The Summer Bride (A Chance Sisters Romance)

by Anne Gracie

  “It’s me shop,” Daisy said at last. “It’s been me dream for so long—all me life since I first picked up a needle and thread and sewed me first dress.”

  The old lady’s stare bored into her. “That’s it? A shop is preventing you from marrying the finest man I’ve met in a long time?”

  Daisy hunched a shoulder. “It’s been all I ever worked for, all I ever dreamed of. And if I marry him, I lose it. That’s the law.”

  “Pfft!”

  ‘It’s true—”

  “Pffffft! And piffle! A shop is a thing. It can be bought or sold—or even burned down!” Daisy crossed her fingers to avert bad luck. The old lady continued, “A shop can’t talk to you, or argue, or offer comfort or encouragement. A shop can’t love you.”

  Daisy bit her lip. She didn’t need love. She’d done just fine in her life without it.

  “You can’t choose between a shop and a person.”

  “Yes I can.” Trouble was, there were two persons, not one. Flynn and the baby.

  The old lady pursed her lips and eyed her thoughtfully. “And what of Mr. Flynn? Will you deny him even the knowledge of the child?”

  “What he doesn’t know can’t hurt him,” Daisy muttered, but that wasn’t true. How many hours had she spent in her life wondering about her mother, her father, what had happened? And why? Dreaming up all sorts of stories to account for why they had to abandon her.

  Sometimes what you didn’t know was an unhealed wound that quietly festered.

  There was a long silence. Outside the wind whistled around the eaves. Lady Beatrice shifted, pulling her bedclothes around her. “And the babe?”

  Daisy’s mouth trembled. “I don’t know,” she whispered. “I thought I could give her away, but . . .”

  “Oh, it’s a her now, is it?”

  Daisy nodded. She didn’t know how it had happened, but somehow the baby had become a person to her, a little girl with dark curly hair and big blue eyes like her daddy, and she couldn’t, she just couldn’t give her away to be raised by strangers who might not care for her properly, might not love her.

  “I thought there might be some . . . some way we could keep her with us. Here.”

  “Did you just? Raise your little bastard in my house? Society would love that, I’m sure. They’d flock to your shop then, wouldn’t they?”

  Daisy flinched at the hard truths flung at her in a hard voice. She looked up, wounded. She’d hoped the old lady would help her, somehow make it all right.

  Lady Beatrice gave an unrepentant shrug. “Nasty word isn’t it? But that’s what you’ll make of her if you don’t marry Mr. Flynn—a little bastard. You know what that’s like, don’t you, Daisy—to be a bastard. I don’t imagine it’s very nice.”

  Daisy had no answer to that. Even in the lowest gutters of London, a bastard was the lowest of the low.

  “I know, but what else can I do?” Her face crumpled.

  “Oh, come here, dearest gel.” Lady Beatrice held out her arms and Daisy fell into them, sobbing.

  “I hate this—I never cry,” Daisy said on a hiccup some time later.

  “I know. Abby’s the same. I am told women in your condition are more subject to tears. I wouldn’t know.” The old lady stroked a straggle of damp hair back from Daisy’s temple and handed her a wisp of lace. Daisy blotted her eyes with it.

  “Feeling better? A good cry can do you the world of good, they say. As good as a—well, what I hope you experienced with Mr. Flynn—though that’s nonsense of course. Those who say it have obviously never had a good man in their bed, I say. It simply doesn’t compare. And it does make a mess of your face—crying I mean, not the other.”

  Daisy gave a shaky laugh. The old girl did love to shock.

  She smiled and patted Daisy’s hand. “Now go and wash your face and take yourself off to bed, young lady and think about what you’re going to do.”

  Daisy blinked at her. “But I thought . . . I mean, you love telling people what to do.”

  “I do. But in this case you don’t need my advice.”

  “Yes, I do.”

  The old lady shook her head. “Only you can decide this—you will be the one who will have to live with whatever decision you make. You and the babe and Mr. Flynn. But first you have to work out what it is you’re so afraid of.”

