If You Give A Girl A Viscount ib-4

by Kieran Kramer

With Daisy, he could let go.

  “Let go with me,” he said into her ear.

  “I want to,” she murmured against his jaw.

  He closed his eyes, wishing with all his heart he could bed her. But he couldn’t.

  How was he to let go?

  He decided not to think about it, and to focus on her, the delightful, sweet-smelling young lady melding her body to his.

  Heaven on earth … merely sliding his hand down her arm, over every swell and valley, until their fingers clashed and clung.

  “This time it’s your day,” Daisy said.

  They were side by side.

  “No,” he insisted. “It’s yours.”

  She shook her head and got that very obstinate look in her eye that he well recognized.

  And next thing he knew, she was pressing her hand on his hard length, caressing him through his breeches, all the while kissing his neck and then his chest. He groaned at the sensations coursing through him when she mouthed his nipple, sucking tenderly.

  But then she stopped. “I want to take off your breeches,” she said.

  “Well, then.” He was amused by her forthright manner. “Go right ahead.”

  She got to work, fumbling with the flap. He did his best to help her, but she kept shooing his hands away. She was so busy that when she finally had success, the effects of what she’d accomplished appeared to hit her like a ton of bricks.

  “Oh, dear,” she said, and looked from his privates to his face and back again to his nether regions.

  He shrugged.

  “You’re magnificent,” she said. “Like David.”

  “The statue?”

  “No, David the baker’s son.” She giggled. “Of course I meant David the statue. I’ve seen illustrations.”

  “Ah. Well, it’s your turn to look like Bernini’s Daphne.”

  Without a word, she pulled off her night rail, exposing her beautiful naked body to the lamplight. “Was she naked?” she whispered.

  “Uh-huh,” Charlie said back, and pulled her on top of him.

  Daisy closed her eyes and clung to him.

  “Are you all right?” he asked her.

  She nodded.

  He lifted her chin. “Are you sure?”

  She nodded again. “It feels so … perfect.”

  “It can feel even more perfect, as you know. But now’s a good time to remind ourselves of something.”

  “What?”

  “It can feel even more perfect than the perfect you felt on the Stone Steps.”

  She groaned as if she couldn’t bear to hear it. “Really?”

  “This is good news,” he said, “usually. But not for us. We can’t go to that particularly perfect place. It would mean I’d compromised you so completely, there would be no turning back. We’d have to marry.”

  “Gad,” she said.

  “It’s how babies are made, and I’m afraid neither of us is ready for that.”

  “No, indeed.”

  “But we can still enjoy ourselves, and each other.”

  “The other perfects suit me very well,” she said gamely.

  “Good,” he said. “Because I’m going to make you feel perfect again, but this time you won’t be sitting up on some stone steps, you’ll be flung back against some lovely pillows.”

  And before she could protest, he’d pleasured her that way. Twice, as a matter of fact. But the second time, he’d been beneath her, his tongue flicking in and out of her sweetest spot while she clung to the headboard and whimpered above him.

  God, he was happy.

  But she made him even happier in the next few moments, with no instruction at all.

  “I’ll explore,” she said, and did just that … with her fingers and her mouth.

  It was exquisite torture for him.

  When she dared to kiss the length of him, he almost stopped her.

  But she insisted on continuing.

  “Messy,” he croaked out. “It. Will. Be.”

  “I don’t care,” she flung back.

  Resigned to his fate—and oh, what a fate it would be!—he lay back against the pillows himself and watched her graceful body and generous mouth pleasure him almost to the point of no return. But he didn’t crash over the edge until she locked gazes with him and he read in her eyes her own happiness.

  He closed his eyes and let the feeling of complete and utter perfectness overwhelm him then.

  And the cymbals crashed louder than he ever knew they could.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  The next morning, Daisy did all she could to find a man to take on the role of son of a son of a Highland chief for the remainder of the travelers’ visit. But she’d no luck in Glen Dewey.

