Scandal in Spring

by Lisa Kleypas

  Matthew shook his head. “I’m afraid I don’t smoke.”

  “Neither do I,” Westcliff said ruefully. “It has always been my habit to enjoy a cigar every now and again, but unfortunately the scent of tobacco is not welcomed by the countess in her condition.”

  It took a moment for Matthew to recall that “the countess” was Lillian Bowman. How odd that funny, feisty, furious Lillian was now Lady Westcliff.

  “You and I will converse while Hunt has a cigar,” Westcliff informed him. “Come with us.”

  The “invitation” didn’t seem to allow the possibility of a refusal, but Matthew tried nonetheless. “Thank you, my lord, but there is a certain matter I wish to discuss with someone, and I—”

  “That someone would be Mr. Bowman, I expect.”

  Hell, Matthew thought. He knows. Even if it hadn’t been for those words, he could tell by the way Westcliff was looking at him. Westcliff knew about Bowman’s intention of marrying him off to Daisy…and not surprisingly, Westcliff had an opinion about it.

  “You will discuss the matter with me first,” the earl continued.

  Matthew glanced warily at Simon Hunt, who gave him a bland look in return. “I’m certain,” Matthew said, “that Mr. Hunt doesn’t want to be bored by a discussion of someone else’s personal affairs—”

  “Not at all,” Hunt said cheerfully. “I love hearing about other people’s affairs. Particularly when they’re personal.”

  The three of them went to the back terrace, which overlooked acres of manicured gardens separated by graveled paths and carefully sculpted hedges. An orchard of ancient pear trees was visible in the lush green distance. The breeze that swept across the gardens was thick with the perfume of flowers. The turgid rush of the nearby river underlaid the rustle of the wind in the trees.

  Sitting at an outside table, Matthew forced himself to relax back in his chair. He and Westcliff watched Simon Hunt clip the end off a cigar with a pocket knife. Matthew remained silent, patiently waiting for Westcliff to speak first.

  “How long,” Westcliff asked abruptly, “have you known about Bowman’s plan for you and Daisy to marry?”

  Matthew replied without hesitation. “Approximately an hour and fifteen minutes.”

  “It wasn’t your idea, then?”

  “Not at all,” Matthew assured him.

  Settling back, the earl laced his fingers over the lean surface of his midriff, and surveyed him through narrowed eyes. “You have a great deal to gain by such an arrangement.”

  “My lord,” Matthew said prosaically, “if I have one talent in life, it’s making money. I don’t need to marry into it.”

  “I’m glad to hear it,” the earl replied. “I have one more question to ask, but first I will make my position clear. I have great affection for my sister-in-law, and I consider her under my protection. Being well acquainted with the Bowmans, you undoubtedly know about the close relationship between the countess and her sister. If anything were to make Daisy unhappy, my wife would suffer as a result…and I will not allow that.”

  “Understood,” Matthew said tersely. There was biting irony in the fact that he was being warned away from Daisy when he had already resolved to do everything in his power to avoid marrying her. He was tempted to tell Westcliff to go to hell. Instead he kept his mouth shut and remained outwardly composed.

  “Daisy has a unique spirit,” Westcliff said. “A warm and romantic nature. If she is forced into a loveless marriage, she will be devastated. She deserves a husband who will cherish her for everything she is, and who will protect her from the harsher realities of the world. A husband who will allow her to dream.”

  It was surprising to hear such sentiment from Westcliff, who was universally known as a pragmatic and level-headed man. “What is your question, my lord?” Matthew asked.

  “Will you give me your word that you will not marry my sister-in-law?”

  Matthew held the earl’s cold black gaze. It would not be wise to cross a man like Westcliff, who was not accustomed to being denied. But Matthew had endured years of Thomas Bowman’s thunder and bluster, standing up to him when other men would flee in fear of his wrath.

  Although Bowman could be a ruthless, sarcastic bully there was nothing he respected more than a man who was willing to go toe-to-toe with him. And so it had quickly become Matthew’s lot in the company to be the bearer of bad tidings and deliver the hard truths that everyone else was afraid to give him.

