The Summer Bride (A Chance Sisters Romance) (15 page)

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.

*   *   *

F
lynn was still in a filthy mood that evening. He wrestled with his neckcloth while Tibbins hovered, watching Flynn’s efforts with a pained expression. But Flynn was a grown man and could dress himself, dammit, so he’d waved the valet off.

He’d been invited to a ball tonight, and dancing and doing the pretty to a bunch of toffs was the last thing he wanted to do.

But what he wanted to do—which was take Daisy to bed—wasn’t blasted well possible.

Lady Elizabeth was neatly off the scene, even her father had left town—no doubt fleeing his creditors—and Flynn needed to refocus his attention on the process of finding himself a wife.

But he couldn’t get Daisy out of his mind.

It was lust, that was the problem—unfulfilled desire, clouding his judgement. What he needed was a woman—any woman—in his bed. And that alone was a good enough reason for attending this blasted ball.

Since he’d come to London, he’d been remarkably restrained as far as women were concerned. It didn’t seem right to him to be courting one woman and tupping another at the same time, so he’d remained more or less celibate—and therein lay his problem.

Frustration interfered with a man’s ability to think clearly, which was why he was going to the blasted ball.

From the start of the Season—and before—he’d had more invitations than he could count; some subtle, some blatant. Married women, widows, all ages, all shapes. He preferred widows; he was no saint, but he had no desire to come between a man and his wife. And he was not the kind of man who seduced innocents.

Apart from Daisy.

He flung his fourth mangled neckcloth aside. “Dammit, Tibbins, you tie the blasted thing!”

With an expression of unbearable smugness Tibbins stepped smoothly into the breach with a new starched neckcloth.

Flynn felt like strangling him with it. He wouldn’t have to put up with this kind of behavior on a ship! Valets and butlers telling him what to do!

But he knew the real source of his fury. And the solution.

He’d go to the ball, find some willing woman and ride her until they were both senseless. And then he’d get his life back on track.

*   *   *

T
hree hours later, he found himself leaning against a fluted plaster column, glowering at the colorful throng of ladies and gentlemen, dancing, laughing, flirting, conversing—all so damned jolly, blast them.

He’d danced with a dozen different ladies so far—all pretty, some quite beautiful. Some were lively conversationalists, several were perfectly charming. Discreet—and not-so-discreet—invitations had flowed like wine.

Not one of them had interested him.

There was only one woman he wanted to bed, and she wasn’t here. She was probably home alone, working her fingers to the bone, sewing a naughty silk nightdress for some old lady. Getting worn down and exhausted, but refusing all help, stubborn little fool.

He looked over to where Freddy and Damaris were dancing—so unfashionable for a husband and wife to live in each other’s pockets, but did they care? Abby and Max too. They were sitting this one out together, quietly and companionably, Max’s arm resting protectively along the back of Abby’s chair. Abby was looking a bit tired, but when she turned her head and looked up at her husband, she glowed.

For some reason it made him think of Mam, when she was tired or dispirited. Da would put his arm around her, and she’d look up at him and smile, and it was as if a candle had lit up inside her.

Watching Abby smile up at Max, seeing how proud and protective his friend was of his wife, it was like an ache in his chest.

Would he ever find a woman who’d look at him like that, a woman who was everything to him, like Mam had been to Da, like Abby was to Max, and Damaris to Freddy?

He eyed the younger ladies, the unmarried ones.

A waiter sailed past him bearing a tray full of wine- glasses. Flynn snagged one, drained it—and nearly choked. Ratafia. Sickly sweet stuff.

Several ladies drifted by, trying to catch his eye, sending inviting smiles. He pretended not to see.

He asked another waiter for something stronger. Champagne was all that was on offer. He tossed it down. All bubbles. No body.

He wasn’t in the mood for this, wasn’t prepared to be some bored lady’s entertainment for the night, had no desire to be a pawn in some married couple’s fencing match.

The ton did a grand job of marrying off their children for money, position and land. And while some married for love, and some arranged marriages prospered, most left behind them a wake of bored, unhappy, shallow, sometimes desperate women.

