Country Flirt by Joan Smith Page B

little smile, and took hold of her fingers. Monteith had often held Samantha’s elbow; it was the first time her fingers had been so honored. This intimate touch made her feel self-conscious.
    “Why me? You’ve never treated me like a sister.”
    “Haven’t I ignored you assiduously all these years? That is how siblings treat one another, unless one of them is in trouble, in which case we rally to the defense. I am exerting every effort to herd Teddie and Bert home to make their overtures to Uncle. And I intend to protect your gentle self from his invasions as well.”
    “If I were your sister, you’d be pitching me at his head.”
    “No, Mama would.”
    “It’s your house. You’re the head of the family. But pray don’t feel it necessary to protect me from a million pounds!”
    “A billion pounds wouldn’t make that yahoo palatable to the taste of a gently bred young lady. Surely to God, you can’t really be considering him as a husband. The man is a caricature. A regular Volpone in his raping of the nawabs.”
    Any fascination Samantha had felt for Lord Howard had diminished greatly during that luncheon. She thought silently for a moment, then changed the subject entirely.
    “You wouldn’t have heard from Ted or Bert yet, I fancy?’’
    “I only dispatched the letters this morning,” he replied, and immediately returned to the more interesting theme. “I might rescind the order. I’m beginning to feel like one of Volpone’s relatives myself, toadying up to Howard. A man can go too far in that direction. Money isn’t everything.”
    “And besides,” she said knowingly, “it is perfectly clear he plans to marry as soon as he can and set up a nursery of his own. I think you would be wise to treat him like any visiting relative.”
    “The problem is not precisely greed. Mama and I don’t want his gold for ourselves. It is merely our instinct, wanting to do the right thing for the boys.”
    “Why can’t they just marry heiresses, like all the other younger sons?” she asked.
    “We males of the Monteith line have the misfortune to marry where our hearts lead.”
    Samantha knew that the late Lord Monteith had been considered unwise to marry Irene, who had no dowry worth the name. They came to a stile, and Monteith offered his hand to lead her over, but when they reached the top, he suggested they just sit on the fence instead. Before them lay the meadow, spangled with wildflowers waving lazily in the sun.
    “I wonder how many begahs are in this meadow,” he said idly. “And how many sicca rupees it is worth.”
    “Heed your own excellent advice, Monty. A foreign language is poor entertainment.”
    “The primeval pastime of romance suggests itself, in this sylvan setting.”
    “A pity you aren’t accompanied by someone other than your sister. Mrs. Armstrong, for example.”
    “That chaste lady?” he asked, and laughed. “She’s already read my leaves, though rather unsatisfactorily.”
    “Then I shall tell your fortune by plucking daisy petals,” she decided, and hopped down from the stile.
    Monteith didn’t accompany her. He was content to watch her lithe young body bending and swaying as she garnered the blooms, with her skirt billowing occasionally when the wind caught it. He felt a hot anger building inside, to think of Howard pestering this young lady, who still seemed half a girl to him.
    When she returned, Monteith took a daisy from her and said, “Why don’t I tell your future instead? I am not interested in attaching either a rich man, a poor man, a beggar man, or a thief.”
    He pulled out the petals, one by one, and chanted the old saw, ending with the choice, “Rich man.”
    “The fates have decreed!” she said. “There is no arguing with a daisy. Howard it is.”
    “I mentally cast Howard in the role of Indian chief,” he countered. “We have more than one rich man amongst us —Clifford, for example. And myself.”
    She felt him looking at her. A coil of