by Lisa Kleypas
“How do you define a good one?”
“Are you asking what kind of woman I would want to marry?” His smile lingered much longer than usual, causing the fine hairs to prickle on the nape of Daisy’s neck. “I suppose I would know when I met her.”
Striving to seem unconcerned, Daisy wandered to the stained-glass windows. She held a hand up, watching the mosaic of colored light on the paleness of her skin. “I can predict what she would be like.” She kept her back to Swift. “Taller than me, for one thing.”
“Most women are,” he pointed out.
“And accomplished and useful,” Daisy continued. “Not a dreamer. She would keep her mind on practical matters, and manage the servants perfectly, and she would never be tricked by the fishmonger into buying scrod after it’s turned.”
“If I did have any thoughts about marriage,” Swift said, “you’ve just driven them completely out of my mind.”
“You’ll have no difficulty finding her,” Daisy continued, sounding more glum than she would have wished. “There are hundreds of them in Manhattanville. Maybe thousands.”
“What makes you certain I would want a conventional wife?”
Her nerves tingled as she felt him approaching her from behind.
“Because you’re like my father,” she said.
“Not entirely.”
“And if you married someone different from the woman I just described, you would eventually come to think of her as a…parasite.”
The light pressure of Swift’s hands closed over her shoulders. He turned Daisy to face him. His blue eyes were warm as he searched hers, and she had the discomforting suspicion that he was reading her thoughts far too accurately. “I prefer to think,” he said slowly, “that I would never be that cruel. Or idiotic.” His gaze felt to the exposed skin of her chest. With utter gentleness, he traced his thumbs across the winged shape of her collarbones, until gooseflesh rose on her arms beneath her puffed sleeves. “All I would ever ask of a wife,” he murmured, “is that she would bear me some affection. That she might be happy to see me at the end of the day.”
Her breath quickened beneath the touch of his fingers. “That’s not very much to ask.”
“Isn’t it?”
His fingertips had reached the base of her throat, which rippled from her hard swallow. He blinked and removed his hands promptly, seeming not to know what to do with them until he buried them in his coat pockets.
And yet he didn’t move away. Daisy wondered if he felt the same irresistible pull that she did, a perplexing need that could only be appeased by more closeness.
Clearing her throat in a businesslike manner, Daisy straightened her spine and drew up to her full height of five feet and one debatable inch.
“Mr. Swift?”
“Yes, Miss Bowman?”
“I have a favor to ask.”
His gaze sharpened. “What is it?”
“As soon as you tell my father definitively that you’re not going to marry me, he will be…disappointed. You know how he is.”
“Yes, I know,” Swift said dryly. Anyone acquainted with Thomas Bowman was well aware that for him, disappointment was but a quick stop on the way to high dudgeon.
“I’m afraid it will result in some unpleasant repercussions for me. Father is already unhappy that I haven’t brought someone up to scratch. If he assumes I’ve deliberately done something to foil his plans about you and I…well, it will make my situation…difficult.”
“I understand.” Swift knew her father perhaps better than Daisy herself did. “I won’t say anything to him,” he said quietly. “And I’ll do what I can to make things easier for you. I’m leaving for Bristol in two days, three at the most. Llandrindon and the other men…none of them are idiots, they have a fair idea of why they were invited here, and they wouldn’t have come if they weren’t interested. So it shouldn’t take long for you to get a proposal out of one of them.”
Daisy supposed she should appreciate his eagerness to shove her into the arms of another man. Instead, his enthusiasm made her feel sour and waspish.
And when one felt like a wasp, one’s main inclination was to sting.
“I appreciate that,” she said. “Thank you. You’ve been very helpful, Mr. Swift. Especially by providing me with some much-needed experience. The next time I kiss a man—Lord Llandrindon, for example—I’ll know much more about what to do.”
It filled Daisy with vengeful satisfaction to see the way his mouth tightened.
“You’re welcome,” he said in a growl.
Perceiving that his hands were half-raised as if he were on the brink of throttling or shaking her, Daisy gave him her sunniest smile and scooted out of his reach.
