The Summer Bride (A Chance Sisters Romance) (20 page)

“A woman? Who?”

She shook her head. “Doesn’t matter any more. Water under the bridge.”

But it mattered to Flynn. If he were to change his stubborn little wench’s mind and convince her to marry him, he had to understand why she was so unable to trust him.

But right now she was stirring in his arms, stretching and
muttering about getting back to work. It would keep for another day. He’d made progress today.

This morning all he’d wanted was to take her for a drive. Now they’d made love—twice. She was a tough little nut to be sure, but sweet and clean and decent and loving, and he wanted her more now than ever.

He was a man who understood the long game, and he relished a challenge.

*   *   *

T
he next few weeks passed in a frenzy of activity for Daisy. She had taken the girls and Lady Bea to inspect her shop and Mrs. Foster as well, as her silent partner. They all had a fine time making suggestions, particularly for the decoration of the front part.

Pale green and cream with touches of pink was the final color choice—cream wallpaper with an embossed design, and shades of green for the curtains and furniture, and a few touches of pink, including pink light-shades, which Daisy claimed would give a more flattering light.

Mrs. Foster was hesitant to offer suggestions at first. “I’m supposed to be a silent partner, Daisy dear”—they were on first name terms these days—“so I don’t think I should.”

Daisy grinned. “I don’t mind. I’ll tell you if you get too bossy.” She sobered a little. “It’s your money I’m spending and it’s the first time I’ve done anything like this. It’s been me dream for so long, but I always thought me first shop would be a barrow down Petticoat Lane or one of the markets, not something as posh as this.”

Louisa Foster was a little bit posh, but also surprisingly practical and Daisy felt more comfortable having someone to share the decision-making with.

Flynn too was very helpful and interested, but Daisy was a little wary of asking his advice—he had a tendency to take things over, did Flynn.

Although . . . She thought of that first time in the attic, making love on the table. He hadn’t taken over then. He’d
held back, letting her take the lead—and it wasn’t easy—she’d felt how tense and tight-strung he was with the effort of holding back for her, waiting until she was ready. Not many men would do that.

The second time he’d taken her swift and hard and not quite so careful, letting himself go—a little bit rough, a little bit wild, but not quite out of control. A bold buccaneer kind of bedding that had driven her to the heights and over. She’d loved every minute of it, and her body had tingled and purred for ages afterwards.

She hadn’t known it could be like that. Bloody glorious.

She was twenty-two or -three, or thereabouts—an experienced woman who thought she knew everything there was to know about tupping, but Flynn had shown her she didn’t know as much as she thought.

She knew about techniques and positions—the girls at Mrs. B’s were quite frank about that side of things, but it was all for the men’s pleasure, not theirs. Women had to pleasure themselves, they said, because men wouldn’t bother.

Flynn had seen to Daisy’s pleasure every single time. He was a rare one, all right.

Being pleasured like that, the first time slow and careful, treating her like something precious, or the second time, taking her lusty and vigorous—he could take her any way he liked and she’d like it. But it stirred up feelings in her, feelings she didn’t want to have.

He was going to break her heart, Flynn was.

When he finally understood that she’d never marry him, when he turned around and married the nice, genteel highborn lady he’d always wanted, it was going to kill her.

She’d survive, she told herself. Life was full of ups and downs and one thing she’d learned: She was a survivor.

Most days now she spent at the shop, supervising workmen—Bartlett had negotiated with the agent for a complete refit, bless him—interviewing women who could sew and embroider, getting in equipment and supplies, and getting things up and running.

She dealt with the upper floors first—making them fit for
her women to work in was her first priority. She had the walls scrubbed, sealed and painted and the floorboards sanded and polished to a satin smoothness—no sharp splinters or nails would be left sticking up to catch her precious fabrics on. The tables and benches too, she had cleaned and repolished.

Next was the attic. The big table that she and Flynn had made love on—twice—was too big to take downstairs. It must have been put together on site. Daisy decided to make the attic her own area and use the table for plans and drafting. It was light and airy and she loved the view from the roof.

