by Anne Gracie
“And she don’t tell tales on her lady, neither,” came a grim voice from behind. Sniff.
Flynn smiled. “That’s grand, then, so, what’s your answer, Lady Elizabeth? Are you happy for me to continue with this court—with us visiting and going for drives and such until we both know our minds. Because if you don’t want it, say so now. I won’t hold it against you and I won’t tell a soul. I prefer straight dealing.”
She took her time answering. Considering how to say it, no doubt.
“Papa has made my duty clear to me, and I am willing to . . . to go forward with this acquaintanceship,” she said at last.
That told him. She was willing. Flynn was her duty. Flynn, with the moneybags to drag her father out of the debt he’d mired his family in.
Gambling, horses and women—that’s what Flynn’s investigations had shown Lord Compton had frittered a fortune away on. Flynn had no time for the man.
A man ought to ensure his family was protected from debt, not gamble his money—and their security—away on his own pleasures.
Compton was cold-bloodedly sacrificing his daughter in exchange for Flynn’s fortune. And she would do her duty.
Still, he couldn’t blame the girl for not responding any more warmly. In fact, given that they hardly knew each other—yet—he found her honesty quite appealing. She was mighty cold for a girl who’d just agreed to be courted, but he had no doubt he’d be able to warm her up.
He hadn’t even kissed her yet.
Lord, but these English had it all arse about—marry the girl, then kiss her. And of course the bedding to follow.
He contemplated that prospect. Would she be doing her duty then?
Faith, but that would take the fun out of things.
They completed their circuit of the park, noting daffodils and snowdrops and other charming—and probably happy—flowers, and then Flynn turned the horses for home.
He hadn’t made a lot of progress, but the air had been cleared between them, and he fancied she was easier in her manner with him than she had been when they started out.
Certainly her maid glared at him with slightly less severity as he helped her down. It was progress, of a sort.
“I wonder, Miss Muir, would you know my manservant, Tibbins? Ernest Tibbins?” he asked her.
The maid looked at him as if he was mad. “No, why would I?”
“It’s just that you both seem to speak the same language,” Flynn said. “Afternoon, ladies.” He drove away with a faint smile on his face, leaving both females staring after him.
The drive hadn’t gone quite as he expected, but he wasn’t unhappy with the result.
He wasn’t entirely happy, either.
The girl might be willing, but she could hardly be called eager.
Daisy’s questions itched at him. Until she’d flung those questions at him, he’d never really questioned his desire to marry a highborn, titled lady. It had seemed perfectly reasonable.
But putting Daisy’s questions together with Lady Elizabeth’s response to him . . . well, it made a man think.
On the one hand, he’d always prided himself on not giving the snap of his fingers for what anyone thought of him. On the other, class was important. In every country he’d ever visited, society was arranged in layers, and it was always better to be on the top than on the bottom.
By marrying Lady Elizabeth, he’d be getting a wife with a fistful of aristocratic connections—and hopefully children. More than anything, Flynn wanted children.
He knew how he and Lord Compton would benefit, but what about Lady Elizabeth? What was she getting?
A husband, certainly, and a wealthy one at that. But she didn’t know Flynn well enough to judge if he’d be a good husband to her or not. For all she knew he might be a wife-beater or a gambler and whoremonger, like her father.
No, marriage to Flynn was her duty. But what was her alternative?
Her home was entailed. Once her father died she’d be homeless, dependent on her cousin’s charity. And she’d been on the marriage mart a couple of years already, so it was clear none of the other nobs wanted a dowerless girl, no matter how pretty-behaved and well-born.
There was no doubt in Flynn’s mind that she’d accept his proposal, when he made it. The match was everything he’d claimed he wanted. Why then had this drive left a sour taste in his mouth?
His thoughts were far into the future as he guided the phaeton into the narrow mews that led to the stables. Marriage was for children, and he wanted his children to have every advantage. He didn’t want them to suffer the way he had as a boy.
On the other hand, he didn’t want to be raising a pack of little snobs who imagined the world owed them a living—and considered themselves superior to ordinary folk—simply because of who they were and who they were related to.
