The Summer Bride (A Chance Sisters Romance)

by Anne Gracie

  He left ahead of the other two, and was making his way down the stairs just as Jane came hurrying up, a furtive expression on her face.

  “Miss Jane,” he said politely and made to pass her on the stairs.

  She hurriedly thrust something behind her, but not before he caught a glimpse of a small red leather shoe with a red and white rosette on the toe.

  “Bringing Miss Daisy her slippers?”

  “Oh, hush!” she exclaimed, looking around guiltily to see if anyone noticed. “She’s not following you is she?”

  “No, she stormed out ahead of me,” he assured her. “She’ll be in her workroom by now. Why, what’s the problem?”

  Jane showed him what she had been concealing, and said in a tragic voice, “My dog.”

  Only one shoe still bore a rosette—just. It hung by a thread. The other was chewed and bedraggled and utterly ruined. “Daisy’s going to kill me. Or worse, my dog. But it’s her own fault—she should never have left them out, tempting him with leather slippers! He’s not used to living with people yet.”

  Voices sounded in the hallway above and Jane looked around frantically, as if seeking somewhere to hide the ruined slippers.

  “Here, give them to me,” Flynn said.

  Jane thrust them into his hands and Flynn slipped a slipper into each coat pocket just as Max and Freddy appeared on the landing.

  Jane murmured her thanks and hurried upstairs. Flynn hid a smile. Clearly he was expected to get rid of the evidence.

  * * *

  The two men joined him and, since it was a clear, cool day, they walked to Max’s home, around the corner. Max took them to his library, where they settled into comfortable overstuffed leather armchairs.

  He poured them each a drink. “I didn’t expect you to be attending dance lessons, Flynn.”

  “Ah, well, apparently I need them; everyone knows all seamen can only dance the hornpipe.” He leaned forward and added confidingly, “And did you know, they don’t dance the hornpipe at Almack’s? I was never so shocked in all my life.” The others laughed.

  “So you didn’t tell her about all the balls and routs and parties you’ve danced at in various embassies and grand houses in the far-flung corners of the empire.”

  “She didn’t give me the chance.”

  “So how did she twist your arm?” Freddy asked.

  Flynn grinned. “Hornpipe issues aside, it was a punishment.” He told them the story.

  “Pammy Girtle-Brown!” Freddy shuddered. “Ghastly female! Not even a muffin, she’s a . . . a stale Bath bun. That talks. And talks. And talks—all utter rubbish and at the top of her lungs. Spent a fortnight in her company at a house party once—snowed in—no chance of escape. And she keeps rats, lets ’em crawl over her body.” He shuddered again and drained his glass. “Scarred me for life.”

  Max chuckled. “And Aunt Bea swallowed the tale?”

  “For all of five minutes,” Flynn said. “She was truly appalled. Claimed I’d almost given her palpitations.”

  “Serve you right then,” Freddy told him. “Pammy Girtle-Brown! Give anyone palpitations!”

  Max said, “I expect Aunt Bea wanted a partner for Daisy too—Abby says she’s determined to make Daisy attend the lessons with all of them, no matter how much Daisy protests.”

  Flynn thought about Daisy protesting. He thought he understood at least some of her reluctance. “Do either of you know what’s the matter with her foot?”

  Freddy shook his head. “No idea.”

  “It’s her leg, not her foot,” Max said. “I’m not sure how it happened—some accident when she was a child, perhaps—but I think one leg is shorter than the other.”

  Flynn thought about the way Daisy moved and nodded. It made sense.

  * * *

  A few hours later Flynn left Max’s house. He put on his coat and felt the shoes in his pockets. He ought to toss them away—they were no use to man or beast. He examined the well-chewed slippers. Well, maybe beast.

  They’d been pretty shoes once. An idea came to him. He hesitated.

  Oh, what the hell, why not?

  So on the way home he stopped at a small backstreet shoemaker he knew of. He gave the man Daisy’s ruined shoes and explained what he wanted. “Can you do it?” he asked the shoemaker.

  The man assured him he could, and Flynn went on his way.