As the day progressed the early morning sunshine was smothered in clouds that unrolled in a great gray carpet across the sky. Rain began to fall steadily, turning unpaved roads to mud, replenishing the wet meadows and bogs, sending people and animals scurrying to their respective shelters.
This was Hampshire in spring, sly and mercurial, playing pranks on the unsuspecting. If one ventured out with an umbrella on a wet morning, Hampshire would produce sunlight with a magician’s flourish. If one went walking without the umbrella, the sky was sure to dump buckets of rain on one’s head.
Guests clustered in various ever-changing groups…some in the music room, some in the billiards room, some in the parlor for games or tea or amateur theatrics. Many ladies attended to their embroidery or lace work while gentlemen read, talked, and drank in the library. No conversation escaped without at least a nominal discussion of when the storm might end.
Daisy usually loved rainy days. Curling up next to a hearth fire with a book was the greatest pleasure imaginable. But she was still trapped in a fretful state in which the printed word had lost its magic. She meandered from room to room, discreetly observing the activities of the guests.
Pausing at the threshold of the billiards room, she peered around the doorframe as gentlemen milled lazily around the table with drinks and cue sticks in hand. The clicks of ivory balls provided an arrhythmic undertone to the hum of masculine conversation. Her attention was caught by the sight of Matthew Swift in his shirtsleeves, leaning over the table to execute a perfect bank shot.
His hands were deft on the cue stick, his blue eyes narrowed as he focused on the layout of balls on the table. Those ever-rebellious locks of hair had fallen over his forehead once more, and Daisy longed to push them back. As Swift sank a ball neatly into a side pocket, there was a scattering of applause, some low laughs, and a few coins changing hands. Standing, Swift produced one of his elusive grins and made a remark to his opponent, who turned out to be Lord Westcliff.
Westcliff laughed at the comment and circled the table, an unlit cigar clamped between his teeth as he considered his options. The air of relaxed masculine enjoyment in the room was unmistakable.
As Westcliff rounded the table, he caught sight of Daisy peeking around the doorframe. He winked at her. She pulled back like a turtle jerking into its shell. It was ridiculous of her to creep around the manor trying to catch stolen glimpses of Matthew Swift.
Scolding herself silently, Daisy strode away from the billiards room and toward the main hall and the grand staircase. She bounded up the stairs, not stopping until she reached the Marsden parlor.
Annabelle and Evie were with Lillian, who was half-curled on the settee. Her features were pale and tense, her forehead lightly scored with frown lines. Her slim arms were wrapped around her stomach.
“That’s twenty minutes,” Evie said, her gaze fastened on the mantel clock.
“They’re still not coming regularly,” Annabelle remarked. She brushed Lillian’s hair and braided it neatly, her slim fingers dexterous in the heavy black locks.
“What aren’t coming regularly?” Daisy asked with forced cheer, coming into the room. “And why are you watching the—” She blanched as she suddenly understood. “My God. Are you having birthing pains, Lillian?”
&nbs
p; Her sister shook her head, looking perplexed. “Not full-on pains. Just a sort of tightening of my stomach. It started after lunchtime, and then I had one an hour later, and then a half-hour later, and this one came after twenty minutes.”
“Does Westcliff know?” Daisy asked breathlessly. “Should I go tell him?”
“No,” all three of the other women said at once.
“There’s no need to worry him yet,” Lillian added in a sheepish tone. “Let Westcliff enjoy the afternoon with his friends. As soon as he finds out, he’ll be up here pacing and giving commands, and no one will have any peace. Especially me.”
“What about Mother? Shall I fetch her?” Daisy had to ask, even though she was certain of the answer. Mercedes was not a comforting sort of person, and despite the fact that she had given birth to five children, she was squeamish at the mention of any kind of bodily function.
“I’m in enough pain already,” Lillian said dryly. “No, don’t tell Mother anything yet. She would feel obligated to sit here with me to maintain appearances, and that would make me as nervous as a cat. Right now all I need are the three of you.”
