The Summer Bride (A Chance Sisters Romance)

by Anne Gracie

  That was how the poor girl ended up earning a living on her back in the brothel—through marriage.

  Daisy suspected it was also the reason Mrs. Foster wasn’t looking for another husband. Why would she, when life as a rich widow was ever so much more secure?

  She looked at Flynn, who’d finally put his shirt on and buttoned his breeches and was much less distracting. “What if it was reversed?” she asked him. “What if everything you owned—all your ships and everything—got handed over to me. You wouldn’t even have a say in what I did with it—not legally. Would you marry me under those circumstances?”

  He hesitated.

  “See?” she said softly. “That’s how I feel too.”

  “I’d still marry you,” he said.

  She laughed. “You would not.”

  “I would. I’d trust you to do the right thing and give me my company back. It’s not about legal rights, Daisy-love—it’s about trust.”

  She bit her lip. “Ah, well then, that’s me problem. I dunno if I can.”

  His hands froze in the middle of knotting his neckcloth. He was making a right mess of it too. “You wouldn’t trust me?”

  “Here, let me.” She pushed him back to sit on the table, undid the neckcloth, shook it out, and snapped it straight to take the worst of the wrinkles out of it, running it back and forth over her bent knee.

  He watched in silence, his eyes boring into her. She stepped between his spread thighs, and looped the narrow strip of muslin around his neck, trying not to be aware of how close he was. She could smell the scent of his body, enticing and masculine, feel the heat from his powerful thighs. The smooth friction of his jaw, dark with recently shaved whiskers. The feel of those whiskers on her skin was delicious.

  For two pins she’d push him back and have her way with him again.

  But that would solve nothing. Probably make it worse. There was a stiffness in him now that had nothing to do with arousal and everything to do with being offended. She’d trampled on his pride enough today.

  She tucked the ends in and stepped back.

  “Finished?”

  She nodded. “It’s not perfect, but it’ll do.”

  “Thank you. Now you were about to explain to me why you wouldn’t trust me.”

  “Well, I probably would trust you.”

  The stiffness eased slightly. Then he saw her expression and frowned. “But?”

  She shrugged. “I’m a fool like that. I trust too easy. I been taken for a ride twice in me life, and lost everything both times by people I trusted.” She shook her head. “I don’t have no judgement when it comes to trusting people, not when me . . . not when feelings are involved.”

  “Feelings, eh?” He shifted closer.

  She stepped back. “Yeah, feelings and I ain’t saying any more, so don’t push. It’s hard enough as it is.”

  “It’s certainly hard enough,” he murmured, lowering his gaze.

  She followed his glance to the fall of his breeches and laughed. “You’re quick off the mark, ain’t you? But I reckon it’s a bad idea. You’ll only start talking about marriage again.”

  He pulled her against him for a swift, hard kiss. “Count on it, darlin’. But not today. A proposal a day, remember? And we’re done for today.”

  And because the man kissed like a dream, and she was already half melted and aroused—and because she was a weak-willed woman who had not a single bone in her body that could resist him—she rolled back on the table with him, and made love like there was no tomorrow.

  Because the way things were going, there might not be, not for her and Flynn. If he kept going like this, she might have to stop seeing him altogether. It would half kill her, but she could see no solution to their problem.

  He wanted marriage and she didn’t. End of story.

  * * *

  Afterward they lay sated and boneless. Flynn was the first one to stir. The table was hard and uncomfortable. He pulled his clothing into place, gathered Daisy into his arms and carried her out to the place on the roof that overlooked the city. He settled her against his chest and they sat in silence looking out over the huge pulsing city.

  Below them carts rumbled by, a pieman called his wares, urchins shrieked, a dog barked—the sounds floated up, seeming to come from miles away.

  It felt like they were sitting on top of the world.

  “These two people who betrayed your trust so badly,” Flynn said after a while. “Who were they? Men?”