She had it partitioned into two rooms, one three times the size of the other. She had the big one lined with shelving and storage cupboards. The small room contained the door to the roof space. She had the whole attic painted and furnished and installed a French enamel stove for winter warmth.

Louisa Foster’s suggestion, those stoves—they were clean and the fire was fully enclosed so there would be no danger of flying sparks or hot coals or smoke escaping. Best of all, they were wonderfully warming, Louisa said—she found English houses so cold.

Daisy took her word for it and had one installed on each floor. Women couldn’t sew with cold fingers. Besides, as well as being useful, they were elegant, unusual and French—toffs loved things like that—especially if they were French.

By the time it came to decorating the ground floor area, Daisy’s fledgling business was up and running. She had half a dozen women working for her and the orders she’d been losing sleep over were all fulfilled, and more were coming in already.

Once work commenced on the ground floor, Lady Beatrice took to visiting every few days. After the first visit, she had her own chair brought down, and sat enthroned in the middle of things, impervious to hints that she was in the way, with Featherby standing by in case she needed something. William was in Wales.

She watched the workmen like a hawk, raising her lorgnette, and aiming her ebony cane to point out that they’d missed a bit. Daisy’s big rough workmen trod lightly around her, trying not to swear.

“It’s a bit like workin’ with the queen watching,” one of them told Daisy.

“Why do you keep comin’ back?” Daisy asked the old lady. “I thought you said talkin’ business was vulgar.”

“It is. At the dinner table and on all other social occasions it does not
do
to exhibit a vulgar interest in money and the making of it. A lady does not even acknowledge that such a thing exists. That is men’s affair.”

“Bugger that,” Daisy said. “Yeah, sorry, I know I’m supposed to be stoppin’ swearin’—but it’s only you and me here. So if it’s so bloomin’ vulgar, how come you keep dropping in here every second day? I didn’t think it’d be the kind of thing you’d be interested in at all, with all this dust and noise and big rough men clompin’ around.”

“No, dear gel, but it helps keep my mind off Jane’s nonsense.” Jane had taken William and Polly and gone gallivanting off to Wales. On a wild goose chase, Daisy reckoned.

“Besides,” the old lady added, “I do like to watch men exerting themselves to please a woman. I find it quite refreshing. Quite”—She raised her lorgnette to eye a young worker who’d had the temerity to remove his shirt and was working in a string vest, his muscles gleaming with sweat—“Stimulating.”

The ladies of the literary society were also curious about Daisy’s new venture. They questioned her and Louisa about it endlessly during the breaks. They’d never known anyone who’d owned a shop, even though they shopped all the time.

Shopkeepers were beneath them and they’d never given them a thought. A few of the ladies were disdainful, it was true, but they’d never approved of Lady Beatrice including Daisy in all her activities—one had by-blows in the family, of course—men would be men—but one needn’t acknowledge them, let alone include them in society events.

“Pish tush to that nonsense,” Lady Beatrice had said—and Daisy agreed.

Most of the ladies, though—especially Lady Beatrice’s particular friends—were excited and almost maternal on Daisy’s behalf. Somehow, despite her lowly origins and
common accent and the occasional bad language that still slipped out, Daisy had become their pet.

They were also fascinated by Louisa’s involvement as a silent partner. You could see them considering it was something they might like to do—posh ladies never had enough to do, and were always mad for some new novelty. And for the moment Daisy’s shop was it.

This level of interest wouldn’t last, and Daisy was determined to make the most of it.

“Would it be vulgar to have a bit of a party at my shop the day I open it?” she asked Lady Bea one evening after dinner.

Lady Beatrice considered it. “Depends what you mean to do. How vulgar?”

“I mean invite people to the shop, give ’em wine and little cakes. And have Abby and the girls dressin’ up, wearin’ clothes I made and showin’ them off.”

