The Summer Bride (A Chance Sisters Romance) (24 page)

Daisy gave a shaky laugh. The old girl did love to shock.

She smiled and patted Daisy’s hand. “Now go and wash your face and take yourself off to bed, young lady and think about what you’re going to do.”

Daisy blinked at her. “But I thought . . . I mean, you love telling people what to do.”

“I do. But in this case you don’t need my advice.”

“Yes, I do.”

The old lady shook her head. “Only you can decide this—you will be the one who will have to live with whatever decision you make. You and the babe and Mr. Flynn. But first you have to work out what it is you’re so afraid of.”

“Afraid?”

She nodded. “Yes, afraid. Daisy Chance, my brave little gel who confronts the world head-on, who kicked a large and appallingly nasty cook on the first day we met, is afraid.”

Daisy bit her lip. She wanted to deny it, but she couldn’t. She was afraid of the future, afraid for the baby. But a girl had her pride, so she managed to retort in something of her usual manner, “What am I afraid of, then?”

“I don’t know, dearest gel,” the old lady said softly. “Whatever the source of your fear, it is buried deep inside you. Look inside your heart, child, for what you truly want. And then ask yourself what you’re so afraid of. Because until you know what it is—and confront it—you’ll be forever running, and never knowing why.”

*   *   *

S
he couldn’t decide, she couldn’t decide, she couldn’t decide. It was bloody impossible.

Daisy turned over in bed for the hundredth time and thumped her pillow also for the hundredth time. She could blame the bed—they were in the country, at Jane’s new home, and sleeping in a strange bed was always tricky the first few nights. But it wasn’t the bed.

Nor was her sleeplessness the fault of the strange, unnerving sounds that came out of the night. Those screams, like a person being tortured, were foxes, apparently. Mating. So foxes screamed too. And then there were owls . . .

She hated the country. Full of creepy-crawlies. Good thing they’d be going back to London in a couple of days. She couldn’t wait.

But the country and the foxes weren’t keeping her awake. Her thoughts went round and round.

Lady Bea was wrong about her being afraid. She’d thought about it and the only thing that frightened Daisy was the future of her baby. And that was frightened
for
, not frightened
of
.

It was just deciding what to do that was keeping her up.

It was obvious what she should do. She would keep the baby, raise her herself, and if Lady Bea didn’t want her in the house, Daisy would move out. She’d find a small house, maybe even just a set of rooms at first, and pay someone to look after the baby during the day while she was at the shop.

She could do the whole thing discreetly. If she did it properly, her customers would never even know.

Hiding away her baby like she was ashamed of her.

She turned over and thumbed the pillow again.

Bastard
. It was an ugly term. It’d hang over her daughter the whole of her life.

Daisy had embraced her own bastardy—told everyone from the start that she was born on the “wrong side of the blanket.” But that was because she had no choice—she
was
a bastard, and as different from her “sisters” as chalk from cheese. “Wrong side of the blanket” explained everything.

Most families, most high-society families had a bastard or two tucked away. A few of the higher-ups, who didn’t care what others thought, acknowledged their bastards; most hid them away like a dirty little secret.

Like Harriet in that book
Emma
—she never knew who she was really. Just that “somebody” had paid for her upkeep and education. She was a posh version of Daisy. Unwanted. Dumped, only in a nice genteel school instead of the gutter.

Daisy pressed her palms over her stomach. It was a simple choice: marry Flynn, lose her shop, make her child legitimate—and secure for life, because Flynn was rich. And because he’d love this little girl to bits.

Or give birth to a bastard and raise her as a dirty little secret.

No choice at all, really.

Why then was it so bloody hard to make up her mind?

She’d have to have a talk—no, something more serious—a
discussion
with Flynn, but that shouldn’t be too hard, surely? He’d be pleased, she knew—he’d made no secret of
wanting kids. And she liked Flynn, she really did. And he liked her. Even if she wasn’t the kind of girl he’d always dreamed of marrying. The complete opposite, in fact.

He’d already asked her to marry him a dozen times or more, though she was sure that was just him being noble. He still thought her a decent girl, even after she’d told him everything about the brothel and all. So he’d be noble now and marry her and the baby. And pretend it was exactly what he’d wanted all along. Because that was Flynn.

