by Lisa Kleypas
“Devoted to the company,” Lillian clarified. “Efficient and callous and unscrupulous. A man who will put business interests ahead of everything else in his life. It’s a language they speak together, Father and Mr. Swift. Our brother Ransom has tried to make a place for himself in the company, but Father always pits him against Mr. Swift.”
“And Mr. Swift always wins,” Daisy said. “Poor Ransom.”
“Our other two brothers don’t even bother trying,” Lillian said.
“But wh-what of Mr. Swift’s own father?” Evie asked. “Does he have no objection to his son becoming someone else’s de facto son?”
“Well, that’s always been the odd part,” Daisy replied. “Mr. Swift comes from a well-known New England family. They settled in Plymouth and some of them ended up in Boston by the early seventeen hundreds. Swifts are known for their distinguished ancestry, but only a few of them have managed to retain their money. As Father always says, it takes one generation to make it, the second to spend it, and the third is left with only the name. Of course, when it’s Old Boston one is talking about, the process takes ten generations instead of three—they’re so much slower about everything—”
“You’re drifting, dear,” Lillian interrupted. “Back to the point.”
“Sorry.” Daisy grinned briefly before resuming. “Well, we suspect there was some kind of falling-out between Mr. Swift and his relations because he hardly ever speaks of them. And he rarely travels to Massachusetts to visit. So even if Mr. Swift’s father does object to his son inserting himself into someone else’s family, we would never know about it.”
The four women were quiet for a moment as they considered the situation.
“We’ll find someone for Daisy,” Evie said. “Now that we are able to look beyond the peerage, it will be much easier. There are many acceptable gentlemen of good blood who do not h-happen to possess titles.”
“Mr. Hunt has many unmarried acquaintances,” Annabelle said. “He could make any number of introductions.”
“I appreciate that,” Daisy said, “but I don’t like the idea of marrying a professional man. I could never be happy with a soulless industrialist.” Pausing, she said apologetically, “No offense to Mr. Hunt, of course.”
Annabelle laughed. “I wouldn’t characterize all professional men as soulless industrialists. Mr. Hunt can be quite sensitive and emotional at times.”
The others regarded her dubiously, none of them able to picture Annabelle’s big, bold-featured husband as being sensitive in any way. Mr. Hunt was clever and charming, but he seemed as impervious to emotion as an elephant would be to the buzzing of a gnat.
“We’ll take your word for that,” Lillian said. “Back to the matter at hand—Evie, will you ask Lord St. Vincent if he knows of any suitable gentlemen for Daisy? Now that we’ve expanded our definition of ‘suitable,’ he ought to be able to find a decent specimen. Heaven knows he possesses information about every man in England who has two shillings to rub together.”
“I will ask him,” Evie said decisively. “I am certain we can come up with some presentable candidates.”
As the owner of Jenner’s, the exclusive gaming club that Evie’s father had established long ago, Lord St. Vincent was rapidly bringing the business to a height of success it had never reached before. St. Vincent ran the club in an exacting manner, keeping meticulous files on the personal lives and financial balances of every one of its members.
“Thank you,” Daisy replied sincerely. Her mind lingered on thoughts of the club. “I wonder…do you think Lord St. Vincent could find out more about Mr. Rohan’s mysterious past? Perhaps he’s a long-lost Irish lord or something of the sort.”
A brief silence sifted through the room like a flurry of tiny snowflakes. Daisy was aware of significant glances being exchanged between her sister and friends. She was abruptly annoyed with them, and even more with herself for mentioning the man who helped manage the gaming club.
Rohan was a young half-gypsy with dark hair and bright hazel eyes. They had only met once, when Rohan had stolen a kiss from her. Three kisses, if one wished to be factual, and it had been by far the most erotic experience of her entire life. Also the only erotic experience of her entire life.
