by Anne Gracie
He glanced at the frivolous, scandalous nightgown again and his brows rose. “You mean proper ladies wear this kind of thing?”
She nodded. “Yep. The properer they are, the more the ladies love ’em. Even old ladies love ’em.” Truth be told, the old ladies loved them most of all.
“Old ladies?” He looked at the flimsy handful of silk and lace. “Old ladies wear something like this?”
She grinned, enjoying his surprise. “That’s right. The old ducks can’t get enough of them. That one’s for the Honorable Mrs. Hartley-Peacock. She’ll be wearin’ it to bed tonight, I reckon.”
He hastily put the nightgown down.
She chuckled. “And this ’un”—she held up the one she was finishing off—“is for Lady Gelbart. Both of them are as old as Lady Beatrice—in fact it was them seein’ one I made for her that started it all. I’ve made dozens—all for the most respectable old ladies in the ton. And you wouldn’t believe what they’re prepared to pay.” Flynn was the one person she knew who would understand that little gloat. It being vulgar to talk money.
“Good God. Respectable old ladies, eh? I never would have guessed.”
She shrugged. “You never can tell what ladies are thinking.”
“And isn’t that God’s own truth?” he said in such a different tone that Daisy looked up from her stitching. He wasn’t looking in the least bit amused now.
“Something on your mind, Flynn?” There was a short silence. “Something happen last night after you left here?”
“You might say so. Or maybe it was what didn’t happen.” He sat down heavily.
Daisy threaded her needle, picked up another strip of lace and prepared to listen.
* * *
“I tell you, Daisy—I’ve never experienced anything like it in my life.” Flynn was up again, pacing back and forth in front of her window seat like a big dark cat. “There was no spark at all. Nothing. It was like . . . like kissin’ a fish.”
“Mm-hmm.” Daisy kept sewing. Did he think she wanted to hear all about his bloomin’ love-life—in detail? Gawd, men were blind. And vain.
“Are you listenin’? Like kissing a fish!”
She shrugged. “Yeah, well, it happens.”
“Not to me, it doesn’t.”
“Maybe.” She didn’t want to hear about Flynn kissing another girl, she really didn’t. And his insistence on sharing every blooming detail with her was starting to irritate her.
He stopped in front of her, looming over her like a great grumpy bear. “What? What aren’t you implyin’?”
She rolled her eyes. “Most men think they’re God’s gift to kissin’.”
His eyes narrowed. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
She smoothed the seam, checking it was all even, then tied off the thread and carefully snipped off the end. “She might not be the problem.”
“What?”
He stood there, blue gaze burning into her, waiting for further explanation. Her temper flared, so she told him. “Coulda been the way you kissed her. I mean, Jane’s bloomin’ mutt licks me fingers and toes all the time, and I hate it.”
He stared at her, outraged. “It’s hardly the same.”
“No, but still . . .” She shook out the finished bed jacket. Perfect. Old Lady Gelbart would be delighted. She hopped off her seat and crossed the room. Two more orders completed.
“Are you sayin’ I don’t know how to kiss a girl?” he demanded in a silky tone that didn’t deceive Daisy for a minute. His eyes were blue chips of anger.
She held up her hands in a peaceable gesture. “I’m not sayin’ nuffin’. It’s Lady Liz who gets to judge, not me.” But she couldn’t help adding, “And it sounds like she did.”
He followed her across the room. “I damn well do know how to kiss.”
“Sure you do.” She folded the finished garments and placed them in the basket on the dresser, ready to be ironed, then packaged up for William to deliver.
“I’m good—bloody good if you want to know. I’ve never had any complaints before.”
“I’m sure you haven’t.”
Flynn glared at her in frustration. Her tone made it clear that she thought the women in his past were simply too polite to complain. Which was so damn far from the truth it was a joke!
As he watched, she picked up another half-finished garment and headed back to take her seat in the window. It was a red rag to a bull. Her complacency, the attitude that her damned sewing was so much more important to her than anything he might have to say, drove him wild.