  Daisy shook her head. “Only one was a man—though I dunno that I’d call him a man. More of a worm, really. Artie Bell his name was.” She was silent a while, reflecting, then she said, “I was sixteen and ripe for the plucking. He broke my heart and robbed me blind, the swine.” She sighed. “I didn’t have much but he took all me savings, everything I’d saved since I was a kid, every penny I’d ever earned. Not just the money neither—me few precious bits and pieces, some of them not valuable—just things that were precious to me.”

  The breeze was picking up. Flynn adjusted his position, and pulled his coat around her.

  “A couple of bits of jewellery, a brooch one of the girls gave me when she left to get married—some of them did, you know. And a silver button that had fallen off the coat of one of the gentlemen. I offered to sew it back for him, but he told me to keep it, that he’d get a new coat.” She glanced up at Flynn. “Who’d get a new coat instead of sewin’ on a button? But that’s toffs for you.”

  “How did he find your stash—this Artie, I mean?”

  “Dunno. I had it hidden under a floorboard in the little attic room that I shared with one of the other maids. I dunno how he found it—I never showed it to nobody, not a soul—but the day he was gone so was me stash. Cleaned right out, every blessed thing—even the dust.”

  “Had you quarreled?”

  “No, he just . . . disappeared. I was such a fool. Young love.” She snorted. “Turned out he had a wife or two and kids by three more girls. He was a charmer, that Artie. A complete, cheatin’ low-life rat.”

  “What happened to him?”

  She lifted a shoulder. “Dunno. Come to a bad end, I hope.”

  He pulled her closer against him. “Who was the other one? The other person who broke your trust. Another lover?”

  She made a bitter sound. “Wasn’t a bloke that’s for sure. But just as low.”

  “A woman? Who?”

  She shook her head. “Doesn’t matter any more. Water under the bridge.”

  But it mattered to Flynn. If he were to change his stubborn little wench’s mind and convince her to marry him, he had to understand why she was so unable to trust him.

  But right now she was stirring in his arms, stretching and muttering about getting back to work. It would keep for another day. He’d made progress today.

  This morning all he’d wanted was to take her for a drive. Now they’d made love—twice. She was a tough little nut to be sure, but sweet and clean and decent and loving, and he wanted her more now than ever.

  He was a man who understood the long game, and he relished a challenge.

  * * *

  The next few weeks passed in a frenzy of activity for Daisy. She had taken the girls and Lady Bea to inspect her shop and Mrs. Foster as well, as her silent partner. They all had a fine time making suggestions, particularly for the decoration of the front part.

  Pale green and cream with touches of pink was the final color choice—cream wallpaper with an embossed design, and shades of green for the curtains and furniture, and a few touches of pink, including pink light-shades, which Daisy claimed would give a more flattering light.

  Mrs. Foster was hesitant to offer suggestions at first. “I’m supposed to be a silent partner, Daisy dear”—they were on first name terms these days—“so I don’t think I should.”

  Daisy grinned. �
��I don’t mind. I’ll tell you if you get too bossy.” She sobered a little. “It’s your money I’m spending and it’s the first time I’ve done anything like this. It’s been me dream for so long, but I always thought me first shop would be a barrow down Petticoat Lane or one of the markets, not something as posh as this.”

  Louisa Foster was a little bit posh, but also surprisingly practical and Daisy felt more comfortable having someone to share the decision-making with.

  Flynn too was very helpful and interested, but Daisy was a little wary of asking his advice—he had a tendency to take things over, did Flynn.

  Although . . . She thought of that first time in the attic, making love on the table. He hadn’t taken over then. He’d held back, letting her take the lead—and it wasn’t easy—she’d felt how tense and tight-strung he was with the effort of holding back for her, waiting until she was ready. Not many men would do that.

  The second time he’d taken her swift and hard and not quite so careful, letting himself go—a little bit rough, a little bit wild, but not quite out of control. A bold buccaneer kind of bedding that had driven her to the heights and over. She’d loved every minute of it, and her body had tingled and purred for ages afterwards.

