The Summer Bride (A Chance Sisters Romance) (18 page)

“Then marry me and let me take you away from all this.”

She smiled. “I don’t want to be taken away from all this.” Gawd no, not when she’d just signed a partnership agreement with Mrs. Foster and her dream was finally going to come true.

Her own shop. She could barely believe it. Not so long ago, all she owned in this world was a bundle of fabric scraps.

“But I want to take care of you.”

She shook her head, charmed in spite of herself. “I can take care of meself, Flynn,” she said gently. “Please, try and get it into that head of yours that I’m all wrong for you. Go away and find a nice, ladylike girl who
wants
to be pampered and cared for and live without a worry in the world. That kind of life would bore me stupid.” Not to mention intimidate the life out of her.

“I don’t want a nice ladylike girl,” Flynn said. “I want you.” He frowned. “That came out wrong.”

She laughed. “It’s all right, I know what you mean but really, I’m gettin’ sick of hearin’ this same old song. I’ve given you me answer, and if you’re going to harp on about it, I’m goin’ to have to ban you from my workroom.”

“You wouldn’t do that.”

“Try me.”

It wasn’t him harping on marriage that was the problem, she acknowledged privately. It was him, coming around all the time, making her laugh, telling her stories, bringing her little things—even though she told him not to. Charming her.

And looking so blooming manly and handsome—and making no secret of how much he wanted her—it was killing her to resist.

He was slowly wearing her down.

She caught herself missing him when he went away—even for a few days—found herself looking forward to his visits—they were almost daily now.

The reason she was looking so tired wasn’t only because of her long working hours, nor the nerves and excitement connected with the partnership. As much as anything it was dreams. Dreams of Flynn in her bed. Making her all hot and melty and . . .
bothered
.

It wasn’t Flynn she didn’t want; it was marriage.

“All right, I promise you I won’t bring it up again—”

“Good.”

“—today. You have to allow me at least one proposal a day.” And before she knew what he was about he leaned in and gave her a swift but very thorough kiss.

Somehow, he managed to kiss her on every single visit. She tried to stay alert for it, to watch for it and prevent him, but . . . maybe she wasn’t as vigilant as she ought to be. They were kisses to dream on.

He melted her bones every blooming time, and he knew it, the big rat.

Looking quite pleased with himself, he sat down opposite her, crossing his long-booted legs. “Now, what shall we talk about today?”

And that was another reason she couldn’t bring herself to ban him from visiting her. He was quite happy to sit and talk to her for hours on end. It didn’t slow her work down at all, and it was so good to have the company. Jane was busier than ever trying to juggle a gypsy and a lord—that couldn’t end well, that was for sure—and now the Season had commenced, the house was always filled with company, which kept the maids busy ’til all hours.

Daisy knew how hard maids worked; she didn’t want to make more work for them.

“I know,” Flynn continued. “Tell me about how you found your sisters. Or did they find you? I didn’t realize until the other day that it was such a recent event.”

At that moment, Featherby knocked at the door. “Note for you, Miss Daisy. Hand delivered a moment ago.” He presented it to her on a silver platter. “The, er”—he glanced at Flynn—“the sender said it was quite urgent you open it at once.”

The note was sealed with a wafer and addressed to her in a cramped hand she recognized. Bartlett. Daisy opened it.

Suitable premises available for private inspection before noon today. Urge you not delay. Property on market tomorrow, and is of quality and price to be snapped up immediately.

The address was listed at the bottom. It was a street off Piccadilly—an excellent location. Daisy glanced at the clock. It was eleven already.

She put her sewing aside and stood up. “Sorry, Flynn, we’ll have to talk another time. I’ve got to go out. Featherby, can you get me a hackney cab, please?”

Flynn rose, frowning. “What’s this? You’re going out? Now?”

“Yes.” She grabbed her pelisse off the hook behind the door and shrugged into it.

“And yet you were too busy to go out with me.”

“This is different.” She crammed a bonnet on her head. No time to fuss about appearance.

“Is it?” He waited, but she wasn’t going to explain.

“Sorry about this, Flynn, but I really do have to go. I’ll see you later.” And she hurried down the stairs.

