by Lisa Kleypas
Daisy felt overheated in the bright, stuffy room, the blood rushing easily to her cheeks. Her body was oversensitive, her undergarments chafing, her corset unbearable, her garters pinching around her thighs. Every time she moved there were reminders of the afternoon with Matthew; the soreness between her legs, the stings and twitches in unexpected places. And yet her body ached for more…more of Matthew’s hands, his restless mouth, his hardness inside her…
Feeling her face flame once again, Daisy devoted herself to buttering a piece of bread. She glanced at Matthew, who was conversing with a lady to his left.
Sensing Daisy’s furtive regard, Matthew looked in her direction. The depths of blue kindled with heat and his chest moved as he inhaled deeply. He dragged his attention back to his companion, focusing on her with a flattering interest that sent the lady into giggling effusiveness.
Daisy lifted a glass of watered wine to her lips and made herself pay attention to a conversation on her right…something about touring the lake districts and the Scottish Highlands. Soon, however, her mind drifted back to her own situation.
She did not regret her decision…but she was not so naive as to believe everything would be easy from now on. Quite the opposite. There was the issue of where they were to live, and when Matthew would take her back to New York, and if she could learn to be happy far away from her sister and friends. There was also the unanswered question about whether she would be an adequate wife for a man who so fully inhabited a world she had never quite found a way to fit in. And last, the not-insignificant question of what kind of secrets Matthew was harboring.
But Daisy remembered the soft, vibrant note in his voice when he had said, “You’ve always been everything I thought a woman should be.”
Matthew was the only man who had ever wanted her just as she was. (One had to discount Llandrindon since his infatuation had flared up just a bit too quickly and would likely subside with equal speed.)
In this regard, Daisy reflected, her marriage to Matthew would not be unlike Lillian’s with Westcliff. As two strong-willed people with very different sensibilities, Lillian and Westcliff often argued and negotiated…and yet this didn’t seem to weaken their marriage. Quite the opposite, in fact—their union seemed all the better for it.
She considered her friends’ marriages…Annabelle and Mr. Hunt as a harmony of similar dispositions…Evie and Lord St. Vincent with their opposite natures, as necessary to each other’s existence as day and night. It was impossible to say that any of these pairings was superior to the others.
Perhaps, in spite of all she had heard about the ideal of a perfect marriage, there was no such thing. Perhaps every marriage was a unique creation.
It was a comforting thought.
And it filled her with hope.
After the interminable dinner Daisy pleaded a headache rather than endure the ritual of tea and gossip. It was half true, actually—the combination of light, noise, and emotional strain had caused her temples to throb painfully. With a pained smile, she made her excuses and headed toward the grand staircase.
But as she reached the main hall, she heard her sister’s voice.
“Daisy? I want to talk with you.”
Daisy knew Lillian well enough to recognize the edge in her tone. Her older sister was suspicious, and worried, and she wanted to thrash out issues and problems until everything had been discussed exhaustively.
Daisy was far too weary. “Not now, please,” she said, giving her sister a placating smile. “Can it wait until later?”
“No.”
“I have a headache.”
“So do I. But we’re still going to talk.”
Daisy struggled with a rush of exasperation. After all her patience with Lillian, the years of unquestioning support and loyalty, it didn’t seem too much to ask that Lillian refrain from badgering her.
“I’m going to bed,” Daisy said, her steady gaze daring her sister to argue. “I don’t want to explain anything, especially when it’s obvious you have no intention of listening. Good night.” Seeing the stricken look on Lillian’s face, she added more gently, “I love you.” She stood on her toes, kissed her sister’s cheek, and went to the staircase.
Lillian fought the temptation to follow Daisy up the stairs. She became aware of someone at her elbow, and she turned to see Annabelle and Evie, both of them looking sympathetic.
“She won’t talk to me,” she told them numbly.
Evie, usually hesitant to touch her, slipped her arm through Lillian’s. “L-let’s go to the orangery,” she suggested.