  She hadn’t known it could be like that. Bloody glorious.

  She was twenty-two or -three, or thereabouts—an experienced woman who thought she knew everything there was to know about tupping, but Flynn had shown her she didn’t know as much as she thought.

  She knew about techniques and positions—the girls at Mrs. B’s were quite frank about that side of things, but it was all for the men’s pleasure, not theirs. Women had to pleasure themselves, they said, because men wouldn’t bother.

  Flynn had seen to Daisy’s pleasure every single time. He was a rare one, all right.

  Being pleasured like that, the first time slow and careful, treating her like something precious, or the second time, taking her lusty and vigorous—he could take her any way he liked and she’d like it. But it stirred up feelings in her, feelings she didn’t want to have.

  He was going to break her heart, Flynn was.

  When he finally understood that she’d never marry him, when he turned around and married the nice, genteel highborn lady he’d always wanted, it was going to kill her.

  She’d survive, she told herself. Life was full of ups and downs and one thing she’d learned: She was a survivor.

  Most days now she spent at the shop, supervising workmen—Bartlett had negotiated with the agent for a complete refit, bless him—interviewing women who could sew and embroider, getting in equipment and supplies, and getting things up and running.

  She dealt with the upper floors first—making them fit for her women to work in was her first priority. She had the walls scrubbed, sealed and painted and the floorboards sanded and polished to a satin smoothness—no sharp splinters or nails would be left sticking up to catch her precious fabrics on. The tables and benches too, she had cleaned and repolished.

  Next was the attic. The big table that she and Flynn had made love on—twice—was too big to take downstairs. It must have been put together on site. Daisy decided to make the attic her own area and use the table for plans and drafting. It was light and airy and she loved the view from the roof.

  She had it partitioned into two rooms, one three times the size of the other. She had the big one lined with shelving and storage cupboards. The small room contained the door to the roof space. She had the whole attic painted and furnished and installed a French enamel stove for winter warmth.

  Louisa Foster’s suggestion, those stoves—they were clean and the fire was fully enclosed so there would be no danger of flying sparks or hot coals or smoke escaping. Best of all, they were wonderfully warming, Louisa said—she found English houses so cold.

  Daisy took her word for it and had one installed on each floor. Women couldn’t sew with cold fingers. Besides, as well as being useful, they were elegant, unusual and French—toffs loved things like that—especially if they were French.

  By the time it came to decorating the ground floor area, Daisy’s fledgling business was up and running. She had half a dozen women working for her and the orders she’d been losing sleep over were all fulfilled, and more were coming in already.

  Once work commenced on the ground floor, Lady Beatrice took to visiting every few days. After the first visit, she had her own chair brought down, and sat enthroned in the middle of things, impervious to hints that she was in the way, with Featherby standing by in case she needed something. William was in Wales.

  She watched the workmen like a hawk, raising her lorgnette, and aiming her ebony cane to point out that they’d missed a bit. Daisy’s big rough workmen trod lightly around her, trying not to swear.

  “It’s a bit like workin’ with the queen watching,” one of them told Daisy.

  “Why do you keep comin’ back?” Daisy asked the old lady. “I thought you said talkin’ business was vulgar.”

  “It is. At the dinner table and on all other social occasions it does not do to exhibit a vulgar interest in money and the making of it. A lady does not even acknowledge that such a thing exists. That is men’s affair.”

  “Bugger that,” Daisy said. “Yeah, sorry, I know I’m supposed to be stoppin’ swearin’—but it’s only you and me here. So if it’s so bloomin’ vulgar, how come you keep dropping in here every second day? I didn’t think it’d be the kind of thing you’d be interested in at all, with all this dust and noise and big rough men clompin’ around.”

  “No, dear gel, but it helps keep my mind off Jane’s nonsense.” Jane had taken William and Polly and gone gallivanting off to Wales. On a wild goose chase, Daisy reckoned.

