The Summer Bride (A Chance Sisters Romance)

by Anne Gracie

  He pulled the shoes out, brandished them, tossed them aside and stalked towards her. “You daft wee eedjit. You think I got you those damned shoes because I was embarrassed at the way you walk?”

  She glared at him. “Well, what else—”

  “I got them because of the way you were dancing.”

  “So? What’s the diff—”

  “Not because you were limping—but because you were so damned embarrassed and self-conscious.”

  “I bloody was not!”

  “You bloody well were. I knew the minute you forgot about your blasted limp—you floated, girl, floated in my arms, and it was . . .” He swallowed. “It was just the two of us, you and me, and the music, floating.”

  She made a scornful-sounding snort, but it was all bluff—his little scrapper trying to tough it out. Her eyes were shiny with tears.

  “And then I said something stupid about not thinking about your leg, and you immediately went all stiff and wooden and clumsy in me arms—but it was me who was the clumsy eedjit then, Daisy, me who was the fool.”

  She hunched an indifferent shoulder as if he were stating the obvious.

  “I just thought . . . I knew a man at sea who had one leg shorter than the other, and this Chinese cobbler made him a pair of boots with the heel built up. And when he put them on, damn me if he didn’t walk the same as everyone else. And it was easier on his leg, he said—not so many aches and pains.”

  She gave an impatient-sounding sigh and glanced at the window with an expression of boredom. The jury was still out. But at least she was listening and hadn’t tossed him out yet. Or punched him.

  “So I thought, if your limp worried you that much, I’d get you a pair of shoes you could dance in and not worry.” His voice lowered. “Because you were made to dance, you know that, don’t you, girl? Like a fairy in me arms, you were that day.”

  Her mouth quivered and she turned abruptly as if to stare out of the window. He thought he glimpsed a tear rolling down one silken cheek, but she made a quick little movement with her hand and it was gone.

  He grabbed her by the shoulders and turned her back to face him. “Listen to me, Miss Daisy Bloody-Stubborn Chance—I don’t care if you never wear those blasted shoes. I couldn’t care less that you limp!”

  She stared up at him and swallowed, her eyes wide, wet and beautiful.

  He continued, his voice low and intense. “I wouldn’t care if you had a wooden leg—or two wooden legs and a great damned hook instead of a hand! It’s you I want—you.” He cradled her face between his hands. “I want you any way I can get you, Daisy—limping, dancing, punching—even biting and scratching.”

  He could feel her softening, and took a risk, lowering his voice to a deep seductive murmur. “And now I come to think of it, I wouldn’t mind a bit of biting and scratching, come to think about it. If you’re in the mood for it.”

  There was a long silence. He braced himself for a punch or a kick.

  She gave a little huff, half of laughter, half of tears, and he pulled her against him. “I’m sorry I hurt your feelings, Daisy-girl,” he said in a low voice. “I’m a big stupid clumsy eedjit. Will you forgive me?”

  She looked up at him for a long moment then gave a trembly little sigh. “Bastard,” she whispered. She shook her head as if mourning his hopelessness and thumped him in the chest with a small fist.

  But it was a half-hearted thump at best—he barely felt it.

  “Bastard,” she whispered again. She reached up, drew his head down and kissed him.

  Chapter Eleven

  She was feeling, thinking, trembling about everything; agitated, happy, miserable, infinitely obliged, absolutely angry.

  —JANE AUSTEN, MANSFIELD PARK

  He tasted salt tears, anger, and the sweet, hot, honey taste that was Daisy. Wild honey, with a tang of spice.

  With a little moan she opened for him. The sound fired his blood. Heat rushed through him, hot rum and cinnamon on a tropical night.

  She kissed him open-mouthed, enticing, teasing, lavishing him with the kind of generosity that characterized her spirit—she was all or nothing, his Daisy. Loving or fighting, she threw herself into it whole-heartedly.

  He gathered her in, deepening the kisses, his hands roaming over her, learning her, caressing her curves through the layers of clothing. Her body softened against his, pliant and welcoming.

