by Maya Rodale
“The merest fleeting whisper of a hint of interest.”
“But what will your friends say if they know you are interested in me?”
“Nothing good. Best to keep this between ourselves.”
Mrs. Gould was now finishing up her gossiping—having gleaned the crucial details about the upcoming wedding, Prescott’s new yacht, Jack’s successful new investments, she could now proceed to the next table of acquaintances and pass it all along.
“Do have a good evening. The soup is excellent tonight. And Theo, Daisy—do attend my ball tomorrow evening. Everyone will be there, eager to see the couple of the hour.”
“We need a better plan to get out of this,” Theo said once she had gone. “Feel free to jilt me at the altar.”
“It would probably be easier for you to jilt me,” Daisy replied. “I am thinking of logistics, not my pride. Unfortunately, it’s far easier for a man to get a train ticket and just . . . go. If my mother catches wind of such plans, she’ll lock me in my room, like poor Consuelo Vanderbilt.”
“Not exactly poor, was she?”
“No amount of money in the world makes up for marriage to someone you don’t love,” Daisy said.
In her twenty-five years, she hadn’t yet found a man who made her heart flutter, her knees weak, or any of that romantic stuff. She hadn’t met anyone whom she wanted to kiss and risk her future with. That didn’t mean there wasn’t someone out there for her. Of course she wouldn’t settle for just anyone. She was fine enough on her own. And she hoped to be free to fall in love, not married to someone she loathed.
But how strange was it to be sitting at supper with Theodore Prescott the Third, speaking of love? They didn’t even like each other. Her gaze connected with his and it wasn’t awful. She found herself curious about him.
“It would be my pleasure to jilt you, Daisy.”
“That’s the most romantic thing you’ve ever said to me, Theo. When you wave goodbye from the train platform as you quit my life forever, I might weep with joy.”
“You know, if I actually liked you I might be wounded by your words.”
“I could say the same,” Daisy replied. “I suppose it’s a good thing we don’t actually like each other.”
“That would complicate matters.”
“We cannot afford complications.”
Theo raised his glass in a toast to Daisy alone. “To not liking one another.”
“To not getting married,” she added.
“To happily-ever-after . . . with other people.”
“Cheers to that.”
They clinked their glasses together and took a sip. But his eyes never left hers. And not for the first time that evening did they share a pointed, heated glance. But this one lingered. This one did not let go.
Later, near the coat room
Theo thought he would grow old and die, waiting for that eternal, infernal dinner to conclude. Now the end was nearly in sight and he had plans to meet his friends at the Casino Theater for a show and some entertainment after. He could not wait to get away from the pressures and prying eyes.
He was emerging from the coat room and there she was. Daisy. They found some sort of truce over dinner, by virtue of both loathing their circumstances. That they were co-conspirators in this farce was the saving grace.
“Are you going to tell me what that was all about?” she asked. As if they were friends now.
“You’ll have to be more specific.”
“You. Your father. All that tension about working for Prescott Steel.”
Oh, she had noticed. Splendid. And only somewhat mortifying. It was one thing to be a failure in his father’s eyes and even worse when someone else noticed it.
“It was exactly what you think it is, Daisy. He wishes me to work there. I do not.”
“I gathered as much. What will you do instead?”
“Who says I will do anything? I’m just some idle, entitled heir. Who says I have to do anything other than wait?”
“That’s one gruesome way of looking at it,” Daisy said. She slightly adjusted her wrap. “You’re also a wealthy, well-connected man with a degree from Harvard. Seems to me like you could do whatever you wanted. There’s nothing stopping you but . . . you.”
Great. Now he was getting an inspirational and motivational talk from Daisy Swan, on top of everything else this evening. If she was so smart and sure of herself, maybe she could figure it out for him. After all, he was just a pretty face.
“There is also the fact that whatever I do must meet my father’s approval.”
To which Daisy only asked, “Why?”
It was a question he didn’t have an answer for.
Chapter Eight
Mrs. Evelina Swan will stop at nothing to throw the wedding of the season. It is confirmed that she has ordered a million roses to be delivered to Manhattan for the wedding.
—The New York Post
Mrs. Gould’s Ballroom
Fifth Avenue
Pretty. All around Daisy, everything was pretty. Mrs. Gould’s ballroom was a study in beautiful, luxurious things—crystal chandeliers, gold everything, portraits of beautiful people hung on crimson walls, gleaming parquet floors—and full of beautifully dressed people. Pretty girls in pale blush silks and satins laughed and smiled as they whirled around the dance floor in the arms of society’s finest gentlemen.
Daisy felt very out of place. She always did.
No amount of pleading migraines or typhoid or something equally dire would get Daisy out of appearing at Mrs. Gould’s ball this evening. After all, they had been expressly invited by the hostess herself, and one did not refuse Mrs. Gould’s invitations.
So Daisy wore her best dress.
And then there was Theo, sharply dressed in his evening attire of black wool straight-cut trousers, a black tailcoat with peaked silk lapels that highlighted the taper of his shoulders to his waist, a crisp white shirt to contrast. His blond hair gleamed; his blue eyes drank in the scene. His attentions landed on her.
