If a Lady Lingers

by Anna Harrington

  “Daisy.” He took her arms and leaned in to touch his lips to hers, the innocent kiss reassuring and calming. “I have no intention of canceling this project.”

  She blinked rapidly. “You—you don’t?”

  “Not at all. I know that it’s going to be a wonderful house. I have no doubts of that.” He rested his cheek against hers, and his warm breath tickled her ear when he asked softly, “But why did you lie to me? Me of all people… You didn’t have to.”

  “Yes, I did.” She swallowed down the bitterness. “Because I’m a woman.”

  He pulled back just far enough to gaze into her eyes with mock solemnity. “I’ve noticed.”

  She couldn’t help a faint bubble of laughter despite the humiliated tears that threatened to fall. “Then you’ve also noticed that women can’t be architects.”

  “Says who?”

  She sniffed. “Everyone in the world.”

  “Not true. Not me. I don’t mind having a woman for an architect.” He reached into his breast pocket to retrieve his handkerchief and held it out to her. “What I mind is when my friend keeps secrets from me.”

  “I had no choice.” Her hand trembled as she took the handkerchief and dabbed it at her nose. “You wouldn’t have hired Papa and me if you’d known. Besides, who would pass up the chance to design a brand-new house filled with all kinds of modern amenities like gas lighting and wooden pipes?” She gestured a hand at the structure around her. “It’s my dream come true, and I didn’t want to risk being denied the chance.” Her vision blurred, and she swiped at her eyes. “But you’re right. As your friend, I should have told you the truth. I’m sorry.”

  He nodded somberly, accepting both her answer and apology. “Are there any other secrets I should know about? Are you also a navy captain or army general, or the second secret wife of King George? Are you also a circus performer?” His somber expression melted into that beaming smile she’d come to know and appreciate. “Because that last one would be grand if you were. Think of it! A tightrope walker or juggler—”

  “Whitby,” she admonished.

  “An acrobat—wouldn’t that be thrilling? To watch you go tumbling across the—”

  “Whitby!” She placed her hands over his mouth to silence him with a laugh that was half embarrassment, half astonishment. Then her shame faded into a soft smile for him, and she dropped her hands away, to rest them lightly on his shoulders. “I promise to be the best architect possible for this house and to check with Papa on all questions and concerns. I’ll keep the builders on schedule and below budget, and I’ll make certain that the materials haven’t been skimped upon, as so many townhouses built on short leaseholds are.”

  “Ninety-nine,” he admitted.

  “Pardon?”

  “My leasehold. I secured a ninety-nine-year lease.” He looked around at the half-built house as if seeing it for the first time. “This is going to be my home for the rest of my life.”

  The pressure of providing the perfect home settled like the weight of the world onto her shoulders. Ninety-nine years… “And your children’s,” she told him, pondering the length of the lease. “And your children’s children’s.” She frowned. “And perhaps their children’s.”

  “Golly, I hope so!”

  He took both of her hands in his and bounced them lightly with a light laugh. She knew then that everything would be all right between them.

  “Come out of hiding, Daisy Daring,” he cajoled. “Let the rest of the world discover how brilliant and creative you are.”

  He reached into his waistcoat and removed a folded piece of paper. He held it out to her.

  She frowned. “What’s that?”

  “The King and John Nash have announced an architectural contest. They’re looking for architects to design one of the villas that’s to be built in Regent’s Park. It’s the perfect opportunity for you to showcase your ideas.”

  Well, he was wrong about that. Yet curiosity won out, and she unfolded the announcement to read it.

  “The winning architect receives a cash prize, their plans built, and all kinds of recognition.” Excitement pulsed from him. “Just imagine what it would do for your career as an architect.”

  Yes. Destroy it before it ever began, right along with her father’s. If anyone discovered that she’d been creating house plans, she’d never be able to work again in Papa’s stead without raising questions. Their ruse would end, and then where would they be? Completely without income and in danger of being labeled as frauds. She couldn’t risk that.

  Still, wouldn’t it be wonderful to have her ideas evaluated by the judges?

  Yet sharp reality won over her senses, and she glumly shook her head. “This contest is for architects. What makes you think I’d be allowed to enter, let alone win?”

  “Because you are an architect. Look around you!” He held out his arms to indicate the shell of a house. “You built this. You—not your father. And it’s spectacular.”

  She arched a challenging brow. “You said it was a hole.”

  “Well, it is. Now. But give it three months, and it will be the envy of the entire west side of London. Those other architects who’ll enter Nash’s contest won’t even consider the kinds of technologies and modern improvements you’ve implemented here. Skylights! Gas! Shower tubs! Dear heavens—for the shower tub alone you should be given a medal.”

  She looked away, the impossibility of what he was suggesting grating her chest raw. No one would care about any of her ideas once they realized that a woman had suggested them. Instead of granting her the due she deserved, the judges would pat her patronizingly on the head and send her away with orders to marry and birth babies. She’d be publicly shamed for daring to overstep her place and showing that a woman could be as talented as a man. The architectural world would never forgive her for that.

