Scandal in Spring

by Lisa Kleypas

  Lifting his mouth from hers, Matthew pressed his jaw against the side of her head. “I think,” he said raggedly, “this puts to rest any question of whether I find you desirable or not.”

  Daisy gathered the strength to twist around in his grasp until she faced away from him, staring blindly at the rows of leather-bound books before her. Her small hands braced on the mahogany shelf as she fought to control the turbulent pace of her breathing.

  Matthew stood behind her, reaching around to cover her hands with his. The narrow framework of her shoulders went rigid against his chest as he searched for the tender ridge of her ear.

  “Don’t,” she said thickly, straining away from him.

  Matthew couldn’t stop. Following the movement of her head, he nuzzled the downy curve of her neck. He released one of her hands to settle his palm on the exposed skin over her bodice, just above the rise of her breasts. Daisy’s free hand came up to press his fingers harder against her chest, as if their combined efforts were necessary to restrain the pounding of her reckless heart.

  Matthew tightened all his muscles against the overpowering urge to snatch her up and carry her to the nearby settee. He wanted to make love to her, to bury himself inside her until bitter memories had dissolved in her sweetness. But that chance had been stolen from him long before they had ever met.

  He had nothing to offer her. His life, his name, his identity…it was all an illusion. He was not the man she thought he was. And it was only a matter of time until she found out.

  To his chagrin he realized he had unconsciously clenched a hand in her skirts as if in preparation to hike them up. The satin spilled in gleaming drifts between his fingers. He thought of her body wrapped up in all these garments and lacing, and the ungodly pleasure it would be to strip her naked. To map her body with his mouth and fingertips, learning every curve and hollow, every hidden place.

  Watching his hand as if it belonged to someone else, Matthew uncurled his fingers one by one until the yellow satin dropped. He turned her to face him, staring into the rich brown depths of her eyes.

  “Matthew,” she said thickly.

  It was the first time she had ever used his first name. He struggled to conceal the strength of his response. “Yes?”

  “The way you phrased yourself earlier…you didn’t say you won’t marry me under any circumstances…you said you can’t. Why?”

  “Since it’s not going to happen,” he said, “the reasons are irrelevant.”

  Daisy frowned, her lips pursing in a way that made him long to kiss them.

  He moved aside to let her go.

  Obeying the silent signal, Daisy began to brush by him.

  But as Daisy’s arm bumped against his, Matthew caught her wrist in his fingers, and suddenly she was in his arms again. He couldn’t stop himself from taking her mouth with his, kissing her as if she belonged to him, as if he were inside her.

  This is what I feel for you, he told her with fierce, consuming kisses. This is what I want. He felt the new tension in her limbs, tasted her arousal, and realized he could bring her to climax here and now, if he reached beneath her dress and—

  No, he told himself savagely. This had already gone too far. Realizing how close he was to losing all self-control, Matthew ripped his mouth from hers with a quiet groan and thrust Daisy away from him.

  She fled the library immediately. The hem of the yellow gown trailed after her, curling around the edge of the doorjamb before disappearing like the last ray of the sun slipping over the horizon.

  And Matthew wondered bleakly how he was going to interact with her in a normal manner ever again.

  It was a time-honored tradition for the mistress of a country estate to act as Lady Bountiful to the tenants and local villagers. This meant giving assistance and advice, and donating necessary items such as food and clothing to those who needed it most. Lillian had performed the duties willingly until now, but her condition had made it impossible.

  There was no question of asking Mercedes to substitute for her—Mercedes was too abrasive and impatient for such an undertaking. She did not like to be around sick people. She made the elderly uneasy, and something in her tone inevitably caused babies to cry.

  Therefore Daisy was the logical choice. Daisy didn’t mind visiting day at all. She liked taking the pony cart out by herself, to deliver parcels and jars, read to those with bad vision, and collect news from the villagers. Even better, the informal nature of the errands meant she didn’t have to dress fashionably or worry about etiquette.

  There was yet another reason Daisy was glad to go to the village…it kept her busy and away from the manor, so she could focus her thoughts on something other than Matthew Swift.

