Notorious Lord, Compromised Miss. ANNIE BURROWS
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if you are, I would say you have entirely captivated my heart, too. I would propose on the spot.”
Her mouth dropped open. While she was sputtering, trying to find some suitably withering comeback, he went on languidly, “You know, for a man who has to marry money, you, sweet kitten, would seem a veritable godsend. If a man had to choose between the massive Miss Millbury, the frosty Miss Framlingham, or you, I am certain he would be foolish to do anything but fall head over heels in love with you.”
“F-fall in love with my money—my hypothetical money, you mean.”
“You have no money?”
She looked uncomfortable. “I think one of my aunts must have exaggerated my worth somewhat, thinking I would wish to be a social success. They probably meant well when they described me as coming from the wealthiest family in our town. But it is only a small town, you know, populated with simple country folk for the most part.”
“But you must have good connections, else you would never have been admitted within these hallowed portals. I am sure,” he said gently, “that you will meet a man who will value you for yourself, in time.” He ran his eyes slowly over her figure with such lazy speculation her face went scarlet. “You are definitely worth a second look.”
“I am never going to get married,” she declared with some vehemence.
“Ah!” he grinned at her. “A kindred spirit. I felt exactly as you do, until circumstances removed the luxury of choice. How would you feel about coming to some form of compromise?”
“Compromise?” she gasped, taking such a hasty step backwards that the pot rocked on its stand.
He grabbed it, steadied it, and explained. “I was only going to offer to share my hiding place with you. Come now, kitten,” he said, holding out his hand. “Tell me your name, and let us be friends.”
Her only response was to scowl.
“Katherine!” came an outraged screech from beyond the potted palm.
Looking over her shoulder, Viscount Maldon saw a tiny woman—clad entirely in garments of such a virulent yellow, he could practically taste lemons—making straight for their alcove.
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