by Lisa Kleypas
“He wouldn’t. The opportunities are far greater in New York—and if he stayed here he would always have the disadvantage of not being an aristocrat.”
“But if he were willing to try…” Evie pressed.
“I still could never become the kind of wife he would need.”
“The two of you must have a forthright conversation,” Evie said decisively. “Mr. Swift is a mature and intelligent man—surely he wouldn’t expect you to become something you’re not.”
“It’s all moot, anyway,” Daisy said gloomily. “He made it clear that he won’t marry me under any circumstances. That was his exact wording.”
“Is it you he objects to, or the concept of marriage itself?”
“I don’t know. All I know is he must feel something for me if he carries a lock of my hair in his pocket.” Remembering the way his fingers had closed over the button, she felt a quick, not unpleasant shiver chase down her spine. “Evie,” she asked, “how do you know if you love someone?”
Evie considered the question as they passed a low circular boundary hedge containing an explosion of multi-colored primulas. “I’m sure this is when I’m s-supposed to say something wise and helpful,” she said with a self-deprecating shrug. “But my situation was different from yours. St. Vincent and I didn’t expect to fall in love. It caught us both unaware.”
“Yes, but how did you know?”
“It was the moment I realized he was willing to die for me. I don’t think anyone, including St. Vincent, believed he was capable of self-sacrifice. It taught me that you can assume you know a person quite well—but that person can s-surprise you. Everything seemed to change from one moment to the next—suddenly he became the most important thing in the world to me. No, not important…necessary. Oh, I wish I were clever with words—”
“I understand,” Daisy murmured, although she felt more melancholy than enlightened. She wondered if she would ever be able to love a man that way. Perhaps her emotions had been too deeply invested in her sister and friends…perhaps there wasn’t enough left over for anyone else.
They came to a tall juniper hedge beyond which extended a flagstoned walkway that bordered the side of the manor. As they made their way to an opening of the hedge, they heard a pair of masculine voices engaged in conversation. The voices were not loud. In fact, the strictly moderated volume of the conversation betrayed that something secret—and therefore intriguing—was being discussed. Pausing behind the hedge, Daisy motioned for Evie to be still and quiet.
“…doesn’t promise to be much of a breeder…” one of them was saying.
The comment was met with a low but indignant objection. “Timid? Holy hell, the woman has enough spirit to climb Mont-Blanc with a pen-knife and a ball of twine. Her children will be perfect hellions.”
Daisy and Evie stared at each other with mutual astonishment. Both voices were easily recognizable as those belonging to Lord Llandrindon and Matthew Swift.
“Really,” Llandrindon said skeptically. “My impression is that she is a literary-minded girl. Rather a bluestocking.”
“Yes, she loves books. She also happens to love adventure. She has a remarkable imagination accompanied by a passionate enthusiasm for life and an iron constitution. You’re not going to find a girl her equal on your side of the Atlantic or mine.”
“I had no intention of looking on your side,” Llandrindon said dryly. “English girls possess all the traits I would desire in a wife.”
They were talking about her, Daisy realized, her mouth dropping open. She was torn between delight at Matthew Swift’s description of her, and indignation that he was trying to sell her to Llandrindon as if she were a bottle of patent medicine from a street vendor’s cart.
“I require a wife who is poised,” Llandrindon continued, “sheltered, restful…”
“Restful? What about natural and intelligent? What about a girl with the confidence to be herself rather than trying to imitate some pallid ideal of subservient womanhood?”
“I have a question,” Llandrindon said.
“Yes?”
“If she’s so bloody remarkable, why don’t you marry her?”
Daisy held her breath, straining to hear Swift’s reply. To her supreme frustration his voice was muffled by the filter of the hedges. “Drat,” she muttered and made to follow them.
Evie yanked her back behind the hedge. “No,” she whispered sharply. “Don’t test our luck, Daisy. It was a miracle they didn’t realize we were here.”
