The prickling flash that sliced through Daisy couldn’t have been jealousy. Not at all. Not of the man who’d hurt her so badly. No, it was anger. That was it—anger that he was here on what should have been her night to celebrate the end of the house renovations and receive the baron and baroness’s gratitude. How dare he come here! Had he even been invited? Did he even know Baron and Baroness Hansen?
She groaned. Of course he knew them. He was the son of a baron himself, she kept forgetting. But who the devil was that woman, and why did she think she had the right to place her hand on his arm like that, as if they were bosom friends?
Daisy’s own hand tightened around her champagne flute. All right…perhaps she was just a tiny bit jealous. But blast it, she had a right to be after the way he’d kissed her and caressed her, after the way he’d told her how wonderful and special she was…and that he loved her.
She’d wanted to believe him, so very much! But how could she believe a man she couldn’t trust?
He looked up then and caught her staring. Surprise flashed across his face before he could hide his emotions, and for one painfully long moment, they held each other’s gaze across the room.
Then he turned back toward the beautiful woman at his side and smiled at her. But the woman’s cat-like green gaze landed curiously on Daisy before sliding sideways to Whitby to silently ask why he was staring at Daisy like that.
He leaned down to speak into her ear.
A startled expression gripped the woman’s face, and her gaze darted back to Daisy, then swept over her from head to toe. Her red lips formed a round O of recognition, but not at all the kind of appreciative recognition that the other guests had lavished on Daisy tonight.
No. This woman knew what had happened between them.
Daisy couldn’t bear to know that he’d talked about her, couldn’t tolerate the expression of grief that darkened his face as he continued to stare at her across the room. Or the way her broken heart pounded a painful reminder against her ribs of how he’d broken her trust.
“Excuse me,” she mumbled breathlessly as she fled the room, weaving around the guests as she rushed toward the hall. “Excuse me!”
She pushed her way through the house and hurried upstairs to the retiring room. There, she would be safe. She would have space and quiet to tamp down the fierce headache that throbbed behind her stinging eyes, to catch her breath and calm her heart. To find a place where she could gather her resolve and plaster on a smile to somehow take her through the rest of the evening. And when it was over, when she was safely home in her own room, then she could finally weep.
She paused outside the door and pulled in a deep breath to gain the appearance of calm. Then she put a smile on her face and stepped inside.
The first bedroom on the second floor had been transformed into a retiring room. The bed had been removed, along with the dresser and armoire, and in their places, half a dozen vanity tables with large oval mirrors hugged the side walls. Their tops were cluttered with pots of rouge and powders, puffs, brushes, hair pins…anything a female guest would need to freshen up during the evening, right down to a small sewing kit conveniently placed on a side table for torn hems. For privacy, four screens blocked off the corners and the chamber pots behind, while thickly padded benches filled the center of the room and gave the ladies a comfortable place to rest.
Three young ladies sat there now, lounging casually across the benches and gossiping with delight. They looked up when she entered, blinked at her without recognition, and ignored her to continue their self-titillating conversation.
Daisy slid onto a seat at one of the vanities. Heavens, she was shaking! The pale woman who stared back at her in the mirror was clearly just as miserable. It took her a long moment to recognize that the woman was her.
With resolve to endure the evening, she reached for a small rouge pot, although there wasn’t enough rouge in all of England to bring color back to her cheeks now.
“Can you believe what he’s wearing?” one of the women gushed in a voice meant to be secretive yet was loud enough for Daisy to overhear.
“His tailor must be blind,” piped up another.
The third lady interjected, “What tailor shop? A theatre, more likely.”
“A circus!”
They all laughed and waved their fans rapidly for air, as if that had been the funniest thing they’d heard all night.
Daisy’s eyes slid to the women’s reflection in the lower corner of her mirror as she removed her glove, laid it across the vanity top, and dabbed the color onto her bottom lip with her ring finger. They were exactly like the mean girls she remembered from school who’d teased her for excelling at math and mechanical drawings rather than music and watercolors. She’d never been happier than when she finished school and returned to London, when she began her real education in her father’s studio. Just like any other apprentice, except that she wore skirts.
“And that jacket!”
“That poor sheep was shorn for no good reason if that’s what became of its wool.”
“Who wears something like that—sky blue in the evening?”
Daisy froze, her fingertip resting against her bottom lip. They were talking about Whitby.
“Oh, but that red waistcoat beneath and dark blue cravat! That’s all that anyone can see when they look at him.”
“Because it makes his hair so much more garish—”
“And his face so white—
“He looks like a powdered French courtesan!”
Giggles bubbled out of them as they practically fell backward onto each other from laughter. One of them rudely imitated Whitby’s laugh until she sounded like a braying donkey.
Daisy straightened her back. “I think it’s wonderful for a man to want to brighten up the world instead of leaving it to those boring blacks and dark blues that the rest of the unimaginative dandies wear.” She slid a gaze over their dresses and sniffed disdainfully. “Or those weak pastels favored by misses who are just as bland and colorless as their clothes.”
All three of their mouths fell open, insulted but speechless.
