by Maya Rodale
It would ruin the effect and lessen the point: she was determined to live on her own terms. By her own wits.
Even if scandal was about to hit.
Even if her family was about to fall apart.
Even if it was about to storm.
She would not marry a man with whom she shared nothing but a mutual loathing.
This was not what she wanted from her one and only life.
Once she had entered the gates for the park, just steps from her home, she had successfully stoked those sparks and embers of anger at the situation into a full, roaring blaze of fury.
The park was desolate as wiser, less furious people scurried to seek shelter from the coming storm.
Defiant, Daisy turned her face up toward the sky, relishing the cooler air on her hot skin, which was never normally exposed so brazenly to the elements.
Her complexion was her one true vanity. Daisy had no apologies for it, either. Whatever her features might be, her complexion was the stuff of envy: smooth, luminous, unblemished, and soft to the touch.
She took great, great care of her one beauty.
She thought she might even make a fortune of her own from her one vanity.
With her face upturned and her eyes closed, Daisy didn’t see him until it was too late. They came face-to-face before she could take another path, or turn around and march back from where she’d come, or fling herself in the duck pond. Just like old times.
The devil himself.
Theodore Prescott the Third.
Chapter Two
Central Park
In no uncertain terms, beyond a shadow of a doubt, Daisy Swan was the last person Theo wished to see right now. Because Theo was having the worst day of his life, there she was, stomping through the park with the grace and elegance of a deranged dowager in high dudgeon.
Circumstances were such that it was impossible to avoid each other.
Their eyes met.
There was a rumble of thunder. It was not distant.
“You.” She breathed the word like it was an accusation of murder.
“You,” he replied in kind.
At that exact moment, the sky cracked open and unleashed a deluge.
She shrieked in shock, in outrage, in anger.
And then she ran toward the nearest shelter—a gazebo nestled among some foliage. It was a popular spot for lovers.
Because the basic biological instinct to seek shelter in a storm apparently outweighed his desperate wish to have nothing to do with Daisy Swan, Theo followed her.
“You are the last person I wish to see right now,” she said. Nevertheless, he leapt up the steps and joined her in the gazebo. The roof protected them from the rain, but the open sides still left them exposed to the elements.
Theo glared at her for a long, hot second. His father wanted him to wed and bed this rain-drenched and scowling creature who wanted nothing to do with him. Impossible. Not even for his father’s approval—because the thing he wanted even more than that was something like a tender connection with another human. Not that he could ever say that without mockery from his peers. Not that he could ever find that with this sharp-tongued spinster.
“I assure you, the feeling is mutual. Was it your idea, Daisy?”
“Oh, you think this is some grand plan for a bluestocking spinster to land one of the city’s most eligible bachelors?” She scoffed. “You may have difficulty conceiving of this in your undoubtedly sleep-deprived and alcohol-addled male brain, but I have no wish to marry you.”
Good, Theo thought.
To hell with her, he thought.
And me, too.
Being eaten alive by reptiles was preferable to marriage with a woman who looked at him like he was insignificant, unworthy, and unwanted, which was the way she looked at him now and every other time they’d met ever since they were children.
But he also thought, Why not?
He was handsome, everybody said so. He came from wealth. Was impeccably dressed. He was sought out at parties, a coveted dinner table companion, and never wanted for the flirtations of beautiful women.
Miss Daisy “Ugly Duck” Swan could do no better than him.
So what did she want, then?
He did not care what she wanted, he told himself, and refused to consider it.
“Well, I don’t want to marry you, either,” he said. “Being lost at sea on a raft without food, water, or a hat would be preferable.”
“I would rather be stranded on the Alps in nothing but my unmentionables and wet stockings.”
“We are in violent agreement,” he said. He watched as she turned away to stick her head out of the gazebo. The rain was lashing down furiously. “Why are you sticking your head out like that?”
“I am trying to determine if I would rather risk drowning in a rainstorm or catching my death of a chill than stay here with you.”
“Don’t let me keep you.”
“I could say the same. You must have very, very important things to attend to.”
The sarcasm in her voice did not go unnoticed. They both knew that he had no important business to attend to, unless one counted calling on the popular ladies of the Four Hundred with whom he enjoyed friendships and flirtations—all of whom were insufficiently managing to be considered a suitable wife for him.
After all, he thought with some sarcasm, they were all just as pretty and flighty as himself.
Maybe he would rather go down to the factories and learn the business than marry her.
He hated the factories.
“Oh, come on, Daisy. I’m not so awful that you won’t spend a quarter of an hour bickering while waiting out a rainstorm? This is one of those summer storms that will be over in a moment.”
“You are awful enough that I do not wish to be caught in a compromising position with you. Which this may be construed as, given our current situation.”
They were unwed and alone, not a chaperone in sight. And their parents were determined.
“Good God, you’re right.”