It should be simple. But it bloody well wasn’t.

Was it the shop? She didn’t know. She loved her shop, but Lady Bea was right—when it came down to a choice between being her own boss and having her lovely shop and becoming a famous fashionable dressmaker—or giving this little one the kind of life she deserved, it was no choice.

She could lose the shop. It would be hard, after all she’d done to make it happen, but she’d proved to herself she could do it—be a success. Once they were married, Flynn would own it. But he’d be fair about it. He might let her continue dropping in there—she could probably design the clothes, if not run the shop. He might even give the shop back to her. He did say she should trust him.

But married men expected their wives to stay home, to run the household, and raise the children. Be a wife. Be a lady. Be a hostess.

She wouldn’t much like it, she wouldn’t be much good at it, not at first, but she supposed she could learn.

She shivered. She had to bite the bullet. She had to tell Flynn.

Tomorrow.

*   *   *

A
ll day she’d put off talking to him. Avoiding being alone with him. Dreading the talk she knew she had to have. The
conversation.

He knew something was up too. He was watching her like a hawk. Like an owl. Like one of those blooming foxes. She was ready to scream herself—only not for the same reason.

And now, to make things worse, all the others—all the young people—had gone outside—in couples. Because it was a lovely warm night for a change, and a full moon. Romantic.

The only ones left in the sitting room were old people—and Flynn and Daisy.

He looked at her with the sort of brooding dark look that made her shiver. If there weren’t no baby, no
discussion
to be had, she’d be out there with him like a shot, enjoying the moonlight. Acting like foxes.

Instead she avoided his gaze.

“Well,” Lady Beatrice said, “are you two going or staying?”

“Stayin’.” Daisy picked up a pack of cards and started to shuffle them—badly. Her hands were shaking. “The country gives me the creeps at night. Anyone for cards?”

Flynn gave her a long, dry look and rose to his feet. “I might as well walk the dog, then. Come on Caesar or Rose Petal or whatever your name is, we can bay at the moon together.” He stepped through the French windows, with Jane’s ugly dog snuffling happily beside him.

Lady Beatrice watched him leave. “Waste of a fine man like that, leaving him to bay at a full moon—alone—with a dog!” she informed the room in general. She turned to Daisy, lorgnette raised and said in a low voice, “Haven’t you talked to that boy yet?”

Daisy shrugged.

The old lady snorted. “So you’re still afraid, still running.”

Daisy looked at her. “No. I ain’t afraid. But since you mention it, I might as well get it over with.” She stomped outside. “Oy, Flynn, wait for me.”

What one means one day, you know, one may not mean the next. Circumstances change, opinions alter.

—JANE AUSTEN,
NORTHANGER ABBEY

T
he country was a horrible place at night. Downright creepy. Bushes shivered, trees creaked, their leaves whispering and slithering. Creatures lurked in, behind and under all of it. And the moon might be full and bright, a big fat golden ball up in the sky, but it turned everything to shadows. Moving, shifting, creepy shadows.

Give her a dark London alley any day.

Daisy heard a horrible snuffling sound, turned, saw a tall shadow move and almost jumped out of her skin.

“Gawd, Flynn, you and that dog gave me such a start.” She hurried forward and grabbed hold of his arm. Damn. She hadn’t intended to be so friendly—she’d planned a calm, rational
discussion
.

“Changed your mind about joining me, sweetheart?” And before she could say anything, he was kissing her.

And dammit, she was kissing him back, as if she had no blooming willpower of her own. Oh, how she’d missed this, missed him, and it was only a few days. It just felt like weeks.

His hand moved to cup her breast and the twinge of sensitivity there was enough to recall her to her senses. She wasn’t here for a bit of a kiss and cuddle under the moon—there was a
discussion
to be had.

She wriggled out of his embrace. And immediately felt the chill of the night surround her.

“Something wrong, Daisy?” She couldn’t see his face. It was in shadow.

She took a deep breath. “Did you mean it about wanting to marry me?”

“Yes.” Not a shred of hesitation.

“You still want to?”