Flynn followed.

“Any sign of that cab?” she asked Featherby.

“William is out in the street endeavoring to secure one.”

She waited. And waited. Flynn received his hat and coat from Featherby.

Daisy paced back and forth in the entry hall, watching Featherby who was watching William. He would be hard to miss, William, but there seemed to be no cabs in the vicinity. She glanced at the hall clock. Quarter past eleven.

“It’s urgent, is it?” Flynn said dryly. “Because as it happens I have a phaeton outside, waiting. I was intending to take you for a pleasant drive, but if we’re rushing to a death bed . . .”

Daisy glanced at Featherby, who looked outside, then shook his head.

“All right then, thanks, Flynn.” She was treating him badly, she knew. She gave him the address and he helped her into the carriage—lifting her, without warning, into it with his bare hands around her waist.

She didn’t mind at all. It was lovely to be treated as if you were delicate and featherlight, even if you weren’t.
“Lady Bea would smack you for that,” Daisy said as he climbed in after her.

He grinned. “I know, but it’s worth it.”

She laughed.

“So, what’s this place you need to get to in such a hurry?”

No point keeping it a secret now, so she told him everything, about Mrs. Foster and the silent partnership, about Max and Freddy, and about Bartlett and why they were going to this address.

He listened in silence and the more she told him the guiltier she felt, keeping it from him. It had been his suggestion, after all, that had begun it all. She’d thought she was protecting herself from his interference, but now it just felt . . . mean.

But not a word of reproach passed his lips.

And that made her feel worse than ever.

*   *   *

T
he shop wasn’t quite what Daisy expected; for a start it wasn’t for sale, but for lease—a five-year lease with an option to renew for another five years. In all other respects it was perfect. It even had gas connected, which meant light for working in during the dark of winter as well as heat.

“A lease isn’t a bad idea,” Flynn murmured in her ear. “Why tie up all your capital in a building?”

Because she wanted to
own
something. Something that belonged to her.

“If you lease the place, you could afford more staff and materials, produce more, sell more, and in five years, if you need to expand, you can.”

She could see his point. She was glad now she’d invited Flynn to inspect the building with her. He’d offered to wait outside, but she felt mean enough without adding to it. “No, come in with me,” she’d told him. “I’d be glad of another opinion.”

To tell the truth, she was more than a little nervous. She’d never spent so much money in her life—never
had
so much
money. The sums were quite frightening for a girl who’d earned a few guineas a year plus board and bed.

Gibbins, the agent, was a small dapper man, with an accent that started off as
quaite refained
, but once he realized he was talking to an Irishman and a Cockney, his East End origins became more apparent and his attitude slightly superior.

The more patronizing he became the less nervous Daisy got. She soon realized he’d discounted her completely; as far as Gibbins was concerned she might as well have been wallpaper.

From the beginning, he addressed himself entirely to Flynn.

To Flynn’s credit he did nothing to encourage it—apart from looking big and impressive and beautiful, which she supposed he couldn’t help. He hardly spoke a word, left it all to Daisy. As he should.

The agent’s affectations didn’t bother Daisy, but when throughout the inspection he continued to address himself exclusively to Flynn—when
she
was the one asking all the questions—she finally saw red.

She poked him in the ribs. “Oy, mate!
I’m
the one you’re doin’ business with, not him. And I’m standing over here.”

Gibbins frowned and looked at Flynn for confirmation—which made Daisy even madder.

Flynn shrugged. “I’m just the driver.”

Gibbins pursed his lips. “Do you mean to say the property would be leased by
a woman
?” He was still talking to Flynn. Daisy would have clipped him over the ear, except she really liked this building. The more she saw the more she wanted it.

Flynn’s eyes hardened. “A lady, yes.”

“And I’m
still
standin’ over here,” Daisy said, poking Gibbins in the back.

He turned stiffly. “But I understood . . . My communication was with a Mr. Bartlett.”

“That is correct. My man of affairs,” Daisy declared loftily.

Flynn had a sudden attack of coughing and turned his back. Daisy ignored him. To Mr. Gibbins she said, “Now, are we going to do business or does my man Bartlett have to tell the owner that you refused a good offer because you was too stiff-necked to deal with a woman?”