“It’s a perfectly evil but genius plan to wed us. You are in trouble after that Saratoga business and—” She stopped short and caught her words before they left her mouth. “And my mother wishes to have all her daughters wed. I assume your father and my mother have conspired.”
“A pox on whichever hostess sat them next to each other.”
“We can agree on that at least.”
“God, what if they send someone out searching for us?” He pushed his fingers through his hair in frustration; it was already a mess from the rain so why not?
“They couldn’t have known that we would both storm out in an uproar.”
“They are fools if they thought we would simply agree to their outrageous plot.”
“Given their aims, this would be too good an opportunity not to seize. Finding us here like this. My mother has ideas. And reasons.”
Mothers always did. There was no more fearsome adversary than a woman who harbored matrimonial ambitions for her child. They were almost as fearsome as his father.
“And you, Daisy?”
“What I have are other plans that do not involve you,” she said coolly. In spite of himself, Theo was curious, but he would die a slow death before inquiring.
“I also have other plans,” he said loftily, to sound just as important.
She looked skeptical. Which was infuriating. Perhaps she was in league with his father.
“I have plans to tour all the opera houses of Europe,” he said. It was the first thing that came to mind.
“Opera singers, you mean,” she corrected. Because she already thought him a rogue, Theo winked at her. She rolled her eyes.
“Well, I have plans to commit myself to an insane asylum,” he replied, drawing up to his full height and stepping closer to her. “It seems preferable.”
“I have plans to trek through the desert dressed in full mourning attire. Sounds so much more pleasant than marriage. To you.”
; She took a step forward and jabbed him in the chest with her finger. They were now so close he could feel the heat and fury radiating from her.
“I thought it might be more fun to spend an extended stint in the Tombs with an incomplete deck of cards,” he retorted.
“What are we actually going to do?” she asked, stepping away.
“Not get married, obviously,” he replied.
“Yes, but how?”
“How are we going to not get married?” Baffled, he replied, “I should think it’s easy. We just don’t do it.”
“You shouldn’t think. It doesn’t suit you. It’ll give you wrinkles on that pristine and perfect forehead of yours. Have you met your father or my mother? They are worthy adversaries. They have reasons.”
He gave a short exhale, a huff of vexation. Why? Why him? Why now? Why her?
Also, he did not have wrinkles.
Because of the Saratoga Scandal. Because he’d caused a scene with the wrong kind of woman one too many times, he now needed to present himself with the right kind of woman. The sensible, managing kind who will make him into the sort of man his father could be proud of. Or at least not embarrassed by. It was what he wanted, at a price he didn’t want to pay.
“Let us gather the facts,” she said, keeping her firm control of the conversation. “Our parents wish for us to be wed to each other.”
“Yes.”
“We have no wish to do so.”
“Right. Correct. Scientific fact. Gospel truth.”
“And I have other plans.”
“Same,” he said, even though he did not have other plans. He really ought to get other plans, immediately.
“As long as we are not engaged, they will make every effort to throw us together,” she said as she started to walk in circles around him as the rain continued to lash down. “We will find ourselves seated next to each other at suppers, stuffed in opera boxes together, forced to dance at parties. We shall constantly be at risk for entrapment, discovery, scandal. It will make life unbearable. To say nothing of the inevitable parental nagging.”
She was pacing now, back and forth before him, like a general plotting a battle or a sleuth outlining the facts of a murder. Like his father in his study, earlier, determining his plans. He watched her warily out of the corner of his eye. Her hair was a sopping-wet bedraggled mess and her dress wasn’t much better. Her lips were moving as she mumbled to herself.
In fact, if he took her down to Bellevue right now to have her committed, it was likely no one would question it. Theo was seriously considering it—he assumed one could not marry a person committed to an insane asylum—when she said the craziest thing yet.
“And thus, the logical thing to do would be to claim an engagement,” she declared. “To simply agree.”
Wait.
What?
Theo startled, stood straight. He had not been listening.
“Now, wait a minute here—”
“Hear me out, pretty boy.” She raised a hand to silence his protests. “If our parents think that we are acquiescing to their wishes, they’ll leave us alone to pursue our other plans and interests. In fact, we can use the excuse of seeing each other to pursue those other interests. You did mention having other plans, did you not?”
She was warming to her idea now. He could see it. Her cheeks were flushed. Her eyes were bright. Why, she was almost pretty, all alight with her own genius.
She was also mad. Insane. Off her rocker. A danger to his liberty.
He really ought to have her committed.
“You are forgetting about mothers and weddings,” Theo pointed out. “They love to plan them. Purchase things for them. Commission gowns and trousseaus. Reserve the church and invite hundreds of people to witness the blessed event. This scheme could quickly and easily get out of control. Especially if we are not paying attention because we are doing other things.”
She opened her mouth to protest, but stopped. “As much as agreeing with you physically pains me, I must admit that you do have a point.”
“How magnanimous of you.”