Daisy fought to keep the trembling from her voice, both from anger and the confrontation she was delivering. She pinned their reflections beneath her gaze in the mirror. “You’re laughing at Mr. Hugh Whitby, correct? Baron Whitby’s son?”
The leader snapped her mouth closed and glared back. “That peacock, yes.”
“Hmm.” Now ignoring their reflections, she turned her attention back to coloring her lips. “Well, that peacock is one of the most charitable, kind-hearted, and fun-loving gentlemen I’ve ever had the pleasure to meet.” To make the prick sting more, she added, “Well-respected, from an aristocratic family, and with a new fortune to match—you know, the kind of man unmarried ladies are desperate to throw themselves at.” Her gaze flicked back to them and gave them a look that said she found them lacking. “Simply desperate.”
Two of the women glared at her, while the third was too dense to realize the insult behind Daisy’s words. Yet all three sat up straight, like cats brandishing their tails in readiness for a fight.
“A miss would truly have to be desperate to let herself be pursued by a man like that,” the leader countered, “regardless of who his father is or how much money he has. For goodness’s sake! That laugh alone is embarrassing, so is that toothy grin that stretches across his silly face. I would be utterly mortified to be married to a man like that!”
Another one piped up, “And the way he dresses—”
“Those colors are frightening!” The third woman forced a mocking shudder.
“Those colors brighten the world,” Daisy defended casually, paying them as little attention as possible as she reached for a puff and bowl of loose powder. “I’d rather have for a husband a loving and kind man who wants to spend his days spreading happiness and color than some aristocratic sheep in his boring clothes. I’d rather have for a husband a man who smiles and laughs than some formal, staid
one. Even if he smiles a bit too brightly and laughs a bit too loudly, I’d rather spend my days smiling and laughing right along with him than being in a painfully proper but joyless marriage.”
The three women didn’t know what to say to that. Perhaps they were simply shocked that she’d dared to interfere in their little hate session. Or that she’d come to Whitby’s defense.
But of course she did. After all, even now, he would have come to hers.
She fluffed a light dusting of powder to the tip of her nose and continued, “I shudder to think how horrible marriage would be to a man who pretends to take no joy in the world—or worse, who truly doesn’t. After all, if a man can’t openly show his delight for the world around him, how would he ever be able to show his delight in his wife?”
The three were stunned silent for a moment. Then their leader stood and shot an angry glare at her. Daisy could see it from the corner of her eye but didn’t give the woman the satisfaction of looking at her directly. She would dismiss them just as they’d dismissed the goodness in Whitby.
“If I had to suffer that buffoon and all the public humiliation he would bring to my marriage,” the woman declared, “then I’d rather be miserable!”
Daisy’s gaze shot to the woman and pinned her reflection in the mirror. “Don’t worry,” she warned in a low voice. “You will be.”
The young lady froze, then narrowed her eyes and seethed, “How dare you—”
“I agree,” a voice interjected from behind her. “So would every other married woman I’ve ever met.”
Daisy turned around on the little stool and lost her breath—
It was the woman who had been with Whitby. She’d slipped unnoticed into the room during their conversation and now leaned casually against the wall by the door.
“I’d much rather have a husband with a warm heart and bad taste in clothes than one with good taste and a cold heart,” the raven-haired woman continued. “Any smart woman would.”
Her bright gaze flicked across the room to meet Daisy’s, then returned to the three women as the other two scrambled to their feet, their faces flushing. The woman swept an assessing look over them from head to slippers, then sniffed and looked down to examine her fingernails. It was a gesture of such disdain that it couldn’t have been anything but a cut-direct.
The three young ladies realized it, too, and shifted awkwardly in their pastel pink slippers.
“Mr. Hugh Whitby is a good and kind-hearted man,” Daisy said, fully aware now that the woman who had been with Whitby was listening. “He’s considerate, charitable, generous to a fault—” She choked off. How hard it was to admit all that in front of the woman who had replaced her! But it was true, which made what he’d done to her so unbearable. She added quietly, “A woman would be fortunate to have his affections.”
“Yes,” the raven-haired woman echoed softly, but Daisy didn’t dare look at her then for fear she’d be able to read Daisy’s emotions on her face and see how much the woman’s comment wounded her. “She very much would be.”
Daisy pulled in a deep breath and leveled a hard gaze on the three. “So if I were you, I would stop talking about such a wonderful man behind his back and instead wonder what I could do to find a man like him to marry.” Dismissing them, she turned back to the mirror and reached for the powder puff, praying that none of them could see her hands shaking. “I think you’re wanted back at the party.”
With a loud humph, the first woman tossed her head indignantly and sashayed from the room. She shot a burning glare at the raven-haired woman who remained right where she was, still casually leaning against the wall and watching with an unimpressed gaze as the three left.
The door clicked shut behind them. Daisy’s shoulders sagged. Goodness, she was relieved to have that over!
Until the woman sat at the vanity next to hers.
“You handled that well,” she murmured to Daisy as she reached up to fuss with one of her hairpins although not a single dark strand was out of place.
