The third ewe bucked and bawled worse than the others. He’d saved her for last because he’d seen her around the pastures. She was bossy, given to bursts of pique.

“Go, Viscount, go!” he heard a little boy scream from his right.

“Mr. King’s ahead!” someone else called.

“Aye, and it’s close,” an old man to the left of Charlie said.

The ewe wriggled so hard, Charlie had to hold the shears up and away. He stumbled backward, the ewe twisted …

“Go!”

“He missed a spot!”

“That damned ewe reminds me of my wife!”

“Hurry!”

Charlie had no idea if the crowd was talking about his ewe or Mr. King’s, and he certainly didn’t know which of them had to go or hurry.

He reestablished his stance: knees bent, toes in …

Sheep locked into position between his legs.

This was it.

Without blinking or breathing, he finished shearing the sheep.

He dropped his shears and looked up and—

Mr. King was shearing the last bit of wool off the right side of his ewe and …

It was over.

Over.

Charlie wiped the sweat out of his eyes. His lungs were near bursting, but he forced himself to take slow, measured breaths. Already the village elder and his cohorts were examining the last two sheep for nicks and holding up the fleeces to see how neatly they’d been shorn.

Charlie was sore, but he moved toward Mr. King as if he’d not just been working harder than he ever had before. Mr. King came toward him, as well. His rival looked as worn out as Charlie felt.

They met in the middle and clasped hands.

“It was a fine match,” Charlie said.

“It was indeed.” Mr. King’s handshake was firm but quick.

A little too quick, Charlie thought, to be considered entirely sporting.

He looked over his shoulder—Daisy was still in front of the byre, her hands clasped beneath her chin. Cassandra stood beside her, both her hands resting on one hip, a casual pose that belied her taut expression. Daisy jumped up and down on her little stump and waved again.

He raised a hand to her and grinned, glad he was worth more than a meager hop. He merited full-fledged bouncing, didn’t he?

Take that, Mr. King, he thought, remembering that first meeting in the hall at the Keep when Daisy had been so enthusiastic about the man.

But then a drumbeat called his attention in another direction. It was time to find out who’d done the best job shearing.

Perdita stood, her fists on her hips.

The village elder cleared his throat. “The laird has made his choice.”

Please let me be the winner, Charlie prayed. He really didn’t want to have to buy that round at the village pub.

He thought of Daisy, at how fresh and real and feisty she was, and felt a keen ache to win the bet he’d made with the other Impossible Bachelors. There was no way he wanted to enter the London Marriage Mart and wed a simpering miss.

Ever.

He bowed his head and awaited his fate.

“The winner is … Lord Lumley!” cried the elder.

“Aye!” Perdita gave a mighty growl and punched the air with her fist.

When Charlie raised his head, he found himself grinning from ear to ear.

He’d won. Thank God.

He immediately turned around to see Daisy. There she was, smiling at him! She looked a bit strained because Cassandra lingered at her elbow, but that smile lit every corner of his heart.

The fact that she was happy delighted him no end.

He winked at her. She blushed, which made him wish he could go over there right now and receive a celebratory kiss.

Later, her expression said.

Later, he confirmed with his eyes.

Which was exactly when Miss Cassandra gave her a lovely little push, causing Daisy to stumble off her stump and teeter backward into a slippery patch, where she landed flat on her rear end into a pool of mud.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Daisy was happy for Charlie. She really was. She said, “I’m happy for Charlie,” through gritted teeth under her breath all night.

She’d be happy for Charlie if it was the last thing she did. She’d forget what happened to her with Cassandra. She’d forget that Cassandra had been so wicked that she’d pushed Daisy off her stump.

And she’d forget that when she’d fallen in the mud, tears had come to her eyes and Cassandra had stalked off, laughing.

Charlie, of course, had been carried off with the crowd of men to the pub. Daisy ran into Castle Vandemere for a quick change of clothes and a long hug from Hester, and wondered why she’d never known there was such a thing as grown people pushing each other.

Joe had said when both parties did it, it was called wrestling.

“But when one does it, it’s called spitefulness,” Hester told her.

