Minor Indiscretions by Bárbara Metzger Page A

bastard of such an uncaring, heartless libertine. She would have done better as an orphan.
    "Well, Miss Ashton, if you have completed your survey, may I have my answer?"
    "No. That is, the answer is no, my lord. I shall not put a small child into your care. Why, I don't think you even know her name."
    His lordship looked away from those intent green eyes. "No, that was not in my information."
    "It is Margaret. We call her Meggie."
    "My mother's name was Margo. Blast it, stop looking at me like that. I did not even know of the chit's existence till two weeks ago!"
    Worse and worse. "Let me understand. You abandoned your own flesh and blood like an old hat, letting your sister assume responsibility, and now you think you can just come fetch her as if she were a package lost in transit? And you call me names?"
    "Confound it, girl, I am not going to sell my… my ward to white slavers, you know! I planned to send—to take her to my sister's old governess in Cornwall."
    "Where she will be mewed up with an old woman instead of here, where she has playmates and people who love her. I think not, Lord Coe. Further, you cannot have considered the journey." She knew he hadn't, likely intending to ship a frightened, homesick waif off with servants. "Meggie has a weak chest. Would you know what to do if she started wheezing at night or her lungs became congested?"
    She knew dashed well he didn't, the little witch, Corey fumed. Oh, there were hired nursemaids and private physicians, and taking the trip in easy stages, which could take weeks. Weeks in a closed carriage with an ailing, tearful child who would most likely be motion sick the entire journey. Gads, what a coil. Still, he was not leaving any of his kin with these vultures. "I can handle it, Miss Ashton," he blustered. "Just what do you think I am?"
    So she told him. She started with reckless reprobate and went on to debauched womanizer, with stops at self-righteous sapskull and buffle-headed bounder. She was paying him back for all of his hateful accusations and disrespect and a few shattered dreams.
    The viscount responded in kind, to the mayhem this woman had brought into his life, as well as a few disillusions of his own. They were both on their feet shouting. Miss Ashton was pounding the shaky, old desk and ranting about kettle-calling, and his lordship was wringing an imaginary neck between his hands, raving about bedlamites and blood money.
    Mrs. Tolliver slammed a tray of wine bottles and glasses on the desk between them and stood there glowering. "The twins have more decorum than you two," she muttered. "Lucky for you Nanny's not here. You're not too old to have your mouth washed out with soap, either of you. Such talk, Miss Melody!" She crossed her hands over her chest and positioned herself near the door, obviously on guard duty.
    His lordship was restored to better humor by the humbling effect of old retainers, that and Miss Ashton's mortification at being caught out as a fishwife. She was blushing furiously, starting just above the rose crepe gown's neckline.
    "So your name is Melody," he said pleasantly, when he could tear his eyes away. "I wondered. Angel doesn't seem quite appropriate, under the circumstances."
    "My name is Miss Ashton," she snapped back.
    Corey raised one eyebrow in mild rebuke. He was doing
his
part to make polite conversation for her employee's benefit. He lifted his glass. "Melody suits you."
    "Not at all, my lord." He wanted polite conversation; he would get polite conversation. "It was a conceit of my father's, who fancied he heard a nightingale sing on the day of my birth. I must be content he did not name me for the bird." She sipped her wine. "I myself have no talent in that direction. I was never permitted to sing in choir and was always delegated page turner at instrumental recitals. So you see, my lord," she said triumphantly, "you do not know me at all. Your impressions are quite, quite wrong. As are your accusations. You have tried