  “Afraid?”

  She nodded. “Yes, afraid. Daisy Chance, my brave little gel who confronts the world head-on, who kicked a large and appallingly nasty cook on the first day we met, is afraid.”

  Daisy bit her lip. She wanted to deny it, but she couldn’t. She was afraid of the future, afraid for the baby. But a girl had her pride, so she managed to retort in something of her usual manner, “What am I afraid of, then?”

  “I don’t know, dearest gel,” the old lady said softly. “Whatever the source of your fear, it is buried deep inside you. Look inside your heart, child, for what you truly want. And then ask yourself what you’re so afraid of. Because until you know what it is—and confront it—you’ll be forever running, and never knowing why.”

  * * *

  She couldn’t decide, she couldn’t decide, she couldn’t decide. It was bloody impossible.

  Daisy turned over in bed for the hundredth time and thumped her pillow also for the hundredth time. She could blame the bed—they were in the country, at Jane’s new home, and sleeping in a strange bed was always tricky the first few nights. But it wasn’t the bed.

  Nor was her sleeplessness the fault of the strange, unnerving sounds that came out of the night. Those screams, like a person being tortured, were foxes, apparently. Mating. So foxes screamed too. And then there were owls . . .

  She hated the country. Full of creepy-crawlies. Good thing they’d be going back to London in a couple of days. She couldn’t wait.

  But the country and the foxes weren’t keeping her awake. Her thoughts went round and round.

  Lady Bea was wrong about her being afraid. She’d thought about it and the only thing that frightened Daisy was the future of her baby. And that was frightened for, not frightened of.

  It was just deciding what to do that was keeping her up.

  It was obvious what she should do. She would keep the baby, raise her herself, and if Lady Bea didn’t want her in the house, Daisy would move out. She’d find a small house, maybe even just a set of rooms at first, and pay someone to look after the baby during the day while she was at the shop.

  She could do the whole thing discreetly. If she did it properly, her customers would never even know.

  Hiding away her baby like she was ashamed of her.

  She turned over and thumbed the pillow again.

  Bastard. It was an ugly term. It’d hang over her daughter the whole of her life.

  Daisy had embraced her own bastardy—told everyone from the start that she was born on the “wrong side of the blanket.” But that was because she had no choice—she was a bastard, and as different from her “sisters” as chalk from cheese. “Wrong side of the blanket” explained everything.

  Most families, most high-society families had a bastard or two tucked away. A few of the higher-ups, who didn’t care what others thought, acknowledged their bastards; most hid them away like a dirty little secret.

  Like Harriet in that book Emma—she never knew who she was really. Just that “somebody” had paid for her upkeep and education. She was a posh version of Daisy. Unwanted. Dumped, only in a nice genteel school instead of the gutter.

  Daisy pressed her palms over her stomach. It was a simple choice: marry Flynn, lose her shop, make her child legitimate—and secure for life, because Flynn was rich. And because he’d love this little girl to bits.

  Or give birth to a bastard and raise her as a dirty little secret.

  No choice at all, really.

  Why then was it so bloody hard to mak
e up her mind?

  She’d have to have a talk—no, something more serious—a discussion with Flynn, but that shouldn’t be too hard, surely? He’d be pleased, she knew—he’d made no secret of wanting kids. And she liked Flynn, she really did. And he liked her. Even if she wasn’t the kind of girl he’d always dreamed of marrying. The complete opposite, in fact.

  He’d already asked her to marry him a dozen times or more, though she was sure that was just him being noble. He still thought her a decent girl, even after she’d told him everything about the brothel and all. So he’d be noble now and marry her and the baby. And pretend it was exactly what he’d wanted all along. Because that was Flynn.

  It should be simple. But it bloody well wasn’t.

  Was it the shop? She didn’t know. She loved her shop, but Lady Bea was right—when it came down to a choice between being her own boss and having her lovely shop and becoming a famous fashionable dressmaker—or giving this little one the kind of life she deserved, it was no choice.

