The Summer Bride (A Chance Sisters Romance)

by Anne Gracie

  He grinned, a flash of white teeth. “What ‘lovey-dovey stuff’—you’ll have to be more specific. Give me an example, a demonstration perhaps.” The big rat was enjoying this.

  “You know exactly what I mean.” She poked him in the chest. “Just behave yourself, all right.”

  He quirked a brow at her. “Or?”

  “Or . . .” She cast around for inspiration. “Or I’ll push you down the stairs.”

  He spread his arms wide in invitation. “You can do whatever you want with me, Daisy darlin’. I’m all yours.”

  She eyed him, fuming. For two pins she would shove him down the stairs. But she wasn’t the violent type. She was more ladylike these days. Lady Beatrice’s lessons had rubbed off on her.

  His grin was triumphant. “See, you couldn’t hurt me if you tried.”

  She punched him in the stomach. Hard.

  “Oof!” He doubled over, then swore softly under his breath.

  “That’ll teach you to take me serious!” She picked up her basket and stormed off.

  A low chuckle followed her. She clenched her fists. And winced.

  * * *

  “And you make all these marvelous garments from this one small room, Miss Chance?” Mrs. Foster wandered around Daisy’s workroom, examining everything with apparent fascination.

  Daisy wasn’t too sure about her calling the room small—it was bigger than any room Daisy had ever had—but she accepted the compliment as it was intended.

  Mrs. Foster bent to examine the beading on the bodice of a dress. “Superb! And you do it all by yourself? I can’t believe it.”

  “A couple of Lady Beatrice’s maids help out from time to time, and me sisters do as much as they can to help too.”

  “But two of them are married, aren’t they? And the third one has just commenced her first Season, so they must be quite busy.” It was an astute observation. She cocked her head and eyed a half-finished dress pinned to a dummy form. “The drapery on this is simply wonderful.”

  Daisy glowed at the praise. She’d worked hard to get that effect.

  She’d taken Mrs. Foster’s measurements, and they’d decided on the fabric—red silk with black lace—and the cut—low and exceedingly naughty. “I’ve been a widow for a year,” Mrs. Foster said with a twinkle, “but my husband was ill for a long time before that. I’m not sure that I’ll actually do anything, but I want to feel like a desirable woman again, and these deliciously wicked garments will do the trick, I just know it.”

  * * *

  Usually after measuring up a customer and taking the order, Daisy called for tea and cakes, and then that was that—she didn’t have either the time or the inclination to sit chatting. But it was different with Mrs. Foster and long after the tea had been served and the little iced cakes eaten, the two women stayed talking.

  Mrs. Foster seemed genuinely fascinated by the whole process, and particularly with Daisy’s plan to one day open a shop of her own.

  “How wonderful to have such a clear direction for your life,” she commented. “After my husband died, I realized that I’d built my entire life around him, and around the expectation that we’d have children. But we never were blessed that way, and so . . .” She spread her hands in a helpless gesture. “Here I am, with neither a husband or children, and no idea what to do with myself.”

  Daisy hesitated. It wasn’t really polite to ask personal questions, but Mrs. Foster had already shared so much. “You don’t aim to marry again, then?” She’d assumed that was the lady’s reason for coming to London.

  “I don’t know. Perhaps. If I meet the right man. But he would have to be exceptional—I’ve found I like being an independent and wealthy widow, with only myself to please. Marriage would change all that.” She made a rueful gesture. “In any case most men aren’t interested in a woman my age—not for marriage, at any rate. Besides, I’m not sure I want to devote the rest of my life to a man—exceptional or not. “

  She rose. “Now, I must leave. I’ve taken up far too much of your time, I’m sure, but it’s been so delightful chatting with you, Miss Chance.”

  “I’ve enjoyed it too, Mrs. Foster,” Daisy assured her—and it was true. “I’ll have your things ready next week, I hope. Where shall I send them?”

  “I’m staying at the Clarendon.” Of course. The smartest hotel in London.