She was glad she wore her best dress, made of a pale gold silk and tulle affair that complemented her complexion and had the benefit of making her feel like a warrior. She could, perhaps, hold her own in this dress.
“Fifty-five days,” Daisy murmured so only Theo could hear. They were standing off to the side of the ballroom, abandoned together. He glanced at her quizzically. She explained.
“Fifty-five days. The number of days before the third Sunday in October, which is the date my mother has selected for our wedding.”
“Oh, dear God.”
“My sentiments exactly,” Daisy replied.
“It seems like a lifetime away and yet I also feel an urgent pressure to call it off.”
“It pains me to agree with you. And yet I do.”
“Someone ought to tell your mother that we are merely pretending and have no intention of actually marrying each other. Otherwise, I fear she will keep arranging us together at various social events until we are . . . together.”
“I wholeheartedly endorse you for such an endeavor,” Daisy said. “If I could vote, I would vote for you to do it.”
“Nothing puts fear in a man’s heart like delivering bad news to a woman.”
“Coward.”
“Call it self-preservation.”
“I suppose I shall jilt you at the altar, then,” Daisy mused. “Much less confrontational, though it will hardly do our reputations any favors.”
It would not. For a millionaire playboy to be ditched by a plain spinster would have eyebrows raised all over town. The speculation as to why would be rampant. They would be discussed, endlessly. If they weren’t doing this to preserve their reputations for other reasons, what were they doing it for?
“Do you intend to let things progress that far?” Theo asked, plucking a glass of champagne from a passing attendant and handing it to her. He took one for himself, as well. As if this conversation was hard for him to have otherwise.
“D
o you have another plan?” Daisy asked, highly suspecting that she already knew the answer.
“Not at the moment. But fear not, my lady. I shall find a way to rescue us from this dreadful predicament,” he said with only a touch of sarcasm. She was not consoled.
He lifted his glass to hers in a toast.
Their eyes met over the rims of their champagne glasses. His blue eyes, fringed with impossibly long lashes; hers just an odd brownish-greenish swamp color that the family portrait painter once lamented as an impossible color to mix, and not in a good way.
And just like that, all at once, Daisy got that feeling she always got at balls, especially when she had to stand next to her mother or one of her sisters. The feeling of being judged as a dreadful frump even though she wore excellent dresses and had her hair styled well. It was all too easy to imagine people looking at her, and the company she kept, and thinking how different she looked. Such beauty and then . . . her.
With Theo, especially, Daisy was certain everyone was staring at them like a mathematical equation that did not add up; like two and two equaling three.
This feeling always made her want to flee to a space where Daisy felt safe and free and the best version of herself—the ladies’ club, the classroom, the laboratory, or her bedroom. Anywhere but here, with him, in front of all those prying eyes and wagging tongues.
When Theo said, “We should probably try flirting with each other,” she choked on a sip of champagne.
“I beg your pardon?”
“Since everyone is watching us, we might as well put on a show.”
Well, so much for the hope that she had imagined people staring.
“Well, now that has my pulse racing, Theo.”
“I know. Flirting with each other will be a tough job, but we must endure.”
“And what do you know of tough jobs?”
For the briefest of instants, something like dismay flickered over his features, but then his usual arrogant expression was firmly in place.
“The lady wounds. And here I thought my proposal was sparing you from becoming a spinster.”
“Carry on like that and I daresay I shall swoon.”
“If you don’t mind,” Theo drawled. “That would do wonders for my reputation.”
“Why are you so keen on maintaining the reputation of a ladies’ man anyway? You are already wealthy, pretty, and popular. I’m sure some beautiful nitwit female will still have you after I jilt you. What do you even care what others think of you?”
He evaded her question. “Why don’t you care what people think of you?”
She replied with a shrug. “Who says I don’t?”
“You do a mighty fine job of seeming like you don’t care in the slightest what people say about you. In fact, you act like you’re bored by all of us. Above us.”
“Perhaps it’s because for most of my life I’ve been called Ugly Duck Daisy by nearly everyone I’ve encountered.”
“That again? It was just some flippant remark.”
“Yes, that again. That flippant remark taught me that people don’t care to know me before they judge me. And so I decided long ago not to let my confidence rely on their opinions. I have friends who truly care for me. And that is all that matters.”
“Well, aren’t you just the luckiest girl in New York.”
And so Theo and Daisy embarked on a tour of the ballroom, arm in arm, with a carefully maintained space between their two fashionably attired bodies.
This insurmountable distance between him and Daisy—like the magnetic force of two repelling magnets—only now made Theo realize how women tended to drape themselves on him as if presenting an offering at the altar to some pagan god. He did always savor the subtle, suggestive, and affectionate touch of a woman—something that he realized now he stood to lose if he embarked on a marriage of mutual loathing.