  She could lose the shop. It would be hard, after all she’d done to make it happen, but she’d proved to herself she could do it—be a success. Once they were married, Flynn would own it. But he’d be fair about it. He might let her continue dropping in there—she could probably design the clothes, if not run the shop. He might even give the shop back to her. He did say she should trust him.

  But married men expected their wives to stay home, to run the household, and raise the children. Be a wife. Be a lady. Be a hostess.

  She wouldn’t much like it, she wouldn’t be much good at it, not at first, but she supposed she could learn.

  She shivered. She had to bite the bullet. She had to tell Flynn.

  Tomorrow.

  * * *

  All day she’d put off talking to him. Avoiding being alone with him. Dreading the talk she knew she had to have. The conversation.

  He knew something was up too. He was watching her like a hawk. Like an owl. Like one of those blooming foxes. She was ready to scream herself—only not for the same reason.

  And now, to make things worse, all the others—all the young people—had gone outside—in couples. Because it was a lovely warm night for a change, and a full moon. Romantic.

  The only ones left in the sitting room were old people—and Flynn and Daisy.

  He looked at her with the sort of brooding dark look that made her shiver. If there weren’t no baby, no discussion to be had, she’d be out there with him like a shot, enjoying the moonlight. Acting like foxes.

  Instead she avoided his gaze.

  “Well,” Lady Beatrice said, “are you two going or staying?”

  “Stayin’.” Daisy picked up a pack of cards and started to shuffle them—badly. Her hands were shaking. “The country gives me the creeps at night. Anyone for cards?”

  Flynn gave her a long, dry look and rose to his feet. “I might as well walk the dog, then. Come on Caesar or Rose Petal or whatever your name is, we can bay at the moon together.” He stepped through the French windows, with Jane’s ugly dog snuffling happily beside him.

  Lady Beatrice watched him leave. “Waste of a fine man like that, leaving him to bay at a full moon—alone—with a dog!” she informed the room in general. She turned to Daisy, lorgnette raised and said in a low voice, “Haven’t you talked to that boy yet?”

  Daisy shrugged.

  The old lady snorted. “So you’re still afraid, still running.”

  Daisy looked at her. “No. I ain’t afraid. But since you mention it, I might as well get it over with.” She stomped outside. “Oy, Flynn, wait for me.”

  Chapter Nineteen

  What one means one day, you know, one may not mean the next. Circumstances change, opinions alter.

  —JANE AUSTEN, NORTHANGER ABBEY

  The country was a horrible place at night. Downright creepy. Bushes shivered, trees creaked, their leaves whispering and slithering. Creatures lurked in, behind and under all of it. And the moon might be full and bright, a big fat golden ball up in the sky, but it turned everything to shadows. Moving, shifting, creepy shadows.

  Give her a dark London alley any day.

  Daisy heard a horrible snuffling sound, turned, saw a tall shadow move and almost jumped out of her skin.

  “Gawd, Flynn, you and that dog gave me such a start.” She hurried forward and grabbed hold of his arm. Damn. She hadn’t intended to be so friendly—she’d planned a calm, rational discussion.

  “Changed your mind about joining me, sweetheart?” And before she could say anything, he was kissing her.

  And dammit, she was kissing him back, as if she had no blooming willpower of her own. Oh, how she’d missed this, missed him, and it was only a few days. It just felt like weeks.

  His hand moved to cup her breast and the twinge of sensitivity there was enough to recall her to her senses. She wasn’t here for a bit of a kiss and cuddle under the moon—there was a discussion to be had.

  She wriggled out of his embrace. And immediately felt the chill of the night surround her.

  “Something wrong, Daisy?” She couldn’t see his face. It was in shadow.

  She took a deep breath. “Did you mean it about wanting to marry me?”

  “Yes.” Not a shred of hesitation.

  “You still want to?”

  “Yes. What’s all this about, Daisy? You’ve been acting like a cat with wet paws ever since your sister’s wedding.”