  She sagged against him and grabbed his arms and Flynn felt a jolt of masculine satisfaction, knowing it was his kisses that had caused her knees to weaken.

  “Come here, sweetheart,” he murmured. He gripped her by the waist and lifted her, intending to seat her on the nearby table.

  Instead her legs came up and wound around his hips, gripping him tightly, pulling him into the curve of her body—and all the time kissing him, her mouth, her tongue, her hands eager. Hungry. Making muffled little sounds that purely drove him wild.

  His head was spinning, his whole body tight, throbbing, aching with the force of his desire. Summoning all his powers of control, he staggered to the table, her legs locked around him, her tongue tangling fiercely, hungrily with his.

  One-handed he swept to one side the delicate fabrics spread over the table and sat her on the edge of the table. He made to move back, to ease the urgent throbbing of his groin, but she gripped him by the hair and pulled him back towards her. Her legs tightened around his hips, pulling him even harder against the enticing cradle of her thighs.

  He groaned. Hard was the word. Had she not noticed his cock-stand, hard and aching, straining against the fall of his breeches?

  His every instinct screamed at him to lay her back across the table, flip up her skirts and plunge into her sweetness, deep and hard. Riding her long. Possessing. Claiming.

  But this was Daisy. An unmarried girl. He had to take it slow. Even if it killed him. She obviously had no idea she was driving him wild with her kisses.

  He caressed her breasts through the layers of her clothing, feeling the small hard points thrusting against the fabric, just as his cock thrust against his breeches. He rubbed the tips of the nipples with his thumbs and she moaned and wiggled against him, planting moist kisses along his jawline.

  And the occasional nip, which sent him almost to the point of explosion.

  He reached one hand around behind her and found the laces at her back. He tugged, hoping luck was with him. It was. Her neckline loosened, just enough for him to ease it down and slide a hand in. His fingers brushed over small, warm, silken-skinned breasts, and he marveled at the softness of her as he teased the hard little nubbins of desire and heard her moan as she pushed herself against him, rubbing up against his hand like a little cat.

  He loosened the laces further and pulled the neckline down. His mouth dried as he released her small pert breasts, the berry-dark nipples pouting for his attention. “God, you’re beautiful,” he muttered thickly and bent to take one rosy nipple into his mouth.

  She arched and squirmed and grabbed at his shirt.

  He slid his palm down to her ankle, then stroked steadily upward. He half expected her to stop him at that point—it would kill him, but he was almost at the point of no return, and he’d had no intention of going this far in the first place.

  Not yet.

  The inside skin of her thighs was as soft and silky as the rest of her, and he smoothed and stroked and caressed, moving ever higher toward his goal, expecting her any moment to pull back and clamp her knees together.

  Instead she gave a little wriggle and almost a purr of approval.

  His palm encountered a nest of soft curls. “I do like an old-fashioned girl,” he murmured, his fingers stroking through the curls. The sweet musky smell of her filled his nostrils. He inhaled deeply.

  She pulled back and frowned at him. “What d’ya mean, old-fashioned?” It came out in a rasp, breathy and indigna
nt.

  His fingers caressed her knowingly. “No drawers.”

  “Oh.” She shivered at his touch. “Never got in the habit. Only toffs wear ’em. Too pricey for o-o-ordinary folks—ohhh.” Her breath hitched and she clutched his shoulders. “Do that again.”

  She was slick and slippery and he stroked deep between the hot sleek folds of her flesh, reveling in the way she quivered beneath his touch, her eyes closed, rocking and gasping and pushing herself against him.

  He bent to her breasts, sucking on the hard little berries, first one, then the other, and she clutched his hair with both hands holding him against her. Between her thighs his fingers moved, stroking and caressing. His thumb grazed the small sensitive nubbin and he felt the spasms start deep within her. She flung herself back, giving in to the waves of pleasure with a high, thin cry.

  He was ready to explode himself. He hadn’t planned to take it this far. He hadn’t planned it at all. Flynn battled with his conscience. Not to mention his desperately straining body. But she was open and eager and ready for him. One-handed he reached for the fall of his breeches and began to unbutton.