  That had been Matthew’s training, which was why Westcliff’s attempt at domination had no effect on him.

  “I’m afraid not, my lord,” Matthew said politely.

  Simon Hunt dropped his cigar.

  “You won’t give me your word?” Westcliff asked in disbelief.

  “No.” Matthew bent swiftly to retrieve the fallen cigar and returned it to Hunt, who regarded him with a glint of warning in his eyes as if he were silently trying to prevent him from jumping off a cliff.

  “Why not?” Westcliff demanded. “Because you don’t want to lose your position with Bowman?”

  “No, he can’t afford to lose me right now.” Matthew smiled slightly in an attempt to rob the words of arrogance. “I know more about production, administration, and marketing than anyone else at Bowman’s…and I’ve earned the old man’s trust. So I won’t be dismissed even if I refuse to marry his daughter.”

  “Then it will be quite simple for you to put the entire matter to rest,” the earl said. “I want your word, Swift. Now.”

  A lesser man would have been intimidated by Westcliff’s authoritative demand. “I might consider it,” Matthew countered coolly, “if you offered the right incentive. For example, if you promise to endorse me as the head of the entire division and guarantee the position for at least, say…three years.”

  Westcliff gave him an incredulous glance.

  The tense silence was broken as Simon Hunt roared with laughter. “By God, he has brass ballocks,” he exclaimed. “Mark my words, Westcliff, I’m going to hire him for Consolidated.”

  “I’m not cheap,” Matthew said, which caused Hunt to laugh so hard that he nearly dropped his cigar again.

  Even Westcliff smiled, albeit reluctantly. “Damn it,” he muttered. “I’m not going to endorse you so readily—not with so much at stake. Not until I am convinced you’re the right man for the position.”

  “Then it seems we’re at an impasse.” Matthew made his expression friendly. “For now.”

  The two older men exchanged a glance, tacitly agreeing to discuss the situation later, outside his hearing. That caused Matthew a twinge of sharp curiosity, but he mentally shrugged, knowing there was only so much he could control. At least he had made it clear that he could not be bullied, and he was leaving his options open.

  Besides…he could hardly give his word on the matter when Bowman hadn’t yet mentioned it to him.

  Chapter 4

  “Obviously Daisy is the runt of the litter,” Thomas Bowman said later that night, pacing back and forth across the small private receiving area attached to his room. He and Matthew had agreed to meet after supper while the other guests congregated downstairs. “She is undersized and frivolous. ‘Give her a solid, practical name,’ I told my wife when the child was born. Jane or Constance or something of the sort. Instead she chose Marguerite…French, mind you!…after a cousin on her maternal side. And then it degenerated further when Lillian, who was only four at the time, learned that Marguerite was the French word for a damned insignificant flower. But from then on Lillian called her Daisy, and it stuck…”

  As Bowman continued to ramble, Matthew thought of how perfect the name was, the small white-petaled flower that appeared so delicate and yet was remarkably hardy. It said something that in a family of overpowering personalities that Daisy had always remained stubbornly true to her own nature.

  “…obviously I would have to sugarcoat the deal,” Thomas Bowman was saying. “I know you well enough to be certain that you would choose a very
different sort of woman for yourself, one with more practical uses than a flighty slip of a girl like Daisy. Therefore—”

  “No sugarcoating would be necessary,” Matthew interrupted calmly. “Daisy…that is, Miss Bowman, is entirely—” Beautiful. Desirable. Bewitching. “—acceptable. Marrying a woman like Miss Bowman would be a reward in itself.”

  “Good,” Bowman grunted, clearly unconvinced. “Very gentlemanly of you to say so. Still, I will offer you fair recompense in the form of a generous dowry, more shares in the company and so forth. You will be quite satisfied, I assure you. Now as to the wedding arrangements—”

  “I didn’t say yes,” Matthew interrupted.

  Bowman stopped pacing and sent him a questioning stare.

  “To start with,” Matthew continued carefully, “it is possible Miss Bowman will find a suitor within the next two months.”

  “She will find no suitors of your caliber,” Bowman said smugly.

