by Anne Gracie
It was his experience that women loosened up once the kissing started. He had no plans to seduce her though. No, he’d keep this fairly innocent. Schoolgirl stuff.
She was nervous. Normally a little on the quiet side, tonight she chattered nonstop about the gardens, the lights, the costumes, what she’d eaten for supper, what Flynn’s plans were for the morrow . . .
Anything, he guessed, to fill the silence. And to prevent him from broaching any more personal topic.
They passed under an arch and came to a tiny, miraculously secluded courtyard.
He stopped. She stopped with a jerk and turned a pale, set face to him. He could feel the tension running through her. He smiled. “Relax, Lady Elizabeth. I’ll not hurt you, lass.”
She stiffened. Flynn drew her closer, put a finger under her chin, because she was trying to look away from him, and kissed her, softly at first, just lips on lips, brushing lightly. Warm, soft, gentle. Gathering her in.
She made no move to move closer, or indeed to move away. She just stood there stiffly in his embrace. As if ready to endure . . . whatever. She was trembling—and not in a good way.
Surely in this, her third Season, it couldn’t be her first kiss.
Maybe it was. He was getting nothing from her. Nothing except resistance and . . . nerves.
He drew her closer, and deepened the kiss, gently parting her lips for the first light touch of his tongue—
“Splt!! Ugh!” She shoved him away and stumbled a few steps backward, wiping her mouth, revulsion in every movement. “What are you—?” She broke off, and eyed him anxiously. There was a short silence, then, “I’m sorry. I wasn’t . . . prepared for . . .”
“Your first kiss?” Flynn asked.
She hesitated, then nodded. But she didn’t meet his eye. A lie then. No matter.
He moved forward again, but she flinched. Flinched.
He dropped his arms and stepped back. He’d never made a girl flinch in his life. “I’ll take you back inside.”
He turned to leave but she clutched his sleeve. “No, you can’t!”
He turned, frowning down at her. What was going on here?
“Sorry—I’m sorry, Mr. Flynn, it’s just—” She gestured around the shadowy garden, lit by gaily colored lanterns. “Someone might see us . . .”
He shook his head. “Nobody can see us here. I think we both know what’s happening here, Lady Elizabeth. I apologize. My mistake in thinkin’ you were willin’.”
“Oh, but I am! I promise you I am! I must—It is just—” She swallowed convulsively, her eyes stricken. “Please believe me, Mr. Flynn, I am willing. Very willing. When we are married, I will . . . It will be different. I will welcome your . . . attentions then.”
I will do my duty then.
“I don’t think so,” Flynn said gently. “Don’t worry, lass. There’s no blame to you attached. “
“Oh, but there is. Please. Papa will—” She broke off, chewing her lip. On the verge of tears. “Please, you must believe me. Here—I will prove it.” She grabbed him by the arms, stood on tiptoe and mashed her mouth up against his.
Flynn tried to turn it into a kiss, but it was a miserable failure, even worse than before. He tasted desperation and revulsion in equal measure. He’d never experienced anything like it.
He gently eased her away. She stood there, wringing her hands in agitation, waiting desperately for his reaction. Did she really imagine that could convince him?
He glanced around the garden to make sure they could not be overheard. He lowered his voice. “Is there someone else?”
“Someone else?” She started guiltily and scanned his face frantically. “No? Who do you mean. Have you heard something? Did Papa say—? Oh, please no.”
“Hush, lass, there’s no need to take on so. All I want to know is, is there another man you would prefer to marry? Someone your Papa doesn’t approve of?” Someone with no money, in other words.
She shook her head. “No, there’s no one I prefer to marry. No one, I promise you. Truly.”
“Are you sure? Because if you tell me there is, I will help you.”
Again she shook her head. “There is no one,” she said dully. “I only wish there were.” And then she realized what she’d said and her face crumpled. “Oh, I’m sorry, I did not mean—”
Flynn stared down at her. There was something else going on here, something he didn’t understand, and he wanted to get to the bottom of it. “What do you mean?”
