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It’s warring nations, dueling philosophies and the battle of the sexes as American-born Miss Liberty Baylis takes on Simon Lansing, Viscount Brodham, in the fight for her friend’s happiness.
Brodham wants only to retire to the peace and quiet of his country estate, but he’ll take on the cheeky American chit if that’s what it takes to keep his nephew safe and happy.
The war is on . . . but when banter and flirtation become weapons and kisses disrupt strategies, will Brodham and Liberty ever wish for the battles to end?
Brodham wants only to retire to the peace and quiet of his country estate, but he’ll take on the cheeky American chit if that’s what it takes to keep his nephew safe and happy.
The war is on . . . but when banter and flirtation become weapons and kisses disrupt strategies, will Brodham and Liberty ever wish for the battles to end?
EXCERPT
Brodham took a step back, away from the pretty little bundle of liveliness—and guile, if her expressive green eyes and his suspicions were correct.
After so many years of exposure he possessed a finely honed sensitivity for trouble, and this girl oozed it from her pores. A glittering, sparkling sort of trouble, to be sure, it hovered about her like a cloud of fairy dust—and made her all the more dangerous.
“Simon Lansing, Viscount Brodham, at your service.” He glanced over to Peter and the other girl. “I’d wait for a more formal introduction, but it might be best to let them have their few moments. Especially as they are likely to be their last.”
She dipped, her curtsy abrupt and her smile fixed. “Miss Liberty Baylis.”
She paused, presumably at his expression, and sighed. “Yes. Liberty. I know it is a silly name, but it’s the one I’ve been saddled with and I strive to make the best of it.”
“Very wise,” he murmured.
“Well. It is a pleasure, my lord. But why must these be their last moments? Why would they not have more, now that they’ve found each other at last?”
He looked over again. Peter’s young lady was lovely—and staring at his nephew like a love struck mooncalf. “Ah, but who is it that Mr. Gardiner has found? Who is her family and why have they allowed her to court such spectacle?”
“I think spectacle is rather a harsh word, sir. There’s hardly anyone here. This barely qualifies as a fuss.” She smiled. “And what is a little fuss in the name of love?”
He raised a brow.
She sighed. “She is Miss Felicity Carmichael, my lord, daughter of Baron Gosforth. And I’m afraid she cooked up her little scheme all on her own. It seems her family knew nothing of it.”
He lifted a shoulder. “At least she has some claim of nobility, although the whole situation still does not speak well of whoever has had the charge of her.”
A corner of her mouth turned up. “As much as it’s been a pleasure to make your acquaintance, my lord, I do confess to an impatience to meet Mr. Gardiner. It appears he is a man of intellect and a great deal of understanding.”
As opposed to him? She was as cheeky as she was curvy beneath her dusky blue day gown and smart spencer trimmed in white and gold. He bit back a smile. “What makes you say that?”
“He grasped Miss Carmichael’s many fine qualities before he learned of her connection to the peerage.”
“Ah, that helps me place your accent. I suspected that you were an American.”
She flushed. “And proud to be so, sir.”
“Yes, you all do seem to feel that way.”
Her chin lifted. “As you are an Englishman, I will defer to your expertise in the area of pride.”
A direct hit. He began to warm to the game, despite himself. “I’m afraid I still don’t understand your connection to the lovely Miss Carmichael.”
She stiffened. “The connection of friendship,” she said curtly.
“Ah. A friendship of long standing, it must surely be.”
He awaited her answer, sure he’d caught her—and feeling alive and . . . stimulated. It had been a long while since he’d exchanged barbs with a skilled opponent—and longer still since he’d faced one so appealing.
Brodham took a step back, away from the pretty little bundle of liveliness—and guile, if her expressive green eyes and his suspicions were correct.
After so many years of exposure he possessed a finely honed sensitivity for trouble, and this girl oozed it from her pores. A glittering, sparkling sort of trouble, to be sure, it hovered about her like a cloud of fairy dust—and made her all the more dangerous.
“Simon Lansing, Viscount Brodham, at your service.” He glanced over to Peter and the other girl. “I’d wait for a more formal introduction, but it might be best to let them have their few moments. Especially as they are likely to be their last.”
She dipped, her curtsy abrupt and her smile fixed. “Miss Liberty Baylis.”
She paused, presumably at his expression, and sighed. “Yes. Liberty. I know it is a silly name, but it’s the one I’ve been saddled with and I strive to make the best of it.”
“Very wise,” he murmured.
“Well. It is a pleasure, my lord. But why must these be their last moments? Why would they not have more, now that they’ve found each other at last?”
He looked over again. Peter’s young lady was lovely—and staring at his nephew like a love struck mooncalf. “Ah, but who is it that Mr. Gardiner has found? Who is her family and why have they allowed her to court such spectacle?”
“I think spectacle is rather a harsh word, sir. There’s hardly anyone here. This barely qualifies as a fuss.” She smiled. “And what is a little fuss in the name of love?”
He raised a brow.
She sighed. “She is Miss Felicity Carmichael, my lord, daughter of Baron Gosforth. And I’m afraid she cooked up her little scheme all on her own. It seems her family knew nothing of it.”
He lifted a shoulder. “At least she has some claim of nobility, although the whole situation still does not speak well of whoever has had the charge of her.”
A corner of her mouth turned up. “As much as it’s been a pleasure to make your acquaintance, my lord, I do confess to an impatience to meet Mr. Gardiner. It appears he is a man of intellect and a great deal of understanding.”
As opposed to him? She was as cheeky as she was curvy beneath her dusky blue day gown and smart spencer trimmed in white and gold. He bit back a smile. “What makes you say that?”
“He grasped Miss Carmichael’s many fine qualities before he learned of her connection to the peerage.”
“Ah, that helps me place your accent. I suspected that you were an American.”
She flushed. “And proud to be so, sir.”
“Yes, you all do seem to feel that way.”
Her chin lifted. “As you are an Englishman, I will defer to your expertise in the area of pride.”
A direct hit. He began to warm to the game, despite himself. “I’m afraid I still don’t understand your connection to the lovely Miss Carmichael.”
She stiffened. “The connection of friendship,” she said curtly.
“Ah. A friendship of long standing, it must surely be.”
He awaited her answer, sure he’d caught her—and feeling alive and . . . stimulated. It had been a long while since he’d exchanged barbs with a skilled opponent—and longer still since he’d faced one so appealing.
Reviews:
A gutsy American heiress vs an English Viscount. Who will win? Or will they both? LOVED this short story!
--Nelle's Nightstand
A gutsy American heiress vs an English Viscount. Who will win? Or will they both? LOVED this short story!
--Nelle's Nightstand