  Daisy usually let Featherby show customers out, but today she personally escorted Mrs. Foster to the front door and bid her a warm good-bye. It wasn’t because she was a wealthy customer either; she had the oddest feeling that despite their obvious differences, Mrs. Foster could become a friend.

  * * *

  Flynn called the next day and was shown straight up to her workroom. That would have to stop, Daisy decided. She couldn’t have him popping in whenever he felt like it. He was too distracting. Too big. Too charming.

  And too damned arrogant.

  That thump she’d given him didn’t seem to make a ha’porth of difference. He still marched in here, bold as brass with that smile of his, and the gleam in his eye that she didn’t trust an inch.

  And had to fight to resist.

  “So, you never did tell me about Lady Liz running off with someone—” she began.

  “I brought you a present.” He held out a parcel to her.

  “A present?” She stared at the lumpy, clumsily man-wrapped, brown paper parcel. “You got me a present?” Her teacup started rattling on its saucer. She put it down.

  “Take it.”

  She eyed it uncertainly then shook her head. “I don’t want presents from you, Flynn.” Presents would turn their friendship into something . . . different.

  “You don’t know what it is, yet.” He thrust it into her hands and sat back. “Open it and see.” There was an eager half smile on his face. His blue, blue eyes gleamed with anticipation.

  Blast the man. Nobody ever gave her presents. Why did he have to do something like this? A romantic gesture . . . And he’d wrapped it himself.

  With fingers that were suddenly clumsy, she undid the string and opened the parcel. And stared at the contents, frowning. “Shoes?” They looked a bit like the shoes that had mysteriously disappeared—her favorite red ones with the rosettes. These were red too and had rosettes, only . . .

  She picked up the right one and examined it carefully. And felt ever-so-slightly sick.

  Flynn said, “Beautifully made, aren’t they? I thought of it after we danced that time. Go on, try them on—I think you’ll find it makes a difference. I knew a man once who—oh, just try them on, Daisy—you’ll see.”

  With him standing over her, urging her on, grinning like a fool, there was nothing else for it. She sat down, and with shaking hands pulled off her old shoes and put on the shoes he’d brought her. They were a perfect fit, slipping onto her feet as if they’d been made for her.

  As they most obviously and humiliatingly had.

  “Stand up.”

  Daisy stood up.

  “Now walk around the room a bit.”

  Daisy took a few steps around the room.

  “See the difference?” Flynn was clearly delighted.

  She forced herself to nod. She couldn’t bring herself to say a word.

  “Well, what do you think?” The big stupid Irishman stood back grinning. So bloody pleased with himself. Mr. Oblivious.

  She wanted to hit him. Her first—and probably her only present from him, and it was . . . this. She held herself in as tight as she could.

  He saw her expression and frowned. “Daisy . . .” he began uncertainly.

  “Thanks, Flynn,” she managed to get out. “You have to leave now. I—I got an appointment in a few minutes.” She walked smoothly to the door in the new, cleverly made red leather shoes with the jaunty little rosettes on the toes, and opened it. Snowflake, the cat, came slinking i
n, dripping white hairs everywhere, no doubt, and she didn’t even care.

  “Don’t you like them?”

  “Very clever workmanship, thank you,” she said and, trying for a jaunty, careless tone, added, “Good-bye.” She held the door open for him. And waited.

  With a puzzled expression he walked toward the door. “It might take a while to get used to them. Keep wearing them. You’ll come to love them, I promise.”

  * * *

  Flynn walked slowly down the stairs, perplexed by Daisy’s reaction. That hadn’t gone the way he’d hoped it would, and he wasn’t quite sure why. The shoes themselves were perfect—soft red leather with rosettes, just like the ones she’d lost—she didn’t know about the dog, of course. And beautifully made.

  You could hardly tell they were different.

  And when she’d walked in them, you couldn’t tell she had a bad leg, hardly at all. It was just as he’d hoped.