  At that moment, someone started knocking urgently on the door. “Daisy! Daisy, is everything all right?”

  “Oh, gawd, it’s Jane!” Daisy blinked, the muzzy, unfocussed look fading from her eyes. She sat up and hastily started pulling down her skirts, which were still around her waist. She hopped off the table. Her knees buckled and she grabbed him for support.

  “I’m fine, Jane,” she called. “Just . . . knocked something over.”

  “But I heard you cry out. Are you hurt?” Jane rattled the handle of the door. “Is this door locked?”

  “Nah, you know I never lock it. It’s probably just stuck.” She patted her hair and clothing into place and checked Flynn’s appearance. He finished buttoning his waistcoat and tried to straighten his neckcloth. And did his best to will away his cock-stand.

  She reached up and finger-combed his hair into place, which didn’t help. “Ready?”

  He nodded. “Don’t worry, if there’s any danger of scandal, I’ll ma—” He bit off the rest of the sentence, shocked at what had been about to come out of his mouth.

  She paused, gave him an odd look, then marched to the door. “Don’t be daft, Flynn. There’s not going to be any scandal.”

  Flynn watched her, stunned at what he’d almost committed himself to. Marry Daisy? The thought hadn’t even crossed his mind before this. He’d only said it because of what Lady Bea had said earlier, and because Jane was banging frantically on the door and it still could be a scandal.

  And when you were caught seducing—or as good as seducing—a respectable girl, that’s what followed. Marriage.

  “Here we go . . .” Daisy rattled the door to cover the sound of the turning key and swung it open.

  Jane practically fell into the room. Daisy caught and steadied her. Featherby stood in the doorway peering cautiously in. His gaze took in Flynn’s slight dishevelment, his position behind the table—the cock-stand was almost under control now—and Daisy’s mussed hair, flushed face and kiss-reddened mouth. He gave Flynn a hard look, his expression rather like a stuffed owl’s.

  Flynn gave a slight shake of his head. He was a good egg, Featherby. He wouldn’t give them away. But Lord, what had he been thinking of to let things go so far? In the old lady’s house.

  Not thinking at all.

  “Oh! Mr. Flynn!” Jane exclaimed. “I didn’t realize you were—”

  “He was having’ a fittin’ of his latest waistcoat,” Daisy said. She grabbed a piece of fabric, folded it and started busily tidying up the table.

  “But I heard you make such a loud—”

  “Tripped over Snowflake. Knocked something over and stubbed me toe. Hurt like you wouldn’t believe.”

  “What did you knock over?” Jane asked, looking around.

  “Dunno—Flynn must’ve picked it up. I didn’t notice. I’m fine, Jane, don’t worry.” She turned to Featherby. “Show Mr. Flynn out will you, Featherby? We’re finished here.” She hadn’t so much as glanced at Flynn since she’d told him not to be daft.

  “Of course, come with me, Mr. Flynn,” Featherby said smoothly.

  “I’m not finished with you yet, Daisy,” he growled.

  Finally she met his gaze. “Oh, yes, you are. Good-bye, Mr. Flynn.”

  * * *

  Featherby preceded him down the stairs, stiff-legged as an offended cat. Flynn took no notice. He was still thinking about what he’d almost blurted out. An offer of marriage.

  He swallowed, thinking about it. She was right—it hadn’t turned into a scandal—luckily only Jane and Featherby had been at the door. But if it had been someone else, Lady Beatrice, or one of Daisy’s customers . . .

  He would have done the honorable thing and married the girl. Of course he would. A scandal could ruin Daisy’s reputation—and her business. He was a man of honor, and Daisy was his friend. He wouldn’t do that to her.

  Luckily he wouldn’t have to.

  At the bottom of the stairs Featherby turned. “I’m disappointed in you, Mr. Flynn. You’ve been an honored guest in this house. Lady Beatrice trusted you.”

  “Nothing happened.” It came out as a growl.

