful of crofters just to get here today. He’d lost his last gold button and then—