The Summer Bride (A Chance Sisters Romance)

by Anne Gracie

  Daisy sighed.

  There was a long silence. They jolted along for a while, and then hit a smooth patch of road. “You didn’t look in your heart, did you?”

  Daisy shrugged.

  “Then why all the gloom? If I have to sit here, looking at that miserable Friday face all the way to London I’ll want to shoot myself before we get there.”

  Daisy sighed. “He put such a lovely face on it when I told him. He’s thrilled about the baby and is acting all pleased and happy about the wedding.”

  “Acting?”

  She looked up. “Well, he’s bound to be disappointed, ain’t he? I mean, I’m nothing like the kind of wife he wanted, but he’s pretending as if he couldn’t be more pleased.” She felt her face crumpling and fought the urge to weep her heart out.

  The old lady watched her with shrewd old eyes. “There are worse things in life than disappointment.”

  Daisy said nothing.

  “I disappointed my husband by being unable to give him a son—or any child at all.” She sighed. “His disappointment was nothing to mine, of course. I grieved for years.” Lost in thought, the old lady stared unseeing at the countryside slipping past the window, then added, “He never loved me, you know.”

  Daisy moved from her seat, which faced backward, to sit beside the old lady. She slipped her fingers into the gnarled old hand and squeezed. “He was a fool then.” Lady Bea was filled with love. Look at the way she’d lavished it on the four of them, who were no relation to her.

  Lady Bea gave her a smile. “There are worse things than disappointment. But I think you do Mr. Flynn an injustice. He’s always struck me as a man who knows exactly what he wants, and apparently he wants you.”

  “But I’m not a lady and he always said—”

  “Oh, for Heaven’s sake! It’s all the fault of that harridan who raised you. Have a bit of faith in yourself gel—or if you can’t, have faith in Flynn. He’s the kind of man you can rely on—but that’s half your problem—you don’t like relying on other people, do you? Another thing to blame on that dreadful woman. Have you talked to him about your worries?”

  “What’s the point? He’ll only lie to save me feelings.”

  “Says the girl who isn’t afraid. Have you asked yourself why that is—why you think he’s lying to you, and why you’re afraid to tell him how you feel?”

  Daisy knew why he was lying—because he was so noble and decent and good and kind, and not the sort of man who hurt women’s feelings. Look at how he’d treated Lady Elizabeth. If he’d ended up married to her he would have put on exactly the same face, Daisy was sure.

  He would never let on Daisy was a disappointment. The thought of living with that for the rest of her life was like a knife in her breast.

  “Might it be that he loves you?”

  Daisy shook her head. He couldn’t. He’d never said so, though there had been plenty of opportunities. He’d only turned to Daisy because she was there—and available—after he’d been disappointed by Lady Elizabeth. And because he thought he’d seduced her.

  “Might it be that you love him?”

  Daisy bit her lip. Of course she loved him. How could she not? And loving him as she did, she knew she was the last person he should marry.

  But the babe had changed everything.

  * * *

  The wedding was set for the first of June—the first day of summer. Lady Beatrice refused to countenance a hasty marriage by special license—they would have the banns called, like decent people. Nobody would accuse her nieces of needing to get married in a rush—even if they did. And when the baby was born, if people counted the months—well, that would only be those with vulgar, commonplace minds, and there was no need to take any notice of that sort of person. What business was it of theirs, anyway?

  In any case, the first of June was the earliest date that St. George’s Hanover Square, Lady Beatrice’s local parish church, was free for a large wedding. Lady Beatrice and Featherby had thrown themselves into the arrangements with gusto. All Daisy had to do was design the dresses for herself and the girls, and have them made up. And turn up on the day.

  Flynn only had to turn up. She hadn’t seen a lot of Flynn since they’d returned to London—only in company, crowded company at that. He’d turned up to the house but she’d been “out.” He’d sent notes but she’d replied saying she was “busy with the wedding arrangements” which was a big fat lie. He’d even sent messages to the shop, asking about “gloves,” but she’d returned them, saying there were none available.