  The butler fixed him with a gimlet look. “Miss Jane in her innocence might not have understood the significance of those sounds, but I certainly did. I blame myself for trusting you in the first place. I should never have given you the opportunity.”

  “It won’t happen again,” Flynn told him curtly. It wouldn’t either. He’d let things get out of control. He’d only meant to kiss her. To apologize, make up for hurting her feelings.

  Some apology. He’d almost ruined the girl. In her own home.

  “It most certainly won’t.” Featherby passed Flynn his coat. “There will be no more private fittings or conversations with Miss Daisy in her workroom. I’ll send a maid to sit with her at all times you are in the house. Better still, you can talk to her in Lady Beatrice’s presence, in the drawing room.”

  Flynn gritted his teeth as he shrugged himself into his coat. The implication that he couldn’t be trusted with Daisy, that he had to be watched, was infuriating. And for a butler of all people to be raking him over the coals was, dammit, it was . . .

  Entirely justified, dammit.

  “Good day, Mr. Flynn.” Featherby handed Flynn his hat.

  Flynn crammed it on his head and without a word strode off.

  * * *

  Daisy hustled Jane out of the room as well, pleading the pressure of work, which was true, but the minute the door was shut—and she resisted the temptation to lock it again—she collapsed on her window seat.

  Her body was still reverberating on the inside from Flynn’s . . . attentions. The little death, the Frenchies called it. She’d never really believed in it, ’til now; the girls at the brothel used to fake it—said it made the men feel good.

  But she’d never experienced it, even though Flynn was the third lover she’d had—if you could call him a lover when they hadn’t actually done it.

  He hadn’t even come himself. She ought to feel a bit guilty about that, but it was hard to feel guilty when really, she felt . . . she felt . . . wonderful.

  She curled up in her window-seat, her own private eyrie, but though she tried to retrieve those delicious loose floating feelings, Flynn’s cut-off words niggled at her. Don’t worry, if there’s any danger of scandal, I’ll ma—

  Ma—what? All she could think of was marry you. She was sure that’s what had hovered on the tip of his tongue, before he’d thought better of it.

  Flynn, the man who wanted to marry the finest lady in London? Marry her?

  No, that couldn’t be right. He hadn’t even gotten under her skirts—not properly. But what if he imagined she was some kind of sheltered innoc
ent, like Lady Liz, or Jane? The kind of lady who expected a marriage proposal to follow after a kiss? A respectable virgin with a pure reputation? He might think he had to marry her then.

  It was how the nobs saw things—especially if you got caught. She grinned, thinking of their close shave.

  If Jane hadn’t come busting in, they would have gone all the way. And if they had, Flynn would have realized she wasn’t a virgin, and marriage wouldn’t even have crossed his mind.

  The red shoes lay tipped on their side on the floor. She picked them up. She wasn’t ever going to wear them. She should toss them away. If it hadn’t been for these shoes she never would have . . .

  Never would have heard him say: It’s you I want—you . . . any way I can get you.

  And she would never have known what bliss was to be had in Flynn’s arms.

  I don’t care if you never wear those blasted shoes. I couldn’t care less that you limp! She felt her face crumple.

  She looked down at the shoes and found she was hugging them to her breast. She tried to swallow the surge of . . . of feelings that welled up in her throat. It was a quarrel that got out of hand, that’s all.

  She shoved the shoes in the back of the wardrobe and closed the door. She wouldn’t wear them, but she couldn’t bring herself to throw them away. They’d always remind her of Flynn.

  Who’d have thought that just by kissing and touching you could experience . . . that?

  What the man could do with his mouth and tongue . . . Her nipples were tender and tight and the rest of her was jelly-soft and feeling just as sweet. She knew now why it was called making love.

  Those big hands of his, deft and knowing, playing her like a blooming violin. Just thinking about his touch sent a flurry of little echoes, warm ripples that pooled in her belly, a clenching deep inside her.

  What would it be like to go all the way with him? It had to be even better.

  But it wasn’t going to happen ever again. She couldn’t let it happen.

  It was all just a mistake anyway. A stupid quarrel that got out of hand.