His fists knotted hard around the reins. No daughter of his would ever—ever!—be forced into marriage with a stranger for the sake of her father’s debts.
He loosened his grip deliberately. There was no question of Lady Elizabeth being forced. He’d make sure of that. She might have limited choices, but there were choices.
She was stiff and awkward, but she didn’t know him very well yet. She’d no doubt warm up a bit as she came to know him better. She might be thinking of duty, but Flynn could show her that duty could also be a pleasure.
If she ever gave him the chance.
He handed over the phaeton and horses to the care of the grooms and hurried off to Berkeley Square. Quarter to four. Almost time for his so-called lesson.
Chapter Five
To be fond of dancing was a certain step towards falling in love.
—JANE AUSTEN, PRIDE AND PREJUDICE
At five minutes to four, Featherby knocked on the door of Daisy’s workroom. “Miss Daisy, it’s almost time for Lady Beatrice’s lesson.”
Daisy scowled, but put the sleeve she’d been sewing aside. “I’ll go, and I’ll watch, but I ain’t going to bloomin’ well dance.”
Featherby said nothing. He just held the door open for her, his expression bland.
Daisy picked up a dress that had the hem pinned, but wasn’t yet sewn. Featherby eyed it but said nothing. He had a way of making things happen, just by . . . expecting.
She said, as if he’d argued, “I hate dancing. I’m no good at it.”
She stomped her way up to the room that had been cleared for their lessons, entered and stopped dead. The carpet had been rolled back and all excess furniture had been removed, leaving only the piano and a few chairs arranged along one wall, but that wasn’t what startled her.
As well as Lady Beatrice, Jane, Abby and Damaris, the elderly Frenchman Monsieur Lefarge who taught the various dance steps, and his cousin, Madame Bertrand, who played the piano, there were four gentlemen—a stranger, Max, Freddy and Mr. Flynn. Four.
“What the—?”
“The gels need more practice with actual gentlemen,” Lady Beatrice declared. “So Monsieur Lefarge has brought another of his cousins to dance with Jane, and I invited dear Max and Freddy. And of course, Mr. Flynn is in need of lessons himself, having been at sea all his life.”
“Not exactly,” Flynn began. “And I did say I knew—”
But the old lady took no notice. “Abby and Damaris will dance with their husbands, unfashionable as it is, and Jane will dance with—”
“Flynn,” said Daisy, seating herself and her sewing by the window.
“Nonsense! Jane is attending balls with the eyes of the world upon her. She needs further practice with someone who knows what he’s doing. Monsieur Lefarge’s cousin is an expert, Mr. Flynn is a rank beginner.”
“I’m not, as a matter of—” Flynn began.
Lady Beatrice raised her lorgnette and eyed him with a beady expression. “I’m sure you perform the hornpipe delightfully, Mr.
Flynn—and you must show us some day—but not today.”
Max and Freddy stifled chuckles, not very successfully. Lady Beatrice gave them the kind of withering look that reduced grown men to schoolboy status. She continued, “Jane needs an expert to refine her steps, so she will dance with Monsieur Lefarge’s cousin and Daisy, you will dance with Mr. Flynn.”
Daisy looked up from her sewing “Who, me? But—”
“But what?” Lady Beatrice intoned. “Is this not a dance lesson? Did you not come of your own free will?” The old lady leveled her lorgnette at Daisy.
Featherby, who had been hovering, gave Daisy a Meaningful Look.
Daisy glowered. They were all ganging up on her. She looked at Flynn, who was wholly engaged in picking a piece of fluff off his coat sleeve. An invisible piece of fluff, the cowardly big rat.
“It’ll be fun, Daisy,” Jane said in a coaxing voice.
“You might find you enjoy it,” Damaris added sympathetically.
Betrayed on all sides. Daisy looked at Abby, but Abby said nothing. She knew how Daisy felt about dancing, knew how she felt about her stupid leg. Daisy swallowed.
Flynn strolled across the room and held out his hand to her. “Come on, lass, there’s nothing for it but to give in gracefully.”