“So did you,” Daisy grudgingly admitted and pushed away the unneeded powder.
“Hmm. I’ve never liked mean girls.” She dropped her hands to her lap, no longer bothering with the pretense of fixing her hair. She charged directly to the crux—“Whitby sent me. He was worried about you.”
Her heart panged with a mix of jealousy and betrayal. “So he told you who I was.”
A smile curled at her red lips as she reached for the perfume. “You’re the wonderful Miss Daisy Daring. He’s talked about little else but you for the past five months.” She lifted the glass stopper and sniffed the delicate scent. “He loves you, you know.”
Her breath strangled around the knot in her throat. “Hugh Whitby is in love with the world,” she rasped out, unable to keep the emotion from her voice. “His heart is that big and generous. He loves everything and everyone.”
“No, actually, he doesn’t. There are quite a few things he doesn’t like.”
Daisy’s gaze shot up in surprise to meet the woman’s in the mirror.
She shrugged and touched the stopper to her wrist. “He simply never comments on what he doesn’t like.”
The truth of that soaked through Daisy like a cold rain. How had she not noticed that about him before?
Because she’d been too struck by his eccentricity. Because she’d done exactly what she’d accused those three women of doing—not seeing beyond the surface. Remorse ached down to her bones.
The woman set down the perfume. “Someone might look at you and think you care for him, as well.” She arched a brow as she slowly rubbed her wrists together. “They might even say it’s love.”
Love…Daisy couldn’t deny it. Somehow amid all the picnics and school visits, the hours spent pouring over house plans and sharing their dreams, she’d fallen in love with Hugh Whitby.
But she wasn’t some silly goose who saw the world as a fairy tale waiting to come true.
Whitby had broken her trust once and jeopardized all she’d worked so hard to achieve, putting at risk not just her family but also her dream. How could she trust him not to do it again, this man who always spoke without thinking and acted so impulsively? The fact that he’d entered her drawings into the contest because he cared about her made the act no less perilous for her.
“You don’t need to worry about me,” Daisy assured her as she slipped off the stool and walked toward the door, somehow managing to keep her back straight and her tears at bay. “Whatever Whitby and I shared is over, and I won’t interfere between you.”
The woman gave an awkward, embarrassed laugh, as if Daisy could never compete with her for Whitby’s affections. “You mis—”
“I need to return to the party.” If she didn’t leave now, at this very moment, she would break into tears! Her shaking hand fumbled as she reached for the door. “I wish you—” she choked on the words. “I wish you both the best of luck.”
Daisy fled. Blinking hard, she hurried through the house as fast as she could for the front door, and with every step, her heart pounded brutally. Each thud echoed against her ribs and declared what a fool she was. Desperation threatened to consume her with the need to seek comfort outside in the cool air and darkness where no one could see her pain.
She stopped only when she reached the iron fence that encircled the square fronting the house, when she couldn’t run any farther. Gasping for breath, she sagged against the railing. Her hands gripped the metal, and she pressed her face between the bars as hot tears of grief broke free…for Whitby, for her dream of being an architect…for all that she could never have.
6
Month Six
Daisy took deep, controlled breaths and fought to keep from pinching herself to prove that tonight was truly happening.
The state rooms of St James’s Palace glowed. What seemed like hundreds of beeswax candles beamed from the crystal chandeliers and competed with the shine from the jewels and satins decorating the crowd of attendees who filled the red
carpeted reception hall, with white ostrich plumes donned by all the women and stark white stockings by the men. An army of footmen in immaculate palace livery and old-fashioned powdered wigs carried an endless supply of drinks through the crowd on large silver trays, and a quartet of musicians played quietly in the corner. The entire spectacle shimmered and mesmerized with its uncompromising grandeur.
Daisy couldn’t help but stare in awe, not knowing where to look first. She’d never been to the palace before, never been to any kind of royal function. If anyone had told her six months ago that she would be here because of her architectural designs, she would have laughed right in his face. But then, six months ago, she never would have attended even if she’d been invited. She would have been too ashamed of not being able to measure up to the fine gowns worn by the other ladies who had spent a small fortune on their satins, jewels, and decorations. But that was before she’d stopped caring about what people wore or how plain her gown looked with only her mother’s string of pearls to decorate it and a single ostrich plume for her hair. Being with Whitby had taught her that.
Tonight, she simply delighted in being here.
What delighted her most of all, though, was that the house plans from all six finalists had been mounted on boards and placed on easels throughout the reception room. All the guests could see how grand the plans were and judge for themselves which architect had presented the best plans.
As if reading her mind, her father leaned over to speak quietly into her ear, “Your drawings are the best of all.”
She lifted her glass of champagne to her lips to hide her pleased blush. Elias Daring was never generous with compliments. Not even for his children.
“Our drawings.” Her smile didn’t fade as she reached over to squeeze his hand. Our…exactly as it should have been. After all, she might have created the plans, but he had laid the foundations. Everything she knew about architecture and design had been learned at his knee, then broadened as her experience and skills grew. He deserved to share in this evening.
If a Lady Lingers Page 10