“But I wanted to hear the rest of it!”
“So did I.” They stared at each other with round eyes. “Daisy…” Evie said in wonder, “…I think Matthew Swift is in love with you.”
Chapter 10
Daisy wasn’t certain why the notion that Matthew Swift could be in love with her should set her entire world upside-down. But it did.
“If he is,” she asked Evie unsteadily, “then why is he so determined to pawn me off on Lord Llandrindon? It would be so easy for him to fall in with my father’s plans. And he would be richly rewarded. If on top of that he actually cares for me in the bargain, what could be holding him back?”
“Maybe he wants to find out if you love him in return?”
“No, Mr. Swift’s mind doesn’t work that way, any more than my father’s does. They’re men of business. Predators. If Mr. Swift wanted me, he wouldn’t stop to ask for my permission any more than a lion would stop and politely ask an antelope if he would mind being eaten for lunch.”
“I think the two of you should have a forthright conversation,” Evie declared.
“Oh, Mr. Swift would only evade and prevaricate, exactly as he has done so far. Unless…”
“Unless?”
“…I could find some way to make him let his guard down. And force him to be honest about whether he feels anything for me or not.”
“How will you do that?”
“I don’t know. Hang it, Evie, you know a hundred times more about men than I do. You’re married to one. You’re surrounded by them at the club. In your informed opinion, what is the quickest way to drive a man to the limits of his sanity and make him admit something he doesn’t want to?”
Seeming pleased by the image of herself as a worldly woman, Evie contemplated the question. “Make him jealous, I suppose. I’ve seen civilized men fight like dogs in the alley behind the club over the f-favors of a particular lady.”
“Hmm. I wonder if Mr. Swift could be provoked to jealousy.”
“I should think so,” Evie said. “He’s a man, after all.”
In the afternoon Daisy cornered Lord Llandrindon as he went into the library to replace a book on one of the lower gallery shelves.
“Good afternoon, my lord,” Daisy said brightly, pretending not to notice the glaze of apprehension in his eyes. She smothered a grin, thinking that after Matthew Swift’s campaign on her behalf, poor Llandrindon probably felt like a fox run to ground.
Recovering quickly, Llandrindon summoned a pleasant smile. “Good afternoon, Miss Bowman. May I ask after your sister and the baby?”
“Both are quite well, thank you.” Daisy drew closer and inspected the book in his hands. “History Of Military Cartography. Well. That sounds quite, er…intriguing.”
“Oh, it is,” Llandrindon assured her. “And wonderfully instructive. Though I fear something was lost in the translation. One must read it in the original German to appreciate the full significance of the work.”
“Do you ever read novels, my lord?”
He looked sincerely appalled by the question. “Oh, I never read novels. I was taught from childhood that one should only read books that instruct the mind or improve the character.”
Daisy was annoyed by his superior tone. “What a pity,” she said beneath her breath.
“Hmm?”
“That’s pretty,” she amended quickly, pretending to examine the volume’s engraved leather binding. She gave him what she hoped was a poised smile. “Are you an avid reade
r, my lord?”
“I try never to be avid about anything. ‘Moderation in all things’ is one of my most valued mottoes.”
“I don’t have any mottoes. If I did I would forever be contradicting them.”
Llandrindon chuckled. “Are you admitting to a mercurial nature?”
“I prefer to think of it as being open-minded,” Daisy said. “I can see wisdom in a great variety of beliefs.”
“Ah.”
Daisy could practically read his thoughts, that her so-called openmindedness cast her in a less-than-favorable light. “I should like to hear more of your mottoes, my lord. Perhaps during a stroll through the gardens?”
“I…er…” It was unpardonably bold for a girl to invite a gentleman on a walk instead of the other way around. However, Llandrindon’s gentlemanly nature would not allow him to refuse. “Of course, Miss Bowman. Perhaps tomorrow—”
“Now would be fine,” she said brightly.