  She didn’t want to face him. She was feeling worse and worse about this wedding.

  I know you’re only marrying me for the babe.

  She thought about it all the time, that conversation in the moonlight. It was true that she was marrying him for the sake of the baby—but it wasn’t the whole truth.

  She couldn’t escape the thought that Flynn thought he was coming off second best to a shop. That she cared more about her shop than him.

  And that wasn’t true.

  It might have been, once, but she’d done a lot of thinking lately, looking into her heart, as Lady Bea put it, and what she truly wanted, more than anything else in the world was for Flynn to love her, truly love her. As she loved him.

  And the thing that she feared was that she’d fail him, let him down. Hurt him, as she feared she already had.

  She wasn’t the kind of wife he’d always wanted, but she was clever and hard-working, and she could do anything she put her mind to. She would work and learn and become the best wife to Flynn she could possibly be.

  She’d had to fight for every single thing in her life, and dammit she was going to fight for Flynn too.

  She sent a note around to Louisa Foster. And then made a list of what she had to do.

  It took a few days, but when she’d done all she’d set out to do, she sent a note to Flynn, telling him that his gloves had arrived, and he could collect them at eight the following evening at the usual address.

  And then she waited.

  * * *

  Her workers had all left for the day. Rain spattered fitfully against the window. It was gray and dreary outside. No sign of summer coming yet. She lit candles in their little attic room, and waited, rehearsing her speech in her head.

  She straightened the bedclothes, nervously tidying, even though there was nothing out of place. Finally he came. He reached for her, but she skittered back, holding up her hands as if to ward him off.

  “Sit down, Flynn. I have something I need to say to you.”

  He gave her a searching look, shrugged, then sat on the bed.

  She took a deep breath. “I’m sorry—I know you probably think I’ve ruined your life, but—”

  “You haven’t—”

  “Let me finish, please. It’s hard enough to say what I want to tell you without you interruptin’.”

  “Very well. Go ahead then.” He sat back on the bed, folded his arms and waited, giving her his full, blue-eyed, come-to-bed attention. Which of course only made it that much harder. But Daisy was determined to get through the speech she’d been rehearsing in her mind for days.

  “You said that night in the country that you knew I was only marrying you because of the baby—and that’s true—to a point. But I want you to know that if . . . if I was a different kind of person, someone like Lady Elizabeth maybe, I’d marry you like a shot, Flynn.”

  He frowned. “If you’re tryin’ to tell me you’re one of them ladies of Llangollen, I won’t believe you.”

  She made an impatient gesture. “No, I mean if I was a proper lady—born a lady, I mean, with perfect manners and a pretty way of speaking instead of soundin’ like I belong with the barrow boys down the market—and I know I should, but—”

  “You’re talking nonsense, girl.”

  “Just let me exp
lain, will you? And stop lookin’ at me like that—you’re makin’ me get all tangled up.” It had sounded so reasonable and simple in her head. “You said something that night that made me think you thought I wasn’t happy about this marriage, that I didn’t want to marry you.”

  “If I said that—”

  “Hush! I do and I don’t. The part of me that’s selfish wants to marry you, the part of me that I would like to think is noble—but really it’s just cowardly and afraid—that part doesn’t.”

  “I prefer the selfish part.”

  “And I think you think that you come second in me affections to the shop.”

  He said nothing to that. And now she didn’t know if that was because he did think that, or because he was finally not interrupting.

  “So I’ve given away the shop.”

  “What? Given aw—”

  She made a sharp gesture and he subsided, a peculiar look on his face. She continued, “If I’m going to be your wife, I’m going to do it properly, all the way. Society wives don’t keep shops, and I don’t want to embarrass you—and it would if you had guests who were also my customers. So it’s gone—the shop. I hope you weren’t counting on getting it when we marry, because it ain’t mine anymore.”

