Page 45 of The Mad Marchams

He sat on the side of the bed and shoved his hand through his dark hair. “Your faith in me confounds me.”

“Why?”

“Because I’m just not used to being seen as the good guy by anyone. I’m not used to people trusting me to do the right thing. Let alone by someone I… care about. A lot.”

“Now, that one’s on you. I can’t make you see yourself as I see you. I can only tell you how I feel. I’m not trying to trick you, Colin. I’m genuinely trying to help someone I care about. Maybe it’s my fault that I’ve ended up equating giving money to receiving love.”

“If that’s how your family treats you then they suck almost as badly as mine.” Colin held her gaze. “You are way more than someone’s personal banker.”

“Thank you.” She swallowed hard. “I guess I needed that reality check.”

“Okay.” He studied her for a long moment. “How about a loan with interest?”

A sense of relief blossomed in her chest. “Sure, if that makes you happy.”

“What would make me happy is if you stopped packing and came over here to write me a bloody big check.”

Mabel pretended to gasp and pressed her hand to her bosom. “Viscount Levenham, how dare you?”

He rose from the bed, a pair of her favorite lace panties hooked over his index finger, and came to stand beside her. “My lady?”

“We’re good?” she asked uncertainly.

“We are.” He leaned in and kissed her. “Now come to bed so that we can celebrate our new arrangement.”

“I thought you wanted me to write you a check,” Mabel reminded him even as her heart gave a big joyful leap.

“You can do that naked.”

CHAPTER TEN

A week later, Mabel and Colin were in the hall’s drawing room, hosting a large group of people from various historical committees, charities, stuck-up academic institutions, and general village gossipmongers. After three hours of hearing all the negatives about his beloved home, Colin was just about ready to set fire to it—only he didn’t think the insurance would pay up.

“Would anyone like more tea or coffee? There’s also a selection of refreshments on the terrace.” Mabel gestured at the open French windows that led outside. “I believe there might be scones and clotted cream as well.”

At the mention of scones there was a stream of personnel toward the exit. Colin stood beside Mabel as they watched people eagerly leave. “You’re totally getting it now. Mentioning sweet treats is always a winner.”

She winked at him. He’d let her do most of the presentation as they walked around the house and only chipped in when asked a specific question. While planning this tour, she’d asked all the residents of the house to speak freely if they encountered the touring group. It was a genius idea. As well-practiced complainers, they’d all provided a fitting chorus of doom and despair to accompany the facts Mabel shared.

“Your secretary’s a nice gel!” Sir Hugo Moffat from the Old Homes of England Association stopped beside Colin. “American!”

“Yes, Mabel is American, and she’s very nice, but she’s definitely not my secretary,” Colin said with a smile. “She’s my partner in this venture.”

Sir Hugo winked. “That’s what we’re calling it these days is it?” He made bunny ears with his fingers. “I thought the term was ‘hook up’ according to my grandchildren. How’s your father doing?”

“He’s holding his own,” Colin said.

“Parkinson’s, I gather.”

“Yes.”

“Not fun.” Sir Hugo grimaced and looked up at the badly patched ceiling. “Would be a shame to see this place go to wrack and ruin. I’ll be supporting a grant from our association for restoration purposes.”

“Thank you, Sir Hugo,” Colin said. “I appreciate that very much and so will my father.”

“Give him my best, won’t you?”

“I will.”