Kieran Kramer - If You Give A Girl A Viscount

“Pardon my mentioning this”—he looked round at the faded room—“but it’s evident the castle’s not in the best of condition. And the estate appears unwieldy for a young, untried lady to oversee. Surely it would be best if you moved elsewhere.”

“No other place will do.” She raised her chin. “I have people to worry about. Hester and Joe, the servants. They’ve lived here since well before I was born. And this is my home. My home, sir. Not merely an abode.”

Her eyes glistened with a hint of moisture, but she didn’t acknowledge the sheen of tears in the least.

He understood that sense of pride and attachment. He’d acquired many properties on his family’s behalf, but not a one of them meant anything to him—other than his ancestral home in Devon.

“But you do comprehend,” he said, “how much four hundred pounds is? It would take most citizens of Britain decades—many of them their whole lives, if ever—to earn such a sum.”

“Oh, yes, I know. It’s a bundle.” She distractedly tapped a finger on her mouth while looking him over. “I’m perfectly willing to hope that even in your penurious—and I might add, downtrodden—state you’ll be useful in acquiring it, however. What can you do?”

“Ride, fence, box, and … and sing. I’m very good at singing.” How pathetic that sounded.

“I’m afraid riding, fencing, boxing, and singing won’t be much use.” She tilted her head. “Anything else you forgot to mention?”

He hesitated. “I know how to make money. But I can’t do it from scratch. I need starter funds.”

Miss Montgomery actually clapped her hands. “That’s perfect.” She grinned. “That’s exactly what I need, someone who knows how to make money.”

Somehow she’d wound up a mere foot from him. She studied him closely, and as she did, he couldn’t help being fascinated by her blue eyes, the way they slanted up ever so slightly, as if she were a fairy.

“Do you have money to invest?” he asked her.

“No.” She wrapped her thin arms around her too-thin body. “And you’ve already said you don’t.”

“No. Unfortunately.”

Her expression drooped.

There was a short, sad silence.

“Now that you’ve been enlightened as to the stark particulars of our arrangement,” he said, “no doubt you’re sorry you contacted my grandmother at all.”

She gave him a wan smile. “No, that’s not it in the least. I’m disappointed because I need someone who believes we can make something from nothing.” She sighed. “But you don’t believe it’s possible, do you?”

“I never said—”

“You rely on money to solve your woes,” she said flatly. “Not that I blame you. I’m trying to reach the point that I have enough money to do the same thing. But there’s one good thing about not having any. When you’re poor, you develop a very good imagination. You need it to survive. To have hope. Because sometimes … there’s nothing else.”

There was a split second of silence, and she puckered up her brow, as if she were thinking.

Thinking hard.

It was rather adorable of her. And yet she’d unsettled him, too.

“That’s not it at all,” he answered, but inside, he felt she was dangerously close to understanding him. Surely it had been a lucky guess. “Have you ever considered that you’re asking too much of a godmother—or a godmother’s grandson?”

She tilted her head. “Isn’t it a godmother’s duty to demonstrate the great virtues for her charges? Courage, fortitude, nobility, and usefulness?”

“It might be, but must I remind you, I’m—”

“And it’s been my impression,” she went on equably, “that the duty of your English peerage is to demonstrate those same virtues for the masses. Therefore, you’re under double obligation here, sir.”

She folded her hands in front of her.

“Miss Montgomery, you’re carrying this idea of duty a bit too far—” He pulled a squashed cheroot from his pocket, leaned round her—coming perilously close to brushing her waist with his arm—and lit the cheroot on a taper.

The expression on her face as she waited for him to take a puff—half annoyed, half impatient—was surely going to ruin a good smoke.

Why was it that women tended to do that? Sure enough, after one measly draw, her brow furrowed deeper, and his pleasure in the cheroot evaporated.

Thank God he wasn’t married.

She put her hands on her slender hips. “Lord Lumley.” Her tone was point-blank. “You’re obviously a devoted grandson to have traveled such a long way on your grandmother’s behalf. And I already know that when your purse isn’t under lock and key, you’re a wealthy viscount. But what kind of man are you? For the purposes of my project—the Restore-Castle-Vandemere-to-Its-Former-Glory project, I’ve just now dubbed it—that’s what I’d like to know. What I need to know.”

A beat of charged silence passed. He felt an odd thrill at her boldness of speech.

“Well?” She peered at him with genuine curiosity and not a little impatience.

He needed to think on the question a moment, so he inhaled on his cheroot. “I’m the sort of man who keeps his promises,” he eventually said. “I told you I’d stay and see you through, and I shall.”

“In that case, you’ll need to become noble and useful immediately.” She stared at his black eye. “ If that’s possible for a bachelor of your ilk.”

“And what kind of ilk is that?”

“The naughty kind, of course.”

“How astute of you to peg me so quickly,” he countered, and took a step toward her, the way a cold man instinctively takes a step toward a fire. He felt the need for some feminine attention. But not from a tavern wench or a milkmaid with a wandering eye. He wanted it from a girl who wasn’t so easy to land. A girl like this one. Then the notice would feel hard-won.

Nothing was hard-won in his world.

“I wouldn’t mind kissing you,” he said, “to prove to you that your suspicions about my ilk are founded. I should tell you that after I conclude my duties here, the very same ilk will travel the world with fancy women and get stinking drunk wherever it goes, while your ilk will stay bored in the north of Scotland.”

She stood staring at him, completely unfazed by his shocking speech. And the number of times he’d said ilk .

“Meanwhile”—he came closer, lifting her chin—“I’d like to find out what an indignant maiden’s lips taste like. Scones? Sugar? Or scorn?”

She attempted to swat his hand away smartly, but he caught it.

“I’m not one of your London playthings,” she said boldly, and yanked her wrist free.

He couldn’t help but be impressed.

She took a small cracked china bowl off a marble-topped side table and thrust the container at him. “Please put it out.”

She angled her chin at the cheroot.

He studied her pouting lips and took another drag of smoke. He wanted to kiss her more than ever now.

“Did you hear me?” she asked in that honey-bee voice of hers and pushed the bowl at him once more. “We’ve just washed the drapes. My stepmother wouldn’t care for the smell of smoke in them. We get enough from the chimneys.”

He narrowed his eyes even further and reluctantly complied, smashing the smoking stick into the bowl while her arm remained steady, her too-thin wrist strong, her demeanor unshaken.

Charlie was impressed again. Or irritated. It was too much trouble to discern which.

Plain though she was, she piqued his temper, which was a good thing as he had no desire ever to be happy again. His head hurt too much. He didn’t have his lucky penny. And he didn’t have anyone to love.