The orangery was by far Lillian’s favorite room in the manor, the walls constructed of long glass windows, the floor wrought with fancy iron grillwork that let in gently warmed air from stoves down below. Orange and lemon trees filled the room with fresh citrus fragrance, while scaffolding loaded with tropical plants added exotic top notes to the scent. Torchlight from outside sent intricate shadows through the room.
Finding a small grouping of chairs, the three friends sat together. Lillian’s shoulders slumped as she said glumly, “I think they’ve done it.”
“Who’s done what?” Evie asked.
“Daisy and Mr. Swift,” Annabelle murmured with a touch of amusement. “We’re speculating that they’ve had, er…carnal knowledge of each other.”
Evie looked perplexed. “Why do we think that?”
“Well, you were sitting at the other table, dear, so you couldn’t see, but at dinner there were…” Annabelle raised her brows significantly. “…undercurrents.”
“Oh.” Evie shrugged. “It’s just as well I wasn’t at your table, then. I’m never any good at reading undercurrents.”
“These were obvious undercurrents,” Lillian said darkly. “It couldn’t have been any clearer if Mr. Swift had leapt onto the table and made an announcement.”
“Mr. Swift would never be so vulgar,” Evie said decisively. “Even if he is an American.”
Lillian’s face scrunched in a ferocious scowl. “Whatever happened to ‘I could never be happy with a soulless industrialist’? What happened to ‘I want the four of us to be together always’? Curse it all, I can’t believe Daisy’s done this! Everything was going so well with Lord Llandrindon. What could have possessed her to sleep with Matthew Swift?”
“I doubt there was much sleeping involved,” Annabelle replied, her eyes twinkling.
Lillian gave her a slitted glare. “If you have the bad taste to be amused by this, Annabelle—”
“Daisy was never interested in Lord Llandrindon,” Evie volunteered hastily, trying to prevent a quarrel. “She was only using him to provoke Mr. Swift.”
“How do you know?” the other two asked at the same time.
“Well, I-I…” Evie made a helpless gesture with her hands. “Last week I m-more or less inadvertently suggested that she try to make him jealous. And it worked.”
Lillian’s throat worked violently before she could manage to speak. “Of all the asinine, sheep-headed, moronic—”
“Why, Evie?” Annabelle asked in a considerably kinder tone.
“Daisy and I overheard Mr. Swift t-talking to Lord Llandrindon. He was trying to convince Llandrindon to court her, and it became obvious that Mr. Swift wanted her for himself.”
“I’ll bet he planned it,” Lillian snapped. “He must have known somehow that you would overhear. It was a devious and sinister plot, and you fell for it!”
“I don’t think so,” Evie replied. Staring at Lillian’s crimson face, she asked apprehensively, “Are you going to shout at me?”
Lillian shook her head and dropped her face in her hands. “I’d shriek like a banshee,” she said through the screen of her fingers, “if I thought it would do any good. But since I’m fairly certain Daisy has been intimate with that reptile, there is probably nothing anyone can do to save her now.”
“She may not want to be saved,” Evie pointed out.
“That’s because she’s gone stark raving mad,” came
Lillian’s muffled growl.
Annabelle nodded. “Obviously. Daisy has slept with a handsome, young, wealthy, intelligent man who is apparently in love with her. What in God’s name can she be thinking?” She smiled compassionately as she heard Lillian’s profane reply, and settled a gentle hand between her friend’s shoulders. “Dearest,” she murmured, “as you know, there was a time when it didn’t matter to me whether I married a man I loved or not…it seemed enough just to get my family out of the desperate situation we were in. But when I thought about what it would be like to share a bed with my husband…to spend the rest of my life with him…I knew Simon was the only choice.” She paused, and sudden tears glittered her eyes. Beautiful, self-possessed Annabelle, who hardly ever cried. “When I’m ill,” she continued in a husky voice, “when I’m afraid, when I need something, I know he will move heaven and earth to make everything all right. I trust him with every fiber of my being. And when I see the child we created, the two of us mingled forever in her…my God, how grateful I am that I married Simon. We’ve all been able to choose our own husbands, Lillian. You have to allow Daisy the same freedom.”
