Some Like It Scandalous

by Maya Rodale

  That was everything though.

  The carriage rolled to a stop before her family’s home. Neither she nor Theo moved to alight.

  “Thank you, Daisy, for enduring an awkward conversation with me.”

  “It wasn’t exactly my pleasure but . . . you’re welcome.”

  “We have done it again. A civil exchange.”

  “Pity no one is around to see it.”

  She was looking at Theo, looking at her. He was so handsome. But for the first time she found herself attracted to him and it was because of the way he was looking at her, as if he really saw her as a whole person whom he admired and not a collection of features and a silly nickname. There was something like kindness in his blue eyes. And appreciation. And all that made her reconsider him. And her.

  This was a terrifying, troubling feeling.

  “We’ll never speak of kissing again,” he said and she was relieved. “And now that we might be business partners, it would be rather unseemly for us to be kissing.”

  Business partners. Her. Him. She’d believe it when she saw it.

  “We don’t have much time to do the impossible,” Daisy said. “Are you certain you’re up for it?”

  To which Theo replied, “I’ll call on you tomorrow.”

  Chapter Eleven

  An orchestra has been engaged for the wedding ceremony and celebration of Miss Daisy Swan and Theodore Prescott the Third.

  —The New York Post

  The next day

  854 Fifth Avenue

  It was a Thursday that Theo finally woke up with something to do. Something other than idle dissipation or tennis or social calls, that is. He was going to help make a young woman’s dreams come true. No small thing, that. In doing so, he might just make amends for the past damage he had unwittingly inflicted all those years ago. He might even find his life’s work. That was asking a lot of a face cream or complexion balm or whatever one called it. And himself.

  And yet here he was, knocking on the door of the Swans’ town house, dressed in one of his finer suits.

  Mrs. Evelina Swan was all too eager to show Theo to the parlor, send a servant for a tray, and make excuses as to why she would be otherwise occupied and could not, alas, properly chaperone them. That was matchmaking mamas for you. It suited their purposes admirably. Daisy had been right that pretending to be together would afford them the freedom to pursue other things.

  Daisy soon appeared, wearing a smart blue serge dress with her hair styled elegantly. She cut a smart, stylish figure, even if it was just the two of them for a business meeting masquerading as a social call. Or had she always presented herself thusly and he’d never really noticed? It was entirely possible.

  “You’re here,” Daisy said by way of greeting.

  “Hello to you, too. I said I would be, didn’t I?”

  Her mother swiftly made herself scarce on the other side of the drawing-room doors.

  “I suppose I am still shocked that we are doing . . . this,” Daisy said.

  “If there’s one thing I’ve learned from my father, it’s the value of one’s word. So here I am. Which means today we are going to do precisely as we agreed yesterday.”

  Even if he wasn’t sure he could do it. Theo had stayed up late, sipping whiskey and thinking about possible names and ways to advertise it, and what was required in a sales plan anyway? He considered seeking his father to ask, but that would lead to all sorts of questions and Theo wasn’t ready to risk his father’s laughter.

  Theo very badly wanted this to work, so here he was.

  Daisy reached into the pocket of her gown—it was all the rage among a certain set of ladies to wear gowns with pockets, made exclusively by the House of Adeline—and handed him a little, unmarked jar.

  The complexion balm.

  Some white, creamy stuff in a nondescript glass container with no label whatsoever. Theo knew this, as it was, would never entice a woman who cared about beauty to pick it up or try it or rave about it to her friends. It needed a more attractive package. It needed a name. It needed to make a promise. It needed style.

  He dared to think it needed him.

  “Tell me about this,” Theo said with the hope that her words would inspire some spark of brilliance on his part.

  “It’s based on my grandmother’s recipe,” Daisy explained. “She grew up in some remote corner of Eastern Europe, where winters were harsh, so I suppose it was created to protect her skin from those elements. It was one of the few things she brought to America when she immigrated here.”

  “Immigrants bring all kinds of treasures to America.”

  “Oh, absolutely,” Daisy agreed. “But while her formula was effective—my mother, sisters, and I all used it—it had its problems. The base ingredient spoiled easily and so fresh batches had to be made constantly—and who has time for that in this day and age? Certainly not working women, or middle-class women. Society ladies simply wouldn’t.”

  “Even if a woman had the time, she might enjoy something ready-made,” Theo said. “Something prepared just for her.”

  “The original recipe also didn’t have the best scent.”

  Theo opened the lid and took a deep breath.

  “It smells good now.”

  “It’s my perfume.”

  “So I noticed.”

  Oh, he had noticed. Her fragrance was softly applied, uniquely hers, and he could still catch the hint of it on the jacket he wore to the ball the other night. Her perfume wasn’t intense or overwhelming, but strong and subtle and it snuck up on you.

  Like her.

  Theo lifted his gaze to Daisy. She didn’t look away.

  It was the strangest thing. All of a sudden he didn’t want to be anywhere else in the world than here, with her, at this moment. Except closer, perhaps. Suddenly, he wanted to kiss her just for the sake of kissing her.