  Those men were preoccupied with truly being fierce and readying themselves for the hunt and the subsequent games. All they cared about was preparing their weapons and their own bodies for competition.

  “We’re all descendants of chiefs in one way or another, lass,” said one man, sharpening a hunting knife. “We don’t want to be bothered, and no one wants to sit in a silly chair and pass out ribbons to the winners of the games. We want to be in them.”

  Except for one shy young man, a scholar who was the actual grandson of a Highland chief. He said he’d love to play the role, but he gave no impression of strength, despite his impressive height, sturdy body, and trunklike legs. He held up a magnificent old kilt—the kind with a sash that goes over the shoulder—and all the imposing accessories that went with it.

  “It’s not often I wear the great kilt of my ancestors, miss.” His voice didn’t match his body. It was thin, modest, and all too agreeable. “But for you and your project, I’ll be happy to put them on and come stay at the castle and tell stories about my grandfather.”

  She didn’t know how to tell him that he wouldn’t do. He wouldn’t do at all. The foreigners expected a Highland chief who’d make them tremble in their shoes with his fierceness.

  She sat there racking her brain, but then he said, “I know you’re disappointed in me. I don’t seem particularly ferocious and brave, do I?”

  How could she answer that?

  She gulped. “I—I’m sure you are,” she told him. “And you’re an impressive scholar, too. It’s just that—”

  He waved a hand at her. “Never you mind, Miss Montgomery. I know what the guests must be expecting, and it’s certainly not me. Take my kilt if you must. I wish you luck finding someone worthy of donning it.”

  She brightened. “Really?”

  “Aye,” he said. “Now, would you like some tea? And a bite to eat?”

  A question that only proved he was entirely too thoughtful to be the man she needed.

  She gave a sigh of relief. “I’d love that. Thank you, sir.”

  Back at the castle, Daisy didn’t know what to do. She brought the kilt, which she’d hidden in a burlap sack, into her bedchamber and dumped it out on the bed that she and Charlie had slept in the previous night.

  Well. If you could call it sleep.

  She blushed at the memories. Last night had been spectacular …

  She almost became dreamy about it, but the sight of the kilt and its matching sash, as well as the sporran and the scabbard gleaming with richness, evoked an amazing history of which Castle Vandemere and her ancestors were a part.

  They must have the son of a son of a Highland chief by the midday meal, or it would be difficult to keep fobbing off Mr. Woo and the rest of the visitors.

  She couldn’t afford to have them upset in any way.

  Castle Vandemere was at stake.

  And Mr. King must remain long enough to discover how perfect Cassandra was for him.

  “Dai-seee!” The shriek came from down the hall.

  She rolled her eyes and went to see what her stepmother wanted.

  “Perdy’s all thumbs, as usual,” Mona said with a scowl. “Come tie my laces.”

  Perdita flopped into a chair and pouted.

  “She also broke my favorit
e brooch, trying to open the clasp,” Mona complained.

  Daisy stole a glance at Perdita. As much as she despised her, it must be difficult to be so clumsy.

  “I’ve the perfect substitute pin for you,” Daisy told Mona. “Perdita, would you mind going to my room and getting it, please? It’s on my dresser, the small silver thistle.”

  “That old thing,” Mona said rudely.

  Which Hester had very lovingly given Daisy last Christmas! It meant the world to her. She pressed her lips together, refusing to rise to the bait.

  “Tell Daisy to get her own pin,” Perdita said, her voice practically rattling the windows.

  “Do as you’re told,” Mona barked almost as loudly.

  Perdita roused herself to stand and slouched out of the room, her hands clenched into fists.

  Daisy finished tying her stepmother’s laces and was desperate to leave. Being alone with her was not fun.

  “Since we’re waiting,” Mona said, “massage my feet.” She strode to her bed, threw herself back on it, and wiggled her toes.

  God, no. The last thing Daisy wanted to do was touch her stepmother’s feet, much less squeeze them. Mona would wince and yell and perhaps kick out at her if she didn’t do an excellent job.