“Nothing, nothing at all.” She practically gabbled the words. She clutched at his sleeves again. “Please, Mr. Flynn, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to insult you. I am willing, more than willing.”
“No, you’re not.” He knew when a woman was interested and she was the very opposite. So why was she so anxious to convince him otherwise? He added in a soothing voice, “I’m not offended, Lady Elizabeth. Don’t worry, I’ll not be asking your father for your hand—”
“Oh, but you must, or else—” She broke off and looked away, chewing on her lip, clearly distressed.
“Or else what?”
For a few moments he was sure she wasn’t going to say anything. She opened her mouth, closed it, opened it again, and finally whispered so softly he almost didn’t catch it, “Lord Flensbury.” She shuddered.
Flensbury? He’d never heard of the man. “Who is Lord—”
But at that moment, bells rang to signal that it was time for the unmasking, and the garden was suddenly filled with people, and squeals and laughter and exclamations and all chance of any private conversation was gone.
“I’ll call on you at your home tomorrow morning,” Flynn told her over the hubbub. “You can tell me all about it then.”
Chapter Seven
“I am afraid,” replied Elinor, “that the pleasantness of an employment does not always evince its propriety.”
—JANE AUSTEN, SENSE AND SENSIBILITY
Flynn, normally a good sleeper, passed a restless night but he woke with one clear resolve: He wasn’t going to marry Lady Elizabeth.
That debacle of a kiss last night—and her extraordinary reaction—had convinced him. And with that decision firm in his mind, it was as if a weight had been lifted from him.
As he shaved and dressed, he pondered his blindness. He’d chosen the girl without knowing anything about her. Fool! Like shopping for a wife in one of those fancy London shops, giving it about as much thought as any simple purchase. What the hell had he been thinking?
He ate his breakfast in a pensive mood. If he hadn’t been so blinded by his ambition he would’ve seen it much earlier. The girl didn’t fancy him at all. She wasn’t simply nervous of him—she saw him as some kind of brute with the physique of a laborer and great ugly hands. Some kind of pirate.
She couldn’t even bear him touching her with those hands. Gloves, Mr. Flynn.
It was all about his money. And her future security.
Mind you, he was no better. Take away her family name and connections, her title and her fancy manners and he wouldn’t have given her a second look. She was pretty enough, but there wasn’t a spark of attraction between them. Or even friendship. Twenty minutes in her company and he was ready to leave. Luckily that was the polite thing to do. But a lifetime of it . . .
He cleaned his teeth, brushed his hair and gave a cursory glance at his reflection in the looking glass. What the devil had he been thinking?
As Daisy had reminded him, marriage was for life. And now he thought about it with a clear mind, he realized he wanted a marriage like his own parents had—close and loving. His memories of them were hazy—just a child’s recollections—but he remembered them talking and laughing and sometimes even fighting together, but always together, in good times and bad. Looking back, he realized they’d been friends as well as lovers.
He didn’t want the kind of
ton marriage where husband and wife came together as strangers, bred a couple of heirs and then turned elsewhere for love. Illicit love, and sometimes not even that. As long as it was discreet, it didn’t seem to matter.
They weren’t all like that, he knew. Max and Abby were deeply in love, and so were Damaris and Freddy.
But Jane was—if Daisy was correct—planning on marrying a dull and dreary little lord for exactly the same reason as Lady Elizabeth would marry Flynn—if he asked her. Wealth and security.
Which brought him to the topic of Lord Flensbury. Who the devil was he?
He picked up his hat and left his apartment. He was off to make a few morning calls. In the actual morning. Lady Elizabeth and her father first. Best to get it over and done with.
It was a fine spring morning, and Flynn decided to walk. He chose a route that wasn’t the most direct, but the most interesting—to him. He liked walking past the shops, looking into the windows, seeing what people were buying. It paid to keep abreast of the market.
