His damned hat.
His coat.
How many times?
How many
thousands
of times?
His throat tightened.
What kind of a man are you
? Daisy’s words echoed through his mind.
The only exertion he’d ever made had been artificial work—in the boxing ring and at D’Angelo’s, fencing.
The trunk dug into his neck now, and he was sweating. God help him, he was sweating. He straightened his back, felt his spine align with his hips and shoulders, and adjusted the trunk.
He was going to be the best damned trunk carrier there ever was.
At least it was a start.
By the time he’d turned back around to carry in the other trunks, as well, he’d even convinced himself he’d be the best damned sheep shearer there ever was for the visitors. And then when he got back to London, he’d be the best damned …
He had no idea.
It would be something substantial—something beyond the contrived world of high society and the advantages that had been bestowed on him because of his wealth and birth.
It would be something … real. And he couldn’t wait to tell Daisy. She’d be excited for him. She’d take an interest. He just knew it.
Perdita rushed through the great front hall and stopped in front of him.
She was patting her frizzy brown hair. “Excuse me, Lord Lumley. They’re here—the visitors are here! I saw them out a window, many carriages pulling up to the drive. And there’s a man—”
She stopped talking and went running past him.
He inhaled a breath to recover from her onslaught when Daisy came around the front door of the castle into the great hall. She was all aglow. Those were the only words for it.
A gentleman appeared behind her, obviously the one that had left Perdita speechless. He looked like Apollo, and he carried himself as if he were the Keep’s owner. Perdita’s trunk sat lightly on his broad shoulder.
“Where should I put this, Miss Montgomery?” he asked Daisy in an American accent.
“You really didn’t have to carry that,” she said warmly. “You should have stayed outside with your colleagues to admire the view.”
He halted in his tracks. “It’s my great honor.”
“How kind.” She gave a nervous chuckle. “Please put it down here, Mr. King, and we’ll get a footman to take it.”
Charlie had never seen Daisy so discombobulated.
Mr. King shook his head. “I insist on delivering it to its proper place.”
“Follow me, then,” Charlie chimed in.
Mr. King made a quarter turn and locked gazes with him.
In that instant, Charlie assessed him as being a man who was used to getting his way, was familiar with power and success, and had more ability to charm women in his little finger than most men had in their whole bodies.
In other words, he was very much like Charlie.
Mr. King grinned. “Lead on, sir,” he said with jaunty confidence.
“My lord,” Daisy stammered to Charlie, “may I present to you Mr. Matthew King, of Smithfield, Virginia? Mr. King, this is Charles Thorpe, Viscount Lumley.”
“It’s a pleasure to welcome you to the Keep.” Charlie inclined his head while Mr. King stood unmoving.
Granted, the trunk made it difficult to do anything else.
“I’m most grateful to be here,” the handsome visitor replied with enthusiasm. “It must be quite something to be master of such a place. I envy you, Lord Lumley.”
Daisy’s eyes widened at him.
Play along,
they said.
Charlie decided it was becoming rather a thing with them, this role-playing. He stood tall and cleared his throat. “Thank you, sir. It’s a great privilege. I hope my fiancée—”
“I usually reside at the neighboring castle,” Daisy interjected, as if she were afraid of scandal.
“Yes.” Charlie smiled patiently. “I hope Miss Montgomery’s informed you that the Keep is yours to explore for the next ten days. We want you to have the full Highland experience.”
“Indeed, she did,” said Mr. King in the warmest of tones. “And I intend to take full advantage.”
He looked directly at Daisy when he said so, and she appeared delighted, clasping her hands together and giving one little hop, as if she were a child in front of a window full of sweets.
She’d never hopped for Charlie before.
And in exactly what quarter did Mr. King plan to take full advantage?
“Mr. King is not only an avid bird-watcher,” Daisy told Charlie, “he’s a self-made man.”
Mr. King chuckled. “Yes, we Americans have to start from scratch, as they say.”
“He’s invented several important agricultural tools that have saved innumerable farmers from bankruptcy and thousands from starvation,” Daisy went on.
“How … inventive of you,” Charlie said.
He hated the man already.
“He also designed and built his own home,” Daisy waxed on, “a three-story Elizabethan-style mansion on a large plantation on the James River.”
And she’d learned all this in the one or two minutes since they’d met?
“I didn’t hammer in every nail or lay every brick,” their esteemed guest said. “But I certainly did my fair share. I enjoy that sort of thing.”
“Do you?” Charlie asked politely.
“Oh, yes. A life of leisure bores me. Bird-watching is only one of my hobbies.”
Oh, right. Mr. Beebs had collected not only Charlie’s anglers from Brawton but some bird-watchers staying at Lower Cross Junction.
“My newest passion,” Mr. King prosed on, “is working with wrought iron. I’m still a beginner, but I made a lovely balcony railing for whoever is going to be my bride.” He grinned, his white teeth sparkling like jewels. “I like to think ahead.”