  “Who did—?”

  “Louisa, me silent partner. Now shush—I’m not finished.” She took a deep breath, and said it, the thing she’d been afraid of saying all along. “I love you, Flynn. I really truly do—I’m not just saying it to please you—you know I’m a rotten liar.”

  His gaze softened. “I know.” He reached for her.

  “And I know you’re bein’ noble and—no, don’t touch me, I’m not finished. I know I’m all wrong for you, but I promise you, Flynn, you won’t regret it. I’m going to do everything I can to make me-myself into the kind of wife you can be proud of. I’ll learn to behave like a proper lady—Lady Beatrice will help me. I’m going to stop swearing and learn good grammar, and—”

  “Deliver baskets of food to me poor?”

  She narrowed her eyes at him. “Don’t you dare make a joke of this, Patrick Flynn. I’m dead serious here.”

  “You are, aren’t you, ye daft wee besom.” He leaned forward, tugged her forward and into his arms, and rolled with her on the bed.

  “I’m not finished,” she told him.

  “Yes, you are. Now it’s your turn to listen to me.”

  “But—”

  He kissed her. “Ready to listen now?”

  “I haven’t expl—”

  He kissed her again. “Keep talkin’. Every time you open your mouth, I’ll kiss you.”

  She pressed her lips together and glowered at him. He wasn’t taking any of this seriously.

  “I’ve been a big eedjit in the way I handled this whole thing,” he told her. “The first thing I should have told you, and didn’t, was that I love you, Daisy-girl.”

  She looked up at him, her eyes wide.

  “I love you with all my heart and soul. You’re the other half of me, girl, don’t you know that?” He kissed her, long and possessively, and it was a declaration and an affirmation, and if she didn’t believe him at first, if she thought he was only saying it to be kind, the murmured words and endearments between kisses soothed at least some of the doubts.

  Soon they were both trembling with need and with one accord they stripped off their clothes and fell back on the bed.

  He reached for her, then hesitated. “Is it safe to do this? It won’t hurt the baby, will it?”

  “It’s safe,” she told him—she’d checked with Abby—and drew him down to her.

  He made love to her then with a quiet intensity that brought tears to her eyes, murmuring endearments and repeating his declaration of love, and it was a forerunner—their own private vow-making. With my body I thee worship.

  They climaxed together, their bodies in perfect harmony, and afterward lay in silence, curled together, listening to the light patter of rain against the overhead window, and the dripping of water in the pipes. Beyond their little haven, the huge metropolis of London rattled on, indifferent to the falling night, ever busy, ever changing.

  He held her close, quietly, skin to skin down the length of their bodies, warm and replete, one hand stroking her almost absently. She felt worshiped, felt cherished. And loved.

  She believed him when he said he loved her—he had affectionate ways, did Flynn—but she still knew she was the wrong kind of wife for him.

  He could make a joke of it, pretend he didn’t mind that she wasn’t a proper lady, but she minded. He deserved the best, and she vowed to herself that he would get it.

  She could do whatever she set her mind to. She would become the wife he needed.

  “It’s a funny thing, love,” he said after a while. “I reckon I loved you all along, almost from the first, but I was so set on—”

  “Marrying a fine lady.”

  “Exactly, that I couldn’t see what was there, under me nose all the time. The sweetest, bravest, lovingest, prickliest, stubbornest girl in the world.”

  She wrinkled her nose. “Stubborn?”

  He gave a huff of amusement and kissed her nose. “You are, darlin’, but I even love that about you.”

  There was a long silence. She wasn’t used to people saying “I love you”—not to her. Not meaning it the way he did. It made her feel so humble. So unworthy.

  “I will become a proper lady, Flynn, I promise you.”

  He made a small exclamation and propped himself on one elbow to look at her. “Are you still on about that? For God’s sake Daisy, I told you I love you—does that not mean anything to you?”