  “I—I’ll be right back,” Daisy said. “Maybe Perdita can’t find the pin.”

  Before Mona could answer, she ran to her own bedchamber.

  And found Perdita there, holding the kilt up to herself before the looking glass.

  “It’s the most magnificent skirt I’ve ever seen.” Perdita’s words, as usual, came out almost like the growl of an angry bear.

  “You know it’s not a skirt, Perdita,” Daisy admonished her. “Scotsmen will take huge offense at that. It’s a kilt. They used to wear them to cross rivers and to hunt, to live the rough life.”

  Perdita sighed. “Men have all the fun.”

  And then she looked over at Daisy: square jaw, fierce eyes, booming voice.

  Heavens. The answer had been here all along.

  Perdita was Daisy’s Highland chief!

  Charlie was at Castle Vandemere doing chores around the byre with the ever-willing Mr. King, who was currently with Joe, learning about the sheep, when Daisy came over from the Keep, her cheeks bright from the exertion and the crisp Highland air.

  “Has he spoken to Cassandra this morning?” she asked, looking breathless and beautiful.

  “I’ve no idea.” Charlie wanted to get his hands and mouth on her and make her feel perfect again. “We got down here earlier than I expected we would. Mr. King, I’m not surprised to find out, is an early riser. I think Cassandra was still asleep when we left.”

  Daisy bit her lip.

  “Is something on your mind?”

  “Actually, yes.” And she proceeded to tell him about Miss Perdita’s new role.

  “That’s absurd,” he said. “She can’t play the son of a son of a Highland chief.”

  “But the guests only saw her last night at dinner, and she didn’t speak. I’m going to tell them the female Perdita is indisposed.”

  “She can’t carry this off.” It was an obvious fact: she was a woman, although even Charlie had had his doubts when he’d first met her.

  “You wouldn’t believe how different she looks in the kilt,” Daisy went on. “It was easy enough to strap down her, um—”

  “I know what you mean.”

  Daisy’s cheeks reddened further. “And since it’s the old-fashioned kind, she has a massive tartan sash up there, too. It …” She trailed off.

  “It disguises her femininity even more,” Charlie said.

  “Exactly.” Daisy chuckled. “As for her hair, it’s frizzy and easy to shove into a hat. I’ve got her a lovely hunting cap—she’s itching to test her skill, you know, so the guests will believe she’s entirely dedicated to the sport.”

  “But she’s English!”

  “She’s only allowed to say a few words: aye, nay, and slainte. We practiced. She’ll sound completely brutish and fierce and Scottish. She’s thrilled to be able to drink whisky and smoke a cheroot. The visitors will be in awe.”

  “I suppose that small mustache she has helps, as well,” Charlie muttered.

  Daisy put her hand to her mouth and giggled. “I think it does. Even so, I burned a cork and rubbed it into her jaw to make her a bit swarthier.”

  She stopped giggling rather abruptly, Charlie thought, and her eyes were suddenly bright. “What is it?” he asked her.

  Daisy shook her head. “Just that I’ve never seen Perdita so … happy. She was proud to be in that kilt. And she couldn’t stop talking about Mr. King and how she couldn’t wait to hunt with him. She wondered if maybe he’d talk to her more when she was dressed like a man.” She sighed. “It’s a shame she can’t dress like that all the time. She was a delight. She even hugged me at the end. And it felt … genuine.”

  “Interesting.” Charlie chuckled. “So you’ve discovered something nice about her.”

  “I really don’t know what to think,” Daisy said.

  “About what?”

  “About getting rid of her along with Mona and Cassandra.”

  “Play it by ear,” Charlie said. “Imagine what she’ll be like after the men depart and she has to get back into a gown.”

  “You’re right,” Daisy said with a sigh. “I won’t get my hopes up.”

  “You always get your hopes up.”

  “I can’t help it. She’s my stepsister.”

  “And that’s very kind of you. How did your stepmother take the change in her appearance?”

  “Mona merely sneered. Which means she doesn’t care one way or the other. She’s too preoccupied attempting to win over Mr. Woo.”