  The other night it had been to prove something. Or because he felt sorry for her. Whatever the reason, it had been wrong. But now he just wanted to get lost with her. She was right about that, too; he hadn’t kissed her for the right reasons and she had felt it. Next time . . .

  There would be no next time.

  And this was a business meeting.

  “I fixed all those problems with my training in chemistry,” she said, bringing him back to the conversation. “I spent hours of trial and error to refine the process so the scent and consistency are . . . enticing.”

  Theo knew an opportunity when he held it in the palm of his hand. This complexion balm—of all the things in the world—was his big chance to make something and to prove something.

  And Daisy was watching.

  He felt something like anxiety over his performance. After all, he had inserted himself into her business. He had leaned into her and said, I’m the man you need. He had made promises and now he had to deliver. On the spot. No pressure.

  Could he take this ugly little jar of scented gloop and make it so irresistible and enticing that women would want it desperately? Could the women of Manhattan go so mad for it that they started a sensation? That they earned a fortune and their freedom from each other?

  Theo started to pace. It always worked for his father, it seemed. Maybe pacing would get his brain sparking. At the very least, it might make him look like he was trying in Daisy’s eyes.

  Suddenly, he cared what he looked like in Daisy’s eyes.

  “Secret family recipe . . .” Theo repeated. Focus, man.

  “I didn’t say it was secret.”

  “It is now,” he said. “That sounds so much more intriguing. Secret family recipe meets the latest science. For a luminous complexion.”

  “Luminous?”

  He turned to face her. Looked into her eyes.

  “This is the secret to your complexion, is it not?”

  “Yes.”

  “Luminous,” he repeated firmly. “Like a Pre-Raphaelite painting or a portrait in the old style. Your complexion is enviable. A marvel. The eighth wonder of the wo
rld.”

  To which she replied, “Thank you.”

  Theo took another step closer to her and dropped his voice.

  “Tell me, Daisy, is your skin as soft as it looks?”

  “You tell me, Theo.”

  An invitation. That was an invitation to touch her. Nothing to get excited about. And yet . . . Suddenly, Theo’s heart started beating with the anticipation of touching Daisy Swan. He had probably declared her the last woman on earth that he’d want to romance and yet there was no denying that she was the only woman he was interested in caressing. And kissing.

  It was a small step to close the distance between them. Theo reached out, brushing his knuckles along her cheek.

  So. Damn. Soft.

  He took a step closer and thought about cradling her cheek in his hand and holding her still so he could lower his mouth to hers for a kiss. He wanted, badly, to kiss her. Just because he wanted to.

  His heart was already thundering when she stepped closer and turned her face up to his. As if she knew what he was thinking. As if she had the same idea. This was an invitation and his body was responding accordingly.

  His nerves hummed with anticipation, which surprised him.

  “Enticing,” he murmured.

  And just when he couldn’t stand the distance and started to lower his head to hers, Daisy stepped back and turned away.

  “It’s just complexion balm. I put it on before bed and—”

  “Let it work its magic overnight,” he finished. “And then you wake up like this. Flawless.”

  “I’ve got plenty of problems, but my complexion is not one.”

  He stepped back, needing air and space to think about the task at hand, not the girl. Kissing the girl. Touching the girl. Wanting the girl. He told himself it was Daisy. Only the most maddening and intriguing woman he’d met. And he was here for business.

  “So, Daisy, you’ve got a story. You’ve got magic . . .” There was something here. He could feel it. Sense it. All he needed to do was catch it. Hold it. Bottle it. Sell it. He so badly wanted to do right by her, by this, by himself. His father would hate that when his son finally developed an interest in business, it was for “women’s stuff.” Theo knew this alone would not get him the approval he yearned for. But if he could make it so, so, so stunningly and spectacularly successful then maybe he would earn his father’s grudging respect.

  “It’s not magic, it’s science.”

  “There you go. We’ll put that on the label.”

  “I should have thought of that.”

  “But first . . . the name.”

  Theo stepped away from Daisy of the enticing skin and alluring scent and promises of kisses. He needed to think. For that, he took a turn about the room, a large spacious affair stuffed with fine furniture, marble-topped tables laden with silver stuff, walls heavy with the weight of portraits and paintings. Large windows overlooked Central Park and the city.

  It was a glorious view.

  What had started as just a favor for a girl swiftly became his own personal quest. He wanted to dream up something catchy, something seductive, something that would sell. For her sake. For his own. He wanted to be good at something. To have a purpose. To look back on this day later tonight or years from now and think, I did something that made a difference.

  And so he paced. And racked his pretty, Harvard-educated brain.

  Magic. Overnight. Enticing. Science.

  Something that would take the town by storm. Something the city had never seen. Something he could see on a woman’s dressing table in her Fifth Avenue bedroom or up on a billboard high above the city streets. Something one didn’t realize one had been missing from their life. Something that made promises—and kept them.

  Soft, silky, smooth. Here for a moment of pleasure before vanishing forever. Like a dream.

  Theo paced. Drummed his fingers on a tabletop. Rearranged some knickknacks on the mantel. Daisy was watching him. Her eyes never left him. He feared that she expected him to fail at this, even if she didn’t want him to. How long had he been here anyway? Hours?

