Cloudy With a Chance of Marriage (43 page)

Daisy huffed. “Piles of gold don’t change the fact that he’s cruel to his tenants and doesn’t love Ella a bit. I’d rather see you in
our
faded grey than
his
black bombazine any day.”

“Ye’re right,” said Hester. “Besides which he’s ugly as a stoat. I’d have to close my eyes to kiss the likes o’ him.” She added the last bit with the vigor of someone who knows she’s been thinking selfishly and hopes she’ll be forgiven.

The impatient knock came again. Louder this time.

The flowers on the massive hall table almost seemed to stir, although there was no breeze. Jinx, sauntering through the hall with her tail a question mark, suddenly leaped into the air as if she’d seen a ghost. Afterward, she stood stricken, her pupils large and black, her legs splayed.

Daisy exchanged glances with Hester.

Already things were different, and all because of the viscount. Daisy knew this deep inside, in that illogical place she kept hidden because Mother often told her (in that scornful manner of hers) that when you were English, you were sensible. Scots were the barmy ones. Not the English.

She released a breath. “You get the door,” she told Hester calmly. “I’ll be in the drawing room. We’ll worry about dinner later.”

“What I should do about your mother and Perdita?”

“Stall them if they wake. Tell them the vicar wants them at the kirk immediately to wash the altar cloths.”

Hester chuckled. “They’d never in a million years—they’ll say they have colds and hide in their beds.”

“Exactly.” And with that, Daisy stuck her chin in the air and left Hester to do her duty.

Daisy had her own duty to perform, and rather than rely on a new gown and a ham, she’d have to lean on her wits and her natural charm to see her through, even though the natural charm, according to what her mother and Perdita had told her, had never been anywhere in evidence.

But still …

She
must
try.

Ella’s future depended on it, and that was all that mattered.

Daisy shut the drawing-room door behind her and strode immediately to the chair in front of the window and sat. The sun’s rays behind her would cast her face in shadow. The visitor—her viscount—wouldn’t see right away that she was plain, the plainest of all three young ladies in residence at Castle Vandemere. Perdita insisted on wearing the latest fashions no matter the cost, so a stylish observer’s eye was diverted from her perpetually churlish expression. And Ella was so beautiful she could dress in a burlap sack and turn heads.

Daisy, in her simple mourning dress of gray muslin, fixed what she hoped was a pleasant smile on her face and prepared to wait. There was a deep voice in the hall. Clipped. Cold. Very masculine. And then Hester’s thin, rabbit-y answer.

Oh, dear. Couldn’t Hester work up a bit more nerve?

And then Daisy swore she heard an unfamiliar feminine giggle.

No, that would be
two
unfamiliar feminine giggles.

She clung to the sides of the chair, her palms sweating, her nails like talons. Her pleasant smile was gone. She’d never been good at playing a part anyway.

Daisy Alice Montgomery!
Her late stepfather’s voice came to her.
Be brave.

And she must be charming.

She loosened her grip, adjusted her curls. Hoped for a sudden boost of radiance to infuse her person. Perhaps she’d sneak out the double French doors and go saddle Blue, after all. She’d get that ham and slip into a new gown and gallop back.

If Blue would cooperate.

What she wouldn’t give for a carrot at this moment! Or a lump of sugar. Which treat would be more likely to get that stubborn old horse to cooperate?

But she didn’t have time to debate the matter. The door was flung open not a second later.

Hester walked in, her eyes wide and blinking, her hand curled to her mouth. “Viscount Lumley of London,” she gasped bravely, “and his … his sisters!”

And then she scuttled off.

A second later, a man strode through the door. Apart from his clothes, which at one time had obviously been in the first stare of fashion—from his muddy black hightop boots to his snug but ripped buckskin breeches to the coat (with no buttons left) which fit him like a glove (Daisy noted the complete absence of a cravat over the stained white shirt)—he looked almost exactly like the dramatic depiction of Sir Lancelot in the large, florid oil painting in the servants’ hall.

Almost.

Obviously, in his state of disarray, he was more like Sir Lancelot’s bad twin. But he had the same deep brown hair—wavy and thick—and eyes the tawny brown color of the hazelnuts heaped in the white ceramic bowl in the kitchen. And like the Lancelot in the painting that Daisy had admired for years now (she’d imagined kissing him when she was younger), this man’s jaw was square, his nose aquiline. His bearing was proud; his stance, assured.

Except for that ghastly black eye and a bloody scab on his nose, he was handsome. Far too handsome for his own good. Daisy had never seen such a handsome man (who’d obviously been in a brawl. Or two).

Her heart raced not at his good looks, she told herself, but at the lack of warmth in his manner and the scowl on his countenance. He also reeked of cheroots and stale ale.

Most shocking of all, he was accompanied by two women, one clinging to each arm. They were lightskirts, wearing too much rouge and their necklines scandalously low. They could be nothing else. Daisy had been well sheltered, but even
she
knew when a woman wasn’t a lady.

“H-hello.” She stood and looked back and forth between the two women, both of whom were about her age.

“I’m Isabel.
Lady
Isabel,” said the tall, slender one with rich auburn hair and a dimple on either side of her mouth.

“You may call me Lady Oleander,” said the shorter one with light brown hair, a curvaceous figure, and long, lush dark brown lashes.

The women giggled.

Daisy shut her gaping mouth and looked full-on at the gentleman.

He returned her gaze with cold equanimity. “And I am your viscount,” he said softly, in a take-no-prisoners tone.

She put her hand on the back of a chair to steady herself. It was even more than she’d expected. Never in her entire life had she been exposed to such …

Such excitement.

Such awful,
horrible
excitement.

St. Martin’s Paperbacks Titles by

KIERAN KRAMER

When Harry Met Molly

Dukes to the Left of Me, Princes to the Right

Praise for

WHEN HARRY MET MOLLY

“A delectable debut … I simply adored it!”

—Julia Quinn,
New York Times
bestselling author of
What Happens in London

“At once frothy and heartfelt,
When Harry Met Molly
satisfies! This book is better than dessert!”

—Celeste Bradley,
New York Times
bestselling author of
Rogue in My Arms

“Kieran Kramer pens a delightful Regency confection … a wonderfully bright debut.”

—Julia London,
New York Times
bestselling author of
A Courtesan’s Scandal

“A delicious romp that will keep you laughing. A fun heroine and a sexy hero make this a delightful read.”

—Sabrina Jeffries,
New York Times
bestselling author of
The Truth About Lord Stoneville

“I couldn’t put it down … a charming delight!”

—Lynsay Sands,
New York Times
bestselling author of
The Hellion and the Highlander

“A wickedly witty treat … an exquisite debut!”

—Kathryn Caskie,
USA Today
bestselling author of
The Most Wicked of Sins

“
When Harry Met Molly
is a delightful, page-turning read! New author Kieran Kramer will capture both your imagination and your heart.”

—Cathy Maxwell,
New York Times
bestselling author of
The Marriage Ring

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

CLOUDY WITH A CHANCE OF MARRIAGE

Copyright © 2011 by Kieran Kramer.

Excerpt from
If You Give a Girl a Viscount
copyright © 2011 by Kieran Kramer.

All rights reserved.

For information address St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, NY 10010.

ISBN: 978-0-312-37403-7

St. Martin’s Paperbacks edition / May 2011

St. Martin’s Paperbacks are published by St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, NY 10010.

eISBN 978-1-4299-8027-2

First St. Martin’s Paperbacks eBook Edition: April 2011