  * * *

  “Are you sure you won’t come to the masquerade ball, Daisy?” Jane asked. “Lady Beatrice did get you an invitation, and it would be such fun, seeing all the wonderful costumes.”

  “No, thanks, lovey—not my style of thing at all.” Daisy had too much work to do to go gallivanting. She straightened the blue satin bow on Jane’s shepherdess costume. It had come up a treat, if she said so herself. Jane was nothing like any shepherdess Daisy had ever seen—not that she’d seen many in London—but she looked as pretty as a picture, which was the main point.

  “Stubborn gel! It would do you good to get out of that poky little room and mingle with other people,” Lady Beatrice declared.

  “Can’t,” Daisy said. “No costume.”

  “Wear a domino,” Lady Beatrice said. She looked magnificent as Good Queen Bess, in a purple and gold brocade and a gold ruff.

  “You needn’t stay long,” Jane urged. “The ball is just around the corner. You could come for a bit, and then walk home.”

  “Look, stop worrying about me and go off and have yourselves a good time,” Daisy urged them. She was sick of arguing. “I’m not in a party mood. I got a bit of work to do, then I’m for an early night.” Below the front doorbell rang. “That’ll be Abby and Max,” she said. “Mustn’t keep them waiting.”

  “Stubborn, stubborn gel,” Lady Beatrice muttered and kissed Daisy on the cheek. “Make sure you do get a good night’s sleep—you’re starting to look frightfully pale and drawn!”

  “I will,” Daisy lied. She embraced Jane, followed them downstairs and waved them off in the carriage.

  “Mad, isn’t it, Featherby,” she commented as he shut the door behind them, “goin’ round the corner in the carriage.”

  He gave her a mock-shocked look. “Good Queen Bess—walk? Unthinkable.”

  Daisy laughed. “You mean Lady Bea—walk? Unthinkable! Not when there’s a carriage available.” She hurried upstairs and returned to her workroom.

  She was almost up-to-date on Jane’s dresses—for the moment—and Lady Gelbart and old Mrs. Hartley-Peacock had been making anxious noises about wanting their bed gowns and jackets. The two old ladies were so desperate for them, they’d offered to pay Daisy double the price—in cash!—and she’d already quoted them a ridiculous price.

  Cash in hand. She would work on those tonight.

  Despite her weariness, Daisy grinned to herself as she picked up the first of the half-finished silk and lace confections, in pink silk and creamy lace. She threaded her needle and got to work.

  Who’d’ve thought that very first nightgown and bed jacket she’d made for Lady Bea would lead to a whole stack of orders from other rich old ladies of the ton?

  And who would’ve believed the kind of thing she’d first made for the girls in the brothel would be so popular with respectable old ladies? But the naughtier they were, the better the old ducks liked them. These days Daisy was making them with real French lace and proper silk—all new—not bits cut from old dresses. She had to admit, silk felt beautiful against the skin.

  But those years of picking apart old dresses for the fabric had taught her how to construct a garment—how to cut and shape clothing. She’d started off by using the pieces as a pattern, but soon learned to adjust and adapt them.

  She’d always had ideas for clothes in her head.

  And now she knew how to make them look exactly how she imagined. She loved that she could make a chubby girl look slim, or give
a skinny girl a bit of added shape. She had a good eye for color too; the right color could make a woman look sallow or vibrant, make her eyes dull or sparkle. It was a source of never-ending fascination.

  More and more orders were starting to come in—which was what she’d dreamed of. Why would she waste her time at a ball instead of getting something finished—something that she’d be paid actual money for?

  Besides, why would she want to go to a ball and watch Flynn twirling around the room with the dainty Lady Elizabeth?

  * * *

  The ballroom was crammed to the gunwales, as the most successful ton affairs seemed to be. Flynn shouldered his way through the colorful throng, squeezing between a mermaid and a winged fellow dressed in a sheet, a coronet of leaves and precious little else—some sort of Greek or Roman god, Flynn presumed.

  He spotted Damaris and Hyphen-Hyphen, both dressed in Chinese outfits, Freddy with a long mandarin mustache dropping down his chin.