  Matthew replied gravely despite his amusement. “Thank you. But I don’t believe Miss Bowman shares your high opinion.”

  The older man made a dismissive gesture. “Bah. Women’s minds are as changeable as English weather. You can persuade her to like you. Give her a posy of flowers, throw a few compliments in her direction…better yet, quote something from one of those blasted poetry books she reads. Seducing a woman is easily accomplished, Swift. All you have to do is—”

  “Mr. Bowman,” Matthew interrupted with a sudden touch of alarm. God in heaven, all he needed was an explanation of courtship techniques from his employer. “I believe I could manage that without any advice. That’s not the issue.”

  “Then what…ah.” Bowman gave him a man-of-the-world smile. “I understand.”

  “You understand what?” Matthew asked apprehensively.

  “Obviously you fear my reaction if you should decide later on that my daughter is not adequate to your needs. But as long as you behave with discretion, I won’t say a word.”

  Matthew sighed and rubbed his eyes, suddenly feeling weary. This was a bit much to face so soon after his ship had landed in Bristol. “You’re saying you’ll look the other way if I stray from my wife,” he said rather than asked.

  “We men face temptations. Sometimes we stray. It is the way of the world.”

  “It’s not my way,” Matthew said flatly. “I stand by my word, both in business and in my personal life. If or when I promise to be faithful to a woman, I would be. No matter what.”

  Bowman’s heavy mustache twitched with amusement. “You’re still young enough to afford scruples.”

  “The old can’t afford them?” Matthew asked with a touch of affectionate mockery.

  “Some scruples have a way of becoming overpriced. You’ll discover that someday.”

  “God, I hope not.” Matthew sank into a chair and buried his head in his hands, his fingers tunneling through the heavy locks of his hair.

  After a long moment Bowman ventured, “Would it really be so terrible having Daisy for a wife? You’ll have to marry sometime. And she comes with benefits. The company, for example. You will be given controlling interest in it upon my death.”

  “You’ll outlive us all,” Matthew muttered.

  Bowman let out a pleased laugh. “I want you to have the company,” he insisted. It was the first time he had ever spoken this frankly on the subject. “You’re more like me than any of my sons. The company will be far better off in your hands than anyone else’s. You have a gift…an ability to enter a room and take it over…you fear no one, and they all know it, and they esteem you for it. Marry my daughter, Swift, and build my factory. By the time you come home, I’ll give you New York.”

  “Could you throw in Rhode Island? It’s not very large.”

  Bowman ignored the sardonic question. “I have ambitions for you beyond the company. I am connected with powerful men, and you have not escaped their notice. I will help you achieve anything your mind can conceive…and the price is a small one. Take Daisy and sire my grandchildren. That’s all I ask.”

  “That’s all,” Matthew repeated dazedly.

  When Matthew had begun to work for Bowman ten years ago, he had never expected the man would come to be a surrogate father to him. Bowman was like a barrel of explosives, short, round and so quick-tempered you could predict one of his infamous tirades by watching the top of his bald head turn fiery red. But Bowman was clever with numbers, and when it came to managing people he was incredibly shrewd and calculating. He was also generous to those who pleased him, and he was a man who kept his promises and fulfilled his obligations.

  Matthew had learned a great deal from Thomas Bowman, how to sniff out an opponent’s weakness and turn it to his advantage, when to push and when to hold back…and he had learned, too, that it was all right to unleash his aggressiveness in business as long as he never crossed the line into outright rudeness. New York businessmen—the real ones, not the upper-class dilettantes—did not respect you unless you displayed a certain amount of contentiousness.

  At the same time Matthew had learned to temper his vigor with diplomacy after learning that winning an argument didn’t necessarily mean he would get his way. Charm had not come easily to him, with his guarded nature. But he had painstakingly acquired it as a necessary instrument to do his job well.

  Thomas Bowman had backed Matthew every step of the way and had steered him through a couple of precarious deals. Matthew had been grateful for his guidance. And he couldn’t help but like his prickly employer despite his faults—because there was some truth in Bowman’s claim that they were alike.