Back at the Keep, Daisy decided the only way to get through the evening would be to avoid Cassandra at all costs. She’d think rude thoughts about her. She’d also pity herself and wonder how life would ever get better. And she’d stay busy in the kitchen scrubbing pots so she wouldn’t cry.


When Charlie returned with the other men to the Keep after an evening’s celebration at the new pub, Daisy was still busy scrubbing pots in the kitchen, but she’d gotten over pitying herself. Hard work tended to do that to a person.

And it might have helped that when Cassandra had walked by the kitchen an hour ago and seen her scrubbing away, she’d actually put her head in the door and said, “I’m sorry I ruined your ratty gown. Now maybe you’ll be forced to get a decent one.”

And Daisy had said, “If that’s you trying to be nice, you’re doing a very poor job. Why do you bother with me, Cassandra?”

Cassandra shrugged.

Daisy’s heart pounded with fury. “Should I tell you what I’m thinking?”

“Go ahead,” her new sister said, tossing her head.

“Very well.” Daisy crossed her arms. “I wish you’d eaten that mud I fell in and gotten sick the same way you and Cousin Roman made me ill by giving me that drugged wine.”

Cassandra had bitten her lip at that and stalked on.

Meanwhile, the cooks had made a hearty lamb stew and bread, which they’d kept warm for the men’s—and Perdita’s—return.

A few rounds of card playing followed, and as usual, Daisy didn’t go to bed until the last guest had retired.

“I’ve arranged a surprise for you,” Charlie said to her at his bedchamber door. “You deserve it after all your hard work today. And your mishap.”

“What mishap?”

“You know.”

She bit her lip. “Did you see it happen?”

He nodded.

“Why didn’t you—”

“I knew you wouldn’t have wanted me to,” he said.

She looked down at the ground, remembering that feeling of being covered in mud.

“You’re right,” she replied with a sigh. If anyone had gotten near her at that point, she would have screamed.

“I wanted to be with you,” he said. “Honestly. But then I got pulled away, down to the pub. Will you tell me why it happened?”

“Eventually,” she said.

He pulled a curl off her forehead.

“When will I get my surprise?” she whispered.

“I’m not telling,” Charlie said back, and slipped into his bedchamber. He’d told her he’d linger for twenty minutes and make a bit of noise for Mr. Woo next door before he sneaked upstairs to her bedchamber through the hidden staircase.

When Daisy entered her room, she saw a lovely copper tub standing before the fire. Curls of steam wafted upward from the water’s surface. A fluffy towel and bar of soap were laid on a chair.

Charlie, apparently, couldn’t wait. He appeared a few seconds later. “Your bath, my lady.”

For a moment, neither one of them spoke. A bit of peat on the fire flared, and a log shifted.

“How wonderful,” Daisy said, feeling out of breath.

Charlie smiled softly. “You need it after the day you’ve had. But our restrictions still stand.”

“What restrictions?”

“If you recall our conversation this morning, you said that we wouldn’t touch each other tonight, and I agreed.”

Daisy thought back. Or tried to. It was difficult to concentrate when he was so near. “Oh,” she said. “You’re clever, aren’t you?”

“More desperate than clever, actually.”

“Desperate for what?” she whispered.

“For you. It’s why I’m bringing out the screen. If we can’t touch each other, we certainly shouldn’t see each other, either. Much too tempting, don’t you think? And after your bath, we’ll extinguish the candle and take to our own sides of the bed.”

She gulped. “Yes. You’re right, of course.”

He pulled out an exotic painted-silk screen from a corner and placed it in front of the tub. “I promise I won’t peek.”

“Thank you, Charlie,” she said softly, feeling shy of a sudden.

“You’re welcome,” he said, and left her to her ablutions.

Behind the screen, she could see nothing of him. But she heard him walking about the room. And then she heard him pull up a chair and place a candle on a small table that she knew was not two yards away from her tub.

“You’ll wait?” she asked him from behind the screen. She was glad he couldn’t see her blush.

“Yes,” he said. “I’ve a good book to occupy my time.”

“Very well.” Slowly, she untied her ribbons. The fire hissed and crackled. The clock on the mantel ticked slowly. She also heard the flick of pages turning as Charlie read his book.