by Lisa Kleypas
Swift came to stand beside her. “And then?”
“Close your eyes and concentrate on the thing you want most.” She let a scornful note enter her voice. “And it has to be a personal wish. It can’t be about something like mergers or banking trusts.”
“I do think about things other than business affairs.”
Daisy gave him a skeptical glance, and he astonished her with a brief smile.
Had she ever seen him smile before? Perhaps once or twice. She had a vague past memory of such an occasion, when his face had been so gaunt that all she had received was an impression of white teeth fixed in a grimace that owed little to any feeling of good cheer. But this smile was just a bit off-center, which made it disarming and tantalizing…a flash of warmth that made her wonder exactly what kind of man lurked behind his sober exterior.
Daisy was profoundly relieved when the smile disappeared and he was back to his usual stone-faced self. “Close your eyes,” she reminded him. “Put everything out of your mind except the wish.”
His heavy lashes fell shut, giving her the chance to stare at him without having him stare back. It was not the sort of face a boy could wear comfortably…the features were too strong-boned, the nose too long, the jaw obstinate.
But Swift had finally grown into his looks. The austere angles of his face had been softened by extravagant sweeps of black lashes and a wide mouth that hinted of sensuality.
“What now?” he murmured, his eyes still closed.
Staring at him, Daisy was horrified by the impulse that surged through her…to step nearer and explore the tanned skin of his cheeks with her fingertips. “When an image is fixed in your mind,” she managed to say, “open your eyes and toss the coin into the well.”
His lashes lifted to reveal eyes as bright as fire trapped in blue glass.
Without glancing at the well, he threw the coin right into the center of it.
Daisy realized that her heart had begun to thump just as it had when she had read the more lurid passages of The Plight of Penelope, in which a maiden was captured by an evil villain who locked her in a tower room until she agreed to surrender her virtue.
Daisy had known the novel was silly even as she had read it, but that had not detracted one bit from her enjoyment. And she had been perversely disappointed when Penelope had been rescued from imminent ruin by the bland golden-haired hero Reginald, who was not nearly as interesting as the villain.
Of course the prospect of being locked in a tower room without any books had not sounded at all appealing to Daisy. But the threatening monologues by the villain about Penelope’s beauty, and his desire for her, and the debauchery he would force on her, had been quite intriguing.
It was just plain bad luck that Matthew Swift would turn out to look just like the handsome villain of Daisy’s imaginings.
“What did you wish for?” she asked.
One corner of his mouth twitched. “That’s private.”
Daisy scowled as she recognized the echo of her own earlier set-down. Spying her bonnet on the nearby ground, she went to scoop it up. She needed to escape his unnerving presence. “I’m returning to the manor,” she said over her shoulder. “Good day, Mr. Swift. Enjoy the rest of your walk.”
To her dismay, he reached her in a few long-legged strides and fell into step beside her. “I’ll accompany you.”
She refused to look at him. “I’d rather you didn’t.”
“Why not? We’re headed in the same direction.”
“Because I prefer to walk in silence.”
“I’ll be silent, then.” His pace did not falter.
Deducing that it was pointless to object when he had obviously made up his mind, Daisy clamped her lips together. The scenery—the meadow, the forest—was just as beautiful as before, but her enjoyment of it had vanished.
She was not surprised Swift had ignored her objections. No doubt he envisioned their marriage in the same light. It would not matter what she wanted, or what she asked. He would brush her wishes aside and insist on having his own way.
He must think she was as malleable as a child. With his ingrained arrogance, perhaps he even thought she would be grateful that he had condescended to marry her. She wondered if he would even bother to propose. Most likely he would toss a ring into her lap and instruct her to put it on.
As the grim walk continued Daisy fought to keep from breaking into a run. Swift’s legs were so much longer that he took one step to every two of hers. Resentment rose in a choking knot in Daisy’s throat.
It was symbolic of her future, this walk. She could only trudge forward with the knowledge that no matter how far or fast she went, she could not outdistance him.
Finally she could bear the taut silence no longer. “Did you put the idea in my father’s head?” she burst out.
“What idea?”
“Oh, don’t condescend to me,” she said irritably. “You know what I’m referring to.”
“No, I don’t.”
It appeared he would insist on playing games. “The bargain you made with my father,” she said. “You want to marry me so you can inherit the company.”
Swift stopped with a suddenness that in other circumstances would have made her laugh. It looked like he had slammed into an invisible wall. Daisy stopped as well, folding her arms across her chest as she turned to face him.
His expression was utterly blank. “I…” His voice was rusty-sounding and he had to clear his throat before he could speak. “I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about.”
“You don’t?” Daisy asked lamely.
So her assumption had been wrong—her father had not yet broached his plan to Swift.
If one could die of mortification, Daisy would have expired on the spot. She had now left herself open to the most withering set-down of her life. All Swift had to do was say he would never have agreed to the prospect of marrying a wallflower.
The rustle of leaves and the twittering of chiffchaff seemed to be magnified in the silence that followed. Though it was impossible to read Swift’s thoughts, Daisy perceived that he was rapidly sorting through possibilities and conclusions.