Lillian shook off her hand irritably. “He’s not the same caliber as any of our husbands. He’s not even the same quality as St. Vincent, who may have been a devious skirt-chasing scoundrel, but at least he has a heart.” She paused and muttered, “No offense intended, Evie.”
“That’s all right,” Evie said, her lips quivering as if she were trying to suppress a laugh.
“The point is,” Lillian fretted, “I’m all for Daisy having the freedom of choice, as long as she doesn’t make the wrong one.”
“Dear—” Annabelle began in a careful attempt to correct the flaw in her logic, but Evie interrupted softly.
“I th-think it’s Daisy’s right to make a mistake. All we can do is give her our help if she asks for it.”
“We can’t help her if she ends up in bloody New York!” Lillian retorted.
Evie and Annabelle didn’t argue with her after that, tacitly agreeing there were some problems that mere words couldn’t solve, and some fears that couldn’t be soothed. They did what friends do when all else has failed…they sat with her in companionable silence…and let her know they cared.
A hot bath helped to soothe Daisy’s body and relax her frazzled nerves. She stayed in the steaming water until she was boneless and sweltering, and her headache had faded. Feeling renewed, she dressed in a ruffled white nightgown and began to brush her hair, while a pair of maids came to take away the bath.
The bristles ran through her hair until the waist-length locks formed a gleaming ebony river. She stared through the open doorway that lead to the balcony, into the damp spring night. The starless sky was the color of black plums.
Smiling absently, Daisy heard the click of the bedroom door behind her. Assuming one of the maids had returned to collect a towel or a soap dish, she continued to stare outside.
Suddenly she felt a touch on her shoulder, followed by the warmth of a large hand sliding across her chest. Startled, she rose to her feet and was slowly pulled back against a hard masculine body.
Matthew’s deep voice tickled her ear. “What were you thinking about?”
“You, of course.” Daisy rested against him, her fingers coming up to stroke the hairy surface of his forearm to the edge of his rolled-up shirtsleeves. Her gaze returned to the outside view. “This room used to belong to one of the earl’s sisters,” she said. “I was told that her lover—a stable boy, actually—used to climb up to the balcony to visit her. Just like Romeo.”
“I hope the reward was worth the risk,” he said.
“Would you have taken such a risk for my sake?”
“If it was the only way I could be with you. But it makes no sense to climb two stories to the balcony when a perfectly good door is available.”
“Using the door isn’t nearly as romantic.”
“Neither is breaking your neck.”
“How pragmatic,” Daisy said with a laugh, turning in his arms. Matthew’s clothes were scented with outside air and the acrid trace of tobacco. He must have gone out to the back terrace with some of the gentlemen after dinner. Huddling deeper into his embrace, she smelled the starch of his shirt and the clean, familiar fragrance of his skin. “I love the way you smell,” she said. “I could walk blindfolded into a room filled with a hundred men and I would find you right away.”
“Another parlor game,” he said, and they snickered together.
Catching at his hand, Daisy tugged him toward the bed. “Come lie with me.”
Matthew shook his head, resisting. “I’ll only stay a few minutes. Westcliff and I are leaving at first light.” His gaze slid hungrily over the prim ruffled nightgown. “And if we go anywhere near that bed, I won’t be able to keep from making love to you.”
“I wouldn’t mind,” Daisy said shyly.
He pulled her into his arms and hugged her carefully. “Not so soon after your first time. You need to rest.”
“Then why are you here?”
Daisy felt his cheek rubbing against the top of her head. Even after all that had happened between them, it seemed impossible that Matthew Swift was holding her so tenderly. “I just wanted to say good night,” he murmured. “And to tell you…”
Daisy looked up with a questioning glance, and he stole a kiss as if he couldn’t help himself. “…you don’t ever have to worry that I would change my mind about marrying you,” he said. “In fact, you would have a damn difficult time getting rid of me now.”