“It sounds lovely, Mr. King.” Daisy’s admiration appeared sincere, although Charlie felt it was misplaced.
She should be admiring
him
. Of course, he’d never built a house or designed a wrought-iron balcony, but he had skills. Skills she’d assessed as being
nice
. Surely that counted for something.
“I’ll not hold you up, Mr. King,” said Charlie. “Let me show you where to put that trunk. No doubt the footmen are itching to take it from you. You’re our guest, after all.”
“I’m in no hurry,” Mr. King replied. “And I’ve little need of servants. I find they hamper my independence.”
Was he going to stand there all day with that bloody trunk on his shoulder and wax on about how marvelous and independent he was?
Charlie knew exactly how much Miss Perdita’s trunk weighed—as much as Mrs. Montgomery’s, which surely meant the man’s back was aching by now.
“Oh, but we’d like you trunk-free so we can show you about the grounds,” Charlie said in the amiable way a good host should.
“Yes,” Daisy piped up. “I’d like to take him around myself. I’ll wait right here until you come back, Mr. King.”
“Fantastic.” Their guest bestowed a charming smile on her. “I’d love a private tour with you, Miss Montgomery, while my traveling companions settle in.”
“We’ll be happy to provide that for you,” Charlie responded smoothly.
Emphasis on
we
.
“Excellent,” the man said just as smoothly back.
Oh, he was good!
“Shall we?” Charlie gritted his teeth and began the circuitous route to Miss Perdita’s room, Mr. King following easily along beside him with that blasted trunk.
They chatted about what wealthy, powerful men usually do: the state of international affairs, horses—“We keep very few up here,” said Charlie, “although the stable is large and will accommodate yours quite well”—and the condition of his wine cellar and his library, both of which he said were in fine shape, although he really had no idea.
By some miracle, they avoided Miss Perdita and Miss Cassandra.
In the bedchamber, Mr. King refused to let Charlie take the trunk from his shoulder and, in one swift, graceful movement, placed it at the foot of the bed. When he stood again, he smiled cheerfully.
“Miss Montgomery has a piquant face and an expansive personality, doesn’t she? I can see why you’re attached to her, even though she dresses as if she comes from little wealth. She has other charms, eh? I wouldn’t mind a little flirtation with a Scottish lass myself.”
Charlie’s expression turned to stone. “I don’t discuss my personal business with strangers,” he said, “particularly my relationship with Miss Montgomery. She, by the way, shall be treated with all the respect due one of your hostesses and my future wife.”
A slight shift occurred in Mr. King’s eyes, but his expression remained affable. “Of course, Lumley. No offense meant.”
Charlie refused to say
none taken
. “I’m rather busy overseeing things, so I’ll leave you to find your way back,” he said gruffly. “If you get lost, consider it that private tour you wanted.”
And he left without a backward glance, torn between wanting to evict the man immediately and needing to keep him on for the money.
The money Daisy needs,
he reminded himself sternly.
But it wasn’t enough to make him turn around and escort Mr. King back to the front hall. Nor, he determined, would he ever treat the man with anything but common civility. Even that, he knew, would tax him.
The truth was, Mr. King’s careless remark—revealing his obvious lack of respect for Daisy—had made Charlie eager to pummel him until his patrician American nose bled profusely.
Why was that? All men made careless remarks about comely females.
Ah, but this was different—just as Daisy was different. Different from any girl he’d ever known. She was a danger to his Impossible Bachelor’s heart.
To Daisy, the afternoon had been a blur of activities: situating very important gentlemen in their bedchambers; reminding Perdita to stand up straight; on Mona’s orders, hiding her secret stash of chocolates beneath her bed (Mona couldn’t bend that far); and allowing the travelers some time to rest—all except Mr. King, who’d insisted on seeing the castle from top to bottom with her.
Daisy didn’t know why, but Charlie had put on his worst viscount expression and accompanied them. Not only was his bearing aloof, his expression was more than a bit condescending.
Mr. King appeared unfazed. In fact, he was so well versed in Scottish castle architecture he’d been able to tell her and Charlie more about the castle than she’d ever known.
And when Mr. King asked Charlie what tidbits of information he’d picked up about the Keep since owning it, he’d said, “Nothing. I’m from England, so what do you expect?”
There’d been a great silence because all three of them realized Mr. King was from America, which was much farther away from Scotland than England, and look how much
he
knew about Scottish castle architecture!
God, Daisy had thought the man remarkable.
Remarkably
annoying,
that was.
At first, she’d been thrilled to meet him for two reasons: he was an American (she’d never met one before), and he was accomplished. But on the castle tour, his talk about himself began to wear thin, especially as in every room with a mirror, he found a way to stop and look at himself while pretending to admire a piece of furniture, or the view. And when he laughed, he brayed like a donkey, which came as quite a shock. A man of consequence should have a fine, rich laugh, like Charlie’s.