  “The others will be stuck thinking inside the box of a typical townhouse,” Whitby went on, “doing nothing more than fiddling with the front façade and the placement of the stairs, while yours will be revolutionary.”

  “Because they lack imagination,” she whispered so softly that her voice was barely above a breath.

  “Exactly! Besides, you’re Daisy Daring.” He took her arms again. As he leaned in toward her, his gaze dropped longingly to her mouth. His voice lowered achingly. “The most wonderful, most special woman I’ve ever met.”

  She held her breath, knowing he was going to kiss her, and a kiss not at all like the chaste ones he’d given her before. She wanted it. At that moment, she wanted to feel special, brilliant, creative—all those wonderful things that Whitby claimed she was. She wanted to believe in herself the way he did, even if it couldn’t last more than this moment.

  When his lips touched hers, her heart soared at his tenderness. She tasted his affection for her, the close friendship they shared, and more. She also tasted a yearning in him, not of desire but to please her. That thoughtfulness threatened to unleash new tears from her.

  When she slid her hands over his shoulders to encircle his neck, he slipped his arms around her and gently brought her against him. The kiss deepened, its intensity growing, yet she knew he would stop and release her if she breathed a single word. But she didn’t want to stop. Something had changed in the way she saw him, in the way it felt to be with him. Now she welcomed his embrace and pressed herself against him.

  He murmured her name and touched the tip of his tongue to her lips, lightly caressing their seam and softly cajoling her to open to his kiss. With a sigh, she capitulated. His tongue slipped between her lips in a silken glide that left her breathless. He was no longer kissing her— God help her, he was exploring her, learning the dark recesses of her mouth and stirring a faint ache low in her belly. His hands swept up and down her back in soothing circles that only increased the odd sense of need blossoming inside her. Need for Hugh Whitby… Whoever would have believed it? Yet that was exactly what she felt, and she melted against him, fisting her hands in the lapels o
f his purple jacket to keep him close as she dared to touch her tongue to his.

  A low groan sounded from the back of his throat. She smiled triumphantly at enticing such a reaction from him, only for her smile to vanish with a gasp when he began to move his tongue inside her mouth. He twirled between her lips, encircling her tongue in a decadent and sensuous motion that turned her legs boneless.

  She was shocked—not at the wonderful kiss he was giving her but that he was so skilled at kissing, so able to do things with his tongue and lips that she’d never dreamt men could do. Just as she was shocked to find that despite his slender frame his shoulders were solid beneath her fingers as she clenched them, his chest hard when her hand trailed down his front and played idly with the buttons on his waistcoat.

  He slid his mouth away from hers and left her panting to gain back her breath. He nuzzled his cheek against her temple and tremulously whispered, “May I…may I touch you?”

  The sweetness of his request warmed her all the way down to her toes. So did the uncertainty behind it, as if he worried that she might reject him.

  He had no reason to worry.

  “Yes,” she whispered, “you may…”

  Excitement rushed through her on the heels of a shiver. Even though this was Whitby, even though nothing more could happen here in the openness of the house site than a few stolen kisses, she was nervous despite craving his hands on her. Nervous because she craved his hands on her in a way she’d never wanted any other man to touch her. She trusted Whitby and knew that he didn’t want to caress her because he would enjoy it but because she would. He wanted only to please her, and this moment became all the more precious because of it.

  As his lips returned to hers, his left hand slipped slowly down her back to stroke her bottom in slow circles, and his right moved upward along the side of her body until it cupped her breast. Then he stilled to give her the opportunity to refuse him now that his hands were on her. But she didn’t want him to stop and leaned into his palm to bring him harder against her.

  Layer upon layer of clothing kept his fingers from touching her bare breast, yet her nipple drew up into a hard point that ached to be fondled. As if reading her mind, he flicked his thumb over the little bump to pleasure her as best he could through her clothes at the same time that he squeezed her bottom.

  The ache that had blossomed in her belly plummeted downward to land between her legs in a sharp throb. A soft whimper of need fell from her lips, and she shifted her hips to brush against his front.

  “We have to stop now,” he murmured regretfully even as he kept her encircled in his arms.

  “Why?”

  He grinned against her hair, but she knew his smile was forced. “Because I don’t want to stop.”

  Me either. Yet she didn’t dare speak that aloud. She hugged him tightly, placed one last kiss to his lips, and then stepped out of his arms.

  They stared at each other, the silence awkward. His lips were red from her kisses, his blue eyes bright. Not looking away, she lifted her hand to touch her own lips, to feel the tingling and heat he’d put into them.

  Confusion sparked through her, chasing on the heels of an inexplicable urge to let him do that to her again. And this time, not stop.

  “Miz Darin’!” someone shouted to her from two floors below. She took a moment to recognize the voice—her building supervisor. “Got a few questions fer ya to relay t’ ya father fer in th’ mornin’.”

  “Coming,” she called back and inwardly cursed the sudden thickness in her voice. She cleared her throat and tried again, “We’ll be right down.”

  She snatched up the plans and hurried down what would eventually become the hallway and rear stairs, not looking behind to see if Whitby was following.

  Thank goodness for the interruption! Had she lost her mind? She needed time to think, to sort through the temporary madness that had made her kiss him—Whitby, of all men!—and a client, no less. The son of a baron. And the most improbable man for her.