  “Got a bit of seaweed caught on your face,” Flynn commented, reaching for it.

  “Hands off, barbarian!” Freddy stepped back, and eyed him up and down. “Dammit, Flynn, you’ve forgotten to wear a costume.” He turned to Damaris. “He’s wearing exactly the same clothes I met him in.”

  Flynn grinned. Freddy knew perfectly well Flynn had commissioned this outfit especially for the ball. “Better than wearing your wife’s dressing gown.”

  “Stop it, you two,” Damaris said, laughing. “Mr. Flynn, you look wonderful—a most dashing and fearsome-looking pirate!”

  Flynn tried to look modest, but he had to admit he was very pleased with his costume. He was dressed in tight red pants, gleaming thigh-high black boots, his dragon waistcoat, a frothy white shirt and a purple and gold brocade coat. On his head he wore a black headscarf with a white skull and crossbones on it, a mask that was a ragged strip of black velvet with two sinister eyeholes, and in his ear, his largest, shiniest gold earring. In a final touch, he’d thrust a cutlass through his black leather belt.

  “And you look beautiful, Damaris. Much too lovely to be married to this ramshackle fellow.” Her embroidered Chinese costume set off her slender elegance to perfection.

  “Show a bit of respect, pirate—I’m a mandarin, you know, and pretty dashed important. I could have your head chopped off”—Freddy snapped his fingers—“like that! It would, I’m sure, be an improvement.”

  They were joined at that moment by Abby and Max, Jane and Lady Beatrice. They exchanged greetings and Lady Beatrice eyed Flynn with undisguised approval. “Now this is the kind of man I expected when Max first told me about his friend Captain Flynn—flamboyant, colorful and with more than a touch of pirate about him. A fine figure of a man, indeed.” She peered at his cutlass—at least he hoped it was his cutlass. “I hope that thing’s a fake. Don’t want to cut the ladies’ dresses to ribbons.”

  “Silver-painted cardboard, m’lady,” Flynn assured her. “Got it from a theater company.”

  “Good.” Her gaze raked him up and down again. “Daisy make that waistcoat, did she?” She poked his chest with the handle of her lorgnette.

  Flynn nodded.

  “Gel ought to be here to see it in its full glory.”

  “She’s not here?” Damaris said, glancing around. “But I thought you’d arranged an invitation especially for her.”

  “Claims she’s having an early night, but I know better.” The old lady snorted. “Staying home to work, stubborn little creature. She’s turning into a veritable troglodyte. Well, get along with you, children, the dancing is about to start. Off you go and find your partners.”

  Chapter Six

  Without thinking highly either of men or of matrimony, marriage had always been her object; it was the only honourable provision for well-educated young women of small fortune, and however uncertain of giving happiness, must be their pleasantest preservative from want.

  —JANE AUSTEN, PRIDE AND PREJUDICE

  Flynn had engaged Lady Elizabeth for two dances—the first and the last waltz of the evening. He’d been too late to secure her for the supper dance, which would have ensured he could take her into supper and spend more time getting to know her. Still, he didn’t mind.

  He had no intention of dancing the last waltz with her. Instead he’d take her into the garden and kiss her. He’d been planning it ever since their drive in the park. Soften the girl up a bit. Show her that it didn’t have to be all duty, that there could also be pleasure.

  He damned well hoped there would be pleasure. He didn’t want a dutiful marriage—he wanted something warmer, cozier. He didn’t expect them to fall in love, but he did hope for affection, at the very least.

  Not that the nobs acted exactly cozy—half the time husbands and wives seemed to have nothing to do with each other—though what happened in the bedroom was, no doubt, another thing entirely.

  He glanced around the room. Masks, music, a bit of mystery; it was an evening made for romance. A kiss or two in the moonlight, or in the shadows created by the colorful lanterns strung around the garden—that should set them on the right course.

  In the meantime, he had no shortage of willing partners and had danced his way through a cotillion, the Sir Roger de Coverley and several other country dances while he was waiting for the first waltz.