Now as the third course of a delicious Highland dinner was about to be served, Daisy—who was wearing Perdita’s emerald shot silk, cut down and with all the ruffles ripped off—felt a deep calm beneath her outer excitement, which she must admit was mixed with a bit of nerves.
It was really happening. The plan to raise money to save Castle Vandemere was under way.
She was terrified. Absolutely terrified. It was her one chance, this Highland experience—her one chance to earn that money. Which was why she drank two glasses of wine in short order, even though she’d thought she didn’t particularly care for wine.
But this wine came from the Keep’s cellars, and it was fine, very fine. And she noticed that the more wine she drank, the more she understood that nothing was coincidence. Nothing.
She wished she could sing about it. Or write a poem.
Immediately.
But at that moment, the roasted pheasant arrived, so she had to content herself with knowing that she had nothing to worry about. The signs were clear. The ten days would be a raging success, and she’d make her money to pay the
feu
duty on the castle.
But that was only part of the reason she was so happy.
She’d figured out a way to rid herself of the Furies.
Oh, Mr. King!
She could weep for looking at him. He was perfect for Cassandra—
Simply perfect.
Daisy wouldn’t feel a bit of guilt foisting her selfish stepsister on him. Cassandra would be that bride at his wrought-iron balcony at his plantation house on the James River in Virginia.
And she’d take her mother and sister to America with her.
Just as Daisy lifted her wine glass to her mouth to celebrate again, she caught Charlie’s eye. He was glaring at her, in that understated way that only
she
was meant to understand. She had no idea why he was glaring at her, so she glared back in her secret way that only
he
would comprehend.
She felt a bit smug as she swallowed a gulp of wine. As she matured, she found she was becoming increasingly more sophisticated. Especially about men. She was now a woman who could give hidden signals.
She never thought the day would come.
“Is something wrong?” Mr. King asked her from across the table. “You’re glaring, Miss Montgomery.”
She gave a nervous chuckle. “Not at all. It was a piece of dust in my eye.” And to cover her embarrassment, she held up her nearly empty wine glass to make a toast.
What would she say? The only thing on her mind was Mr. King and Cassandra. Cassandra King. Matthew and Cassandra King. The King family. Mrs. Matthew King.
Well, that and the way Charlie’s throat was tanned and extremely kissable at the moment, even if he was still glaring at her. She had a mad fantasy to pull up her skirt and part her legs right now and let him come to her under the table and—
God, she must stop her silly daydreaming.
But just as she opened her mouth to toast the cooks, who were hovering outside the door and peeking in, a Mr. Woo, an impossibly short angler at the other end of the table, said loudly, “Where’s the son of the son of a Highland chief?”
Oh, no.
Daisy put down her wine glass and looked at Charlie.
What was Mr. Woo talking about?
“Mr. Beebs told us we’d have the son of a son of a Highland chief here,” the diminutive sportsman explained. “I refused to come, otherwise. The fish were biting well at Brawton.”
Oh, God. They should have thought to have the descendant of a Highland chief. It would have made the experience so much more authentic.
Yesterday, if Daisy had only spent less time allowing Charlie to suckle her breasts while he teased her softest flesh with his fingers, she would have thought of—
What would she have thought of?
Besides Charlie’s mouth?
And his manhood straining against his breeches?
She wished she’d seen it. She’d never seen a man’s privates before, and she longed to see Charlie’s!
Daisy was losing her breath
and
her train of thought.
Charlie cleared his throat. “I’m so sorry, Mr. Woo. The chief’s grandson is delayed tonight.”
Oh, right. The son of a son of a Highland chief.
“Actually,” Daisy added with a shrug, “he said he couldn’t be bothered.”
Mr. Woo’s eyes widened. “Surely he intends to come eventually.”
“Yes,” Daisy replied. “Probably tomorrow. But no one can tell him what to do. He works on his own schedule, and woe to anyone who pushes him.”
Mr. Woo’s face drooped. “I am most disappointed.”
“Just don’t tell him that,” Daisy said, “or he’ll leave. He’s very sensitive and proud. All descendants of Highland chiefs are.”
“We can’t have him upset,” Mr. Woo said hurriedly.
She sent Charlie a subtle message:
I really wish we’d thought about this sooner, and we’ll have to talk about it in the library after dinner, and you look very handsome tonight, especially with Papa’s tartan pin stuck in your cravat.
But amazingly, Charlie didn’t seem to get the message. He angled his head at her and squinted as if he had no idea
what
she’d been trying to say!
Men.
They weren’t nearly as perceptive as women—women other than Perdita and Cassandra, that is, who were about as perceptive as logs. Daisy had to grant that her stepmother would be perceptive if she weren’t always focused on hating people and devising plans to make them miserable.