Rohan had kissed her as if she were a grown woman instead of someone’s younger sister, with a coaxing sensuality that had hinted of all the forbidden things kisses led to. Daisy should have slapped his face. Instead she had dreamed about those kisses at least a hundred thousand times.
“I don’t think so, dear,” Evie said very gently, and Daisy smiled too brightly, as if she had made a joke.
“Oh, of course he isn’t! But you know how my imagination is…it wants to plunge into every little mystery.”
“We must remain focused on what is important, Daisy,” Lillian said sternly. “No fantasies or stories…and no more thoughts of Rohan. He’s only a distraction.”
Daisy’s initial impulse was to utter some biting reply as she always had when Lillian became bossy. However, as she stared into her sister’s brown eyes, the same spiced-gingerbread color of her own, she saw the flicker of panic in them and she felt a rush of protective love.
“You’re right,” she said, forcing a smile. “You needn’t worry, you know. I’m going to do whatever it takes to stay here with you. Even marry a man I don’t love.”
Another silence, and then Evie spoke. “We’ll find a man whom you could love, Daisy. And hope that mutual affection will grow in time.” A wry little smile quirked her full lips. “Sometimes it happens that way.”
Chapter 3
“The bargain you made with my father…”
The echo of Daisy’s voice lingered in Matthew’s mind long after they had parted company. He was going to take Thomas Bowman aside at the first opportunity and ask him what the hell was going on. But in the bustle of arriving guests that moment would not likely come until this evening.
Matthew wondered if old Bowman had really taken it into his head to pair him off with Daisy. Jesus. Through the years Matthew had entertained many thoughts concerning Daisy Bowman, but none of them had involved marriage. That had always been so far out of the realm of possibility it was not even worth considering. So Matthew had never kissed her, had never danced with her or even walked with her, knowing full well the results would be disastrous.
The secrets of his past haunted his present and endangered his future. Matthew was never without the awareness that the identity he had created for himself could be blown to bits at any moment. All it would take was for one person to put two and two together…one person to recognize him for what and who he really was. Daisy deserved a husband who was honest and whole, not one who had built his life on lies.
But that didn’t stop Matthew from wanting her. He had always wanted Daisy, with an intensity that seemed to radiate from the pores of his skin. She was sweet, kind, inventive, excessively reasonable yet absurdly romantic, her dark sparkling eyes filled with dreams. She had occasional moments of clumsiness when her mind was too occupied with her thoughts to focus on what she was doing. She was often late to supper because she had gotten too involved in her reading. She frequently lost thimbles and slippers and pencil stubs. And she loved to stargaze. The never-forgotten sight of Daisy leaning wistfully on a balcony railing one night, her pert profile lifted to the night sky, had charged Matthew with the most blistering desire to stride over to her and kiss her senseless.
Matthew had imagined being in bed with her far more often than he should have. If such a thing could ever have occurred, he would have been so gentle…he would have worshipped her. Anything and everything to please her. He longed for the intimacy of her hair in his hands, the soft jut of her hipbones beneath his palms, the smoothness of her shoulders against his lips. The sleeping weight of her in his arms. He wanted all of that, and so much more.
It amazed Matthew that no one had ever guessed at his feelings. Daisy should have been able to see it every time she looked at him. Fortunat
ely for Matthew she never had. She had always dismissed him as another cog in the machine of her father’s company, and Matthew had been grateful for that.
Something had changed, however. He thought of the way Daisy had stared at him earlier in the day, the startled wonder in her expression. Was his appearance that different from before?
Absently Matthew shoved his hands deep in his pockets and walked through the interior of Stony Cross Manor. He had never given a thought to his looks other than to make certain his hair was cut and his face was clean. A stern New England upbringing had extinguished any flicker of vanity, as Bostonians abhorred conceit and did everything possible to avoid the new and fashionable.