  It had been three days since that dreadful parlor game and its consequences—namely, being kissed out of her wits by Matthew. Now he was behaving toward her as he always had, cool and courteous.

  Daisy could almost believe it had been a dream except that whenever she was near Swift, her nerves began throwing off sparks, and her stomach swooped up and down like a drunken sparrow.

  She wanted to discuss it with someone but that would have been too mortifying, and somehow it would have felt like a betrayal, though of whom she wasn’t certain. All she knew was that nothing felt right. She wasn’t sleeping well, and as a result she was clumsy and distracted in the daytime.

  Thinking she might be ill, Daisy had gone to the housekeeper with a description of her condition and had been dosed with a nasty spoonful of castor oil. It hadn’t helped in the least. Worst of all, she couldn’t keep her mind on her books. She had read the same pages over and over again, and they had no power to interest her.

  Daisy had no idea how to put herself to rights again. But she thought it would be a good thing to stop thinking about herself and do something for someone else.

  She set out mid-morning in the big open pony-cart drawn by a sturdy brown pony named Hubert. The cart was laden with china jars filled with food, bolts of flannel, wheels of cheese, parcels of turnip-fed mutton, bacon and tea, and bottles of port.

  The visits were generally quite pleasant, the villagers seeming to enjoy Daisy’s cheerful presence. Some of them made her laugh as they slyly described how it had been in the old days when Lord Westcliff’s mother had come to call.

  The dowager countess had dispensed her gifts grudgingly, expecting a great show of gratitude. If the women hadn’t curtseyed deeply enough, the dowager countess had asked sourly if their knees were stiff. She had also expected to be consulted about what names they should call their children, and she had instructed them on what their views on religion and hygiene should be. More aggravating still, the countess had brought food that had been mixed in an unappetizing jumble, meats and vegetables and sweets all crammed together in the same tin.

  “Gracious,” Daisy exclaimed, setting out jars and fabric bolts on the table. “What a wicked old witch she was! Just like the fairy tales…” And she regaled the children with a dramatic recitation of Hansel and Gretel that sent them giggling and screeching beneath the table, peering out at her with delight.

  By the end of visiting day, Daisy had filled a little book with notes…would it be possible to locate a specialist to look at old Mr. Hearnsley’s failing eyes and might the Blunts be given another bottle of the housekeeper’s tonic for Mr. Blunt’s digestive complaints?

  Promising that she would convey all questions directly to Lord and Lady Westcliff, Daisy climbed back into the now-empty pony cart and headed back to Stony Cross Park.

  It was almost twilight, long shadows of oaks and chestnuts crossing the unpaved road leading away from the village. This part of England had not yet been deforested to feed the fleets and factories that had sprung up in the major cities. The woodlands were still pristine and other-worldly, scored with small cartways half-buried by overhanging branches thick with leaves. In the gathering shade the trees were wreathed in vapor and mystery, like sentinels for a world of druids and warlocks and unicorns. A brow
n owl glided over the lane, mothlike in the darkening sky.

  The lane was quiet except for the rattle of cart wheels and the clop-clop of Hubert’s iron-shod hooves. Daisy kept a firm grip on the ribbons as the pony quickened his pace. Hubert seemed nervous, his head tossing from side to side.

  “Easy, boy,” Daisy soothed, forcibly slowing his pace as the cart’s axle rattled over a rough patch. “You don’t like the forest, do you? No need to worry—we’ll reach open ground soon.”

  The pony’s fidgeting continued until the vegetation had thinned and the overhead foliage had disappeared. They passed into a dry sunken lane that was girdled by a forest on one side and a meadow on the other. “There, nervous Nellie,” Daisy said brightly. “Nothing to worry about, you see?”

  As it turned out, her confidence was premature.

  She heard a few heavy cracks coming from the forest, twigs and branches snapped underfoot. Hubert nickered apprehensively, swinging his head toward the noise. A loud animal grunt caused the hairs to rise on the back of Daisy’s neck.

  Good Lord, what was that?