Nothing to do with putting off the dreaded interview with Lady Elizabeth.
One shop window contained a pretty little display, a table set for tea, with a large blue teapot, a pair of willow-patterned cups and a willow-patterned plate on which a variety of small cakes rested.
Seeing it, he stopped dead. And was suddenly a thousand miles and more than twenty years away. Mam serving up tea, pouring it hot and strong from her big blue teapot, her good tablecloth covering the battered old table—she’d embroidered it herself when she was a young girl, and woe betide the person—man or child—who spilled anything on that cloth.
Cakes were a rarity in the house he’d grown up in—they were too poor for that—but brown bread and butter and sometimes honey, or potato bread, or biscuits would be served on Mam’s willow-patterned plate—the one with a chip out of the corner. It had been a wedding present, and Mam loved it.
A loudly cleared throat made it clear he was blocking the way. Flynn moved on, his mind still in the past. Flynn had been responsible for that chip in Mam’s plate—an accident when he was just a wee lad—and he’d always intended to get Mam a new one.
He never had. By the time Flynn had earned enough to buy a plate, she was dead—they all were, his entire family, taken by the cholera. And Flynn was all alone.
He’d left Ireland shortly afterwards, gone away to sea and tried never to think of what he’d left behind, what he lost. He’d made it his habit to look forward, not back. The past was too painful.
Still, the cheerful little window display had reminded him of the good times; he hadn’t thought of teatime at home for years. No matter how poor they’d been, Mam always got out the good tablecloth and had something tasty to eat sitting on that willow-patterned plate. And she sure as hell made sure that every kid was clean and neatly dressed and ready with their best manners, even if there was only family at the table. Because nobody was more important than family . . . .
He walked on, smiling to himself. It was a good memory. When he got a proper home, he’d buy his wife a blue teapot and a willow-patterned plate. It wouldn’t mean anything to her, of course, but he’d see it and remember . . . .
A wife . . . Why the devil had he imagined it would be so easy and straightforward?
He’d been walking for some time, lost in thought, when an urchin running by swerved, nearly bumping into him. Startled, Flynn looked around and realized that somehow, he’d brought himself to Berkeley Square.
Might as well drop in on Daisy and see if she’d reconsidered his silent partner proposition.
Nothing to do with putting off an awkward and uncomfortable visit to Lady Elizabeth.
Lady Beatrice was not yet receiving, Featherby informed him, but Miss Daisy was up. Flynn hurried up the stairs. Daisy was exactly who he wanted to talk to—not just about his proposition, but about Lady Elizabeth.
He found he had a need for a sympathetic ear—a sympathetic female ear. Daisy was very easy to talk to.
* * *
“Did you give any thought to what I was talking about last night? Takin’ me on as a silent partner, I mean.”
“Yeah, I did and the answer’s still no.” Daisy had thought about it all night. It was a good idea—in theory. But she couldn’t bring herself to put everything she’d worked for in someone else’s hands. Particularly not a man’s. Not again.
And particularly not Flynn’s. Flynn, for all his good intentions, couldn’t help but interfere and boss her around. Daisy had had people telling her what to do all her life, and she had no intention of letting anyone be the boss of her, ever again.
Freedom—being her own boss—was bloody lovely. Even if it was tough at times. She wouldn’t give it up for quids.
“That’s a bit shortsighted, don’t you think?”
“No, I don’t.”
“You’re struggling.”
She lifted her shoulders indifferently and continued with her sewing. “Don’t you worry yourself none about me, Flynn. I’m doin’ all right. “
“No you’re not—you’re exhausting yourself, trying to do it all yourself.”
The fact that he was right was annoying but she said in a calm enough voice, “Listen—a year ago I was nothing but a skivvy, a maidservant in a bro—a business establishment. I was waitin’ on everybody—scrubbin’ and mendin’ and at everyone’s beck and call at all hours of the day and night! Now look at me—I’m livin’ in the poshest part of town, with the daughter of an earl who claims me as her niece and this”—she brandished a piece of fabric in his face—“this’ll warm the shoulders of a duchess. I know I’m havin’ trouble keeping up with orders—but that’s better than havin’ no customers at all, ain’t it?”