“Now,” came his weak reply. “Yes. Lovely.”
Taking his arm before he had a chance to offer it, Daisy tugged him toward the doorway. “Let’s go.”
Having no choice but to allow the militantly cheerful young woman to drag him this way and that, Llandrindon soon found himself proceeding down one of the great stone staircases that led from the back terrace to the grounds below. “My lord,” Daisy said, “I have something to confess. I am hatching a little plot and I was hoping to enlist your help.”
“A little plot,” he repeated skittishly. “My help. Quite. That is, er—”
“It’s harmless, of course,” Daisy continued. “My objective is to encourage a certain gentleman’s attentions, as he seems to be somewhat reticent when it comes to courtship.”
“Reticent?” Llandrindon’s voice was a bare scratch of sound.
Daisy’s estimation of his mental capacity sank several degrees as it became apparent that all he could do was repeat her words in a parrotlike fashion. “Yes, reticent. But I have the impression that underneath the reluctant surface a different feeling may exist.”
Llandrindon, usually so graceful, tripped on an uneven patch of gravel. “What—what gives you that impression, Miss Bowman?”
“It’s just a woman’s intuition.”
“Miss Bowman,” he burst out, “if I have said or done anything to give you the misapprehension that I…that I…”
“I’m not talking about you,” Daisy said bluntly.
“You’re not? Then who—”
“I’m referring to Mr. Swift.”
His sudden joy was nearly palpable. “Mr. Swift. Yes. Yes. Miss Bowman, he has sung your praises for endless hours—not that it has been disagreeable to hear about your charms, of course.”
Daisy smiled. “I fear Mr. Swift will continue being reticent until something happens to flush him out like a pheasant from a wheat field. But if you wouldn’t mind giving the impression that you have indeed taken an interest in me—an outing in the carriage, a stroll, a dance or two—it may give him just the impetus he needs to declare himself.”
“It would be my pleasure,” Llandrindon said, apparently finding the role of co-conspirator far more appealing than that of matrimonial target. “I assure you, Miss Bowman, I can give a most convincing appearance of courtship.”
“I want you to delay your trip for a week.”
Matthew, who had been fastening five sheets of paper together with a straight pin, accidently shoved the point of one into his finger. Withdrawing the pin, he ignored the tiny dot of blood on his skin and stared at Westcliff without comprehension. The man had been closeted away with his wife and newborn daughter for at least thirty-six hours, and all of a sudden he had decided to appear the night before Matthew was to leave for Bristol and issue a command that made no sense at all.
Matthew kept his voice under tight control. “May I ask why, my lord?”
“Because I have decided to accompany you. And my schedule will not accommodate a departure on the morrow.”
As far as Matthew knew, the earl’s current schedule revolved solely around Lillian and the baby. “There is no need for you to go,” he said, offended by the implication that he couldn’t manage things on his own. “I know more than anyone about the various aspects of this business, and what it will require—”
“You are a foreigner, nonetheless,” Westcliff said, his face inscrutable. “And the mention of my name will open doors you won’t otherwise have access to.”
“If you doubt my negotiating skills—”
“Those aren’t at issue. I have complete faith in your skills, which in America would be more than sufficient. But here, in an undertaking of this magnitude, you will need the patronage of someone highly placed in society. Someone like me.”
“This isn’t the medieval era, my lord. I’ll be damned if I need to put on a dog-and-pony show with a peer as part of a business deal.”
“Speaking as the other half of the dog-and-pony show,” Westcliff said sardonically, “I’m not fond of the idea either. Especially when I have a newborn infant and a wife who hasn’t yet recovered from labor.”
“I can’t wait a week,” Matthew exploded. “I’ve already made appointments. I’ve arranged to meet with everyone from the dockmaster to the owners of the local waterworks company—”
“Those meetings will be rescheduled, then.”
“If you think there won’t be complaints—”
“The news that I will be accompanying you next week will be enough to quell most complaints.”