  “Mr. Woo?”

  “Yes, she fancies him.”

  “Poor fellow.”

  “She’s heard he’s the richest of the lot. And free to marry.”

  “Is he?”

  “I’ve no idea. I made it up.”

  “You minx!”

  “I needed to distract her from Perdy’s situation. And it certainly worked.”

  “You don’t feel guilty about subjecting Mr. Woo to your stepmother’s increased attentions?”

  “Not in the least. He can hold his own.”

  Charlie circled her waist with his hands. “I’m not even sure you went to sleep last night. How miserable for us both that the secret corridor makes it extremely easy for me to get to your room unseen. I might have to join you in bed again tonight and every night until the whole damned Highland experience is over.”

  She pushed his hands off her waist. “Oh, and one other thing. Perdita certainly can’t have Mr. King.”

  “So you’ve nothing to say about our bedding down together?”

  “Yes.” Her cheeks reddened, and she looked at him with serious eyes. “I’m sorry. But we can’t do what we did last night every night.”

  “You said that once before and changed your mind.”

  “You and I both know we can’t keep playing with fire.” Her tone was more pert than stern. “Because Cassandra and my stepmother can never find out.”

  “They won’t. Did you hear all the snoring going on last night? It’s not just Perdita.”

  “I know. All three of them do. But as you’ve already said, what we did could lead to other things.”

  “And as I’ve told you before, I would never, ever take such liberties, even with your permission, which”—he whispered into her ear—“I’d be able to get in less than thirty seconds, if you’d only let me try. I’m good, darling. Very good.”

  “Listen closely.” She glowered at him. “Tonight, we’re not touching each other. Is that clear? Last night was an accident. I was so exhausted I wasn’t prepared to resist your, um, dubious charms.”

  “Dubious? Are you sure you didn’t mean to say countless?”

  She bit her lip and glanced away from him, refusing to answer.

  “I know I wasn’t prepared to resist your
charms, either,” he said, “which aren’t dubious in the least. Especially now.” He took a secret peek down her bodice.

  “Somehow I wonder if you’re taking me seriously.”

  “Oh, I am.”

  She stared at him a few seconds longer.

  He stared fixedly back.

  “I saw that,” she said.

  “What?”

  “You looking down my bodice.” Whenever her honey-bee voice grew thicker, he knew exactly what she was thinking of, and it delighted him no end. “Now what were we talking about before?”

  She was adept at switching subjects.

  “Perdita.” He’d play along. Flirting with Daisy and not being able to follow through was taking a toll on him. “I hate to say this, but her chances of winning Mr. King’s admiration are even lower now than they were before she donned the kilt. And her chances then were zero, so …”

  “Oh,” Daisy replied, as if she had a very big secret to reveal, “I meant that she can’t have him because—even if she were the most beautiful woman in the world—”

  She hesitated.

  He’d play along again. “What?”

  “I’m saving him for Cassandra.”

  “You’re saving him? For Cassandra?”

  She sighed. “Can’t you see? They’re perfect together. Both vain. Both of them good-looking and selfish.”

  So that’s why she’d been so attentive to Mr. King! The little jealous part of Charlie that he’d been ignoring came roaring to the surface, like a quail beat out of the bush, and he was glad to shoot it down. “Are you sure you want him for Cassandra?”

  Daisy made an astonished face. “Why, it’s obvious they’re an ideal match.”

  “Good. Did you know the braggart and I get along very well? I’ve even forgiven him his unduly high shirt points and the intricate way he ties his cravats, as if he’s a mummy bound to escape unless he’s restrained.”

  Daisy rolled her eyes. “I hope you do, Charlie, because I can’t afford for him to be upset about anything.”

  Mr. King himself strolled up then, his shirt sleeves rolled to his elbows. “Are you ready for our competition, Lord Lumley? We’re to pick out our sheep and sharpen the shears. Your shepherd said that’ll get our nerves properly frayed.”

  “What competition?” Daisy asked him.