The men were all right—most men were tomcats at heart. But the women . . . Most women, as he understood it, wanted love. And trapped in a loveless marriage, they turned to distraction, and affairs. Titillation. Danger. The thrill of the forbidden.

And that was what was on offer to Flynn tonight.

He sighed and straightened. A fine gloomy mood he was in tonight, to be sure. He wasn’t fit for man nor beast, and certainly not for a woman.

He needed a drink, a proper drink, not a bit of froth and bubble.

Or Daisy.

He took himself home, tossed back a brandy and flung himself on his bed. He closed his eyes and tried to sleep. But despite the brandy, he was wide awake. All he could think about was Daisy.

Just the thought of her made him aroused and aching.

He forced himself to ignore the demands of his body and tried to distract himself by listing the qualities he would look for in a wife, a more personal list this time. He’d learned from his mistakes. He needed to know the girl he married, needed to like her—hopefully he would even come to love her. And she, him. Because children needed to be brought up in a home with love.

Now, as he lay on his bed, drifts of childhood came back to him, little things he hadn’t thought of in years. For so many years he’d tried to block out the memories. He’d always felt he should have done more, that somehow, he should have been able to save them.

But he’d been a boy, just a boy.

He remembered the day he’d knocked Mam’s willow-patterned plate over, and how she’d scolded him for his carelessness in chipping it, playing ball inside the house. And how after the scolding she’d hugged him, saying,” You’re just like your father—boys will be boys.” And she’d laughed as Da had grabbed her around the waist for a quick kiss and cuddle before taking the boys and the ball outside.

They were always kissing and cuddling, his parents.

After the accident, it was never quite the same. His father, always such a strong and vigorous man, hated the helpless creature he’d become, dependent on his wife and children for everything. But Mam’s love had never wavered and looking back, Flynn could see now, that had kept Da sane.

One of his last memories of them was a few days before he left home to try to find work. He hadn’t told them yet of his plans to save them all—that he was going to Dublin to find a job and make his fortune. Twelve years old, God help him.

His little sister Mary-Kate had brought her wee doll to Da to be mended. And Da, who couldn’t do much else but lie there, mended it, and then made them all laugh as he made the doll talk and give cheek to Mam and to Mary-Kate.

It fair broke Mam’s heart, seeing Da so helpless, but she never let him see it, just laughed along with little Mary-Kate. Afterwards Flynn had seen her turn away to wipe a tear. It broke his heart too seeing Da like that.

His parents’ love had been the bedrock of his childhood. So often he’d woken in the night, a bad dream perhaps, or some more real worry—they were desperate times. He’d lie in the bed he shared with his little brothers, listening to the soft murmur of voices as his parents talked over the day, made plans for the morrow. He couldn’t make out the words, but the soft exchange in the darkness soothed him and lulled
him back to sleep. They might talk of everyday things, but he could feel the love between them.

That was the kind of marriage he wanted; companionship and love and mutual support. Partners in life, no matter what life brought them.

A friend who was also a lover . . .

A lover . . . His body ached for fulfillment.

He opened his eyes and sat up, staring into the darkness.
A friend who was also a lover?

He was a blind great eedjit!

He’d been going about this whole business arse about.

Why the hell was he looking for a highborn lady, when the woman of his heart was right there under his nose, giving him cheek and keeping him awake with lust half the night?

Know your own happiness. Want for nothing but patience—or give it a more fascinating name: Call it hope.

—JANE AUSTEN,
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY

F
lowers started arriving in the Berkeley Square house the next day. The first bunch was small, a little posy of sweet-smelling violets tied up with ribbons, and a single white daisy in the center.

“Who could have sent them?” Jane wondered aloud. There was a card with them, plain white, though of good quality, and clearly addressed to Miss Daisy Chance, but there was no other name attached, no sign of a sender.

Daisy shrugged. “A happy customer maybe?” She had a suspicion, but surely he wouldn’t do something so . . . so
daft
.

The next day pink roses arrived, again with a single white daisy in the center.

“Aren’t they lovely?” Jane rhapsodized as she brought them upstairs to Daisy’s workroom. “You can’t claim these are from a customer—not with that daisy at the heart. So romantic.”