  “Besides,” the old lady added, “I do like to watch men exerting themselves to please a woman. I find it quite refreshing. Quite”—She raised her lorgnette to eye a young worker who’d had the temerity to remove his shirt and was working in a string vest, his muscles gleaming with sweat—“Stimulating.”

  The ladies of the literary society were also curious about Daisy’s new venture. They questioned her and Louisa about it endlessly during the breaks. They’d never known anyone who’d owned a shop, even though they shopped all the time.

  Shopkeepers were beneath them and they’d never given them a thought. A few of the ladies were disdainful, it was true, but they’d never approved of Lady Beatrice including Daisy in all her activities—one had by-blows in the family, of course—men would be men—but one needn’t acknowledge them, let alone include them in society events.

  “Pish tush to that nonsense,” Lady Beatrice had said—and Daisy agreed.

  Most of the ladies, though—especially Lady Beatrice’s particular friends—were excited and almost maternal on Daisy’s behalf. Somehow, despite her lowly origins and common accent and the occasional bad language that still slipped out, Daisy had become their pet.

  They were also fascinated by Louisa’s involvement as a silent partner. You could see them considering it was something they might like to do—posh ladies never had enough to do, and were always mad for some new novelty. And for the moment Daisy’s shop was it.

  This level of interest wouldn’t last, and Daisy was determined to make the most of it.

  “Would it be vulgar to have a bit of a party at my shop the day I open it?” she asked Lady Bea one evening after dinner.

  Lady Beatrice considered it. “Depends what you mean to do. How vulgar?”

  “I mean invite people to the shop, give ’em wine and little cakes. And have Abby and the girls dressin’ up, wearin’ clothes I made and showin’ them off.”

  Lady Beatrice’s mouth pulled down. “My gels dressing up? I don’t think—”

  “A ladies-only party,” Daisy said hurriedly, knowing the old lady wouldn’t like men staring at the girls. “And only people we know. Like the literary society, only wit
h clothes instead of books.”

  “No men?”

  “Nope. Ladies only, and an invited guest list.” Something a little bit exclusive and different. If they’d come, that is.

  “Hmm.” The old lady swung her lorgnette thoughtfully. “Let me think on it.”

  * * *

  “What are you going to name the shop?” Mrs. Foster asked. She, Abby and Damaris stood outside the newly refurbished premises, contemplating the display in the front window. Currently it was elegant and discreet—Daisy thought a bit too discreet—just a single long white satin glove and a length of silk draped over an elegant black wrought-iron stand, but Damaris loved it. The shop was due to open the following week.

  “Not sure yet,” Daisy said. The name of the shop had been a frequent subject for discussion in the last few weeks.

  “I thought just Daisy Chance, Ladies’ Fashions. Lady Bea reckons it should be Miss Chance, Mantua-maker—only mantua-makers make court dresses and I don’t, so I don’t like it.” Mantuas were old fashioned in Daisy’s opinion.

  “What about something French?” Mrs. Foster suggested.

  “Marguerite is French for Daisy,” Abby said.

  “That’s pretty,” Damaris agreed. “And you could have a daisy—like this.” She pulled out a small pad of paper and a pencil—she was never without one—drew something on it, and handed it to Daisy.

  Daisy admired the sketch. It was a simple stylized daisy, elegant and stylish. “That’s beautiful, Damaris. You’re so clever. How you make something come alive with a few quick lines . . . But I ain’t giving it a French name. I know it’s all the rage, but I ain’t French, and I ain’t going to pretend I am.”

  “Neither are—” Mrs. Foster began.

  Daisy cut her off. She’d already had this out with Lady Beatrice, who’d also favored a French name. “I know a lot of dressmakers pretend they’re French, but it makes them look stupid, I reckon. Everyone knows they’re faking it, and people just look down their noses when you pretend to be something you ain’t.