“My father spoke as if it was all settled,” she said. “I thought you had discussed it during his most recent visit to New York.”
“He never mentioned anything of the kind to me. The thought of marrying you has never crossed my mind. And I have no ambition to inherit the company.”
“You have nothing but ambition.”
“True,” he said, watching her closely. “But I don’t need to marry you to secure my future.”
“My father seems to think you would jump at the chance to become his son-in-law. That you bear him great personal affection.”
“I’ve learned a great deal from him,” came a predictably guarded reply.
“I’m sure you have.” Daisy took refuge behind a scornful expression. “He’s taught you many lessons that have benefitted you in the business world. But none that will benefit you in the business of life.”
“You disapprove of your father’s business,” Swift said rather than asked.
“Yes, for the way he’s given his heart and soul to it and ignored the people who love him.”
“It’s provided you with many luxuries,” he pointed out. “Including the opportunity to marry a British peer.”
“I didn’t ask for luxuries! I’ve never wanted anything but a peaceful life.”
“To sit in a library by yourself and read?” Swift suggested a little too pleasantly. “To walk in the garden? To enjoy the companionship of your friends?”
“Yes!”
“Books are expensive. So are nice houses with gardens. Has it occurred to you that someone has to pay for your peaceful life?”
That question was so close to her father’s accusation about being a parasite that Daisy flinched.
As Swift saw her reaction, his expression changed. He began to say something else, but Daisy interrupted sharply. “It’s none of yo
ur concern about how I lead my life or who pays for it. I don’t care about your opinions, and you have no right to force them on me.”
“I do if my future is being linked to yours.”
“It’s not!”
“It is in a hypothetical sense.”
Oh, Daisy hated people who mired every point in semantics when they argued. “Our marriage will never be anything but hypothetical,” she told him. “My father has given me until the end of May to find someone else to marry—and I will.”
Swift stared at her with alert interest. “I can guess what kind of man you’ve been looking for. Fair-haired, aristocratic, sensitive, with a cheerful disposition and ample leisure time for gentlemanly pursuits—”
“Yes,” Daisy interrupted, wondering how he managed to make the description seem fatuous.
“I thought so.” The smugness in his voice set her nerves on edge. “The only possible reason a girl with your looks could have gone for three seasons without a betrothal is that you’ve set impossibly high standards. You want nothing less than the perfect man. Which is why your father is forcing the issue.”
She was momentarily distracted by the words “a girl with your looks,” as if she were a great beauty. Deciding the comment could only have been made in a vein of deepest sarcasm, Daisy felt her temperature escalate. “I do not aspire to marry the perfect man,” she said through gritted teeth. Unlike her older sister, who cursed with spectacular fluency, she found it difficult to speak when she was angry. “I am well aware there is no such thing.”
“Then why haven’t you found someone when even your sister has managed to catch a husband?”
“What do you mean, ‘even my sister’?”
“‘Marry Lillian, you’ll get a million.’” The insulting phrase had caused much snide amusement in the upper circles of Manhattanville society. “Why do you think no one in New York ever offered for your sister in spite of her huge dowry? She is every man’s worst nightmare.”
That did it.
“My sister is a jewel and Westcliff has the good taste to recognize it. He could have married anyone, but she was the one he wanted. I dare you to repeat your opinion of her to the earl!” Daisy whirled around and stormed along the path, walking as fast as her abbreviated legs would allow.
Swift kept up with her easily, his hands shoved to a nonchalant depth in his pockets. “The end of May…” he mused, not the slightest bit out of breath despite their pace. “That’s just a bit shy of two months. How are you going to find a suitor in that length of time?”
“I’ll stand on a street corner wearing a placard if I have to.”
“My sincere wishes for your success, Miss Bowman. In any event, I’m not certain I’ll be willing to put myself forth as the winner by default.”
“You will not be the winner by default! Rest assured, Mr. Swift, nothing in the world would ever make me consent to be your wife. I feel sorry for the poor woman who ends up with you—I can’t think of anyone who would deserve to have such a cold, self-righteous prig for a husband—”
“Wait.” His tone had softened in what might have been the beginnings of conciliation. “Daisy…”
“Don’t speak my name!”
“You’re right. That was improper. I beg your pardon. What I meant to say, Miss Bowman, is that there is no need for hostility. We’re facing an issue that has great consequence for both of us. I expect we can manage to be civil long enough to find an acceptable solution.”
“There is only one solution,” Daisy said grimly, “and that is for you to tell my father you categorically refuse to marry me under any circumstances. Promise me that and I’ll try to be civil to you.”
Swift stopped on the path, which forced Daisy to stop as well. Turning to face him, she raised her brows expectantly. God knew it would not be a difficult promise for him to make in light of his earlier statements. But he was giving her a long, unfathomable glance, his hands still buried in his pockets, his body tensed in stillness. It seemed as if he were listening for something.
His gaze slid over her in open evaluation, and there was a strange gleam in his eyes that drew a shiver from the marrow of her bones. He was staring at her, she thought, like a tiger in wait. She stared back at him, trying desperately to discern the clever workings of his mind, managing to decipher shadows of amusement and bewildering hunger. But hunger for what? Not for her, certainly.