“Look at you with the big words.”
“I went to Harvard, you know.”
“Of course I know that. Everybody does. Harvard people have a way of working it into conversation. I’m just not sure that you attended classes while you were there.”
“If this is your way of wooing me to your cause, I can see why you’re a spinster. It’s one thing to have a sharp tongue but—”
“But what, pretty boy?”
“Nothing. Never mind.”
“You were about to say that I’m not pretty enough and I have a sharp tongue and you cannot risk being wed to me for the rest of your life because how could you endure looking at or listening to me? And goodness, what will they say at the club?”
She feigned mock horror.
“They will say you’re the luckiest girl in New York to be wed to a handsome, wealthy charmer like me.”
“Oh, please.”
“We both know it’s true.”
“Depends on your definition of luck. A loveless marriage isn’t mine. I ought to leave you to fend for yourself.”
With that, she turned on her heel and walked resolutely out into the storm.
Good, Theo thought. To hell with her.
But she was already gone.
Chapter Three
The Metropolitan Club
One East Sixtieth Street
Good riddance, Theo thought, as he strode determinedly through the park to his club. If he never saw Daisy Swan again in this lifetime, it would be too soon. The way she walked and talked in circles around him was maddening. He couldn’t stand the way she gazed shrewdly at him through her stormy eyes, like she looked past his handsome face and fine attire and saw . . . nothing but a pretty face.
He was so much more than that. Good hair, for example. A lean, muscular body kept firm and trim by regular sport and clad in the finest from Savile Row. He was good at cards, an excellent companion for yachting and waltzing. If there was a best-dressed list, he’d be on it.
It was a short walk through the park—through the rain—to his club, a haven from managing fathers and maddening females and his present impossible situation. Theo’s immediate plans involved drying off, having a drink, lamenting extensively about the situation to his friends, Daniel and Patrick, and then sorting out what to do.
Perhaps he’d come up with some occupation that would bring him such success that he could afford to disregard his father’s wishes or maybe even earn his grudging approval.
Perhaps he’d think of someone else to marry instead. He and Miss Esme Pennypacker had an ongoing flirtation that could turn into forever. Or perhaps he and Miss Victoria Gould could finish what they’d started last summer.
Or not.
There was to be no respite. Upon arrival at The Metropolitan Club, the exclusive haunt for all the new money robber barons and their sons, Theo was stopped and informed, delicately, that his club membership had been suspended for reasons best not discussed.
Theodore Prescott the Second was rumored to be ruthless, and now Theo had his own taste of it. This was his father’s heavy-handed way of forcing the match.
Marry Daisy Swan or you will be cut off.
If it was actually possible for a man to die of embarrassment, Theo would have expired on the spot in an explosive burst of guts, anger, and humiliation. Worse luck: he survived.
It was one thing to be gossiped about for one’s exploits with an actress, one of his many infamous dalliances that portrayed him as a playboy who got all the girls. It was another matter entirely to be informed that he was not one of the great gentlemen of New York. And thus, the world.
It was one thing not to have the respect or admiration of his father—he’d never had that ever since it became clear that Theo wasn’t some rough-and-tumble boy, destined to succeed his father as a ruthless steel magnate. But to be cut off from his friends and society, too—well, that was t
oo much. He was the sort who thrived on the social whirl. Because first it was his club. Next Mrs. Astor’s guest list. And then he was done. Finished in this town. Cut off from the friendly banter, sparkling laughter, and glittering parties that sustained him.
There was nothing he could do about it.
There was nothing else he could even do. No way he could think of to earn money to support himself without his father’s money. It burned, that.
That burning gave rise to a peculiar new feeling; one might have called it determination or ambition. Being made so aware of his position of dependency stirred something within him. A determination to stand alone.
Theo vowed that he would find something to succeed at. Spectacularly. He would earn his own fortune, on his own terms. And then he would finally get his father’s respect. He would never, ever be at anyone’s mercy again.
But first, he needed Daisy Swan.
Before he hit the streets, he wrote a quick letter to her. Though he would die a thousand slow, humiliating deaths before admitting it, if he was stuck playing this game, he could do worse than teaming up with a smart girl like her.
Meanwhile, uptown . . .
854 Fifth Avenue
Daisy had only been out for an hour, but it was apparently enough time for her mother to completely and thoroughly ruin her life. Or rather, to request a maid do it. For there, in the foyer, was her maid, Sally, carrying a box of items that looked suspiciously like Daisy’s most treasured possessions.
“Where are you going with my things, Sally?”
“I’m so sorry, Miss Daisy,” Sally said in her soft Irish accent, her eyes apologetic. “I’m only following orders.”
Her mother threw open the parlor doors as if she’d been waiting for Daisy to return home.
“There you are, darling!” Daisy stood before her, her skirts dripping on the marble floor. “Did you have a nice walk? It looks like you were caught in the rain.”