  But she’d gone strangely quiet. He couldn’t even tell whether she liked them or not. That wasn’t like Daisy at all—she generally let you know exactly what she thought—and in no uncertain terms.

  Maybe she wasn’t used to getting presents. She was still annoyed with him telling her she was running her business the wrong way—she now made a point of not discussing business with him. He smiled to himself. That would keep.

  And she was cross about him kissing her—but God, a couple of kisses and he was hard and aching and it was all he could do to keep mastery over himself when he was with her.

  She’d warned him off, but he wasn’t going to be taken in by that little piece of feminine bravado. He snorted. She liked it but she didn’t want it? What sort of female logic was that?

  He reached the bottom of the stairs. Maybe he’d pushed her too far too fast. He had a tendency to do that when he wanted something badly, and he wanted Daisy very badly. He was on fire for her.

  He’d planned to talk to her about it today, but she’d clammed up after he’d given her the shoes. And kicked him out with a lame excuse.

  He nodded to Featherby as the butler let him out. Life had been so much simpler on a ship, with nobody but men to deal with, and any storms on the horizon were just thunder and lightning, wind and giant waves. Reading women was so much harder.

  * * *

  With hands that were shaking, Daisy closed the door carefully behind him, waited until she was sure he was gone, then pulled off the hateful shoes and flung them as hard and as far as she could at the wall. The right shoe made a loud clunking noise as it hit. As it would, being heavier than the other.

  I thought of it after we danced that time.

  For her that dance—for a few minutes anyway—had been the one time she’d felt as if she was truly dancing, floating in Flynn’s arms as she’d never in her life floated. A few moments of magic.

  Despite her better judgement, knowing it was stupid and pointless, knowing nothing was going to come of it anyway, she’d allowed herself to dream, just a little. Because there had been no romance ever in her lonely life.

  Tupping, yes. Romance, no.

  So, even knowing there was no point, she’d let herself dream of those few precious moments, reliving them again and again. Building stupid bloody castles in the air. Just to have and remember.

  While he’d been hatching a plan to make her look less of a cripple, buying her a shoe with a built-up sole.

  A single tear trickled down her cheek. Daisy scrubbed it fiercely away. This—this was what she was letting herself in for if she weakened towards Flynn—foolish, impossible, painful reality.

  The cat twined around her ankles. She picked it up and cradled it to her chest, sinking her fingers into his soft fur. “I’m not even going to think about him anymore, Snowflake. My business is the most important thing in my life, not a stupid big oblivious Irishman.”

  Snowflake purred and butted Daisy under the chin. She sat in the window seat, the cat in her arms.

  The business might send her broke, but it wouldn’t break her heart. Only people could do that.

  * * *

  Flynn called on Daisy the following day. He’d been thinking about her odd reaction to the shoes. Ladies weren’t supposed to accept personal items as gifts from gentlemen not related to them. Had he offended her by presuming too much?

  It didn’t seem like Daisy, but she had been getting an earful of what constituted proper ladylike behavior from Lady Beatrice, he knew.

  He was just about to head up the stairs to her workroom when—“Mr. Flynn, where do you think you’re going?” Lady Beatrice, leaning heavily on her ebony cane, eyed him beadily from the doorway of the downstairs drawing room.

  “Up to see Daisy.” He pointed.

  “You may see her in here,” the old lady declared majestically. “Featherby, tea! And fetch Daisy down here. About time that girl emerged from that room of hers for a change! And tell Jane to come as well.”

  “She’s out walking the dog, m’lady,” Featherby told her.

  “Dratted beast. But at least one of my gels is getting some fresh air and exercise. Well, come along, Mr. Flynn,” she commanded. “I don’t stand around waiting for men all day, you know.”

  Flynn hid a smile and gave her his arm. The old lady was clearly in A Mood. He escorted her into the front drawing room, sat her down and set out to coax her into a better frame of mind. By the time Daisy joined them the old lady was chuckling and telling him he was a wicked fellow.