  But when her feet hit the ground-floor landing, she couldn’t prevent a happy smile from spreading across her face.

  “Papa should be in the parlor,” Daisy told Whitby when they arrived home from the site visit.

  He’d insisted on accompanying her all the way back, although she’d protested that she was more than capable of riding the two miles in a carriage on her own. But the gentleman he was wouldn’t let her travel alone, even though the tension between them had been as thick as rain.

  “He’ll want to hear your thoughts about the house’s progress.” She bit her bottom lip and lowered her voice. “Please tell him that we’re ahead of schedule and under budget.”

  “All right.”

  With a parting smile as if nothing were wrong, she headed quickly up the stairs to return the plans to the studio. It was cowardly to flee like this, she knew, but she couldn’t tolerate for a moment longer the awkwardness that had lingered between them since their embrace. She desperately needed to clear her head, go over every detail in her mind, and think about what to do—or say—next.

  “Daisy.” He took her elbow from behind and stopped her on the second step. She didn’t turn around. “We should talk about what happened.” A pause so short no one else would have noticed, but she heard the uncertain hope in his voice. “And about whether it should happen again.”

  Oh, she simply couldn’t! Even now, her face heated with embarrassment. How could she talk about what happened when she had no idea what to think about it or what to say? As for doing it again… He was Whitby, for heaven’s sake! How could she consider a serious courtship with him? She needed to keep attention away from herself if she had any chance of continuing Papa’s work—the only chance she would ever have at doing her own. But Whitby was a walking, talking, brightly painted sign of attention. Even now he was dressed flamboyantly in satin and kerseymere and in several shades of purples and yellows; his waistcoat was cut fashionably high enough to show a second layer of contrasting pattern beneath in yet another shade of purple, and the gold tassels on his boots swung with each step he took. His appearance would have made every dandy on St James’s street cry out in envy for all the heads he would turn the minute he stepped into White’s or Boodle’s.

  What would people say about her whenever she was with him? She couldn’t fade into the background then. Not with his red hair, those bright blue eyes, and his every thought and emotion showing unfiltered upon his face. If he couldn’t hide a single emotion from the world, how would he ever be able to help her hide her work if she let him court her?

  Because that’s what he meant when he spoke of kissing again, she knew. He wanted to pursue her.

  “I—I can’t,” she stammered and slowly drew her arm from his grasp. “Not yet.” A sigh tore from her at the disheartened expression that flashed across his face and proved all her suspicions. “I need to think, to consider… Later.” Her shoulders slumped heavily, and she nodded toward the front room. “Go visit Papa. Tell him what you think of the house, all right?”

  “All right.” He retreated to the bottom of the stairs. “But we’ll need to talk about it eventually.”

  When pigs flew… She pled instead, “When you talk with Papa, please don’t tell him that you know he didn’t do the plans himself. Let him continue the ruse, all right? Elias Daring might be sick and old, but he still has his pride.”

  He considered for a moment, as if ready to persist in pressing her for an answer, but then he acquiesced with a faint nod. “I’ll see you again soon.”

  And that was what bothered her.

  Without another word, she hurried up the stairs to the studio. She closed the door behind her and leaned back against it, squeezing her eyes shut against the confusion swirling in her head. She took deep breaths and tried to calm her racing pulse and the tingling that tickled at her toes as she thought about his kisses and caresses. They’d been nice.

  Oh, what a goose she was! They’d been so much more than nice. Kittens and pu
ppies were nice. Afternoon teas and museum visits were nice. What she’d done with Whitby was…simply delicious.

  Who would have thought that someone who looked like Whitby would be so skilled at kissing? The touch of his hands and what he’d done with his tongue—oh my.

  “Oh no,” she told herself and shoved away from the door.

  Whatever madness had gripped her this afternoon was over. It was time to stop thinking about Whitby and go back to work. She set the rolled-up house plans onto her drafting table, and a piece of paper fluttered to the floor.

  The contest announcement.

  With a grimace, she snatched it up. Her, enter a contest like this—madness!

  Just as she was about to crumple it and toss it away, she stopped. Her eyes swept over the information again, and a longing to be part of the contest flooded over her so fiercely that she shuddered. If only she could enter! Yet she knew better. An entry with her name on it would be a complete waste of time.

  But one with Elias Daring’s name… That was altogether different matter.

  She picked up the plans for her dream house. She’d endlessly fussed over these plans until they were perfect, right down to the tiniest detail. Her heart melted. Whitby was right. They were lovely…far too lovely to never see the light of day. Not sharing these plans was like owning a Beethoven sonata that could never be played.

  Her gaze slid to the announcement, and she bit her bottom lip. What if she did enter them into the contest—rather, what if Elias Daring did? Certainly, it would never be the same as being able to take credit for them herself, openly and fully, but it was also the only way her plans would ever be taken seriously. When Papa won, she could say that she’d helped with them and gain some credit that way—well, not some. Nearly none at all. But the validation she would gain from hearing others unwittingly praise her work might be the only brush with the architectural community she would ever have as an equal.