Scandal in Spring

by Lisa Kleypas

  On Saturday Matthew woke up wanting to murder someone.

  His mood was not improved by Thomas Bowman’s dyspeptic pronouncement after breakfast.

  “He’s winning,” Bowman grumbled, pulling Matthew into the study for a private conversation. “That Scottish bastard Llandrindon has spent hours on end with Daisy, oozing charm and spouting all the nonsense women like to hear. If you had any intention of marrying my daughter, the opportunity has dwindled to almost nothing. You’ve gone out of your way to avoid her, you’ve been taciturn and distant, and all week you’ve worn an expression that would frighten small children and animals. Your notion of wooing a woman confirms everything I’ve ever heard about Bostonians.”

  “Perhaps Llandrindon is the best match for her,” Matthew said woodenly. “They seem to be developing a mutual affection.”

  “This isn’t about affection, it’s about marriage!” The top of Bowman’s head began to turn red. “Do you understand the stakes involved?”

  “Other than the financial ones?”

  “What other kind of stakes could there be?”

  Matthew sent him a sardonic glance. “Your daughter’s heart. Her future happiness. Her—”

  “Bah! People don’t marry to be happy. Or if they do, they soon discover it’s hog-swill.”

  Despite his black mood, Matthew smiled slightly. “If you’re hoping to inspire me in the direction of wedlock,” he said, “it’s not working.”

  “Is this inspiration enough?” Reaching into the pocket of his waistcoat, Bowman extracted a gleaming silver dollar and flipped it upward with his thumb. The coin spun toward Matthew in a bright silver arc. He caught it reflexively, closing it in his palm. “Marry Daisy,” Bowman said, “and you’ll get more of that. More than one man could spend in a lifetime.”

  A new voice came from the doorway, and they both glanced toward the speaker.

  “Lovely.”

  It was Lillian, dressed in a pink day-gown and a shawl. She stared at her father with something approaching hatred, her eyes as dark as volcanic glass. “Is anyone in your life more than a mere pawn to you, Father?” she asked acidly.

  “This is a discussion between men,” Bowman retorted, flushing from guilt, anger, or some combination of the two. “It’s none of your concern.”

  “Daisy is my concern,” Lillian said, her voice soft but chilling. “And I’d kill you both before letting you make her unhappy.” Before her father could reply, she turned and proceeded down the hall.

  Swearing, Bowman left the room and headed in the opposite direction.

  Left alone in the study, Matthew slammed the coin onto the desk.

  “All this effort for a man who doesn’t even care,” Daisy muttered to herself, thinking dire thoughts about Matthew Swift.

  Llandrindon sat a few yards away on the rim of a garden fountain, obediently holding still as she sketched his portrait. She had never been particularly talented at sketching, but she was running out of things to do with him.

  “What was that?” the Scottish lord called out.

  “I said you have a fine head of hair!”

  Llandrindon was a perfectly nice fellow, pleasant and unexceptional and utterly conventional. Glumly Daisy admitted to herself that in the effort to drive Matthew Swift half-mad with jealousy, she had succeeded only in driving herself half-mad with boredom.

  Daisy paused to raise the back of her hand to her lips, stifling a yawn as she tried to appear as if she were immersed in her sketching.

  This had been one of the most miserable weeks of her entire life. Day after day of deadly tedium, pretending to enjoy herself in the company of a man who couldn’t have interested her less. It wasn’t Llandrindon’s fault—he had made every effort to be entertaining—but it was clear to Daisy they had nothing in common and never would.

  This didn’t seem to bother Llandrindon nearly as much as it did her. He could talk about practically nothing for hours. He could have filled entire newspapers with society gossip about people Daisy had never met. And he launched on long discourses about things like his search for the perfect color scheme for the hunting room at his Thurso estate, or the detailed course of studies he had followed at school. There never seemed to be a point to any of these stories.

  Llandrindon seemed similarly disinterested in what Daisy had to say. He didn’t laugh at the tales of her childhood pranks with Lillian, and if she said something like “Look at that cloud—it’s shaped just like a rooster,” he stared at her as if she were mad.