Despite her sardonic tone, she reached for Daisy’s hand and clung tightly. Childbirth was a frightening business, especially the first time, and Lillian was no exception. “Annabelle says this could happen on and off for days,” she told Daisy, crossing her eyes comically. “Which means I may not be as sweet-tempered as usual.”
“That’s fine, dear. Give us your worst.” Retaining Lillian’s hand, Daisy sat on the carpeted floor at her feet.
The room was quiet except for the ticking of the mantel clock, and the stroke of the bristled brush against Lillian’s scalp. Between the sisters’ joined hands, the pressure of their pulses mingled in steady throbs. Daisy was not certain if she was giving comfort to her sister or receiving it. Lillian’s time was here, and Daisy was afraid for her, of the pain and possible complications, and the fact that life would never be the same afterward.
She glanced at Evie, who flashed her a smile, and Annabelle, whose face was reassuringly calm. They would help each other through all the challenges and joys and fears of their lives, Daisy thought, and she was suddenly overwhelmed with love for all of them. “I will never live away from you,” she said. “I want the four of us to be together always. I could never bear to lose any of you.”
She felt Annabelle’s slippered toe nudge her leg affectionately. “Daisy…you can never lose a true friend.”
Chapter 9
As the afternoon spun out into early evening, the storm escalated beyond the usual springtime prank into a full-on assault. Rain-laden wind struck the windows and thrashed the meticulously trimmed hedgerows and trees, while lightning splintered the sky. The four friends stayed in the Marsden parlor, timing Lillian’s contractions until they were separated by regular ten-minute intervals. Lillian was subdued and anxious, though she tried to hide it. Daisy suspected her sister found it difficult to surrender to the inevitable process that was taking control of her body.
“You can’t possibly be comfortable on the settee,” Annabelle finally said, pulling Lillian upright. “Come, dear. Time to go to bed.”
“Should I—” Daisy began, thinking Westcliff should finally be summoned.
“Yes, I think so,” Annabelle said.
Relieved at the prospect of actually doing something instead of helplessly sitting by, Daisy asked, “And then what? Do we need sheets? Towels?”
“Yes, yes,” Annabelle said over her shoulder, hooking a firm arm around Lillian’s back. “And scissors and a hot water bottle. And tell the housekeeper to send up some valerian oil, and some tea with dried motherwort and shepherd’s purse.”
As the others helped Lillian to the master bedroom, Daisy hurried downstairs. She went to the billiards room only to find it empty, then scampered to the library and one of the main parlors. It seemed Westcliff was nowhere to be found. Tamping down her impatience, Daisy forced herself to walk calmly past some guests in the hallway, and headed to Westcliff’s study. To her relief, he was there with her father, Mr. Hunt, and Matthew Swift. They were involved in an animated conversation that included phrases such as “distribution network deficiencies” and “profits per unit of output.”
Becoming aware of her presence in the doorway, the men looked up. Westcliff rose from his half-seated position on the desk. “My lord,” Daisy said, “if I might have a word with you?”
Although she spoke calmly, something in her expression must have alerted him. He didn’t waste a second in coming to her. “Yes, Daisy?”
“It’s about my sister,” she whispered. “It seems her labor has started.”
She had never seen the earl look so utterly taken aback.
“It’s too early,” he said.
“Apparently the baby doesn’t think so.”
“But…this is off-schedule.” The earl seemed genuinely baffled that his child would have failed to consult the calendar before arriving.
“Not necessarily,” Daisy replied reasonably. “It’s possible the doctor misjudged the date of the baby’s birth. Ultimately it’s only a matter of guesswork.”
Westcliff scowled. “I expected far more accuracy than this! It’s nearly a month before the projected…” A new thought occurred to him, and he turned skull-white. “Is the baby premature?”
Although Daisy had entertained a few private concerns about that, she shook her head immediately. “Some women show more than others, some less. And my sister is very slender. I’m sure the baby is fine.” She gave him a reassuring smile. “Lillian has had pains for the past four or five hours, and now they’re coming every ten minutes or so, which Annabelle says—”
“She’s been in labor for hours and no one told me?” Westcliff demanded in outrage.