  “It means everything to me,” she said, her eyes filling with tears. “Which is why—”

  He kissed her. “You’re talkin’ nonsense again. I don’t want a perfect lady—I want you!”

  Flynn looked into her wide, doubting eyes, and shook his head. She didn’t really believe him—and who could blame her, the way he’d gone on about the finest lady in London. Fool that he’d been, prattling about perfect ladies when he’d had the perfect woman right in front of him all the time.

  She wasn’t a girl who trusted easily, his Daisy, and it wasn’t surprising, the way she’d been treated all her life. As far as he could tell every single person she’d ever cared about had let her down—except for her sisters and Lady Bea and she’d only been with them for a year.

  He had a lifetime in which he’d teach her different. But right now he had to make her understand.

  Chapter Twenty

  I cannot fix on the hour, or the spot, or the look or the words, which laid the foundation. It is too long ago. I was in the middle before I knew that I had begun.

  —JANE AUSTEN, PRIDE AND PREJUDICE

  “Daisy, love, the way that old bitch from the brothel talked to you that time . . . it’s no wonder you don’t want to believe me. All your life she was runnin’ you down, dragging you down, tellin’ you you were rubbish, a joke, tryin’ to make you less than you are. God, darlin’, how you grew up with that and came out the other end so strong and sweet and decent—”

  She made a small muffled sound of denial.

  “Yes, you are. You’re like . . .” He searched his mind for a way to make her understand. “You’re like Damascus steel.”

  “Steel?” She pulled a doubtful face.

  “Damascus steel is famous—the best quality steel ever. It’s well-hammered in the making, tempered by fire and quenched in dragon’s blood—that’s you, growing up tough. Swords made of Damascus steel are the finest in the world.”

  She squinted up at him, as if wondering whether he was serious. “Gawd, Flynn. I reckon I know who the dragon was but really . . . You reckon I’m like one of them swords?”

  “You are,” he assured her. “Strong, beautiful, flexible, and wonderfully sharp. And
greatly prized.”

  She snorted. “And here I was, thinking I was the sheath and you was the sword.” Her hand moved to caress his “sword” and he laughed.

  They made love again. But when it was over and they lay quietly, listening to the dripping of the rain in the pipes and the rattle of the carts over the cobbles, he knew he hadn’t yet made her understand. That she’d turned it into a joke because it made her uncomfortable to think that she was good and fine and worthy of love.

  “I can see I’m goin’ to have to explain it, where I got that ‘finest lady’ notion from—or rather, where I think I got it from, for God only knows how some ideas get lodged in our brain.”

  He tucked her against him. “I told you about me mam and da’, back in Ireland, and how it all ended.”

  She nodded.

  “For years I tried not to think about them, tried not to remember. It was too painful.” She slid her arms around him and hugged him, half draped across his chest, warm and soft. She didn’t yet trust that he truly loved and wanted her, but she was a loving, generous little soul, his Daisy.

  “Since I’ve been in London, I’ve been remembering more and more. Would you believe it was a blue teapot that started me thinkin’.” He told her about the tea setting he’d seen in the shop window and how it had sparked a memory and how it had helped unravel all of his thinking about Lady Elizabeth.

  “See, the first time I saw her, she was pourin’ out tea for her guests, and somehow, it made me think she was the one.”

  She gave him an odd look. “You were goin’ to marry her because of a teapot?”

  He laughed. “Not exactly. It was what the teapot symbolized—and I didn’t even know it meself, at the time. Until a certain girl’s kiss brought me to me senses.”

  She kissed his chest and rubbed her cheek against him.

  “Later I realized there was more to it than just that—things I’d forgotten, ideas that got somehow twisted up in me mind.”

  He told her how he remembered his father, during the good times, before the accident, saying he’d married the finest young lady in three counties. “And Mam would laugh and blush, and say, ‘Only three counties, is it?’ And Da would pull her onto his lap and say, ‘The whole country, lass—I married the finest lass in all of Ireland.’ And he’d kiss her.