His attraction to Daisy was…odd. His personal tastes, such as they were, generally leaned toward experienced brunettes or flirtatious blondes. He liked professional, unattached women.
Widows.
Actresses.
Bored wives of German diplomats.
But avirgin?
A virgin with fiery red curls andfreckles?
A virgin with fiery red curls, freckles, and an adorably stubborn chin?
Perish the thought.
Unless…
Dear Lord.
Everett’s face paled.
Maybe he reallydidhave the gout.
Was lunacy a symptom?
“If you’re going to throw up,” Hollibrook said mildly, “there’s a silver ice bucket in the corner.”
“I’m not going to throw up.”
“You look like you are.”
“I can assure you that I am not.” Heaving himself out of his chair, Everett began to pace back and forth across the study, his footsteps muffled by a ridiculously expensive Aubusson rug. “I’ve never liked house parties. Everyone trapped under the same roof with wine and an excess amount of cheese. You’re just asking for debauchery and vice.”
“Not under my roof.” Hollibrook paused. “Aikens?”
“Hmm?” he said, only half listening.
“I said not undermyroof.” The marquess’ stern tone–and the warning hidden in his words– could not have been clearer.
“No vice or debauchery under your roof,” Everett agreed…even as his mind filled with a hazy, shimmering picture of an titian-haired fairy dressed in freckles, sunlight, and nothing else.
* * * * *
“Daisy, where have you been?” Mrs. White practically shrieked when her youngest daughter unceremoniously appeared in the doorway of the bedchamber where she, Rose, and Violet were busy selecting their wardrobe for the evening reception.
“In the stables with a scoundrel,” Daisy replied truthfully. Spying half an empty chaise lounge amidst the piles of dresses, shawls, shoes, and petticoats, she claimed the precious open spot for herself before a gown beat her to it. “At least, I’m fairly certain he was a scoundrel. Helookedlike a scoundrel.” She lifted a tangerine colored bonnet and frowned. “Whose clothes are these?”
“Ours,” Rose exclaimed as she ducked out from behind a privacy screen in her undergarments. “Aren’t they marvelous? Don’t you dare touch the sapphire dress or I’ll cut off your fingers. That one’s mine.”
“Lady Hollibrook is generously letting usborrowsome pieces from her private wardrobe until our belongings arrive from Briarwood House. Apparently there was an accident on the main road, and our carriage is delayed.” Mrs. White narrowed her eyes. “What do you mean you were with a scoundrel?”
“She’s jesting, obviously.” This from Violet, who was admiring herself in a tall mirror propped against a mahogany wardrobe. She had chosen a gown the exact shade of her namesake, its flowing lines and ruffled trim accentuating her curves. “What was this so-called scoundrel’s name?”
Daisy thought back. “He didn’t give me his name.”
“Did he have a long face and pointy ears?” Rose snickered.
“Did he whinny when you petted him?” Violet laughed.
