“Yes. Cunning, utterly unscrupulous, lecherous, libidinous, wretched, degraded, villainous pig-widgeon, buffle-headed, sappy, chuckle-headed, scapegrace, raffish, swag-bellied badgers, I take it.”
Argyll raised his eyebrows. “Impressive memory.” He brought his hands up together in a slow clap. “Well done.”
An impish glitter lit her eyes. “I am Eris.”
“Eris,” he repeated. “As in the sister of Ares?” God of War.
“And the personification of conflict and defiance?” She sprang to her feet and dropped an insolent curtsy. “The same.”
Not missing a beat, Argyll stretched a palm out. “Argyll.”
With a guileless that bespoke a family weakness, Daria’s aptly named sister slipped unsuspecting fingers into his and gave them a pump. “Did youreallymarry Daria?”
“Would it surprise you if I said yes?”
“No,” she said. “On account she just said you did and you are seated on the ‘in-trouble’ bench.”
He found himself smiling. “Then why did you ask?”
“Well, it is just you do not seem like a man Daria would marry.”
His grin slipped. What manner of man suitedArgyll’swife?
Argyll angled sideways on the bench and dropped his arm along the bench top rail. He was not miffed. Rather, curious. The small girl would freely tender information about the wife he could not read. “How so?”
“For one”—her regret-filled eyes went to the top of his head—“you have golden hair.”
His hand went reflexively to the blond hair in question. “And?” He frowned. “There is something wrong with blond hair?” he couldn’t keep from asking.
It didn’t mean she intended to answer—nor did she.
“You have blue eyes.” She sounded thoroughly disappointed. “Not dark, almost black-blue ones.”
Shesoundedthoroughly disappointed because shewasthoroughly disappointed.
Eris scooted closer and shifted into the same position as him. “Daria was meant to marry a dark gentleman. One with black hair and menacing eyes, and your eyes…” Getting onto her knees, she peered close.
Argyll edged back.
“They are not that, Argyll.”
The imp’s sigh went on forever, then Eris plopped into her original seat with enough force that he winced in commiseration.
“One would think, given my lack of menace…” Yet another phrase never uttered about the Duke of Argyll—him or the distinguished line of depraved scoundrels before. “Your brother would be more agreeable?”
“Yes, but yours are a different kind of menacing.”
A girl aged beyond her years. Her brother was going to have his hands full with this one. But then, with Daria as an older sister to set the course, could any path other than peril possibly await?
A fresh shout went up. “You wanted to marry?”
They turned their attention back on St. John’s freshly shaking door panel.
“…and it was him, that debased, debauched scapegrace, Daria?”
Argyll cast a sideways glance at the little girl to see how she fared under the full force of her brother’s fury.
Daria’s sister absorbed it all without reaction. At some point, she’d resumed her examination of his unfavorable hair.