“It’d be even better if you had some help,” he said bluntly. “And if you took me on as a partner, you could afford it.”
“I appreciate the offer, Flynn, truly I do, but . . . I just can’t bring meself to hand over half of me business—any of it really—to somebody else.” She wasn’t going to explain her reasoning to Flynn. He’d want to know more, and she wasn’t going down that path, thank you very much!
“You wouldn’t be handing it over—you’d be taking on a silent partner.”
“Yeah, and if I took you on as me so-called silent partner you’d stay out of me business, would you? You’d let me make all the decisions?”
He hesitated and she laughed. “’Course you wouldn’t. You’d be interferin’ all the time, tellin’ me a better way to do things, tellin’ me I’m doin’ it wrong, that I’m thinkin’ too small—any of this ring a bell, does it?”
He frowned, but didn’t answer.
“See?” she said softly. “And you’re not even me partner.”
He acknowledged the truth of what she said with a wry gesture. “I know, I can’t help stickin’ me nose in. But I still reckon you’re making a mistake.”
“Maybe, but it’s my mistake, ain’t it?”
He regarded her with a troubled expression and she felt a prick of compunction. “Listen, I know you’re tryin’ to help, Flynn—and I’m not saying you’re the same—but . . . I’ve trusted other people before—people I thought cared about me—and . . . well, let’s just say it was a mistake, both times.” A big mistake.
He gave her a shrewd look. “A man, both times?”
“What makes you think that?” Only once was a man, but she could feel herself blushing anyway, the way those blue eyes of his were looking at her. She broke eye contact and said briskly, “Doesn’t matter who it was. Doesn’t change the way I feel.” And because he was still looking at her and making her feel guilty, she added, “Look, don’t take it personal, Flynn. I learned the hard way that it’s a bad idea to mix business with friendship.”
He considered her words, then shrugged. “Fair enough. I won’t bother you again, though if ever you change your mind—”
“I won’t.” She finished sewing a strip of lace onto Lady Gelbart’s bed jacket, and glanced up at him.
He stood up, as if to leave, but instead started pacing restlessly around, touching this and that, absently picking things up—strips of braid, a piece of fur, garments in various states of assembly—and putting them down. She was sure he wasn’t really noticing what he was doing.
He stopped, staring out of the window holding a newly finished nightgown that had been draped over the back of a chair—one of the fancy ones so popular with old ladies. He stood there frowning, his legs in their tight breeches and gleaming boots braced as if on the deck of a ship. Commanding the oceans . . .
She swallowed. He made quite a sight, staring out at nothing in particular, running the silky fabric through his fingers, seemingly lost in thought. For a full minute Daisy quite forgot to sew.
She ought to make some cheeky comment, break the silence, but the picture he made . . . the tall, strong figure, the delicate silk and netting nightgown sliding through those very masculine hands, hands marked by life, not softened by lotions and a life of ease and privilege . . . Her mouth dried.
“Oy—” Her voice croaked, and she cleared her throat. “I ’ope you got clean hands.”
“What?” He glanced down and saw what he was holding. He held it up to the light—the fine silk was practically transparent, the netting and lace artfully placed to reveal . . . and conceal. A look of amusement spread across his face. He swung around to face her, holding it up against his chest.
The delicate feminine nightgown floated then settled with a sigh against his tough male body. “You wear this sort of thing, do you Daisy?” He quirked a dark eyebrow. Superbly confident in his own masculinity, a lurking challenge in those blue eyes of his, his gaze raked her.
To Daisy’s annoyance, she felt herself blushing. The contrast between his big, hard body and the whisper-soft lacy garment was quite . . . erotic. She said in as brusque a tone as she could manage, “’Course not—it’s for one of me customers.”