Lady Beatrice’s mouth pulled down. “My gels dressing up? I don’t think—”

“A ladies-only party,” Daisy said hurriedly, knowing the old lady wouldn’t like men staring at the girls. “And only people we know. Like the literary society, only with clothes instead of books.”

“No men?”

“Nope. Ladies only, and an invited guest list.” Something a little bit exclusive and different. If they’d come, that is.

“Hmm.” The old lady swung her lorgnette thoughtfully. “Let me think on it.”

*   *   *

“W
hat are you going to name the shop?” Mrs. Foster asked. She, Abby and Damaris stood outside the newly refurbished premises, contemplating the display in the front window. Currently it was elegant and discreet—Daisy thought a bit too discreet—just a single long white satin glove and a length of silk draped over an elegant black wrought-iron stand, but Damaris loved it. The shop was due to open the following week.

“Not sure yet,” Daisy said. The name of the shop had been a frequent subject for discussion in the last few weeks.

“I thought just
Daisy Chance, Ladies’ Fashions
. Lady Bea reckons it should be
Miss Chance, Mantua-maker
—only mantua-makers make court dresses and I don’t, so I don’t like it.” Mantuas were old fashioned in Daisy’s opinion.

“What about something French?” Mrs. Foster suggested.

“
Marguerite
is French for Daisy,” Abby said.

“That’s pretty,” Damaris agreed. “And you could have a daisy—like this.” She pulled out a small pad of paper and a pencil—she was never without one—drew something on it, and handed it to Daisy.

Daisy admired the sketch. It was a simple stylized daisy, elegant and stylish. “That’s beautiful, Damaris. You’re so clever. How you make something come alive with a few quick lines . . . But I ain’t giving it a French name. I know it’s all the rage, but I ain’t French, and I ain’t going to pretend I am.”

“Neither are—” Mrs. Foster began.

Daisy cut her off. She’d already had this out with Lady Beatrice, who’d also favored a French name. “I know a lot of dressmakers pretend they’re French, but it makes them look stupid, I reckon. Everyone knows they’re faking it, and people just look down their noses when you pretend to be something you ain’t.

“I don’t mind fixing up me grammar, but I’ll be bugg—I’ll be blowed if I adopt any kind of accent—French or fake la-di-da.” She glanced at Abby. “Like that Mrs. Pillburn-Smyth, who dresses nice and acts ladylike and elegant, and says things like ‘How naice and how delaightful and how fraffly vulgah’—trying to sound like one of the nobs, but she ain’t, and all the genuine nobs laugh at her behind her back—I’ve seen ’em, Abby, and you have too.”

Abby nodded. “I know.”

“I don’t care if they don’t like me accent or me name,” Daisy said. “Me clothes are gorgeous! I make a woman
feel
like a woman—even if she
is
a lady—and if they want that, they’ll come to me, not some pretend Frenchwoman or someone who sounds la-di-da but ain’t.”

The others laughed. “That’s right,” Abby agreed. “But you still need a name for your shop.”

“How about just calling it
Chance
with a daisy beside it,” Damaris suggested. She drew another quick sketch and showed them.

“I like it,” Mrs. Foster said after a moment. “Elegant, discreet and a little intriguing.”

Abby smiled. “A chance to be beautiful for everyone who shops here.” Referring to the way she’d originally chosen the Chance surname.

Daisy thought about it, then nodded. “I like it too.
Chance
it is. With Damaris’s daisy. In gold lettering—just here.” She pointed. “Perfect.”

It would be mortifying to the feelings of many ladies, could they be made to understand how little the heart of man is affected by what is costly or new in their attire.

—JANE AUSTEN,
NORTHANGER ABBEY

I
t was the day of the opening. They’d decided on an afternoon party, so that the ladies who attended would then go on in the evening to their various social events and talk of Daisy’s shop—that was the plan anyway.

The moment Lady Beatrice had decided to approve the party, she’d taken over all the arrangements, having elegant invitations made and sent out, inviting people herself, rather than making Daisy the hostess. “More difficult for them to refuse if it’s me—besides, they’re dying to see the place and this’ll give them an excuse.”