  He glanced up at the clock.

  And then in an instant it came to him.

  “I’ve got it.”

  “You’ve got it?”

  “The Midnight Miracle Cream. Feels like a dream.”

  “Oh.” It was a soft-spoken oh and he couldn’t tell if she thought it was good, terrible, or execrable. If he had to explain it, then it was all ruined. It either worked or it didn’t. A connection between two people was either there or it wasn’t. And then she sighed. “Oooh.”

  His heart did undignified flip-floppy things that it had never, ever done before. He felt a surge of something—pride, maybe? Satisfaction? Joy?

  Daisy’s lips quirked into a smile, and then she broke into a grin. “You’ve got it, Theo!”

  Daisy knew Theo was onto something when she found herself practically leaping into his arms. But she was vibrating with the possibilities of such a name, and the thrill of being present the moment someone experienced a spark of genius. Before she knew it, Daisy was off the settee and wrapping her arms around him.

  It felt so right and very good until she remembered it was him, and her, and they hated each other.

  How embarrassing!

  But it so happened that Theodore Prescott the Third was not just a pretty face, a Harvard diploma, and regular, salacious appearances in the gossip columns. All his rubbish playboy practice to woo, seduce, and entice women had now just been used in her favor. His talents for teasing and name-calling had been finally focused on creating something good. He took her basic product and found the pretty, the style, the spark. He took her science and added magic.

  She found herself wooed. Seduced. Enticed.

  By Theo.

  It was an afternoon miracle.

  She had to admit, he felt like a dream. All fine cashmere wool and lean, firm muscles. He was hot, too; she felt her temperature spike standing here in his arms, waiting for the inevitable.

  Daisy was waiting for his mouth to crash down on hers.

  The memory of their first kiss had faded. She hadn’t particularly enjoyed that consolation kiss, driven by his pity, yet now she felt herself wanting to try again. Because for the first time she felt something like magic, and a genuine connection, and she wanted to get closer to the feeling and make it last and last.

  And she was in his arms, for goodness’ sake!

  She was still waiting for his lips to collide with hers.

  But he did not kiss her.

  Theo just looked at her. Really looked at her.

  She was used to dismissive glances or men making an effort not to meet her eye, lest she think they might be interested. Sometimes Daisy debated what was worse: being looked at dismissively or not being regarded at all. This level of looking and seeing was something she wasn’t prepared for.

  Her instinct was to worry about what he saw—the nose a little too large, the eyes a little too close, the mouth that wasn’t a fashionable little rosebud. It occurred to her that he was looking at her up close and intimately and he wasn’t going away.

  He saw her, and his arms held her just the same.

  The distance between them was minimal.

  Daisy took the opportunity to look at him instead of dwelling on her own anxieties. What she saw took her breath away. The way his blue eyes were transfixed—there was really no other word for it—upon her. The way his dark lashes lowered as his gaze dropped to her mouth, like he was wondering if her lips were as soft as they looked. It wasn’t his features that made him attractive; it was the way he looked at her, reverentially and with questions and desire that started that slow burn in her belly.

  “Yes . . .” she whispered.

  His lips parted. Hers, too.

  Theodore Prescott the Third, her nemesis, her enemy, the bane of her existence for over a decade, was about to kiss her. And she wanted him to.

  Finally, she felt the lightest, briefest caress of h
is lips upon hers.

  It felt like a dream.

  Like it was so ethereal that it didn’t seem real. She wanted to reach out and hold on to it, this precious, dreamy thing, but it was all air and fantasy and spun sugar. Like a dream this kiss was light and fleeting, over before it really began, and left her confused.

  Before his kiss had been too much, too soon.

  Now here she was like Goldilocks; one kiss was too little, one too much. One too fast, one too slow. One was rude in its presumptions, one was far too polite.

  She wanted to thread her fingers through his blond hair. Was it as soft as it seemed? Grab fistfuls of his finely tailored jacket and wrinkle it. What was wrong with her? Where had this passion come from?

  She did not recognize herself or this feeling of urgency and desire bubbling up within. Yet there was no denying she wanted to explore it, to know it, to get intimate with it.

  Did he not feel this, too? Did he not want to seize this moment when two longtime sworn enemies dropped their swords, closed their eyes, and surrendered to each other?

  This was a kiss that inspired more questions than answers. And this was a kiss that came to an end. A slow, bittersweet parting. She even felt herself stumbling toward him as he pulled away.

  How embarrassing.

  “I’m sorry, Daisy. As business partners we should not . . . do that.”

  The hot rush of desire she’d been feeling cooled instantly. He was right, and she would have to admit it. Daisy smoothed her skirts and agreed with him. For the sake of their new business and not getting married and everything she’d ever wanted.

  “Yes, you’re right,” she said. “Especially if we are trying not to get married. Kissing in a drawing room is really an unnecessary risk.”

  “I promise I won’t let it happen again.”

  “That would be for the best,” Daisy said. But she wasn’t sure she meant it. She definitely didn’t know what to make of that feeling.

  Chapter Twelve