From any other man such a pronouncement would have been arrogance. From Westcliff it was a simple statement of fact.
“Does Mr. Bowman know about this?” Matthew demanded.
“Yes. And after hearing my opinion on the matter, he has agreed.”
“What am I supposed to do here for a week?”
The earl arched a dark brow in the manner of a man whose hospitality had never been questioned. People of all ages, nationalities and social classes begged for invitations to Stony Cross Park. Matthew was probably the only man in England who didn’t want to be there.
He didn’t care. He had gone too long without any real work—he was tired of idle amusements, tired of small talk, tired of beautiful scenery and fresh country air and peace and quiet. He wanted some activity, damn it all. Not to mention some coal-scented city air and the clamor of traffic-filled streets.
Most of all he wanted to be away from Daisy Bowman. It was constant torture to have her so near and yet never be able to touch her. It was impossible to treat her with calm courtesy when his head was filled with lurid images of holding her, seducing her, his mouth finding the sweetest, most vulnerable places of her body. And that was only the beginning. Matthew wanted hours, days, weeks alone with her…he wanted all her thoughts and smiles and secrets. The freedom to lay his soul bare before her.
Things he could never have.
“There are many entertainments available at the estate and its environs,” Westcliff said in answer to his question. “If you desire a particular kind of female companionship, I suggest you go to the village tavern.”
Matthew had already heard some of the male guests at the estate boasting of a spring evening’s revelry with a pair of buxom tavern maids. If only he could be satisfied with something that simple. A solid village wench, instead of a tantalizing will-o’-the-wisp who had wrought some kind of spell over his mind and heart.
Love was supposed to be a happy, giddy emotion. Like the silly verses written on Valentine cards and decorated with feathers and paint and lace. This wasn’t at all like that. This was a gnawing, feverish, bleak feeling…an addiction that could not be quenched.
This was pure reckless need. And he was not a reckless man.
But Matthew knew if he stayed at Stony Cross much longer, he was going to do something disastrous.
“I’m going to Bristol,” Matthew said desperately. “I’ll reschedule the meetings. I won’t do anything without your leave. But at least I can gather in
formation—interview the local transport firm, have a look at their horses—”
“Swift,” the earl interrupted. Something in his quiet tone, a note of…kindness?…sympathy?…caused Matthew to stiffen defensively. “I understand the reason for your urgency—”
“No, you don’t.”
“I understand more than you might think. And in my experience, these problems can’t be solved by avoidance. You can never run far or fast enough.”
Matthew froze, staring at Westcliff. The earl could have been referring either to Daisy, or to Matthew’s tarnished past. In either case he was probably right.
Not that it changed anything.
“Sometimes running is the only choice,” Matthew replied gruffly, and left the room without looking back.
As it turned out, Matthew did not go to Bristol. He knew he would regret his decision…but he had no idea how much.
The days that followed were what Matthew would remember for the rest of his life as a week of unholy torture.
He had been to hell and back at a much earlier time in his life, having known physical pain, deprivation, near-starvation, and bone-chilling fear. But none of those discomforts came close to the agony of standing by and watching Daisy Bowman being courted by Lord Llandrindon.
It seemed the seeds he had sown in Llandrindon’s mind about Daisy’s charms had successfully taken root. Llandrindon was at Daisy’s side constantly, chatting, flirting, letting his gaze travel over her with offensive familiarity. And Daisy was similarly absorbed, hanging on his every word, dropping whatever she happened to be doing as soon as Llandrindon appeared.
On Monday they went out for a private picnic.
On Tuesday they went for a carriage drive.
On Wednesday they went to pick bluebells.
On Thursday they fished at the lake, returning with damp clothes and sun-glazed complexions, laughing together at a joke they didn’t share with anyone else.
On Friday they danced together at an impromptu musical evening, looking so well matched that one of the guests remarked it was a pleasure to watch them.