Featherby had taken on the practical aspects of the arrangements and had waved Daisy away, telling her to leave it all to him. He was enjoying himself, she saw, so she didn’t argue. She had enough to do herself.

Abby, Damaris and Louisa Foster were all wearing Daisy-made outfits, and since it was ladies only, Louisa had talked Daisy into making a display of her gorgeous nightwear, not to be modeled in person—that would be too risqué—but on a dummy.

Daisy was reluctant at first; the nightwear was just a sideline. But Mrs. Foster had persisted, and when Abby and Damaris heard, they concurred.

“Remember how happy you made Lady Beatrice with that first lovely pink bed jacket you made her?” Abby prompted. “And how all her friends wanted one? They were your first orders, and helped get you started.”

“And before you say they were for old ladies, remember how we first met?” Louisa reminded her.

Damaris added her mite, saying, “I loved wearing the nightgown you made me on my wedding night,” and Abby nodded in agreement.

Daisy gave in.

When she came to arrange the nightwear, she couldn’t decide which ones to show—she had a few finished and ready—so she ended up making quite a display, using a number of different dummies draped in sheer pink silk, the better to display the flimsy, naughty nightgowns and sumptuous bed jackets.

The only one unimpressed with the party arrangements was Flynn, who was put out that it was ladies only. “Why can’t I come?” he asked for the umpteenth time.

“Because you’re a man,” Daisy retorted.

“Glad you finally noticed.” He gave her a slow grin that made her insides melt.

“You can come and have a look after it’s all over then,” Daisy said with a little shiver of anticipation. She had plans for later.

Flynn made his presence felt anyway, sending several large bunches of red roses, each one with a single daisy at the center. Daisy set them in vases around the shop. The sweet rose fragrance was wonderful.

This time she left the daisies in place, because they were her shop’s symbol. No one else knew who they were from, or the private meaning of the daisies. They were her own secret delight.

She’d given her employees the day off, and Featherby
and his minions took over the upstairs rooms, laying out trays of delicious-looking cakes and savories, dozens of glasses and crates of champagne.

“French champagne?” Daisy exclaimed. “I can’t be wasting money on—”

“You don’t expect the old lady to offer her guests anything less than the best, now do you?” Featherby told her. “Besides, she’s paying. She insisted. ‘Tell that stiff-necked gel of mine not to argue,’ she said.”

So Daisy didn’t argue. She was thrilled. French champagne at an afternoon shop opening—that should get people talking about her shop all right.

Abby and Damaris arrived shortly afterwards. “It’s so exciting, Daisy!” Abby said. “Everything looks wonderful. I wish Jane were here, she will be so sorry to have missed this, but . . .” She shook her head. Jane was still in Wales. “We brought you a little gift. It’s from Damaris and me—and Jane too.”

Damaris handed Daisy a small box. “It’s just something small, but we hope it will be useful.”

Inside the box were visiting cards, elegantly engraved in silver on a pale green card, with a daisy embossed and painted white with a gold center—just like the daisy on the window of the shop. The lettering said
Daisy Chance
and gave the name and address of the shop underneath.

“They’re gorgeous,” Daisy said. “But . . . I don’t go visiting.”

“No, but if you leave these in a dish—or better still have Featherby hand them around—ladies will take them,” Damaris said.

“They’re so pretty,” Abby added, “and it might remind some ladies to patronize your shop.”

Lady Beatrice was the next to arrive. Featherby had arranged a number of chairs to be brought in for the occasion, including the old lady’s favorite chair. She seated herself in it and said to Daisy, who was pacing around like a trapped cat, “Don’t look so anxious, gel—they’ll come. I’ve never yet held a party that wasn’t a crush and I don’t intend
to start now. Have a glass of champagne if your nerves are getting to you.”

The words were barely out of the old lady’s mouth when the first carriages arrived, stopping to drop their aristocratic female passengers off in twos and threes, then moving on to make way for the next. The ground floor soon filled with ladies, exclaiming and admiring, chattering and sipping champagne.