  “Are you sure? About marrying me, I mean.” She wished she could see his face, see what he was thinking, but he was just a tall dark silhouette.

  “Yes I’m sure, dammit. Why?”

  She swallowed. “I’m havin’ a baby.” For a long moment he didn’t say anything—there was just the sound of things scuttling in the bushes, or maybe it was the dog. So she added to make it clear, “We’re havin’ a baby.”

  “Are you sure?”

  She nodded, scanning the shadowed face desperately, trying to read his expression in the darkness.

  And then she saw a flash of white teeth. There was a loud whoop! and she was seized in a pair of strong arms and twirled around and he was hugging and kissing her, so happy, so excited.

  She felt quite sick. And not from the twirling.

  Eventually he put her down, and somehow, in the darkness, found a bench for them to sit on. He sat and pulled her onto his knees, tucking her against his chest. She was grateful for his warmth. The moonlight lit his face now and she was glad, because it meant hers was in shadow, and he wouldn’t be able to see how she felt.

  “When’s it due?”

  She hadn’t even counted. “I’m not sure. I think around Christmas.”

  “Christmas? That’s grand. A Christmas baby.” He hugged her, rocking her slightly, saying nothing for a few minutes. She waited for the next question.

  It took a while to come. “How—I mean, I’m desperate glad about the baby, of course—you can’t know how I feel at this moment, Daisy-girl”—but his voice broke a little and his arms tightened around her—“but I assumed you were doing something to prevent . . .”

  “I was. But not . . . the first time.”

  “Ah, the table, was it?” He bent and kissed her. “What kind of a weddin’ do you want? Quick and quiet or big and splashy?”

  “What would you like?”

  “Big and splashy for preference, but maybe since this little one is comin’ along”—he caressed her belly lightly—“we’d better make it quick and splashy. Do you think you could manage that? You’ll be wanting to make yourself a beautiful dress, I know.”

  “I can manage it.” She was almost in tears. He was so generous, so accepting, such a good, dear, noble man. You’d think from the way he was reacting that this was exactly what he’d always dreamed of. And maybe the baby was.

  But dreaming of a wife like Daisy? Never.


  “Are you all right, love? Only you seem a bit quiet.”

  “Just a bit tired,” she said.

  He smiled. “That’ll be the baby.” He sounded so satisfied, so happy. She felt a tear roll down her cheek and surreptitiously scrubbed it away.

  “I think I’d like to go inside now. It’s cold. You wouldn’t know summer is around the corner, would you?”

  “Are we telling people yet?” he asked.

  She shook her head. “Not yet—not until I start to show. I’ve only told Lady Bea so far—well I had to tell someone,” she added, seeing his face fall a little. Guilt stirred. The father ought to be the first to know.

  He shifted her in his arms so he could see her face, and in a quiet voice asked, “Are you all right about this wedding, Daisy?” He waited. “I mean, you’ve refused me every other time, so I know you’re only marrying me for the babe. And that’s fine and dandy by me, in case you’re worryin’ about it. But are you all right about it?”

  She forced a smile. “Yeah, I’m happy about it, Flynn, don’t worry.”

  “Is it the shop? Because you know I’ll give it right back to you, the minute we’re married.”

  “It’s not the shop. I’m just a bit tired and, you know”—she touched her belly—“feelin’ a bit sick.”

  It wasn’t quite a lie. She did feel sick, only it wasn’t the babe making her feel sick. It was herself.

  * * *

  “So you told him,” Lady Beatrice observed. She and Daisy were in her carriage, returning to London.

  “Yes, I told him.”

  “And? Ouch! My dratted bones will never be the same!” she added as the carriage bumped over another set of potholes. It was a very well sprung carriage, but the road was in a bad state. “Jane and her party. Why people wish to live in this godforsaken wilderness is beyond me! So what did he say?”

  “We’re going to get married.”

  “Excellent. When?”

  Daisy shrugged. “Soon, I suppose. Before I start to show.”

  The old lady snorted. “Contain your enthusiasm, will you?”