However, in the past couple of years Thomas Bowman had insisted that Matthew go to his Park Avenue tailor, and visit a hair-dresser instead of a barber, and have his nails manicured once in a while as befitted a gentleman of his position. Also at Bowman’s insistence, Matthew had hired a cookmaid and a housekeeper, which meant he had been eating better of late. That, along with losing the last vestiges of young adulthood, had given him a new look of maturity. He wondered if that appealed to Daisy, and immediately cursed himself for caring.
But the way she had looked at him today…as if she were seeing him, really noticing him, for the first time…
She had never given him such a glance on any of the occasions he had visited her family’s Fifth Avenue house. His mind ventured back to the first time he had met Daisy, at a private supper with just the family attending.
The grandly appointed dining-room had glittered in the effusively scattered light from a crystal chandelier, the walls covered in thick gilded paper and gold-painted molding. One entire wall was lined with a succession of four massive looking glasses, larger than any others he’d ever seen.
Two of the sons had been present, both of them sturdy young men who were easily twice Matthew’s weight. Mercedes and Thomas had been seated at opposite ends of the table. The two daughters, Lillian and Daisy, had sat on one side, surreptitiously nudging their plates and chairs closer together.
Thomas Bowman had a contentious relationship with both his daughters, alternately ignoring them and subjecting them to harsh criticisms. The older daughter Lillian responded to Bowman with surly impudence.
But Daisy, the fifteen year-old, regarded her father in a speculative, rather cheerful way that seemed to annoy him beyond his ability to bear. She had made Matthew want to smile. With her luminous skin, her exotic cinnamon-colored eyes and quicksilver expressions, Daisy Bowman seemed to have come from an enchanted forest populated with mythical creatures.
It had immediately become apparent to Matthew that any conversation Daisy took part in was apt to veer into unexpected and charming directions. He had been secretly amused when Thomas Bowman had chastised Daisy in front of everyone for her latest mischief. It seemed that the Bowman household had lately become overrun with mice because all the traps they set had failed.
One of the servants had reported that Daisy had been sneaking around the house at night, deliberately tripping all the traps to keep the mice from being killed.
“Is this true, daughter?” Thomas Bowman had rumbled, his gaze filled with ire as he stared at Daisy.
“It could be,” she had allowed. “But there is another explanation.”
“And what is that?” Bowman had asked sourly.
Her tone turned congratulatory. “I think we are hosting the most intelligent mice in New York!”
From that moment on Matthew had never refused an invitation to the Bowman mansion, not just because it pleased the old man but because it gave him the chance to see Daisy. He had collected as many stolen glances as possible, knowing it was all he would ever have of her. And the moments he had spent in her company, regardless of her cool politeness, had been the only times in his life he had come close to happiness.
Hiding his troubled thoughts, Matthew wandered farther into the manor. He had never been abroad before but this was exactly what he had imagined England would look like, the manicured gardens and the green hills beyond, and the rustic village at the feet of the grand estate.
The house and its furniture were ancient and comfortably worn at the edges, but it seemed that in every corner there was some priceless vase or statue or painting he had seen featured in art history books. Perhaps a bit drafty in the winter, but with the plenitude of hearths and thick carpets and velvet curtains, one could hardly say that living here would be suffering.
When Thomas Bowman, or rather his secretary, had written with the news that Matthew would be required to oversee the establishment of a division of the soap company in England, Matthew’s initial impulse had been to refuse. He would have relished the challenge and the responsibility. But being in the proximity of Daisy Bowman—even in the same country—would have been too much for Matthew to withstand. Her presence pierced him like arrows, promising a future of endless unsatisfied wanting.
It was the secretary’s last few lines, reporting on the Bowman family’s welfare, that had seized Matthew’s attention.
There is private doubt, the secretary had written, that the younger Miss Bowman will have any success at finding a suitable gentleman to wed. Therefore Mr. Bowman has decided to bring her back to New York if she is still not betrothed by the end of spring…
This had left Matthew in a quandary. If Daisy was returning to New York, Matthew was damned well going to England. He would hedge his bets by accepting the position in Bristol, and waiting to see if Daisy managed to catch a husband. If she did, Matthew would find a replacement for himself and head back to New York.