Gibbins looked unhappy. “I don’t know . . . Don’t you have a husband who can sign for you?”

Flynn shifted restlessly. Daisy was sure he was going to say something, tell Gibbins he was going to marry her or something. She narrowed her eyes at him in a silent death threat if he said so much as a word, then said to Gibbins, “No, I bloomin’ well don’t have a husband. I do however have a very healthy bank account. Now are you going to hiver-haver around like a kid in a sweetshop, or will you give me the lease?”

Gibbins was outraged by her plainspeaking, but after a moment he nodded. “It’s very irregular, but I suppose so.” He produced some papers.

Daisy hesitated—she wanted to sign them straight away, secure the shop immediately, but documents like these could contain legal traps for the unwary, and she knew she wouldn’t understand the terminology. She took the documents. “I’ll have Bartlett look through these, then I’ll sign them and send them back. In the meantime I will take the keys.” She held out her hand imperiously.

Gibbins hesitated.

“Big mistake if you don’t,” Flynn murmured.

Gibbins glanced at Flynn, looked at Daisy’s face and meekly handed over the keys.

Daisy’s fist closed over them. She held her breath, looking disdainful and imperious, until the odious little man had gone. She locked the door after him in case he changed his mind, then expelled her breath in a gust of relief. She turned to Flynn. “I got it, Flynn. I got me a shop!”

“You were brilliant, handled him perfectly,” he said and seized her around the waist and twirled her around until she was dizzy and laughing. He let her slide slowly down his body, devouring her with his eyes.

A sudden tension filled the air. He lowered his mouth to hers, but after a brief brush of lips she twisted away, out of his arms, too full of excitement—too nervous and on edge—to let it go any further.

“Come on,” she said, panting a little. “Let’s look at it again.”

“Haven’t you already been over it with a fine-tooth comb?”

“Yes, but I had that horrible little man distracting me, and—I got a shop, Flynn!—I want to go over it all again now it’s mine. Decide what I’m going to do with it.” She was too excited to stand still.

With a rueful smile he followed her through each room again.

The shop—her very own place!—for the next five years, at least—was narrow, but it stood three stories high. The ground floor consisted of two sections, a more formal shop area with a gorgeous bay window, and a back section that was well-lit and spacious but a bit grubby and worn.

“Nothing a bit of paint and elbow grease won’t fix,” she declared. “I’ll get curtains for that bay window—velvet, I reckon. Green. Or maybe ivory. And the same to screen off the back area. And a nice thick carpet on the floor. And some elegant chairs. And a huge big looking glass with gold edging. Maybe two.”

The next floor up had big windows on two sides—the building was set on a corner block—perfect for a working area. Light was crucial for seamstresses. Of course some of them would take their work home, but most would be working here.

The back entrance led straight onto the stairs—there were two sets, one at the rear, that served the entire building, and one that just led to the first floor. “One for toffs and one for the rest of us,” Daisy crowed.

The top floor would be used for storage, and for a place for her to work. She could already see the big table she’d place under the middle window. And a desk in the corner for the accounts and order books.

“I don’t remember seein’ this.” It looked like a cupboard
but when she opened it, she found a narrow set of stairs. “Where do you reckon it goes to?”

The stairs led into a long, low attic room that ran the entire length of the building. Six windows were set into the sloping roof. They were dirty and didn’t let in much light, but that was easily fixed. The room was dusty, but dry. Soap and water and a bit of elbow grease would make it a useful addition to their storage area. She glanced at the windows. Maybe even a working area.

At one end was an old bed, no mattress, just a bed-head, four legs and a frame of sagging ropes. In the middle was a long table that could be used for pattern drafting and cutting out. A couple of broken old chairs lay tumbled in a corner.

“Oh, look at this.” A door at the end led out onto the roof. “You can see half of London from here,” she breathed. “Look, Flynn—that’s my kingdom out there. Ain’t it beautiful?”

“Beautiful,” he murmured and there was something in his tone that made her look around. He wasn’t looking at the view at all. He was looking at Daisy.