  He also hadn’t liked it when they discussed the poor laws and Daisy questioned his distinctions between the “deserving poor” and the “unworthy poor.” “It seems, my lord,” she had said, “that the law is designed to punish the people who need help the most.”

  “Some people are poor because of choices they make through their own moral weaknesses, and therefore one can’t help them.”

  “Such as fallen women, you mean? But what if these women had no other—”

  “We will not discuss fallen women,” he had said, looking horrified.

  Conversation with him was limited at best. Especially as Llandrindon found it difficult to follow Daisy’s quicksilver transitions between subjects. Long after she had finished talking about one thing, he would keep asking about it. “I thought we were still on the subject of your aunt’s poodle?” he had asked in confusion that very morning, and Daisy had replied impatiently, “No, I finished with that five minutes ago—just now I was telling you about the opera visit.”

  “But how did we go from the poodle to the opera?”

  Daisy was sorry that she had enlisted Llandrindon in her scheme, especially as it had proven so ineffective. Matthew Swift had not displayed one second’s worth of jealousy—he had been his usual granite-faced self, barely sparing a glance in her direction for days.

  “Why are you frowning, sweeting?” Llandrindon asked, watching her face.

  Sweeting? He had never used an endearment with her before. Daisy glanced at him over the edge of the sketchbook. He was staring at her in a way that made her uneasy. “Be quiet, please,” she said primly. “I’m sketching your chin.”

  Concentrating on her drawing, Daisy thought it was not half-bad, but…was his head really that egg-shaped? Were his eyes that close-set? How strange that a person could be quite attractive, but when one examined them feature by feature, much of their charm faded. She decided sketching people was not her forte. From now on she would stick to plants and fruit.

  “This week has had a strange effect on me,” Llandrindon ruminated aloud. “I feel…different.”

  “Are you ill?” Daisy asked in concern, closing the sketchbook. “I’m sorry, I’ve made you sit out in the sun too long.”

  “No, not that kind of different. What I meant to say is that I feel…wonderful.” Llandrindon was staring at her in that odd way again. “Better than I ever have before.”

  “It’s the country air, I expect.” Daisy stood and brushed her skirts off, and went to him. “It’s quite invigorating.”

  “It’s not the country air I find invigorating,” Llandrindon said in a low voice. “It’s you, Miss Bowman.”

  Daisy’s mouth fell open. “Me?”

  “You.” He stood and took her shoulders in his hands.

  Daisy could only stutter in surprise. “I—I—my lord—”

  “These past few days in your company have given me cause for deep reflection.”

  Daisy twisted to glance at their surroundings, taking in the neatly trimmed hedges covered with bursts of pink climbing roses. “Is Mr. Swift nearby?” she whispered. “Is that why you’re talking this way?”

  “No, I’m speaking for myself.” Ardently Llandrindon pulled her closer, until the sketchbook was nearly crushed between them. “You’ve opened my eyes, Miss Bowman. You’ve made me see everything a different way. I want to find shapes in clouds, and do something worth writing a poem about. I want to read novels. I want to make life an adventure—”


  “How nice,” Daisy said, wriggling in his tightening grasp.

  “—with you.”

  Oh no.

  “You’re joking,” she said weakly.

  “I’m besotted,” he declared.

  “I’m unavailable.”

  “I’m determined.”

  “I’m…surprised.”

  “You dear little thing,” he exclaimed. “You’re everything he said you were. Magic. Thunderstorms wrapped up with rainbows. Clever and lovely and desirable—”

  “Wait.” Daisy stared at him in astonishment. “Matth—that is, Mr. Swift said that?”

  “Yes, yes, yes…” And before she could move, speak or breathe, Llandrindon lowered his head and kissed her.

  The sketchbook dropped from Daisy’s hands. She remained passive in his embrace, wondering if she was going to feel something.

  Objectively speaking, there was nothing wrong with his kiss. It wasn’t too dry or slobbery, not too hard or soft. It was…

  Boring.