As long as there was an ocean between them, everything would be fine.
As Matthew crossed through the main entrance hall he caught sight of Lord Westcliff. The earl was in the company of a big, black-haired man who possessed a somewhat piratical appearance despite his elegant attire. Matthew guessed that he was Simon Hunt, Westcliff’s business partner and reportedly his closest friend. For all Hunt’s financial success—which by all reports was remarkable—he had been born a butcher’s son, with no blood ties to the aristocracy.
“Mr. Swift,” Westcliff said easily, as they met near the bottom of the grand staircase. “It seems you’ve returned early from your walk. I hope the views were pleasing?”
“The views were magnificent, my lord,” Matthew replied. “I look forward to many such walks around the estate. I came back early because I happened to meet with Miss Bowman along the way.”
“Ah.” Westcliff’s face was impassive. “No doubt that was a surprise for Miss Bowman.”
And not a welcome one was the unspoken subtext. Matthew met the earl’s gaze without blinking. One of his more useful skills was that of being able to read the minute alterations in expression and posture that gave people’s thoughts away. But Westcliff was an unusually self-controlled man. Matthew admired that.
“I think it’s safe to say it was one of many surprises Miss Bowman has received recently,” Matthew replied. It was a deliberate attempt to find out if Westcliff knew anything about the possible arranged marriage with Daisy.
The earl responded only with an infinitesimal lift of his brows, as if he found the remark interesting but not worthy of a response. Damn, Matthew thought with increasing admiration.
Westcliff turned to the black-haired man beside him. “Hunt, I would like to introduce Matthew Swift—the American I mentioned to you earlier. Swift, this is Mr. Simon Hunt.”
They shook hands firmly. Hunt was five to ten years older than Matthew and looked as if he could be mean as hell in a fight. A bold, confident man who reputedly loved to skewer pretensions and upper-class affectations.
“I’ve heard of your accomplishments with Consolidated Locomotive Works,” Matthew told Hunt. “There is a great deal of interest in New York regarding your merging of British craftsmanship with American manufacturing methods.”
Hunt smiled sardonically. “Much as I would like to take all the credit, modesty compels me
to reveal that Westcliff had something to do with it. He and his brother-in-law are my business partners.”
“Obviously the combination is highly successful,” Matthew replied.
Hunt turned to Westcliff. “He has a talent for flattery,” he remarked. “Can we hire him?”
Westcliff’s mouth twitched with amusement. “I’m afraid my father-in-law would object. Mr. Swift’s talents are needed to built a factory and start a company office in Bristol.”
Matthew decided to nudge the conversation in a different direction. “I’ve read of the recent movement in Parliament for nationalization of the British railroad industry,” he said to Westcliff. “I would be interested in hearing your thoughts on the matter, my lord.”
“Good God, don’t get him started on that,” Hunt said.
The subject caused a scowl to appear on Westcliff’s brow. “The last thing the public needs is for government to take control of the industry. God save us from yet more interference from politicians. The government would run the railroads as inefficiently as they do everything else. And the monopoly would stifle the industry’s ability to compete, resulting in higher taxes, not to mention—”
“Not to mention,” Hunt interrupted slyly, “the fact that Westcliff and I don’t want the government cutting into our future profits.”
Westcliff gave him a stern glance. “I happen to have the public’s best interest in mind.”
“How fortunate,” Hunt commented, “that in this case what is best for the public also happens to be best for you.”
Matthew bit back a smile.
Rolling his eyes, Westcliff told Matthew, “As you can see, Mr. Hunt overlooks no opportunity to mock me.”
“I mock everyone,” Hunt said. “You just happen to be the most readily available target.”
Westcliff turned to Matthew and said, “Hunt and I are going out to the back terrace for a cigar. Will you join us?”