Indeed, at that very moment Mona was telling the man to her left some of the best ways to make someone deathly ill without getting caught, all of which she’d learned in the lurid novels of which she was overly fond.
Perdita, meanwhile, was staring lovelorn at Mr. King. Daisy had made her much more attractive with her hair sleekly pulled back. She’d also made Perdita don a plain white muslin gown that used to be one of the girl’s older night rails. It still had a flounce, but it wasn’t nearly as bad as her usual. Daisy had pinned a lovely brooch at the vee of the neckline and flung a simple paisley shawl over her stepsister’s broad shoulders.
The most clever thing Daisy had done was tell her not to speak.
Perdita had “lost” her voice.
A bucktoothed marquis from Spain was leaning over to look down Perdita’s décolletage, which was good news, as far as Daisy was concerned.
“Miss Montgomery?” Mr. King called to her across the table.
“Yes?”
“Tell us about your home.”
Her heart warmed to him. “Castle Vandemere has its own special charm.”
“Why do you find it so?” Mr. King’s dark eyes were focused only on her.
Daisy wasn’t used to being the center of attention, particularly at a large gathering. “Its great beauty lies in its simplicity,” she said.
“I like that answer.” The visitor from Virginia smiled at her.
Daisy found herself blushing once more. She couldn’t help thinking that someday, if she had her way, he’d become her brother-in-law—her
step
brother-in-law—who would live far, far away. So far away, in fact, she’d never visit. And never have to see Cassandra (along with Mona and Perdita) again.
But enough of Mr. King. At the moment, Charlie was handsomer than she had ever seen him. She couldn’t help thinking that she was a beginner in the art of making love. So it was Charlie’s duty—wasn’t it?—to be at her beck and call and teach her everything he knew.
Everything
.
She found she’d parted her lips and was rubbing the top one over the rim of her wine glass.
Charlie stared at her. So did Mr. King.
And so did everyone else.
“Excuse me,” she said to the table. “I felt faint for a moment. I was gasping for tea and … and I had only wine.”
“I see,” said Mr. King.
Daisy ignored the uncomfortable pause and went back to her new favorite subject—Cassandra. “You really should meet my stepsister,” she said to Mr. King. “She’s a beauty. And according to her mother, she belongs in a peer’s bed.”
Charlie nudged her knee under the table with his own knee and gave her a pointed look.
Oh, no! She’d forgotten. Mr. King wasn’t a peer at all, poor man.
“Pardon me, no doubt she belongs in the bed of
any
man who’s powerful,” Daisy said. “And rich.”
She noticed Cassandra making a horrible face at her.
Dear God, the girl was sitting only two seats down on the other side, to Mr. King’s right. Which meant she could hear everything Daisy had said about her.
“I’d like to go with you to Castle Vandemere,” said Mr. King to Charlie in a change of subject. “Every day that I’m in residence. Whatever interests you, interests me.”
Charlie inhaled a breath. “What did Mr. Beebs tell you?”
Mr. King slapped Charlie on the back. “He says you’re not some lofty lord—you like to do chores over at Miss Montgomery’s castle. He said you’ll get down in the dirt and work if you must. Nothing worse than a man in his prime going to seed because he’s too important to do the things that make life worth living, right?”
“Right,” said Charlie.
“Beebs also said the one thing you’ve never attempted is shearing sheep. Neither have I. Since we’re on level playing ground there, perhaps I can challenge you to a sheep-shearing contest for a lark. When shall we take each other on?”
Daisy noticed Charlie had a small tic in his jaw. He was
not
happy, and she couldn’t help but wonder why.
“Tomorrow, perhaps?” Charlie said woodenly, and drained his glass of wine.
“It’s very good wine,” Daisy whispered to him. “Isn’t it?”
The meal finished without incident, and the men repaired to the library for cheroots and their choice of brandy or Joe’s whisky while the four ladies at the table gathered in the drawing room with their various sewing projects.
The effects of the wine were beginning to wear off, Daisy thought thankfully. Or maybe it wasn’t such a good thing. She dreaded confronting Cassandra.
“How could you?” Cassandra said accusingly to her from an elaborate blue velvet sofa.
Daisy was seated on a hard, Egyptian-style chair herself. “What did I do?”
Cassandra huffed. “You made it sound as if I would simply jump into Mr. King’s bed. Or that I was a cow at market, ready to be bought.”
Mona had begun work on a pillow. Her tongue stuck out of her mouth at the most awful angle as she attempted to jab the thread through the needle. But then she skewered Daisy with a knowing look. “I suspect I know why you’re fobbing Cassandra off on the Virginian.”
“Oh?” Daisy longed for more wine.
Mona narrowed her eyes. “
You
want the viscount. We told you to stay away from him.”