She was so blasted certain the fault lay with him. He clenched his fists, itching to shake the smugness out of her. She stepped around him, giving him a little half smile, obviously meant to soothe his injured masculine feelings. It was the last straw.
He grabbed her, swung her around and planted one on her.
“Oy! What the—mmmph!” She stiffened, resisting him for a few seconds, then . . . with a small sigh, her mouth softened beneath his.
She parted her lips for him and heat, like embers from a fire, glowing and alive, rushed through him.
He pulled back, shocked, but didn’t let go. Couldn’t let go.
The instant explosion of . . . hunger . . . need . . . arousal stunned him, sent his head spinning. What had started in anger and frustration—a simple need to prove himself as a man—had spiraled instantly into something else.
He stared down at the woman in his arms. Daisy?
She blinked back up at him, her big hazel eyes wide and a little dazed, apparently as surprised as he was. Her mouth was damp, rosy, enticing.
He released her shoulders, sliding his hands up the slender column of her throat, his blunt fingers spearing through the softness of her hair as he cupped her head in his hands. She stood motionless, staring up at him, and he was drowning, drowning in her eyes.
His thumbs framed her delicate pixie face, and he heard the trembling intake of her breath as he stroked the silken skin of her jawline, and felt her pulse leap under his touch. A shudder ran through her and her eyes darkened.
His blood surged with possessive need, and he lowered his mouth to kiss her again, deeply, passionately, tasting her, exploring.
Her hands came up to grip his shoulders, and she pulled him closer, angling her head to deepen the kiss, to accept him, her small slender body pressed against his, twining against his as she returned kiss for kiss, making muffled little sounds that drove him wild with wanting.
When he pulled back a second time, his heart was hammering in his chest. He released her and stepped away, shakily, his body braced for action, fighting the arousal pounding through him.
They stared at each other, speechless. Shocked.
Daisy could make him feel like this? He’d always liked the girl, always enjoyed a light bit of flirtation with her . . . but . . . this?
Daisy seemed to be breathing just as hard. “Gawd, Flynn,” she said at last. She staggered to the window seat and collapsed into it as if her knees were about to give way.
“I know.” It had taken him just as much by surprise. Never in his life . . . He struggled to take in the enormity of what had just happened. Daisy?
Her sewing lay in a crumpled heap on the floor, forgotten. He should have felt triumphant—his point proved—but he was still too stunned.
“Well, that settles one thing,” she said eventually.
“What?” He was still trying to come to terms with it.
“If you kissed Lady Liz like that—”
“I didn’t.” He’d never kissed anyone like that. In his life.
“Well, if you kissed her half as—”
“Not even half.”
They stared at each other for a long moment, then she gave a shiver and made a visible effort to pull herself together. She collected her sewing and folded it neat
ly. She set it down on the window seat, smoothing it with hands he noted were trembling slightly, and said, not looking at him, “It’s definitely not you, then. It’s her.”
Flynn didn’t say a thing. He just stood there, looking down at her. Daisy! He could hardly come to terms with it.
“She’s probably one of them Ladies of Llangollen.” She pronounced the last word as if she was clearing her throat.
“Ladies of what?” What the hell were they talking about?
“Llangollen.” More clearing of the throat. She looked at his face and laughed. “That’s how the Welshies say it, anyway. I knew a Welsh girl once. The English say it as Lan-gollen.”
“If you say so. And who or what are Ladies of Lan-whatsit?” He could hardly believe they were having some conversation about some blasted place in Wales. He just wanted to haul Daisy back into his arms and kiss her senseless.
“Llangollen. They’re a couple of posh ladies who didn’t want to get married—not to men, anyway—and so they run off and set up house together in Wales—in Llangollen. They’re famous—haven’t you heard of them? They’re Irish.”
“No.” What did he care about—oh. Finally Flynn saw what she was getting at.