“Yes. What’s all this about, Daisy? You’ve been acting like a cat with wet paws ever since your sister’s wedding.”

“Are you sure? About marrying me, I mean.” She wished she could see his face, see what he was thinking, but he was just a tall dark silhouette.

“Yes I’m sure, dammit. Why?”

She swallowed. “I’m havin’ a baby.” For a long moment he didn’t say anything—there was just the sound of things scuttling in the bushes, or maybe it was the dog. So she added to make it clear, “
We’re
havin’ a baby.”

“Are you sure?”

She nodded, scanning the shadowed face desperately, trying to read his expression in the darkness.

And then she saw a flash of white teeth. There was a loud
whoop!
and she was seized in a pair of strong arms and twirled around and he was hugging and kissing her, so happy, so excited.

She felt quite sick. And not from the twirling.

Eventually he put her down, and somehow, in the darkness, found a bench for them to sit on. He sat and pulled her onto his knees, tucking her against his chest. She was grateful for his warmth. The moonlight lit his face now and she was glad, because it meant hers was in shadow, and he wouldn’t be able to see how she felt.

“When’s it due?”

She hadn’t even counted. “I’m not sure. I think around Christmas.”

“Christmas? That’s grand. A Christmas baby.” He hugged her, rocking her slightly, saying nothing for a few minutes. She waited for the next question.

It took a while to come. “How—I mean, I’m desperate glad about the baby, of course—you can’t know how I feel at this moment, Daisy-girl”—but his voice broke a little and his arms tightened around her—“but I assumed you were doing something to prevent . . .”

“I was. But not . . . the first time.”

“Ah, the table, was it?” He bent and kissed her. “What kind of a weddin’ do you want? Quick and quiet or big and splashy?”

“What would you like?”

“Big and splashy for preference, but maybe since this little one is comin’ along”—he caressed her belly lightly—“we’d better make it quick and splashy. Do you think you could manage that? You’ll be wanting to make yourself a beautiful dress, I know.”

“I can manage it.” She was almost in tears. He was so generous, so accepting, such a good, dear, noble man. You’d think from the way he was reacting that this was exactly what he’d always dreamed of. And maybe the baby was.

But dreaming of a wife like Daisy? Never.

“Are you all right, love? Only you seem a bit quiet.”

“Just a bit tired,” she said.

He smiled. “That’ll be the baby.” He sounded so satisfied, so happy. She felt a tear roll down her cheek and surreptitiously scrubbed it away.

“I think I’d like to go inside now. It’s cold. You wouldn’t know summer is around the corner, would you?”

“Are we telling people yet?” he asked.

She shook her head. “Not yet—not until I start to show. I’ve only told Lady Bea so far—well I had to tell someone,” she added, seeing his face fall a little. Guilt stirred. The father ought to be the first to know.

He shifted her in his arms so he could see her face, and in a quiet voice asked, “Are you all right about this wedding, Daisy?” He waited. “I mean, you’ve refused me every other time, so I know you’re only marrying me for the babe. And that’s fine and dandy by me, in case you’re worryin’ about it. But are
you
all right about it?”

She forced a smile. “Yeah, I’m happy about it, Flynn, don’t worry.”

“Is it the shop? Because you know I’ll give it right back to you, the minute we’re married.”

“It’s not the shop. I’m just a bit tired and, you know”—she touched her belly—“feelin’ a bit sick.”

It wasn’t quite a lie. She did feel sick, only it wasn’t the babe making her feel sick. It was herself.

*   *   *

“S
o you told him,” Lady Beatrice observed. She and Daisy were in her carriage, returning to London.

“Yes, I told him.”

“And? Ouch! My dratted bones will never be the same!” she added as the carriage bumped over another set of potholes. It was a very well sprung carriage, but the road was in a bad state. “Jane and her party. Why people wish to live in this godforsaken wilderness is beyond me! So what did he say?”

“We’re going to get married.”

“Excellent. When?”

Daisy shrugged. “Soon, I suppose. Before I start to show.”

The old lady snorted. “Contain your enthusiasm, will you?”

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.

*   *   *

T
he 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.

*   *   *

H
er 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 explain, 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.”