Author's Note: Thank you for the reviews, AbbeyXD and bookworm07! I appreciate them very much. :D

Chapter One

Should I really be honored that someone wrote a poem for me? I hate poems. They're a bore. And my name does not rhyme with margarine! Good heavens, attending to my suitors can be a tedious (and rather horrifying) task at times. I'd rather eat a fly. It's a good thing my dear Archer came just in time to rescue me.

- From the diary of Margaret Cutting, 4 July 1950

"My love for you is like a dove

So soft and yet so rough.

If I could ever compare you to one thing

I'd say it would be a margarine.

One kiss is all I am asking for

Pure bliss is what I'll feel

Before I head for the door.

So dear, dear countess

I -"

"Thank you, Henry," I said haughtily, "I do appreciate the time you spent to write that poem for me - how long did you say it took you?"

Henry Carmichael, a young mister without a penny in his pocket, grinned at me in his seat, leaning forward to take my hand. "Eight hours," he replied magnanimously, looking at all his rivals smugly. "You see, I had to think hard and I wrote that poem with passion."

"I can tell you wrote it with such passion, Mr. Carmichael," I said dryly. "Comparing me to a margarine and stating that your love for me is like a dove that is so soft, yet so rough is highly eloquent." I stared at him behind the rim of my teacup, one gold eyebrow arched. "I am very loved. So very loved."

Dolt that he was, Henry beamed at my praise, glaring when one of my other suitors laughed at him. He sat back and gazed at me longingly. I was a vision that afternoon in my parents' country house in Newcastle. My shoulder-length hair was curled and glistened like spun gold in the afternoon light from the window behind me, my skin was all peaches and cream, with bright baby blues glittering as I stared at all my handsome suitors. I was in a beautiful pink day dress that complimented my fair features, and to complete it all, a tea set and a tray of fabulous tarts was on the table in front of me, making me look like one hell of a strawberry tart doll.

I was usually in a good mood when my suitors were visiting me (not really) and were as composed as a true gentleman would act (they were trying so very hard to get a praise and for me to notice them, poor ducks). But really, it was becoming such a bore! The last straw was when Henry recited his done-in-only-eight-hours-poem entitled "Margaret is my Margarine" in front of everyone. I wanted to sink and meld as one with the floor!

And I wasn't even that very patient nor was I angelic, truth be told. But the chaps still wouldn't give up. Blast them.

I was a young woman who had a title and had no husband. I was a countess and therefore, I was as rich as Cleopatra had once been. I knew some of them were courting me because they were after my money. It made me want to laugh out loud. I may be blond, but how stupid did they think I was? Bah!

At that moment, Lord Bastian Crawford bravely sat in the settee I was the only one occupying, making the others grumble at his brazenness. He leaned forward quite a bit, but I remained sipping my tea elegantly, blinking at him. He was a handsome youth with auburn hair and pretty green eyes; but redheaded men were usually hotheaded (not that I wasn't, because I certainly was that) and that, I was told more than once, they were often called gingers or carrots. I most definitely did not want to be stuck in wedlock with a carrot for a husband.

"I just bought this splendid new yacht. Just arrived yesterday all the way from Monaco."

I raised an eyebrow, continuing sipping my tea. "Oh really?"

"Yes, really," he purred. "I'd be honored if you'd come with me there to dance the night away sometime." He wiggled his eyebrows, hinting at something I already knew wasn't good. Why, the fiend.

Well, that wasn't very brilliant of him. I gently set down my teacup and saucer on the Chinese coffee table and gave him a radiant smile, which he returned pleasantly. "Oh, I would love to visit your yacht sometime, Lord Crawford, but I'm afraid I couldn't dance the night away with you. Ever." He frowned. "You see, I am a lady of good virtue (cough) and certainly cannot abide being alone with a young bachelor such as yourself, who is considered to be England's playboy." I batted my lashes innocently at him.

He snorted. "I'm only third."

"Oh, I'm sure you'll be at the top," I said, patting his arm.

Henry and everyone else clearly saw this "affectionate" gesture, but Mr. Carmichael was the one who reacted immensely. He stood up and glared at Lord Crawford. "I say!" he boomed. He kneeled down before me and produced a velvet box. Inside was a ring.

"What's this?" I asked, shrilly.

"Marry me?"

"Good heavens!"

"I love you, countess," he confessed, eyes shining. Everyone in the room was stunned, and one maid, who entered the room to place a fresh pot of tea, widened her eyes and turned back around to exit the drawing room.

I closed my eyes, my lips pinched at the corners. "I do not want to -"

"Oh hush, the lot of you," a familiar voice called out.

I opened my eyes, my head lifting to see who just entered. There he was, my dear best friend, Archer Griswold, looking unbearable handsome in his Teddy Boy outfit - white shirt, gray blazer, black narrow tie, dark slacks, and black suede shoes. One shoulder was leaning on the doorframe, hands in his pockets. His blond hair was parted at the side, and his dark blue eyes scintillated with amusement as he saw the awful scene in full view: my mouth hanging wide open, Henry kneeling in front of me with the velvet box in his outstretched hands, Bastian's eyes wide at the sight of the ring thrust in front of me, and the others looking awfully frozen, gaping.