Gracefully? That was a laugh. There’d be nothing graceful about Daisy on the dance floor. And dancing with Flynn, of all people to make a fool of herself with. She didn’t move.
“If you refuse me, the old lady will make me dance with the little old Frenchman. He’s wearin’ rouge!” Flynn said with a comical grimace. “You wouldn’t do that to me, would you, Daisy? Not after I went out of me way to give you first pick of all those gorgeous fabrics.” Laughter gleamed in his blue, blue eyes. He wasn’t going to give up, she could see. He had no idea.
“Oh, all right, but it’s blackmail.” It wasn’t. He was just bloody irresistible, damn the man. Scowling, Daisy dumped her sewing on the chair beside her and stomped grumpily onto the dance floor.
“Such a gracious acceptance, Miss Chance, I’m deeply flattered,” Flynn murmured, his blue eyes dancing. He was enjoying this, the big rat.
“Stubble it, Flynn. I never asked for this.”
“Me neither,” he said. “I thought I was the only one pressed into this.”
“Pressed?”
He shrugged. “The English navy has two kinds of seamen—volunteers and pressed men. Pressed men can kick forever and be miserable, or try to make the best of it. You can see which choice I’m makin’.” He held out his hand.
Daisy sighed. He was right, blast him. Makin’ a fuss never did nobody any good. Certainly not Daisy. Best to get the rotten dance over and done with as quick as she could. And hope that Flynn had to concentrate so hard on his own steps that he’d never notice Daisy making a dog’s breakfast out of it.
“We will start wis ze waltz,” Monsieur Lefarge announced. A wizened elderly Frenchman, he wore fashions reminiscent of the previous century, including powder and rouge. “First ze gentlemen bow, like zis,”—he demonstrated—“and ze ladies zey curtsey like zis.” Again he demonstrated and despite his tight satin pantaloons he performed a graceful curtsey. “Ze gentlemen place ze hands like so, and like so.” He demonstrated, then checked they were all positioned correctly. “And now, Clothilde, but slow, s’il vous plaît.”
Madame Bertrand played a chord. Daisy took a deep breath and prepared to make a complete fool of herself. The dance began.
“One-two-sree, one-two-sree, one-two-sree,” Monsieur chanted. Daisy could hear her own uneven steps, loud as loud could be on the wooden floor, clump-two-clump, clump-two-clump. Probably everybody else could hear too. It was mortifying.
Flynn’s big hand was warm on her waist. It was completely distracting. He tried to swing her around.
“Oy! Stop pullin’.”
“I’m not pullin’, I’m leading. It’s what men are supposed to do.”
She snorted. She could smell his shaving soap, and the fresh scent of well-laundered shirt. And Flynn. He always smelled nice. Her own palms were sweaty. She wanted to pull her hand out of his and wipe it, but there was no chance.
He moved forward and she stumbled backward. “Now you’re pushin’,” she said.
“No, you’re resisting.” He seemed to find it all so amusing. She got crosser and crosser.
“Mademoiselle Daisy, you must let ze gentleman lead.”
Daisy scowled. “Bugger this. I can’t bloomin’ well dance and I wish—”
“Stop fighting it, will you, girl,” Flynn told her. “Just shut your wee trap and let me lead.”
Daisy wanted to kick him, but Lady Beatrice was watching, eagle-eyed.
Daisy tried to remember her steps. She stared at his waistcoat, scarlet, green and gold Chinese dragons on a black background. She’d made that waistcoat. She remembered every stitch.
“One-two-sree, one-two-sree . . .” the Frenchman chanted. His cousin twirled Jane daintily around. Jane floated like a gossamer fairy. A dainty gossamer fairy.
Daisy was more like an angry troll. “I hate this,” she muttered. Clump-two-clump, clump-two-clump.
“Really? I’m havin’ the most delightful time,” said Flynn as he wrestled her into a turn. “Of course I’ve got the most charmin’ and agreeable partner . . . “
She glanced suspiciously up at him.
His eyes laughed down at her. “And I never realized waltzing and wrestling had so much in common.”