“Well, it’s not technically labor unless the intervals between the pains are regular, and she said she didn’t want to bother you until—”
Westcliff let out a curse that startled Daisy. He turned to point a commanding but unsteady finger at Simon Hunt. “Doctor,” he barked, and took off at a dead run.
Simon Hunt appeared unsurprised by Westcliff’s primitive behavior. “Poor fellow,” he said with a slight smile, reaching over the desk to slide a pen back into its holder.
“Why did he call you ‘Doctor’?” Thomas Bowman asked, feeling the effects of an afternoon snifter of brandy.
“I believe he wants me to send for the doctor,” Hunt replied. “Which I intend to do immediately.”
Unfortunately there were difficulties in producing the doctor, a venerable old man who lived in the village. The footman sent to summon him returned with the unhappy report that in the process of escorting the doctor to Westcliff’s waiting carriage, the old man had injured himself.
“How?” Westcliff demanded, having come outside the bedroom to receive the footman’s report. A small crowd of people including Daisy, Evie, St. Vincent, Mr. Hunt, and Mr. Swift were all waiting in the hallway. Annabelle was inside the room with Lillian.
“Milord,” the footman said to Westcliff regretfully, “the doctor slipped on a wet paving-stone and fell to the ground before I could catch him. His leg is injured. He says he does not believe the limb is broken, but all the same he cannot come to assist Lady Westcliff.”
A wild gleam appeared in the earl’s dark eyes. “Why weren’t you holding the doctor’s arm? For God’s sake, he’s a fossil! It’s obvious he couldn’t be trusted to walk by himself on wet pavement.”
“If he’s all that frail,” Simon Hunt asked reasonably, “how was the old relic supposed to be of any use to Lady Westcliff?”
The earl scowled. “That doctor knows more about childbirth than anyone between here and Portsmouth. He has delivered generations of Marsden issue.”
“At this rate,” Lord St. Vincent said, “the latest Marsden issue is going to arrive all by itself.” He turned to the footman. “Unless the doctor had any suggestion of how to replace himself?”
“
Yes, milord,” the footman said uncomfortably. “He told me there is a midwife in the village.”
“Then go fetch her at once,” Westcliff barked.
“I’ve already tried, milord. But…she’s a bit tap-hackled.”
Westcliff scowled. “Bring her anyway. At the moment I’m hardly inclined to quibble over a glass of wine or two.”
“Er, milord…she’s actually more than a bit tap-hackled.”
The earl stared at him incredulously. “Damn it, how drunk is she?”
“She thinks she’s the queen. She shouted at me for stepping on her train.”
A short silence followed as the group digested the information.
“I’m going to kill someone,” the earl said to no one in particular, and then Lillian’s cry from inside the bedroom caused him to turn pale.
“Marcus!”
“I’m coming,” Westcliff shouted, and turned to view the footman with a menacing glare. “Find someone,” he bit out. “A doctor. A midwife. A bloody sideshow fortune-teller. Just get…someone…now.”
As Westcliff disappeared into the bedroom the air seemed to quiver and smoke in his wake, as if in the aftermath of a lightning strike. A peal of thunder boomed from the sky outside, rattling chandeliers and vibrating the floor.
The footman was near tears. “Ten years in his lordship’s service and now I’ll be dismissed—”
“Go back to the doctor,” Simon Hunt said, “and find out if his leg is better. If not, ask if there is some apprentice or student—who might suffice as a replacement. In the meantime I’ll ride for the next village to search for someone.”
Matthew Swift, who had been silent so far, asked quietly, “Which road will you take?”
“The one leading east,” Hunt replied.
“I’ll take the west.”
Daisy stared at Swift with surprise and gratitude. The storm would make the errand dangerous, not to mention uncomfortable. The fact that he was willing to undertake it for Lillian, who had made no secret of her dislike, raised him several degrees in Daisy’s estimation.