“No,” he said softly, as if to himself.
Daisy shook her head in bewilderment. Her lips were dry, and she had to dampen them with the tip of her tongue before she could speak. It unnerved her that his gaze followed the tiny movement. “Was that a ‘no’ as in…‘No, I won’t marry you?’” she asked.
“That was a ‘no,’” he replied, “as in…‘No, I won’t promise not to.’”
And with that, Swift passed by her and continued toward the manor, leaving her to stumble after him.
“He’s trying to torture you,” Lillian said in disgust as Daisy related the entire story later in the day. They sat in the private upstairs parlor of the country manor with their two closest friends, Annabelle Hunt and Evie, Lady St. Vincent. They had all met two years earlier, a quartet of wallflowers who for various reasons had not been able to bring any eligible gentlemen up to scratch.
It was a popular belief in Victorian society that women, with their mercurial natures and lesser brains, could not have the same quality of friendship that men did. Only men could be loyal to each other, and only men could have truly honest and high-minded relationships.
Daisy thought that was rubbish. She and the other wallflowers…well, former wallflowers…shared a bond of deep, caring trust. They helped each other, encouraged each other with no hint of competition or jealousy. Daisy loved Annabelle and Evie nearly as much as she did Lillian. She could easily envision them all in their later years, prattling about their grandchildren over tea and biscuits, traveling together as a silver-haired horde of tart-tongued old ladies.
“I don’t believe for one second that Mr. Swift knew nothing about it,” Lillian continued. “He’s a liar and he’s in league with Father. Of course he wants to inherit the company.”
Lillian and Evie sat in brocade-upholstered chairs by the windows, while Daisy and Annabelle lounged on the floor amid the colorful heaped masses of their skirts. A plump baby girl with a mass of dark ringlets crawled back and forth between them, occasionally pausing with frowning concentration to tweeze something from the carpet with her miniature fingers.
The infant, Isabelle, had been born to Annabelle and Simon Hunt approximately ten months earlier. Surely no baby had ever been doted on more, by every one in the household including her father.
Contrary to all expectations the virile and masculine Mr. Hunt had not been at all disappointed that his firstborn was a girl. He adored the child, showing no compunction about holding her in public, cooing to her in a way that fathers seldom dared. Hunt had even instructed Annabelle to produce more daughters in the future, claiming roguishly that it had always been his ambition to be loved by many women.
As might have been expected, the baby was exceptionally beautiful—it would be a physical impossibility for Annabelle to produce a less than spectacular offspring.
Picking up Isabelle’s sturdy, wriggling body, Daisy nuzzled into her silky neck before setting her on the carpet again. “You should have heard him,” Daisy said. “The arrogance was incredible. Swift has decided that it is my own fault that I am still unmarried. He said I must have set my standards too high. And he lectured me on the cost of my books and said that someone has to pay for my expensive lifestyle.”
“He didn’t dare,” Lillian exclaimed, her face turning scarlet with sudden rage.
Daisy immediately regretted telling her. The family physician had advised that Lillian must not be upset as she approached the last month of her pregnancy. She had become pregnant the previous year and had miscarried early on. The loss had been difficult for Lillian, not to mention surprising given
her hardy constitution.
In spite of the doctor’s assurances that she was not to blame for the miscarriage, Lillian had been melancholy for weeks afterward. But with Westcliff’s steadfast comfort and the loving support of her friends, Lillian had gradually returned to her usual high-spirited self.
Now that Lillian had conceived again she was far less cavalier about the pregnancy, mindful of the possibility of another miscarriage. Unfortunately she was not one of those women who bloomed during confinement. She was splotchy, nauseous, and often ill-tempered, chafing at the restrictions her condition imposed.
“I won’t stand for this,” Lillian exclaimed. “You’re not going to marry Matthew Swift, and I’ll send Father to the devil if he tries to take you away from England!”
Still seated on the floor, Daisy reached up and settled a calming hand on her older sister’s knee. She forced her lips into a reassuring smile as she stared into Lillian’s distraught face.
“Everything will be fine,” she said. “We’ll think of something. We’ll have to.” They had been too close for too many years. In the absence of their parents’ affection Lillian and Daisy had been each other’s sole source of love and support for as long as they could remember.
Evie, the least talkative of the four friends, spoke with a slight stammer that appeared whenever she was nervous or moved by strong emotion. When they had all met two years earlier, Evie’s stammer had been so severe as to make conversation an exercise in frustration. But since leaving her abusive family and marrying Lord St. Vincent, Evie had gained far greater confidence.
“W-would Mr. Swift really agree to take a bride not of his own choosing?” Evie pushed back a gleaming red curl that had slipped over her forehead. “If what he said was true—that his financial situation is already s-secure—there is no reason for him to marry Daisy.”
“There is more to it than money,” Lillian replied, squirming in her chair to find a more comfortable position. Her hands rested on the ample curve of her belly. “Father has made Swift into a substitute son, since none of our brothers turned out the way he wanted.”
“The way he wanted?” Annabelle asked in puzzlement. She flopped over to kiss the baby’s tiny wiggling toes, eliciting a gurgling chuckle from the infant.