She tried to glower, but somehow a laugh escaped her.
“Good God!” he exclaimed in amazement. “It laughs?”
“I’ll kick you if you’re not careful.” But her mouth kept trying to smile.
He chuckled. “If you’d only relax and let me lead you might even find you enjoyed it.”
She snorted. “Chance would be a fine thing.”
“Chance would be a fine thing, if only she would let me lead.” After a few more tightly wrestled twirls he stopped. Was it over? Thank goodness.
Daisy tried to pull her hand free, but Flynn held onto it tight. “Madame Bertrand,” he called, “Encore une fois, mais plus vite, s’il vous plaît.”
“What did you say?” Daisy began, but the music began again.
“Now,” Flynn said and taking her in a grip much closer than Monsieur Lefarge had showed them, he began to twirl her rapidly around the room. The music was twice as fast as before.
“What the ’ell—” Daisy tried to keep up. She tripped and almost fell. She clutched him tight. He took no notice, just kept twirling her around and around. She forgot all about remembering the steps; it was all she could do to stay on her feet. If he let go of her, she’d fall flat on her face, she was certain. Or her arse.
“You bastard! Let me g—oh, bloody ’ell!” as she stumbled again.
He grinned and kept dancing.
The minute this bloomin’ dance finished she was going to kill him. She hung on grimly, certain that any minute she’d trip and sprawl across the floor, making a complete fool of herself.
Somehow, she didn’t.
With one big, warm hand anchored firmly around her waist and the other holding her hand, he kept her steady, despite her uneven steps. He was strong. His big body was the anchor around which she swirled.
There was no chance of her falling, she realized gradually. She might trip, she might stumble, but Flynn wouldn’t let her fall.
With that realization she relaxed a little, and suddenly the rhythm of the music started to make sense. She forgot about her leg, and her uneven steps and the clump-two-clump and whatever she was supposed to be doing; she just let him spin them around and around. And around.
Oh my gawd, so this was what it was like to dance. She was practically flying.
“That’s better,” he murmured. “See, when you stop fighting me, whe
n you forget about your limp—”
She stumbled.
“Sorry, I shouldn’t have—”
“Shut up! Just shut up!” she hissed furiously. But it was back to clump-two-clump.
They finished the dance in silence. Madame Bertrand played the final chord, and finally, finally Flynn let Daisy go. She stepped back, breathing heavily and, in an action she hadn’t made since she was a small child, she wiped her sticky hands on her skirt.
He stared down at her, dismayed. “Daisy . . .”
She refused to meet his gaze.
“Sank your partners,” Monsieur Lefarge instructed.
Flynn bowed and said in a low voice that only she could hear, “I didn’t mean to . . . It was just . . . when you stopped thinkin’ about yourself, and bein’ self-conscious, you danced light as a fairy—”
But Daisy didn’t want to listen to such rubbish. She knew it wasn’t true. She bobbed him a curtsy, muttered her thanks and headed for her seat. The whole room could hear her clumping unevenly across the bare floorboards.
She glanced back at the other occupants of the room. Jane said something to Lady Beatrice and hurried away—no doubt to see to that blooming dog she’d adopted—Damaris and Freddy were laughing about something, Max and Abby were still entwined, murmuring softly to each other.
Only Flynn stood watching her, a slight frown darkening his brow.
She knew her face was red. She didn’t care. She’d made a right bloomin’ fool of herself. She felt like bursting into tears, but she never cried. Never.
She picked up her folded sewing, looked across at Lady Beatrice and raised her voice, saying, “I done the bloomin’ lesson, so I ’ope you’re satisfied. Now, I got work to do.”
She marched from the room—didn’t even slam the door—and hurried upstairs to her workroom, the place where she could be herself again: Daisy, who knew what she was good at, knew where she belonged—in her own little empire.
And not on any bloody dance floor.
* * *
After the dancing lesson Max invited Flynn to join him and Freddy for a drink—the girls were planning to take afternoon tea with Lady Beatrice and then there was something about dresses. Or costumes. Flynn gladly accepted.