“Yes,” Daisy said, smiling at him. “I know you’re dependable.”
Forcing himself to let go of her, Matthew went reluctantly to the door. He opened it a cautious crack and glanced outside to ascertain the hallway was empty.
“Matthew,” she whispered.
He glanced over his shoulder at her. “Yes?”
“Come back to me soon.”
Whatever he saw in her face caused his eyes to blaze in the shadow-tricked atmosphere. He gave her a short nod and left while he was still able.
Chapter 13
Matthew quickly discovered that traveling in Bristol with Lord Westcliff was a far different matter than navigating the port city by himself. He had originally planned to stay at an inn located in the central part of Bristol. With Westcliff as his companion, however, they took up temporary residence with a wealthy shipbuilding family. Matthew gathered there had been many such invitations extended by prosperous families in the area, all eager to host the earl in the finest style possible.
Everyone was either a friend of Westcliff’s, or wanted to be. Such was the power of an ancient aristocratic name. To be fair, it was more than a name and title that inspired such enthusiasm for Westcliff…he was known as a political progressive, not to mention a skillful businessman, both of which made a man very sought-after in Bristol.
The city, second only to London in its volume of trade, was undergoing a period of explosive development. As the commercial areas expanded and the old city walls crumbled, narrow roads were being widened and new thoroughfares appeared on what seemed a daily basis. Most significantly, a harborside railway system connecting the Temple Mead station to the docks had just been completed. As a result, there was no better place in Europe to establish a manufacturing business.
Matthew had grudgingly admitted to Westcliff that his presence had made their negotiations and meetings much easier. Not only did Westcliff’s name open doors, it practically inspired people to give him the entire building. And Matthew privately acknowledged there was a great deal to be learned from the earl, who possessed reams of knowledge about business and manufacturing.
When they discussed locomotive production, for example, the earl was not only conversant with principles of design and engineering, he could also name the dozen varieties of bolts used on their latest broad-gauge locomotives.
Without modesty, Matthew had never met another man who could rival his own ability to understand and re
tain vast quantities of technical knowledge. Until Westcliff. It made for interesting conversation, at least to the two of them. Anyone else taking part in the discussion would have started snoring after five minutes.
For his part, Marcus had embarked on the week in Bristol with a dual purpose, officially to accomplish certain business-related goals…but unofficially to decide what to make of Matthew Swift.
It hadn’t been easy for Marcus to leave Lillian’s side. He had discovered that while the events of childbirth and infancy were perfectly ordinary when they happened to other people, they were monumentally important when his own wife and child were involved. Everything about his daughter fascinated him: her pattern of sleeping and waking, her first bath, the way she wiggled her toes, the sight of her at Lillian’s breast.
Although it was not unheard of for an upper-class lady to nurse her own child, it was far more common to hire a lactating maid for that purpose. However, Lillian had abruptly changed her mind after Merritt was born. “She wants me instead,” Lillian had told Marcus. He hadn’t dared to point out that the baby was hardly capable of a discussion on the matter and would likely be just as content with a wet nurse.
Marcus’s fear that his wife might succumb to childbed fever receded day by day as Lillian returned to her old self, healthy and slender and vigorous. His relief was vast. He had never known such overwhelming love for one person, nor had he anticipated that Lillian would so quickly become his essential requirement for happiness. Anything that was in his power to do for Lillian would be done. And in light of his wife’s worry over her sister, Marcus had decided to form some definitive conclusions about Matthew Swift.
As they met with representatives of the Great Western railway, the dockmaster, and various councilmen and administrators, Marcus was impressed by the way Swift acquitted himself. Until now he had only seen Swift interact with the well-to-do guests at Stony Cross, but it immediately became apparent that he could relate easily to a variety of people, from elderly aristocrats to burly young dock laborers. When it came to bargaining, Swift was aggressive without being ungentlemanly. He was calm, steady, and sensible, but he also possessed a dry sense of humor that he used to good effect.