When Viscount Selkirk is accidentally knocked flat by a young lady, he steals a kiss to teach her a lesson. But Miss Fairweather has a few lessons to teach the teacher. Who is this outrageous young miss whose sole purpose is to hunt down and marry a man named Selkirk, and what will happen when she discovers her prey is the very man she has mistaken for a gardener?
Excerpt:
“I cannot, Mr. Neff. In order to save Meade House, it is imperative I marry a rich man. If I do not, they will sell off our property and send Mama and me to the poor house.”
“What if I were to tell you I am the viscount?” he said, despising the note of desperation in his voice.
Her dimples were back. “I would not believe you, sir, though I am beginning to wish you were. You are a prodigious good kisser.”
“But I am the viscount!” he almost shrieked. “Really!”
“And I am Cleopatra.” She patted his cheek. “Nice try, Mr. Neff.” In one swift movement she was standing above him, offering her hand to him as before. “Turn around,” she admonished. “Your back and hair are covered with leaves again.” Brushing him down, she said, “I will count on your putting in a good word for me with Lord Selkirk.” Her handshake was warm, firm.
Just like Abigail Fairweather.
Before releasing her hand, he brought it to his lips and pressed an ardent kiss to her wrist. “I will sing your praises to Lord Selkirk,” he promised, and then added slyly, “though I believe you might want to improve on your kissing technique if you hope to snabble him.”
“What?!” She looked thunderstruck.
And mortally offended.
“Make no mistake, ma’am, you are well versed in the art of osculation,” David said, barely keeping a straight face. “The best I have ever encountered, in fact. But if you want to leg-shackle the viscount, you will have to make it impossible for him to resist you.”
“I have done my research, Mr. Neff. He cannot help but fall in love with me.”
Ahhh, the luscious little peach. He was half in love with her already.
“My dear, there is more to snaring a man than having similar tastes. That is all good and well, but you must make him pant after you.”
“I made you pant.”
Like a green schoolboy, David felt the heat of a flush creep up his neck. “I have it on good authority there are no less than fifteen other eligible young ladies in the neighborhood, Miss Fairweather. What do you have to recommend yourself over them? Can you play the pianoforte?”
“Tolerably.”
“Sketch? Watercolor?”
“Not very well.”
“Embroider?”
“Oh, pooh! There is more to life than stitchery.”
“Dance? Waltz?”
“I have not learned how to waltz yet.”
“Abigail Fairweather, what are you good at?”
She smiled brightly. “Kissing.”
“Then you are in luck, because that will give you a leg up on your competition. I love to…er, Lord Selkirk loves to kiss more than anything else. Well, almost more than anything else.”
“Really?”
“Really.”
“Are you available to give me advanced kissing lessons, Mr. Neff?”
He closed his eyes in a momentary prayer of thanksgiving. Him give her lessons? She could give lessons to half the rakes in London!