  Drat. Daisy pulled back with a frown. She felt guilty that she had enjoyed the kiss so little. And it made her feel even worse when it appeared Llandrindon had enjoyed it quite a lot.

  “My dear Miss Bowman,” Llandrindon murmured flirtatiously. “You didn’t tell me you tasted so sweet.”

  He reached for her again, and Daisy danced backward with a little yelp. “My lord, control yourself!”

  “I cannot.” He pursued her slowly around the fountain until they resembled a pair of circling cats. Suddenly he made a dash for her, catching at the sleeve of her gown. Daisy pushed hard at him and twisted away, feeling the soft white muslin rip an inch or two at the shoulder seam.

  There was a loud splash and a splatter of water drops.

  Daisy stood blinking at the empty spot where Llandrindon had been, and then covered her eyes with her hands as if that would somehow make the entire situation go away.

  “My lord?” she asked gingerly. “Did you…did you just fall into the fountain?”

  “No,” came his sour reply. “You pushed me into the fountain.”

  “It was entirely unintentional, I assure you.” Daisy forced herself to look at him.

  Llandrindon rose to his feet, water streaming from his hair and clothes, his coat pockets filled to the brim. It appeared the dip in the fountain had cooled his passions considerably.

  He glowered at her in affronted silence. Suddenly his eyes widened, and he reached into one of his water-laden coat pockets. A tiny frog leaped from the pocket and returned to the fountain with a quiet plunk.

  Daisy tried to choke back her amusement, but the harder she tried the worse it became, until she finally burst out laughing. “I’m sorry,” she gasped, clapping her hands over her mouth, while irrepressible giggles slipped out. “I’m so—oh dear—” And she bent over laughing until tears came to her eyes.

  The tension between them disappeared as Llandrin don began to smile reluctantly. He stepped from the fountain, dripping from every surface. “I believe when you kiss the toad,” he said dryly, “he is supposed to turn into a prince. Unfortunately in my case it doesn’t seem to have worked.”

  Daisy felt a rush of sympathy and kindness, even as she snorted with a few last giggles. Approaching him carefully, she placed her small hands on either side of his wet face and pressed a friendly, fleeting kiss on his lips.

  His eyes widened at the gesture.

  “You are someone’s handsome prince,” Daisy said, smiling at him apologetically. “Just not mine. But when the right woman finds you…how lucky she’ll be.”

  And she bent to pick up her sketchbook and went back to the manor.

  It was a small and peculiar twist of fate that the path Daisy chose should take her beside the bachelor’s house. The small residence was set apart from the main house, close enough to the riverside bluff that it provided magnificent views of the water. A few of the male guests had elected to take advantage of the privacy of the bachelor’s house. Now it was empty since the hunting party had ended yesterday and most of the guests had taken their leave.

  Except for Matthew Swift, of course.

  Preoccupied with her thoughts, Daisy trudged along the path beside an ironstone wall that edged the bluff. Her amusement melted into moroseness as she thought of her father, who was determined to marry her to Matthew Swift…and Lillian, who wanted her to marry anyone but Swift…and her mother, who would be satisfied with nothing less than a peer. Mercedes was not going to be happy once she learned that Daisy had rebuffed Llandrindon.

  Thinking over the past week, Daisy realized that her attempt to capture Matthew’s attention had not been a game to her. It mattered desperately. She had never wanted anything in her life as much as the chance to speak to him sincerely, honestly, holding nothing back. But instead of forcing his feelings to the surface, she had only managed to uncover her own.

  When she was with him, she felt the promise of something more wonderful, more exciting than anything she had read or dreamed about.

  Something real.

  It was incredible that a man she had always thought of as cold and passionless had turned out to be someone with so much gentleness and sensuality and tenderness. Someone who had secretly carried a lock of her hair in his pocket.

  Becoming aware of someone’s approach, Daisy glanced upward and felt her entire body quake.

  Matthew was coming from the manor, looking dark and surly as he walked in ground-eating strides.

  A man in a hurry with no place to go.