"Archer!" I exclaimed, rising quickly to my feet. I struggled to get out of my circle, and when I finally escaped my suitors' clutches, I went toward him. My heels were clicking with each step, making a huge noise, but I didn't care. I flung my arms around his neck and he wrapped his arms around my waist, lifting me up as he did so.

"I say!" I heard Henry exclaim indignantly.

"Oh, we're all goners now," one moaned. "Archer's here."

"Now, now, fellows." Archer put me down and looked at all of them. "You know Marge is my dearest friend. She's like my sister!"

One actually rolled his eyes at that.

"Well," Archer said, shrugging. He smiled at me. "I guess they'll never get it."

"Indeed," I agreed with a nod, taking his outstretched arm. "Goodbye, gentlemen!"

With that, we left them to find the exit on their own.

"I cannot believe you left your suitors," Archer chuckled as he watched from his seat. We were in my little cottage called Alberca Cottage, which belonged to my great-great grandmother. Apparently, this cottage was passed on to the next Countess Lockleys of Newcastle, and I was the latest edition.

I gave a little laugh, lying on my back on the sofa. It would be a scandal if anyone saw me lying in front of Mr. Griswold, especially with only the two of us in the cottage. Even though Archer was considered a rake of the first form in London society, he was a family friend. My parents practically raised him, considering his own parents were too busy attending soirees, not bothering to take him along ever since he was little. He was my brother, and I loved him.

"I did say good-bye, didn't I?" I retorted, referring to his question. "And besides, I had to get away. Henry Carmichael - who recited a ghastly poem to me - tried to propose! D'you know how horrifying that moment was for me?"

"Oh, how horrifying indeed, my lady," he crooned. "But think of it this way, at least someone actually wrote a sappy - and horrible - poem for you and you got proposed to in public! Well, in front of your other suitors anyway."

I plunked a pillow on my face, moaning, "I am tired of all of them! I have been doing this since I was fifteen, Archer. Fifteen! I'm sure the lot of them are only after my money and title. After all, when I die, it can go to male or female; and if I would never have any children, the title would be bestowed upon my husband." I pressed the pillow harder on my face, giving a shrill and kicking my legs. "I don't want to have a bloody carrot for a husband, I don't!"

"What?" Archer had the decency to laugh at me? How dare he! "What carrot?"

"Shut up," I growled.

"Darling, you're not going to be marrying any carrot any time soon!" He walked over to where I was sprawled, squatting down, his eyes level with mine. "You're going marry for love," he declared seriously.

I blinked at him. "I am?"

"Of course."

I groaned. "I wonder when that will happen," I said sarcastically, sitting up properly now. Archer finally sat beside me and patted my small hand.

"It will. Do you know, you don't have to rush things. You're seventeen! Go and do whatever you want to do."

"But I'm a countess. I am obligated to marry."

He rolled his eyes at that. Sure it was easy for him! He was a man, and he was a mere mister (a rich, mere mister that is). He could do whatever he wanted with his life. I glared at him; he raised a brow. "You're thinking I can do whatever I want, aren't you?"

"What? No!" I gasped. Of course, he could read my mind! We'd known each other since we were children (I was eight, he was ten). There were no secrets between us - and sometimes, it could be very annoying.

"Liar," he scoffed.

"Hmph!"

"Impertinent wench," he mumbled, raising me up with his big hands. "I take it you're coming to Lord and Lady Birches' soiree?"

Good God, he was random. I blinked at him, closed and opened my mouth without words coming out. After a full ten seconds of silence, Archer chuckled and led me out the door. "I'm sure you are," he answered for me. "You are 'obligated,' of course."

I shot daggers in his direction.

He held his hands up like he didn't want to cross me - which he shouldn't. No matter how much I loved him, he was damn irritating at times. In this case, he was being one now. I could throw my shoe at him, quite honestly.

"Which is good," he continued, like he didn't know I wanted to kill him then and there or throw him to the fenny. "Because then you wouldn't be able to meet the girl I am smitten by."

I paused, stopping my thoughts of murdering him. "What?"

He gave a great big bellow, doubling over with laughter. He wiped a tear in his eyes, but didn't stop his shoulders from rocking up and down. "I got you!"

"What?" I sneered. Really. He was an idiot.

"You dolt, I'm not in love with anyone! You know I'm not ready for that yet. Oh, it's jolly good fun teasing you. Course I'd tell you all about her, when she comes into my life, that is. You're the first one I'm telling. You know that." His hazel eyes became gentle.

I should've been touched. But I was not in the mood for gratitude and all that. I smacked his arm, spinning on my heels and heading out the door. "You're a cad!"

"Oh, I know I am." I heard him trailing behind me.

I ignored him then, and so he began to whistle a tune on our way back to the mansion. He remained a good three feet away from me, and I knew he was watching my back with a wolfish grin on his pretty-boy face.

Quietly, but with a hint of haughtiness, I lifted my chin and said, without looking over my shoulder at him: "You're going to escort me tomorrow, aren't you?"

The next thing I knew, he was beside me, smiling impishly. His eyes glittered. "Absotively posilutely, baby doll."