Kieran Kramer - If You Give A Girl A Viscount

Not that he wanted someone to love.

Blast it all, he did need that poultice. And a rum punch. And a warm bed in which he wouldn’t fear for his life as he slept. He was getting maudlin, perhaps hallucinating, imagining himself one of those men who suddenly found the bachelor lifestyle unpalatable.

She put the bowl back down on the table, and he noticed above her head a charming stained-glass window depicting a solemn man and woman, in medieval garb, holding hands.

“You’re playing with another sort of fire,” he told her. “You’re brazen in your requests and your demands. Your behavior has been as outrageous as my own would have been—had I given you that kiss.” He hooked her waist and pulled her close. “In short, you Highland girls are a handful.”

Something hummed between them, but she didn’t even blink. “You’re in Scotland now, my lord. Not England. Highland girls speak their minds.”

“And London boys, dammit all, steal kisses. It’s what we do. For good reason.”

So he did. He stole a kiss and was surprised at how perfectly soft her lips were—

At how perfectly naturally their mouths and bodies fit together.

“Dai- seee !” A shrill voice interrupted the suddenly cozy tête-à-tête Charlie was having with Miss Montgomery.

She drew back.

He allowed his hand to slide off her waist.

“Well,” she said. “I see your point about London boys.”

Which was a perfectly amusing remark to make. It made it easier for him to forget the primal beat of the blood in his veins. He could focus on the fact that the girl before him had a certain wit and aplomb.

Never mind about the fire he’d sensed beneath that proper exterior. That was not to be an issue. He’d already been wayward enough. Grandmother wouldn’t approve of his taking advantage of her charge.

Not that Miss Montgomery appeared easy to take advantage of … she was rather like a small battleship, the sneaky kind that can render great destruction if it so chooses—all cannon and harpoons and diabolical strategies and worn sails that needed replacing.

The worn sails … that came from the fact that she could use a decent gown. It had character, but it didn’t do her justice. Not that he admired her particularly and wanted to see her in a nicer gown.

No, he didn’t. He was wary of her more than anything.

Of course, he wouldn’t mind seeing her out of a gown, just for curiosity’s sake.

Now Miss Montgomery looked over her shoulder, and when her gaze returned to his, her eyes were blue-black. “We’ll have to make something up. At least until we get our plan solidly under way. Otherwise, my stepmother will sabotage it, even if what I’m after is in her best interests. She’s stupid and cruel that way. Not only that, when she finds out your rank, she’ll do her best to make my stepsister your viscountess. Are you engaged?”

“Good God, no.”

“Well, for your own self-preservation, pretend you are.”

Before he could agree, she turned her head toward the door just as it slammed open and three females tried to push their way through the entryway at the same time.

One young lady was quite beautiful, with masses of black curls and delicate features. Were she in London, she’d turn many a dandy’s head at first glance. But Charlie saw right away that she knew she was striking, which led him to believe she probably had little else to recommend her. She was accompanied by another young woman who was taller than most men and as broad-shouldered as a dock worker. She had small eyes, a sour mouth, and a wide jaw, offset by tightly curled tresses of dull brown.

The oldest of the three, obviously the stepmother, was of average height and had a handsome enough face. Charlie surmised she’d probably been a beauty not too many years ago. Her hair was the same dull brown as the homely one, but a lock of white hair that started from her crown and descended in a bold line to her left ear gave her quite the dramatic look.

Unlike Miss Montgomery, the three of them appeared well fed. The beauty was a curvaceous pocket Venus. The other two had square torsos rounded by ample bosoms and large hips.

“Move,” the matron snarled beneath her breath and made a motion to discreetly elbow her companions, but the movement was sloppy and obvious.

The pretty one moved, but only after gasping in real or supposed pain at the intended jab. The giantess stood aside, a surly expression on her face. It wasn’t until all three locked gazes with him that their irritated expressions became cloyingly sweet.

And then irritated again, once they’d a chance to take in his shabby clothes.

“Who are you ?” the stepmother demanded in a flat London accent.

“Yes, who are you?” The beauty looked him boldly up and down.

The large one said, “I’ve never seen such a handsome man, even if he is dirty.”

At that, Charlie had a difficult time keeping his face perfectly neutral. She sounded exactly like a man trying to sound like a woman in a play. Could she be a male dressed in women’s clothing?

He peered closer at her. No. He didn’t think so. That would be too odd. But he couldn’t be entirely sure. The abundance of fabric and flounce she wore could camouflage a whole platoon.

He made no attempt at a jovial smile but, in a herculean effort, did lift up one corner of his mouth. “Good afternoon, ladies. I’m—”

“For all we know,” the stepmother interrupted him, “you—with your black eye and your tattered but fine clothes—could be a crazy vagabond who’s perhaps tied up or, God forbid, murdered a gentleman, stolen his breeches and coat, and arrived here intent on seducing the lady of the house into letting you stay.”

Charlie made an immediate assumption: she was shrewd but eccentric, a dangerous combination. “Of course I’m not that sort of fellow,” he said. “But if I were, I wouldn’t tell you, would I?”

All three ladies gasped, but the stepmother appeared—

No. She couldn’t be excited at the idea, could she?

“He’s Viscount Lumley, Stepmother,” explained Miss Montgomery.

“Viscount, indeed,” the older woman said scornfully.

“I am a viscount,” he said. “Why don’t you check DeBrett’s Peerage ? My name’s right there, and I’m rich as Croesus. Properties all over England. I’ve got a castle here in Scotland, too … somewhere near a glen.”

“There are tens of thousands of glens!” Perdita said.

“Hundreds of glens,” Miss Montgomery corrected her.

Lord Lumley shrugged. “I mean to visit it someday and shear some sheep as a lark. If I ever get around to it. Of course, it might be years … London’s never dull.”

“Where do you live in London?” the stepmother demanded to know.

“Mayfair. On Grosvenor Square. If you still don’t believe me, write my good friend and neighbor, the Duke of Drummond. He’ll tell you.”

“I’ve heard of the Duke of Drummond,” the older woman murmured.

By now her cunning expression also showed hints of ambition, as Miss Montgomery had predicted.

Miss Montgomery smiled pleasantly and looked him square in the eye. “The poor viscount has been set upon by footpads and lost his way. A kind soul in Glen Dewey sent him to us.”

“Good thing,” he said, “as my fiancée” —he made sure to emphasize the word—“would be terribly concerned, otherwise.”

“You’re engaged?” the stepmother demanded to know.

“Yes. I am.” Charlie felt the full threat of her words and was vastly relieved to have a lie to tell. “To a lovely young lady.”

He tried to think of a name. And then he tried to imagine what his imaginary fiancée looked like and couldn’t decide if she were blond, dark, or chestnut haired. Tall or short. She was most definitely the belle of every ball she attended, which she went to alone—as balls bored him.