Free Viscount Vagabond by Loretta Chase Page B

“‘Poor, misguided creature’ would be rather more like it, I should think.”
    “Relations? What the devil are you talking about?”
    “My cousin—at least I believe she is the daughter of my mama’s second or third cousin—but you will have to ask Mama about that. By the time it gets to second cousins and times removed I lose all ability to concentrate.”
    Lord Rand sat down abruptly.
    “Her name,” said Louisa, “is Catherine Pelliston—not Pettigrew. Her papa, according to Edgar, is the Baron Pelliston of Wilberstone.”
    “Why that deceitful little b—”
    “If you persist in insulting my cousin, Max, I shall be forced to call you out, and that will be a great pity, as you are the better shot and Louisa has grown rather accustomed to me, I think.”
    “Your cousin can go to the devil,” Lord Rand retorted. “How dare she pretend to be a poor little schoolmistress, playing me for a fool—”
    “As easily as you pretended to be some lowborn lout, I suppose,” his sister interrupted.
    “Perhaps,” said the earl, “she suspected that you might hold her for ransom if she admitted her identity. You did not, I understand, admit yours, and Pelliston’s rich as Croesus. At any rate, I was intending to question Molly as soon as she recovered from her hysterics. Care to join me, Max?”
    Lord Rand maintained crossly that he didn’t give a damn what became of a spoiled debutante and an ingrate at that, not to mention she was an ignorant little prig. His brother-in-law took no heed of these or any of the other contradictory animadversions which followed regarding the young lady’s character, motives, and eventual dismal and well-deserved end. When the viscount had finished raving, Lord Andover merely nodded politely, then rose and left the room. Grumbling, Lord Rand followed him.
    The Viscount Rand was too restless a man to be much given to introspection. All the same he was not stupid, as his Eton master or Oxford tutors would have, though some of them grudgingly, admitted. He was therefore vaguely aware that his invectives upon Miss Pelliston were a tad irrational.
    Although she’d had no reason to trust him with her true identity—just as Edgar said—Lord Rand felt she’d betrayed him somehow, which was very odd. His chosen course of life had resulted in what he called “a tough hide.” Even Jenny’s defection had not penetrated his cynical armor—he was too used to having careers and friends bought off by his interfering father. He’d had a wonderful row with the Old Man about it, of course, but inwardly he’d felt nothing more than a twinge of disappointment in his American friend.
    Though he told himself he had far less reason to be disturbed about Miss Pelliston, the viscount was disturbed all the same. He was worried about her—she was far too naive—and he hated being worried, so he was furious with her.
    Unfortunately for his temper, Molly was worse than useless. When asked about her conversations with the young houseguest, the loquacious abigail became mute. She was not about to admit having discussed Lord Rand’s private life in vivid detail, and was so conscious of her indiscretion in doing so that she could remember nothing else she’d said.
    “She gave no hint of her intentions?” the earl asked patiently. “Did she seem distraught or frightened?”
    “Oh, no,” said Molly. “She didn’t say much of anything. Shy-like, My Lord. Even when I admired her hair she acted like she didn’t believe me, poor thing,” the abigail added as tears welled up in her eyes. “It weren’t no flattery, either. Curly and soft it was, like a baby’s, and as easy to brush as if it was silk.”
    “You needn’t carry on as if she was dead,” Max snapped, agitated anew by the tears streaming down the maid’s round, rosy cheeks.
    The earl quickly intervened. “Very well, Molly. Thank you,” he said, patting the girl’s shoulder. “Now do go wash your face and compose yourself. You