Daisy sniffed. “What’s romantic about a daisy? Pretty common flower if you ask me.”

“It’s symbolic—he’s saying there’s only one Daisy. That you’re unique.”

“How do you know it’s a him?”

“Well of course it’s a man—who else would send you flowers?”

“And here’s another one,” Featherby said from the door. He carried a bunch of pale yellow primroses. Daisy didn’t even have to look to see whether there was a daisy in the middle—she knew it would be there.

“So who is it, Daisy?”

“No idea.”

Jane laughed. “Have you been meeting some gentleman in secret?”

“No, that would be you, wouldn’t it, Jane?” Daisy knew all about Jane and her accidental-on-purpose meetings with a certain gypsy in the park.

Jane flushed and gave a guilty glance at Featherby, who busied himself arranging flowers and pretended not to hear.

And as she’d intended, the question nipped Jane’s open speculation in the bud and she left Daisy in peace.

But who the hell was sending her flowers? She couldn’t think of anyone except Flynn. She knew Featherby had told Flynn off good and proper—he’d told Daisy off as well, and made her feel like a worm. She’d known a bit of scandal would be ruinous to her business, but she hadn’t thought how the old lady would feel. Especially after all those proper-lady lessons.

But if one bunch of flowers was an apology, two was . . . well, she couldn’t imagine, and she didn’t even want to know what three might mean. And as for the single white daisy in the middle of each bunch . . .

It looked like—it couldn’t possibly be, but it did look like he was courting her. After telling the world he was going to marry the finest lady in London.

And that was ridiculous. As if he would turn from courting a fine aristocratic lady like Lady Liz to someone like Daisy Chance. In a pig’s eye he would!

*   *   *

“M
rs. Foster to see you, Miss Daisy,” Featherby said later that afternoon and stepped back to let Mrs. Foster in.

Daisy looked at her in dismay. “Oh, but I haven’t finished—”

“I know it’s far too early for my night wear to be ready, but I didn’t come about that. I hope you’ll forgive me for barging in like this,” Mrs. Foster said, pulling off her gloves. “But I’ve been thinking.” Her eyes were sparkling with excitement.

“Oh?” Daisy couldn’t imagine what about.

Mrs. Foster waited until Featherby had left, then seated herself and said, “I think I told you that my husband died a little over a year ago.”

Daisy nodded.

“And that I’ve been trying to think what to do with the rest of my life.”

Again, Daisy nodded.

“He left me very well off, you know,” Mrs. Foster said diffidently. “And to add to that, an elderly aunt died recently and left me a substantial nest egg.”

Some people have all the luck, Daisy thought. And instantly felt guilty. Mrs. Foster was now without family—that mattered more than money.

“And I’ve been thinking, the nest egg—well, it’s like free money, isn’t it?”

“Mmm.” Daisy made a polite noise. In her experience there was no such thing as free money. But what did she know?

Mrs. Foster continued, “And so I thought I should do something special with it—something different and exciting.”

“A holiday?”

“Better! I thought I might invest it.”

“You mean like in building canals and mines and, and steam engines and things,” Daisy said, hoping to sound intelligent.

“Heavens, no—nothing so dreary. I want to invest in you.”

Daisy blinked. “In
me
?”

Mrs. Foster nodded. “In your shop.”

Daisy stared at her, then shook her head. “I don’t know what you mean. How could you invest in my shop? I haven’t even got one yet.”

“I know. This would enable you to buy one. It’s not a small nest egg, Daisy. It could make all the difference in the world to you and your business.”

She named a sum that made Daisy blink. That much, and she was calling it
free money
? It was too good to be true. “If you mean like a loan—no, thanks. I don’t believe in borrowin’ money.”

It was the best way she knew to court certain doom. In Daisy’s experience people got beaten up—or worse—if they couldn’t pay a loan back, and far from helping them out over a bad patch . . . Well, let’s just say it never turned out well.

“No, it’s not a loan, it would be an investment. My husband was in business, and when he became ill, I learned—oh, you have no idea how much I learned! I’ll tell you all about it one day. But for you, my proposal would work like this: I give you the money, you use it to secure the premises—the shop—and to purchase and install fittings and equipment, and to employ seamstresses—that kind of thing. And in return, I get a share of the profits.”