Abby, Jane and Louisa Foster’s dresses were all admired, but the garments that got the most attention were the nightwear displayed in the back room. Daisy was flooded with enquiries.

“Cash only,” she told them bluntly, and then to soften the blow added, “They’re a very exclusive line and in short supply. French lace, you see.”

A few ladies primmed up their mouths and stalked away, offended, but the word
exclusive
did its job and a number of ladies gave her orders, promising to send their maids with the money the following day.

“What are you doing?” Louisa hissed when she found out what Daisy was telling people.

“Starting as I mean to go on,” Daisy said. “Nobs are famous for not paying their bills. So I’m lettin’ them know upfront that it’s pay or nothing.”

“They won’t put up with it.”

Daisy grinned. “Twenty-two orders so far, and their maids are bringin’ the money around tomorrow. I told ’em cash down or I won’t start.”

Louisa stared at her, then started to laugh. “You’re an original, all right.”

*   *   *

T
he last of the guests had left, Featherby and his minions had tidied away the party detritus, and Lady Beatrice, along with Abby and Damaris, was ready to leave.

“Are you coming, Daisy?”

“No, I’ve got things to do.”

The old lady raised her lorgnette. “What things?”

Daisy gestured to the workroom behind. “I need to take
down this display and get things set up for me girls to start work again in the morning.”

“We’ll stay back and help,” Abby offered.

“You’ll do nothing of the sort,” Daisy told her. “You’re carryin’, and you’re dog tired, as anyone can see.”

“Then I will—” Damaris began.

“No, you all get along home—it’s easier to do it meself. And you know, it’s been such a grand day, I don’t want it to end. So I’ll just take me time and enjoy meself here a little bit longer. In me own little empire.”

Lady Beatrice frowned. “But how will you get home? Shall I send a carriage? And leave one of the footmen here?”

Daisy gave the old lady a dry look. “I got meself all around London—the worst parts of London at that—all me life without a footman or a carriage, and I can manage now, thanks all the same.” They’d had this argument a million times; Daisy wasn’t a sheltered society maiden and had no intention of becoming one. Might as well stick a London sparrow in a golden cage.

“But—”

“Stop fussin’ now.” She leaned forward and kissed the old lady on the cheek. “I’ll be home later, so don’t you worry. You’re going to the opera tonight, ain’t you?”

“Yes, but—”

“Then go home, have your nap and get all dressed up and gorgeous for Covent Garden. I’ll be tucked up in bed and snorin’ me head off before the second act even starts.”

Lady Beatrice sniffed, but consented to depart, muttering something about stubborn gels.

Daisy locked the front door after her and hurried around, tidying up. She’d just started to dismantle the nightwear display when the knock she was expecting came at the back door. She hurried to open it.

“How’d it go?” Flynn asked.

She gave him a triumphant grin. “Twenty-eight orders! And almost all the little cards Damaris and Abby gave me have gone—and there were a hundred there when we started. This is all that’s left—ain’t they pretty?” She showed him the cards.

“Well done then.” He watched as she dismantled the nightwear display. “You know, I reckon it was a mistake restricting the event to ladies only.”

“Why?”

He nodded towards the last dummy, draped in an enticing black silk-and-lace affair. “If men saw that they’d become your best customers. Only not perhaps if they were with their wives.”

Daisy gave him a thoughtful look. “You might have something there.” Perhaps another shop, in a different part of town. Under a different name . . .

“Now, what was it you wanted me for?” Flynn said. “To get me all hot and bothered looking at that?”

She hid a grin. He wasn’t so far off. “Come upstairs—there’s something I want to show you.” She almost laughed out loud, hearing herself say it. Gawd, she sounded like one of the girls at Mrs. B.’s. She was ridiculously nervous.

He followed her up to the attic, admiring the changes she’d made. “But why partition that end off? Isn’t that where the roof door is?”