  He rose as Daisy entered. She wasn’t wearing the shoes. But he told himself that she would hardly wear them in her sewing room or even around the house.

  “You didn’t mind me giving you that little present, did you?” he asked after they’d gone through the usual politenesses.

  Daisy gave a brief indifferent shrug.

  He glanced at Lady Beatrice, who narrowed her eyes curiously, but said nothing. Apparently Daisy hadn’t told Lady Beatrice about the shoes.

  “Have you worn them outside yet?”

  “No.”

  He frowned. “Are they not comfortable? You might need to wear them in—”

  “They fit.”

  “Of course they fit,” Flynn said. “I gave the shoemaker your old—”

  Her eyes narrowed. “So that’s where my red shoes went—my favorite shoes—you stole them!”

  He didn’t respond; he had an innocent dog to protect—well, not innocent at all—but he had promised Miss Jane he’d get rid of the evidence.

  She took his silence as guilt. “I don’t suppose it occurred to you to return them to me afterwards, did it? My favorite shoes.”

  “I’m afraid not. They weren’t in a fit state . . .”

  “No,” she said bitterly. “I expect the cobbler had to pick them apart to make those . . other things.”

  He frowned. Other things? “Don’t you like them?” He glanced at her feet. “Have you . . . have you worn them at all?”

  “No.” She stood up.

  “But—”

  “Oh, don’t worry, I’ll make sure to wear them if ever I go out in public with you, Mr. Flynn. I wouldn’t want you to embarrass yourself by bein’ seen walkin’ wiv a cripple.”

  Flynn shot to his feet. “Daisy, no! I didn’t mean—”

  But she was gone. Flynn went to follow her but found his way barred by Lady Beatrice’s ebony stick. “Let her go, dear boy. She’s upset.”

  “I can see that. But I didn’t mean—I didn’t think she’d take it that way . . .” He went to step around her but this time the ebony stick didn’t just block his way, it rapped him smartly on the shins. Luckily he was wearing boots.

  “Stop right there! I don’t know what this is all about, but if she doesn’t want to talk to you, she doesn’t have to. The gel has a right to be alone if she wants to,” the old lady said with magnificent indifference to the way she’d dragged D
aisy out of her workroom earlier. “Now take yourself off and work out a way to mend this. I’ll see you at the next literary society meeting.” She jingled a little bell.

  Flynn stared at her blankly and swore under his breath. As if he cared about the blasted literary society. Daisy thought he was embarrassed by her limp. He’d hurt her. Beyond that, nothing else mattered.

  But Featherby arrived with his hat and coat and a moment later Flynn found himself out on the street, wondering how the hell he’d gotten it so damned wrong. And how the hell he was going to make it up to her.

  He took a few steps and heard the sound of a window opening above him. Out of habit he glanced up; he’d lived in places where all kinds of revolting things were routinely tossed from high windows.

  A couple of missiles came flying out. He ducked and, one after another, two shoes bounded onto the pavement. Red shoes with little rosettes on the toe. One of them bounced into the gutter.

  Flynn stared at them a second. Damn her, he wasn’t blasted well going anywhere. He was going to sort this out here and now! He picked up the wretched shoes, stuffed them in his pocket and marched back up to the house.

  “Out of my way, Featherby!” he growled, quite prepared to knock the butler down if necessary.

  Featherby took one look at his face and stepped aside.

  Flynn barreled up the stairs two at a time. He reached Daisy’s door and flung it open without knocking. “Daisy.”

  She turned to face him, her piquant little face tear-stained and woebegone. It ripped his heart apart.

  “What?” she snarled. Ah, that was his girl. Down, but not out—never out.

  He closed the door behind him and, on an afterthought, locked it.

  “Oy! What do you think you’re doin—?”

  “I’m going to have this out with you, dammit!—once and for all.”

  She snorted and planted her hands on her hips in a militant, come-on-then fashion. “Are you now?”