It all sounded so easy. Daisy didn’t trust it. “What if there ain’t any profits? What if I go bust?”

“Then I lose my investment.” She gave Daisy a confident smile. “But you won’t fail. I have tremendous faith in you and your designs, Miss Chance.”

Daisy wasn’t sure about it at all. “I don’t think—”

“You would own fifty-one percent of the business, and you would control everything. I would just be your silent partner.”

A silent partner?
She remembered what Flynn had said about silent partners. Freddy had used an inheritance from an aunt to become a silent partner with Max and Flynn and their other friend, and it had helped get their company started. And look at them now—they were all rich.

Mrs. Foster added, “Of course we would have it all written down in a legal agreement—for your protection and mine.”

“I dunno,” Daisy said after a long pause. “I’ll have to think about it.” It sounded too good to be true. There had to be a catch.

“Of course.” Mrs. Foster rose, pulling on her gloves. “Think about it, get some advice from your family and friends, and let me know. I’m sure you’ll make the right decision.” She smiled at Daisy and clapped her hands together girlishly. “I must confess, I find the whole idea of going into the fashion business monstrously exciting.”

Daisy gave her a tentative smile in return. Exciting? Yes—and bloody terrifying.

*   *   *

F
lynn made a morning call on Lady Beatrice the following afternoon, all very formal and correct. The first Daisy knew of it was when Featherby told her Lady Beatrice desired her presence in the drawing room. He wouldn’t explain why, merely held the door for her, waiting in a bland yet implacable manner.

With a sigh, Daisy tidied herself and made her way to the drawing room.

On the threshold she stopped. And blinked. Seated on tapestry-covered gilt-edged chairs sat the usual collection of old ladies—and Flynn, a dainty teacup in his big fist, sipping pale China tea with lemon as if it was nectar of the gods.

She frowned. Flynn hated China tea.

He rose and bowed, greeting her politely as if he hadn’t had her skirts up around her ears only a few days earlier. Almost a week. He waited until she was seated before seating himself. He looked very pleased with himself.

She wanted to ask him about the flowers, but she couldn’t—not in this company. Thank goodness Jane was off walking her dog and wasn’t here to bring it up. The old ducks loved any hint of a mystery, and add in a sniff of potential romance—and flowers were romantic—and they’d be all over it, and then Lady Beatrice would want to know what was what—and then there’d be hell to pay.

“Tea, Daisy, my dear?” Lady Beatrice asked, and without waiting, Featherby poured a cup and handed it to her.

She looked up to thank him, but instead intercepted a silent exchange between him and Flynn. Featherby gave Flynn a meaningful look—Daisy had no idea what about. Flynn, however, seemed to know. He inclined his head at Featherby, then smiled at Daisy.

Daisy frowned. Whatever that look meant, she didn’t trust it.

Lady Beatrice’s gaze went from Daisy to Flynn and back a dozen times. Her cronies exchanged glances and did the same.

Daisy felt like a blooming butterfly skewered on a pin. What the hell was Flynn playing at?

For the next twenty minutes Flynn chatted and charmed and had the old ladies falling over themselves with delight. He hadn’t said a word to Daisy that was the slightest bit out of place, but by the time he left she was thoroughly bewildered.

*   *   *

T
hat evening the four girls gathered around the fire in Jane and Daisy’s bedchamber. Max and Freddy and Flynn had gone off to watch a mill—a boxing match—and since Lady Beatrice wanted an early night and had retired to her bedchamber, Abby and Damaris seized the opportunity for an informal supper of hot chocolate and toast and crumpets in front of the fire.

It was a reminder of old times, before Abby and Damaris were married—even before they’d met Lady Beatrice—when their lives had been so difficult, and they’d decided to band together and become “sisters of the heart”—just to survive.

Daisy loved these gatherings, just the four of them, and no manners or proper behavior to worry about, where they would just talk and talk. And eat. And talk.