She shrugged. “Some women are that way inclined.”
There was a short silence. “You mean, Lady Elizabeth is . . .”
She nodded. “Like them Ladies of Llangollen, maybe. Has to be, if you kissed her like that and she didn’t like it.”
“I told you, I didn’t kiss her like that.” He didn’t want to talk about Lady Elizabeth, dammit. His mind was reeling. His body was thrumming with newfound awareness.
Daisy was his friend. He was supposed to feel comfortable with her—the only woman in London he could talk business with, the only lady he knew who didn’t object to his occasional bad language. He liked her.
That kiss was supposed to demonstrate his expertise, not knock him sideways.
“I don’t know that I’ve ever kissed anyone quite like that, Daisy.” His voice sounded oddly hoarse. “Certainly I’ve never felt—”
She jumped up briskly. “Look, sorry to interrupt, Flynn, but one of me ladies is comin’ in a few minutes and I got to get ready.” She bustled around the room, tidying up like a small, efficient whirlwind, avoiding his gaze. “It’s been nice chattin’ with you, Flynn. Dunno what you can do about Lady Liz, but you’ll sort it out. I got to get these things pressed and tidy the room. See yourself out, will ya?”
Flynn, watching her flit around the room, frowned. She was babbling. Trying to ignore what had just happened. Daisy—who confronted everything and everyone head-on.
So he wasn’t the only one who’d been affected. Hah!
He’d leave now—he had his own doubts about this so-called appointment of hers, but he needed to sort out his feelings. And sort things out with Lady Elizabeth.
Daisy could pretend all she wanted—he’d be back. That kiss had stunned him, and he wasn’t going to ignore it. He didn’t know what it meant, didn’t have any idea what he was going to do about it, but he was damned if he’d pretend it hadn’t happened.
* * *
He let himself out of Daisy’s workroom and met Lady Beatrice on the landing. “Flynn, dear boy, delightful to see you again so soon. Did you enjoy the masquerade ball last night?” She took his arm. “Visiting Daisy again, eh? Been seeing quite a bit of her lately, haven’t you? I thought now the Season had started, and with your courtship of Lady Elizabeth, you wouldn’t pop in quite so much.” She cocked her head and added with a mischievous expression, “Not trying to seduce my Daisy, are you, Flynn, dear boy?”
He blinked. “What? No, I—” He swallowed.
She chuckled at his discomfiture. “No need to look so appalled—I’m not accusing you of anything. I have no idea where these notions come from. They just . . . pop into my head. But you wouldn’t dream of compromising my dear gel, would you?” She smiled at him with a guileless expression.
“No, of course not, Lady Beatrice.” Flynn felt like a boy caught with his hand in the cookie jar.
She patted his hand. “Of course not. You’re a man of honor, I know, and I’m a foolish old lady. Walk me down the stairs, will you, dear boy? I am shattered, positively shattered—I’m too old to attend balls.” She bore him along, chattering animatedly about the ball, sharing all the latest on-dits.
Flynn was the one who felt shattered. First the kiss, now the old lady seeming to read his mind—before he even knew it himself. Not trying to seduce my Daisy, are you, dear boy?
It was just a kiss for God’s sake.
“Are you all right, my boy? You seem a trifle distrait.” The old lady’s question jolted him back to the present.
“My apologies, m’lady, I was woolgathering.”
“Things not going too well with Lady Elizabeth, eh?”
Flynn stared at her. How did she do that? She was a witch, she must be. “Not exactly,” he admitted. “But speaking of Lady Elizabeth, I have a question for you. What do you know about Lord Flensbury?”
* * *
The minute Flynn left, Daisy stopped fussing around. She dumped the armful of clothing she’d gathered, and collapsed into a chair. Her knees still felt all weak and wobbly. That kiss . . .
So she fancied him rotten—so what? She wouldn’t dream of acting on it.
Gawd, if a woman acted on every fancy she had, she’d be ruined in a flash, and Daisy was too smart to let herself be ruined by a man.