He did have some notion of fidelity to his future wife—playboy and flirt he may be, he wasn’t a cad. Theo even had a mad idea of liking and being liked by his future wife. He wasn’t one to force affections and he did crave a deep sense of genuine connection. All reasons why the idea of marriage to her was so intolerable.
Because it was her and him and they hated each other. She could never forgive him for what happened when they were thirteen, for one thing.
By mutual agreement, they strolled along the perimeter of the ballroom at a sedate but somewhat determined pace designed to avoid conversations. The Four Hundred couldn’t help but be curious about one of the least likely pairings in recent memory, and everyone wanted to probe and discuss. Conversations had to be avoided as both he and Daisy hardly had kind words to say.
Such a pace also allowed them to overhear choice snippets of conversations as they passed.
“What does he see in her?”
Theo glanced at the her in question. A subtle lift of her chin higher told him that she had heard that and would not be dignifying it with a response. It was an unfortunate fact that there was nothing Theo could say to reasonably comfort her. He hardly even knew her. What he did know was not exactly the stuff of raptures and poetry. Their hands had been forced and there was no denying it.
But still, he felt this urge to comfort her.
Even as she held her head high like he could keep his comforting to himself, thank you very much.
They continued to stroll. Slowly.
People continued to talk. Loudly.
“She’s not very pretty.”
Oh, God, why did people say the worst things at an unnecessarily loud volume?
There was no way that Daisy hadn’t heard that but, damn, she was putting on a good show of feigning deafness. Except for those spots of color on her cheeks. It was a blush of anger, of embarrassment. And if he was to say he thought she was pretty, she’d just call him a liar. Helpless. He felt helpless. He, who always had a witty retort, was unsure of what to say in this situation. It called for something heartfelt, and Theo didn’t know if he was even capable of that.
“And she’s . . . old.”
He and Daisy were the same age. The same age.
At this point in the ballroom they had unintentionally become involved in the crush of people making their way into supper and so their progress came to a standstill. As such, they were stuck in place and forced to overhear even more idle chatter.
“She does have a beautiful complexion.”
Theo glanced over and confirmed that, yes, this was a true fact. Daisy’s complexion could be described in one word and that word was flawless. Or perhaps luminous. It was definitely beautiful.
“I would pay good money for skin like hers.”
Too bad one could not buy it, he thought. The vanity of women—and some men—knew no bounds. But one would somehow have to bottle and sell her inherently beautiful complexion and that seemed impossible. Beyond his comprehension.
“Yes, but that’s really all she has to recommend her. Not only is she old, and ugly, but I’ve heard she’s quite shrewish. It’s an arranged match, of course. Poor Theo. If only he’d asked me first!”
Here, the ladies sighed.
Here, Theo groaned.
He had never felt so awkward. Anxious. Enraged at other people and the awful things they said where anyone might overhear them. And these were the sorts of women with whom he usually flirted and waltzed and paid social calls upon. The kind of women he’d considered spending his life with.
Nor had he ever felt so exquisitely sensitive to the emotional state of Miss Daisy Swan. It was impossible not to, given the situation. He was aware and he cared and he didn’t know what to do about it but he wanted to do something.
Daisy wasn’t old, and she wasn’t exactly pretty. She wasn’t ugly, either. In fact, she was rather smartly attired and well put together on most occasions that he saw her—that rainy day encounter in Central Park notwithstanding.
If he was really being honest, she wasn’t shrewish, either, though she was smart, opinionated, and fearless about expressing her
self. Perhaps shrew was simply a way to say she stood up for herself in conversation.
These were all revelations to Theo. He had never stopped to consider them before, but standing next to her had forced him to listen and interpret the world from her point of view. What he learned made him feel a slow-dawning shame.
For these were also things he had said on previous occasions. He was struck with the sudden urge to apologize to her now, but he suspected that would only make things worse. She was a smart girl who already thought the worst of him. Nothing he could say would change that.
He realized, then, that this was the maddeningly wonderful thing about Daisy: he did not have to pretend. Not like he did with other women and his friends, or with his father.
But, oh, dear God, these ladies were still talking and still oblivious to the fact that he and Daisy were close enough to hear their every awful word. He considered making their presence known and putting these two young ladies on the spot, but that would likely make an awkward moment downright humiliating for all involved.
“I mean, it’s clear what she sees in him. He’s so dreamy.”
“They must not have met you,” Daisy said. Finally, she said something. “Otherwise they would know better. Unless by ‘dreamy’ they mean to say that you are so boring you’ll put a girl right to sleep.”
Theo was so relieved he could have kissed her. Her snark was a profound relief that saved the moment from being even more uncomfortable.
Yet he had not managed the same for her. In fact, he downright ached when he empathized with her in this moment. He was also amazed. Because she had overheard all those awful things and didn’t look fazed in the slightest. Like she was unbothered by feelings. Theo knew better. He, too, had presented such a front on occasion, even though a storm of emotion raged within him.
“Daisy . . .”
“Don’t, Theo.” She rested her hand on his arm. “It’s nothing I haven’t heard a thousand times before. There’s nothing you can say that wouldn’t be some platitude. We both know I’m smarter than that.”