She opened the door to the smaller of the rooms and stepped inside.

He stopped dead in the doorway. “A bed?”

She nodded. She’d had the old bed refurbished, the rope framework restrung and tightened, and bought two new mattresses, one stuffed with wool and the top one with feathers. It was all made up now, ready for them, a soft crimson blanket spread over crisp white sheets and downy pillows.

It was a cool afternoon and clouding over, so she’d shut the door onto the roof, and then as an afterthought, placed lighted candles all around the room. The room was bathed in warm, soft candlelight.

She swallowed, her mouth suddenly dry. “I know I said I wouldn’t be your mistress, Flynn, but . . . I’ve changed me mind.”

“About marryin’ me?”

She shook her head. “About bein’ your mistress. I know it’s risky, but this is as private as it can get, so if we’re careful . . .”

He gave her a hard look. “I want more from you than just bed, Daisy.”

“I know. But I ain’t any kind of a wife, so this is all I can offer you.” She drew back the bedclothes and was annoyed to realize her hands were shaking.

He didn’t move. His eyes were hard and unreadable. The angles and planes of his face were shadowy in the candlelight. His mouth, his beautiful, clever mouth was set in a firm, unmoving line, his lips pressed tight.

Oh lordy, he was goin’ to turn her down. She felt herself shriveling inside with the mortification of it, and made herself shrug and say in a careless, it-don’t-matter-to-me voice, “Of course, if you’re not interested . . .”

“I’m interested, dammit.” He pulled her hard against him, cupped her jaw in one big hand and kissed the living daylights out of her.

She thought she knew what to expect but each time with Flynn was different. His kiss was almost savage at first, his mouth possessing her, his tongue plundering, hard, almost angry. Her blood rose in response to the barely leashed violence in him and her body thrilled to each rough, feverish caress.

And then quite suddenly he broke off, and simply wrapped her in his arms, holding her close, breathing heavily, like a man who’d run a mile.

“God help me,” he muttered, and then he started kissing her again, this time lavishing her throat, jawline, her eyelids with feather soft caresses, as if she was some delicate piece of china or jade from one of his collections.

She melted.

It was the hardest thing of all to resist about Flynn, the way he could go from an almost out-of-control lust for her, to this, treating her so delicate and sweet, making her feel so special . . . cherished.

No one had ever cherished her.

She pushed open his coat and started to unbutton his waistcoat but he stopped her with a rough gesture, trapping
her hands behind her. “No, not this time.” His blue eyes burned into her. “First I’m going to peel you naked as an egg, Daisy Chance. And then I’ll have my way with you. And then—maybe—I’ll let you near my buttons.”

True to his word he peeled each item of clothing from her, one by one, with agonizing slowness, her spencer, her dress, kneeling to remove her slippers, sliding his hands under her chemise to undo the ties that held her stockings, then rolling them down one by one, his big warm hands smoothing down her legs. After each stocking he planted a slow deliberate kiss in the arch of her foot, making her toes curl and sending shivers up and down her spine.

When she was down to her chemise, he sat back on his knees—her own had given way by then and she was sitting on the bed—and just looked at her. He bent forward and took one aching nipple delicately between his teeth, rolling his tongue against it, and then biting lightly, delicately. She gasped as a bolt of fire shot through her.

He smiled and moved his attentions to the other breast. With each caress, her breath hitched in a series of gasps. She leaned back, clutching the bedclothes in her fists as he laved and sucked and nibbled at her through the fine cambric of the chemise.

He rose and with a single sweep her chemise was gone and she was bare as an egg while he was fully clothed.

He sat back on his heels and simply looked at her, and she felt herself blush, because experienced woman or not, she’d never been stark naked before a man, not like this. She tensed. She wasn’t much to look at she knew, little as she was, with no curves to speak of, and slight, small breasts, but the way he was looking at her . . . as if he could eat her up. As if she was . . .

“Beautiful,” he murmured and bent and kissed her. Oh, those kisses . . .