He was flirting, that’s all. The man was born to flirt. Those blue eyes of his were an invitation to sin—and enjoy it. And she had to admit, she enjoyed flirting back.
But they were just friends. She enjoyed talking to him, she liked making special waistcoats for him—and charging the earth for it—and talking with him about business and other things. He was good company, Flynn.
It had only ever been a bit of fun, nothing to take seriously. And it still was.
A kiss. She’d had dozens of kisses. Hundreds, maybe.
Nothing like that one.
Too bad. It didn’t mean nothing. He’d only kissed her to prove a point about Lady Elizabeth, that’s all. That fact that it had just about knocked her into next Tuesday was . . .
Was her own bloomin’ fault. She shouldn’t have stirred him up about it. Teasing him had been irresistible. But it had turned out to be dangerous.
The way he’d stared at her afterwards . . . as if he’d never seen her before. As if he could eat her up.
She’d have to nip that idea in the bud quick smart. She didn’t want him getting ideas. He ought to know as well as she did that there was no future in it, only danger, especially for her—but men didn’t always think of that. They had an itch, they scratched it. It was women who bore the consequences.
So if Flynn was making plans, if she’d read that gleam in his eye a’right, he was going to be one disappointed Irishman, because Daisy wasn’t interested in any kind of—what did the toffs call it? Dalliance, that was it. She wasn’t having none of it.
She was a respectable woman. Now. She had a business to protect.
It was just a kiss, that’s all.
Chapter Eight
The world is pretty much divided between the weak of mind & the strong, between those who can act & those who cannot, & it is the bounden duty of the capable to let no opportunity of being useful escape them.
—JANE AUSTEN, SANDITON AND OTHER STORIES
It wasn’t far to Compton House—all the nobs lived fairly close together—but Flynn took his time getting there. He felt no responsibility to Lady Elizabeth and he was eager to get back to Daisy and explore his reaction to the kiss—their mutual reaction, if he was any judge.
But his conversation with Lady Bea on the subject of Lord Flensbury had disturbed him. The old lady had twigged to the significance of his question straight aw
ay. “So Flensbury is Compton’s alternative choice, is he? Poor little Lizzie.”
“Why? What’s wrong with the man?”
“On the surface, perhaps nothing. Flensbury’s is an old family, aristocratic and very well connected. And he’s wealthy.” She paused. “But he’s also ancient—eighty if he’s a day—and has gone through three wives that I know of without getting a son on any of them. Rumor has it he’s looking for a fourth, a gel young enough to breed with. Determined to cut out his cousin—his heir—who he hates.”
Eighty? And Lady Elizabeth was just two and twenty. Not to mention being a . . . Lady of Llangollen. Dammit, it was no better than a rape.
He must have made some kind of sound, for the old lady nodded and said, “Quite so. And Flensbury isn’t the kind of man I’d want any of my gels to even meet, let alone marry, even if he were fifty years younger.”
She curled her lip and added, “Unsavory practices. Nobody knows what the first three wives died of, but nobody doubts they’re happier now.”
She cocked her head and eyed Flynn shrewdly. “You’re definitely not marrying Lizzie Compton, then?”
“Yes. We don’t suit.”
“And so her father will press her to take Flensbury. Poor little gel.”
It hadn’t been at all what Flynn wanted to hear. It was one thing for the girl not to wish to marry at all, but to be forced to wed an eighty-year-old . . . with unsavory practices.
Flynn swore and kicked a pebble along the street. He wished now he’d never heard of Flensbury, never asked Lady Bea about him. He didn’t want to know. It had nothing to do with him.
The man sounded thoroughly unpleasant—appalling even—but he wasn’t Flynn’s problem. Any arrangement concerning Lord Flensbury was between Lady Elizabeth and her father. Lady Elizabeth was of age; nobody could force her to marry.
Except that she had no money of her own, and her father had made no provision for her future, so unless she married . . .