  His momentum stopped abruptly as he saw her, his face turning blank.

  They stared at each other in the charged silence.

  Daisy’s brows rushed downward in a scowl. It was either that or fling herself at him and start weeping. The depth of her yearning shocked her.

  “Mr. Swift,” she said unsteadily.

  “Miss Bowman.” He looked as though he would rather be anywhere but there with her.

  Her nerves crackled with expectant heat as he reached for the sketchbook in her hand.

  Without thinking, she let him take it.

  His eyes narrowed as he looked down at the book, which was open to her sketch of Llandrindon. “Why did you draw him with a beard?” he asked.

  “That’s not a beard,” Daisy said shortly. “It’s shadowing.”

  “It looks as if he hasn’t shaved in three months.”

  “I didn’t ask for your opinion on my artwork,” she snapped. She grabbed the sketchbook, but he refused to release it. “Let go,” she demanded, tugging with all her might, “or I’ll…”

  “You’ll what? Draw a portrait of me?” He released the book with a suddenness that caused her to stumble back a few steps. He held up his hands defensively. “No. Anything but that.”

  Daisy rushed at him and whacked his chest with the book. She hated it that she felt so alive with him. She hated the way her senses drank in his presence like dry earth absorbing rain. She hated his handsome face and virile body, and the mouth that was more tempting than any man’s mouth had a right to be.

  Matthew’s smile vanished as his gaze slid over her and lingered on the torn seam at her shoulder. “What happened to your dress?”

  “It was nothing. I had a sort of…well, a scuffle, you might call it, with Lord Llandrindon.”

  It was the most innocent way Daisy could think of to describe the encounter, which of course had been harmless. She was certain no lurid connotations could be attached to “scuffle.”

  However, it appeared that Swift’s definition of the word was far more expansive than hers. Suddenly his expression turned dark and frightening, and his blue eyes blazed.

  “I’m going to kill him,” he said in a guttural voice. “He dared to—where is he?”

  “No, no,” Daisy said hastily, “you misunderstood—it wasn’t like that—” Dropping the sketchbook, she threw her arms around him, using all her weight to restrain him as he headed toward the garden. She might as well have tried to hold back a charging b
ull. With the first few steps she was carried bodily with him. “Wait! What gives you the right to do anything where I’m concerned?”

  Breathing heavily, Matthew stopped and glared down into her flushed face. “Did he touch you? Did he force you to—”

  “You’re nothing but a dog in the manger,” Daisy cried hotly. “You don’t want me—why should you care if someone else does? Leave me alone and go back to your plans for building your big sodding factory and making mountains of money! I hope you become the richest man in the world. I hope you get everything you want, and then someday you’ll look around and wonder why no one loves you and why you’re so unh—”

  Her words were crushed into silence as he kissed her, his mouth hard and punishing. A wild thrill shot through her, and she turned her face away with a gasp. “—happy,” she managed to finish, just before he clasped her head in his hands and kissed her again.

  This time his mouth was gentler, shifting with sensuous urgency to find the most perfect fit. Daisy’s hammering heart sent a rush of pleasure-heated blood through her dilating veins. She fumbled to grip his muscled wrists, her fingertips pressed against the throb of a pulse that was no less frenzied than her own.

  Every time she thought Matthew would end the kiss he searched her more deeply. She responded feverishly, her knees weakening until she feared she might collapse to the ground like a rag doll.

  Breaking the contact between their lips, she managed an anguished whisper. “Matthew…take me somewhere.”

  “No.”

  “Yes. I need…I need to be alone with you.”

  Panting raggedly, Matthew folded his arms around her, bringing her against his hard chest. She felt the desperate crush of his lips against her scalp.

  “I can’t trust myself that far,” he finally said.

  “Just to talk. Please. We can’t stay out in the open like this. And if you leave me now I’ll die.”

  Even aroused and in turmoil, Matthew couldn’t prevent a smothered laugh at the dramatic statement. “You won’t die.”

  “Just to talk,” Daisy repeated, clinging to him. “I won’t…I won’t tempt you.”