  How a man like Bowman had produced a daughter like Daisy was one of life’s great mysteries.

  “I need some time to consider this,” Matthew said.

  “What is there to consider?” Bowman protested. “I’ve already said—” He stopped as he saw Matthew’s expression. “All right. All right. I suppose there is no need for an immediate answer. We’ll discuss it later.”

  “Did you speak to Mr. Swift?” Lillian demanded as Marcus entered their bedroom. She had dozed off while trying to wait up for him, and was struggling to a sitting position in the bed.

  “Oh, I spoke to him,” Marcus replied ruefully, shrugging out of his coat. He laid the well-tailored garment across the arms of a Louis XIV chair.

  “I was right, wasn’t I? He’s abominable. Detestable. Tell me what he said.”

  Marcus stared at his pregnant wife, who was so beautiful with her long hair unbound and her eyes still heavy-lidded from sleep that it made his heart skip a beat. “Not yet,” he murmured, half-sitting on the bed. “First I want to stare at you for a while.”

  Lillian smiled and scrubbed her hands through her wild dark mane. “I look a fright.”

  “No.” He moved closer, his voice lowering. “Every part of you is lovely.” His hands slid gently over the abundant curves of her body, soothing rather than arousing. “What can I do for you?” he whispered.

  She continued to smile. “One glance at me will reveal that you’ve done quite enough already, my lord.” Encircling him with her slender arms, she let him rest his head against her breasts. “Westcliff,” she said against his hair, “I could never have anyone’s child but yours.”

  “That is reassuring.”

  “I feel so overtaken…and bloody uncomfortable. Is it wrong to say I don’t like being pregnant?”

  “Of course not,” Marcus returned, his voice muffled in her cleavage. “I wouldn’t like it either.”

  That drew a grin from her. Releasing him, she settled back against the pillows. “I want to hear about Mr. Swift. Tell me what was said between you and that odious walking scarecrow.”

  “I wouldn’t describe him as a scarecrow, precisely. It appears he has changed since you saw him last.”

  “Hmm.” Lillian was obviously displeased by the revelation. “He is ill-favored, nonetheless.”

  “Since I rarely dwell on thoughts of male attractiveness,” Marcus said dryly, “I
do not qualify as a competent judge. But I think hardly anyone would describe Mr. Swift as being ill-favored.”

  “Are you saying he’s attractive?”

  “I believe many would claim so, yes.”

  Lillian thrust a hand in front of his face. “How many fingers am I holding up?”

  “Three,” Marcus said, amused. “My love, what are you doing?”

  “Checking your eyesight. I think your vision is failing. Here, follow the movement of my finger—”

  “Why don’t you follow the movement of mine?” he suggested, reaching for her bodice.

  She grabbed his hand and stared into his sparkling eyes. “Marcus, do be serious. Daisy’s future is at stake!”

  Marcus settled back obligingly. “Very well.”

  “Tell me what was said,” she prompted.

  “I informed Mr. Swift quite sternly that I will not allow anyone to make Daisy unhappy. And I demanded that he give me his word not to marry her.”

  “Oh, thank God,” Lillian said with a sigh of relief.

  “He refused.”

  “He what?” Her mouth fell open in astonishment. “But no one refuses you.”

  “Apparently Mr. Swift wasn’t told about that,” he said.

  “Marcus, you’re going to do something, aren’t you? You won’t let Daisy be browbeaten and harassed into marrying Swift—”

  “Hush, love. I promise, Daisy will not be forced to marry anyone against her will. However…” Marcus hesitated, wondering exactly how much of the truth he should admit. “My opinion of Matthew Swift is somewhat different than yours.”

  Her brows lowered. “My opinion is more accurate. I’ve known him longer.”

  “You knew him years ago,” Marcus said evenly. “People change, Lillian. And I think much of what your father has claimed about Swift is true.”

  “Et tu, Marcus?”

  He grinned at Lillian’s theatrical grimace and reached beneath the covers. Fishing out one of her bare feet, he pulled it into his lap and began to knead her aching arch with deep strokes of his thumbs. She sighed and relaxed against the pillows.