  With startling suddenness a huge, bulky shape charged toward the cart from the forest cover.

  Everything happened too fast for Daisy to comprehend. She gripped the ribbons as Hubert jerked forward with a panicked whinny, the cart rattling and bouncing as if it were a child’s toy.

  Daisy tried in vain to keep her seat, but as the cart hit a deep rut she was thrown clear of the vehicle. Hubert continued racing pell-mell down the lane while Daisy landed on the hard-packed earth with stunning force.

  The breath was knocked from her, and she choked and wheezed. She had the impression of a massive creature, a monster rushing toward her, but the sound of a gunshot rent the air and caused her ears to ring.

  A bone-chilling animal squeal…then nothing.

  Daisy tried to sit up, then flopped weakly on her stomach as her lungs spasmed. Her chest felt as if it had been caught in a vise. There was a good chance she was going to cast up her crumpets, but the thought of how much that would hurt was enough to keep her gorge down.

  In a moment the thundering of hooves—several sets—vibrated the ground beneath Daisy’s cheek. Finally able to draw a shallow breath, she pushed up on her elbows and lifted her chin.

  Three riders—no, four—were galloping toward her, hooves thrasing up clouds of dust in the lane. One of the men swung off his horse before it had even stopped and rushed to her in a few ground-eating strides.

  Daisy blinked in surprise as he dropped to his knees and gathered her up in the same motion. Her head fell back on his arm, and she found herself staring hazily up into Matthew Swift’s dark face.

  “Daisy.” It was a tone she had never heard from him before, rough and urgent. Cradling her in one arm, he ran his free hand over her body in a rapid search for injuries. “Are you hurt?”

  Daisy tried to explain that she’d just gotten the wind knocked out of her, and he seemed to understand her incoherent sounds. “All right,” he said. “Don’t try to talk. Breathe slowly.” Feeling her stir against him, he resettled her in his arms. “Rest against me.” His hand passed over her hair, smoothing it back from her face. Tiny shivers of reaction ran through her limbs, and he gathered her closer. “Slowly, sweetheart. Easy. You’re safe now.”

  Daisy closed her eyes to hide her astonishment. Matthew Swift was murmuring endearments and holding her in hard, strong arms, and her bones seemed to have melted like boiling sugar.

  Years of uncivilized rough-and-tumble with her siblings had taught Daisy to recover quickly from a fall. In any other circumstances she would have sprung up and dusted herself off by now. But every pleasure-saturated cell in her body sought to preserve the moment for as long as possible.

  Matthew’s gentle fingers stroked the side of her face. “Look at me, sweetheart. Tell me where it hurts.”

  Her lashes swept upward. His face was right over hers. As she was held in the compass of his extraordinary blue eyes, she felt as if she were floating in layers of color. “You have nice teeth,” she told him groggily, “but you know, your eyes are even nicer…”

  Swift frowned, the pad of his thumb passing over the crest of her cheek. His touch brought a wash of pink to the surface of her skin. “Can you tell me your name?”

  She blinked at him. “You’ve forgotten it?”

  “No, I want to know if you’ve forgotten it.”

  “I would never be so silly as to forget my own name,” she said. “I’m Daisy Bowman.”

  “What is your birthday?”

  She couldn’t repress a crooked smile. “You wouldn’t know if I told you the wrong one.”

  “Your birthday,” he insisted.

  “March the fifth.”

  His mouth curved wryly. “Don’t play games, imp.”

  “All right. It’s September the twelfth. How did you know my birthday?”

  Instead of replying, Swift looked up and spoke to his companions, who had gathered around them. “Her pupils are the same size,” he said. “And she’s alert. No broken bones, either.”

  “Thank God.” Westcliff’s voice.

  Looking over Matthew Swift’s broad shoulder, Daisy saw her brother-in-law standing over them. Mr. Mardling and Lord Llandrindon were also there, wearing sympathetic expressions.

  Westcliff held a rifle in his hand. He lowered to his haunches beside her. “We were just returning from an afternoon shoot,” the earl said. “It was pure chance that we came upon you just as you were charged.”