Damaris and Daisy sat on the bed, sewing. Abby and Jane toasted bread and crumpets while the three cats supervised. At least Jane hadn’t brought the blooming dog in as well.

Daisy gazed into the fire, mesmerized by the dancing flames. She should have been thinking about Mrs. Foster’s amazing offer, but instead she hadn’t been able to get Flynn out of her mind. What was he up to?

“Daisy?
Daisy
?”

She jumped, startled out of her reverie. “What?”

“What about the daisy?” Damaris asked.

Daisy glanced at the vases of flowers that graced the bedchamber. Those single daisies . . . they got to her.

“I took ’em out, why?”

“Took them out? Whatever for?” Damaris frowned over the dress she’d just finished hemming. “I just offered to embroider this one for you, but if you don’t want them anymore . . .”

Daisy felt herself flushing. “Sorry, I was thinkin’ of something else. I didn’t mean the dresses.”

Jane looked up. “I thought you were doing forget-me-nots on that dress, not daisies.”

“Haven’t you noticed?” Damaris said to Jane. “Daisy embroiders a little daisy inside the neck of each garment she makes. Just a tiny one, in white chain stitch with a French knot or two in yellow for the center.”

“Does she?” Jane scrambled up, leaving Abby to mind the food, and hurried to her wardrobe and started examining her dresses. “Oh look! You’re right,” she exclaimed. “It’s in this one—and this—and this—and—”

“It’s in all of ’em,” Daisy said, to stop Jane exclaiming over every blooming thing.

“How pretty. But why bother to embroider something where nobody can see it?”

She hunched her shoulders in embarrassment. “It’s nothin’, just . . .”

“She’s signing her work, aren’t you, Daisy?” Damaris said softly. “Like an artist or a craftsman.”

Daisy nodded. Damaris’s matter-of-fact acceptance gave her the confidence to explain. “Painters sign their paintings, and the men that made those chairs of Lady Bea’s—they put their mark on their work, and—”

“And I sign my china and my paintings,” Damaris added.

Daisy nodded. “That’s what gave me the idea. So I thought . . . why not? It only takes a moment. You probably think it’s a bit stup—”

“I think it’s a lovely idea, Daisy,” Abby assured her warmly. “It makes your clothes even more personal and special.”

“Oh, yes, I think so too,” Jane agreed. “And how lucky that you’re called Daisy, instead of Annabel or Gwendolyn—imagine embroidering that.” They all laughed.

“Do any of you know anything about silent partners?” Daisy asked. “In business I mean.”

Damaris shook her head, “Not really. All I know is that Freddy was one in Max’s company.”

“Flynn’s company,” Daisy corrected her. It was called Flynn and Co., after all.

“Max never talks business with me,” Abby said.

Jane, who was still standing beside the wardrobe, gave a little scream. “The toast, Abby!” She dived toward the toasting fork, where a slice of thick-cut bread was smoking badly.

Abby removed the charred toast from the fire, examined it, decided it was beyond saving and dropped it in the coal scuttle. “Come along everyone, it’s time we ate.”

It was a feast. A cloth was spread on the hearth rug, laid with dishes containing butter, honey, several kinds of jam, marmalade, fresh cream, cheeses, goose liver pâté, even anchovy paste, though why Cook had sent up anchovy paste when none of them liked it—apart from the cats—was a mystery.

“Max, no! You can’t have it.” Abby pushed Max the cat away. It was the third or fourth time she’d had to stop a cat from raiding the food.

“Put them bloomin’ cats outside,” Daisy said, not for the first time. “They’ll knock something over in a minute.”

“Poor little kitties, we’re tempting you with all these lovely smelling dishes, aren’t we?” Jane crooned as she collected the butter, the pâté and the pot of anchovies and put them on a small side table.

Daisy rolled her eyes. As if cats couldn’t jump. She was as fond of the cats as any of them, but she wanted to eat in peace. She folded her sewing and before she joined the
others on the hearth rug, made a small detour, scooping up three half-grown cats and depositing them outside in the hall before she returned to the fire and sat down. She answered Jane’s accusing look with, “They can come in afterwards and polish off the scraps, but I’m not picking cats out of me supper all night. I want to relax.”