  He saw Lady Beatrice sitting watching the dancers. She noticed him, and beckoned him over.

  “Been observing you, Mr. Flynn.”

  “Have you, milady? Like what you see, do you?”

  Her eyes gleamed in appreciation—the old dear did love to flirt—but all she said was, “You acquit yourself quite creditably on the dance floor.”

  “Thank you, milady. That lesson you arranged for me seems to have done the trick.”

  She gave a snort of amusement. “Why did you not tell me you knew how to dance?”

  Flynn smiled. “I never tell a lady what she doesn’t wish to hear.”

  She snorted again. “That little habit—if it’s true—is going to get you into a lot of trouble then.” Her beady old eyes twinkled up at him. “I look forward to it.”

  “So do I, ma’am, so do I.”

  She laughed outright. “Get along with you then, you rogue. It’s the waltz next, and you don’t want to keep Lady Elizabeth waiting, do you?” She sighed and added, “If I were twenty years younger I’d cut her out.”

  “If I were twenty years older, ma’am, I’d—” he began gallantly, then blinked. “How did you know?”

  “About Lady Elizabeth?” She gave him a dry look. “When will you realize, dear boy, that I always know everything.” She gave him a little push. “Now run along and dance with the gel.”

  Flynn chuckled to himself as he crossed the ballroom to where Lady Elizabeth was waiting. Hyphen-Hyphen was right—the old lady was a witch.

  “Our waltz, Lady Elizabeth.” He bowed and held out his hand.

  She made no move to take his hand, just looked at it as if there was something wrong.

  “What?” He glanced at his hand. He knew she didn’t much like the look of his hands—you didn’t do manual labor from childhood and end up with the smooth, pale hands of a gentleman. His hands were strong and capable. They might be marked with scars and nicks from a lifetime of hard physical work, but they were well scrubbed, and his nails were clean, neatly pared and lightly buffed.

  He wasn’t ashamed of his hands: They reflected who he was. And how far he’d come.

  “Gloves, Mr. Flynn,” she reminded him, flushing slightly.

  “Oh, right.” He pulled them out of his pocket, put them on and led her onto the dance floor.

  The opening bars sounded and he took her in his arms. She was cool and graceful and composed. He smiled to himself, remembering the stiff, cross, spiky little hedgehog he’d waltzed with at Lady Bea’s. Lady Elizabeth was the perfect partner, but somehow, the hedgehog h
ad been more fun.

  Still, he was here to court the lady. “You look very pretty this evening, Lady Elizabeth.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Flynn.”

  They twirled around.

  He tried again. “You make a charmin’ milkmaid.”

  “Thank you. There are several milkmaids here tonight, I noticed.”

  “Yes, but you’re the prettiest.”

  There was a short silence. Below her mask she flushed a little.

  “Are you enjoying the ball?”

  “I am.” She added, “I particularly enjoy all the costumes and the masks. It adds a pleasant air of intrigue to the evening.”

  “You know most of the people here well, I suppose.”

  “Oh yes. Almost everyone.” She flushed again and Flynn remembered this was her third Season—no doubt her last, unless she found a husband. As it was, her father must have scraped up every favor owed him to finance this Season—going even further in debt in order to sell off his last asset—his daughter.

  “So what do you think of my costume?” Flynn said easily.

  An expression flickered across her face that he didn’t quite understand. “It’s very . . . colorful.”

  “Do you not like it?” he asked. “I don’t mind if you don’t. I’d rather you spoke your mind.”

  She hesitated. “It’s just that it wasn’t very . . . wise of you.”

  “Wise?”

  “To remind people.”

  “Of what?”

  “Your past.”

  He stared at her a moment, then laughed aloud. “Good God, girl, I was never a pirate. I’m a trader.”

  Her mouth tightened and she glanced around to see if they’d been overheard.

  Flynn didn’t give a damn who might be listening. “I was—I am—in partnership in a worldwide trading enterprise, along with Lord Davenham, Freddy Monkton-Coombes and another fellow you don’t know.”

  “Yes but—” She broke off.

  “Yes but what?”