  “I could have sworn it was a wild boar,” Daisy said in wonder.

  “But that can’t be,” Lord Landrindon remarked with a patronizing chuckle. “Your imagination has gotten the better of you, Miss Bowman. There have been no wild boars in England for hundreds of years.”

  “But I saw—” Daisy began defensively.

  “It’s all right,” Swift murmured, tightening his hold. “I saw it too.”

  Westcliff’s expression was rueful. “Miss Bowman is not entirely mistaken,” he told Llandrindon. “We’ve had a local problem with some escaped livestock that have farrowed a generation or two of feral litters. Only last month a horse-woman was charged by one of them.”

  “You mean I was just attacked by an angry pig?” Daisy asked, struggling to a sitting position. Swift kept a supportive arm at her back and tucked her against his warm side.

  A last ray of sunlight flashed over the horizon, temporarily blinding her. Turning her face away from it, Daisy felt Swift’s chin brush against her hair.

  “Not angry,” Westcliff said in reference to the pig. “Feral, and therefore dangerous. Domestic pigs set free in the wild can easily become aggressive and quite large. I would estimate the one we just saw to be at least twenty stone.” Seeing Swift’s perplexity, the earl clarified, “Approximately three hundred pounds.”

  Swift helped Daisy to her feet, bracing her against his sturdy form. “Slowly,” he murmured. “Are you dizzy? Nauseous?”

  Daisy felt absolutely fine. But it was so delicious to stand there with him that she said breathlessly, “Perhaps a little.”

  His hand came up to her head, gently cradling it against his shoulder. Her temperature escalated as she felt the protectiveness of his embrace, the wonderful solidity of his body. All this from Matthew Swift, the most unromantic man she had ever known.

  So far this visit was producing one surprise after another.

  “I’ll take you back,” Swift said near her ear. Her skin prickled in delighted response. “Do you think you could ride in front of me?”

  How topsy-turvy everything had become, Daisy thought, that she should feel a shameless thrill of anticipation at the prospect. She could lean back in his arms as he carried her away on his horse, and she could secretly indulge in a fantasy or two. She would pretend she was an adventuress being abducted by a dashing villain—

  “I fear that would not be wise,” Lord Llandrindon interrupted with a laugh. “Considering the state of affairs betw
een the two of you…”

  Daisy blanched, thinking at first that he was referring to those torrid moments in the library. But there was no way Llandrindon could know about that. She hadn’t told a soul, and Swift was as closemouthed as a clam about his private life. No, Llandrindon had to be talking about their rivalry at lawn-bowling.

  “I think I had better be the one to escort Miss Bowman home,” Llandrindon said, “to prevent any chance of violence.”

  Daisy slitted a glance at the viscount’s smiling face and wished he had kept his mouth shut. She parted her lips to protest, but Swift had already replied.

  “Perhaps you’re right, my lord.”

  Oh, drat. Daisy felt cold and disgruntled as Swift eased her away from the warm shelter of his body.

  Westcliff viewed the ground with a grim expression. “I’ll have to find the animal and cull it.”

  “Not on my account, I hope,” Daisy said anxiously.

  “There is blood on the ground,” the earl replied. “The animal is wounded. It’s kinder to put it down rather than let it suffer.”

  Mr. Mardling went to fetch his own gun, saying eagerly, “I’ll go with you, my lord!”

  In the meanwhile Lord Llandrindon had mounted his horse. “Hand her up to me,” he said to Swift, “and I’ll return her safely to the manor.”

  Swift tilted Daisy’s face upward and extracted a white handkerchief from his pocket. “If you still feel dizzy by the time we arrive home,” he said, carefully wiping the dirt smudges from her face, “I’m going to send for the doctor. Understand?”

  Despite his overbearing manner there was an elusive tenderness in his gaze that made Daisy want to crawl inside his coat and huddle against his heartbeat. “Are you coming back too,” she asked, “or will you stay with Lord Westcliff?”

  “I’m going to follow right behind you.” Replacing the handkerchief in his pocket, Swift bent and picked her up easily. “Hold onto me.”