Llandrindon, usually so graceful, tripped on an uneven patch of gravel. “What—what gives you that impression, Miss Bowman?”
“It’s just a woman’s intuition.”
“Miss Bowman,” he burst out, “if I have said or done anything to give you the misapprehension that I…that I…”
“I’m not talking about you,” Daisy said bluntly.
“You’re not? Then who—”
“I’m referring to Mr. Swift.”
His sudden joy was nearly palpable. “Mr. Swift. Yes. Yes. Miss Bowman, he has sung your praises for endless hours—not that it has been disagreeable to hear about your charms, of course.”
Daisy smiled. “I fear Mr. Swift will continue being reticent until something happens to flush him out like a pheasant from a wheat field. But if you wouldn’t mind giving the impression that you have indeed taken an interest in me—an outing in the carriage, a stroll, a dance or two—it may give him just the impetus he needs to declare himself.”
“It would be my pleasure,” Llandrindon said, apparently finding the role of co-conspirator far more appealing than that of matrimonial target. “I assure you, Miss Bowman, I can give a most convincing appearance of courtship.”
“I want you to delay your trip for a week.”
Matthew, who had been fastening five sheets of paper together with a straight pin, accidently shoved the point of one into his finger. Withdrawing the pin, he ignored the tiny dot of blood on his skin and stared at Westcliff without comprehension. The man had been closeted away with his wife and newborn daughter for at least thirty-six hours, and all of a sudden he had decided to appear the night before Matthew was to leave for Bristol and issue a command that made no sense at all.
Matthew kept his voice under tight control. “May I ask why, my lord?”
“Because I have decided to accompany you. And my schedule will not accommodate a departure on the morrow.”
As far as Matthew knew, the earl’s current schedule revolved solely around Lillian and the baby. “There is no need for you to go,” he said, offended by the implication that he couldn’t manage things on his own. “I know more than anyone about the various aspects of this business, and what it will require—”
“You are a foreigner, nonetheless,” Westcliff said, his face inscrutable. “And the mention of my name will open doors you won’t otherwise have access to.”
“If you doubt my negotiating skills—”
“Those aren’t at issue. I have complete faith in your skills, which in America would be more than sufficient. But here, in an undertaking of this magnitude, you will need the patronage of someone highly placed in society. Someone like me.”
“This isn’t the medieval era, my lord. I’ll be damned if I need to put on a dog-and-pony show with a peer as part of a business deal.”
“Speaking as the other half of the dog-and-pony show,” Westcliff said sardonically, “I’m not fond of the idea either. Especially when I have a newborn infant and a wife who hasn’t yet recovered from labor.”
“I can’t wait a week,” Matthew exploded. “I’ve already made appointments. I’ve arranged to meet with everyone from the dockmaster to the owners of the local waterworks company—”
“Those meetings will be rescheduled, then.”
“If you think there won’t be complaints—”
“The news that I will be accompanying you next week will be enough to quell most complaints.”
From any other man such a pronouncement would have been arrogance. From Westcliff it was a simple statement of fact.
“Does Mr. Bowman know about this?” Matthew demanded.
“Yes. And after hearing my opinion on the matter, he has agreed.”
“What am I supposed to do here for a week?”
The earl arched a dark brow in the manner of a man whose hospitality had never been questioned. People of all ages, nationalities and social classes begged for invitations to StonyCrossPark. Matthew was probably the only man in England who didn’t want to be there.
He didn’t care. He had gone too long without any real work—he was tired of idle amusements, tired of small talk, tired of beautiful scenery and fresh country air and peace and quiet. He wanted some activity, damn it all. Not to mention some coal-scented city air and the clamor of traffic-filled streets.
Most of all he wanted to be away from Daisy Bowman. It was constant torture to have her so near and yet never be able to touch her. It was impossible to treat her with calm courtesy when his head was filled with lurid images of holding her, seducing her, his mouth finding the sweetest, most vulnerable places of her body. And that was only the beginning. Matthew wanted hours, days, weeks alone with her…he wanted all her thoughts and smiles and secrets. The freedom to lay his soul bare before her.
Things he could never have.
“There are many entertainments available at the estate and its environs,” Westcliff said in answer to his question. “If you desire a particular kind of female companionship, I suggest you go to the village tavern.”
Matthew had already heard some of the male guests at the estate boasting of a spring evening’s revelry with a pair of buxom tavern maids. If only he could be satisfied with something that simple. A solid village wench, instead of a tantalizing will-o’-the-wisp who had wrought some kind of spell over his mind and heart.
Love was supposed to be a happy, giddy emotion. Like the silly verses written on Valentine cards and decorated with feathers and paint and lace. This wasn’t at all like that. This was a gnawing, feverish, bleak feeling…an addiction that could not be quenched.
This was pure reckless need. And he was not a reckless man.
But Matthew knew if he stayed at Stony Cross much longer, he was going to do something disastrous.
“I’m going to Bristol,” Matthew said desperately. “I’ll reschedule the meetings. I won’t do anything without your leave. But at least I can gather information—interview the local transport firm, have a look at their horses—”
“Swift,” the earl interrupted. Something in his quiet tone, a note of…kindness?…sympathy?…caused Matthew to stiffen defensively. “I understand the reason for your urgency—”
“No, you don’t.”
“I understand more than you might think. And in my experience, these problems can’t be solved by avoidance. You can never run far or fast enough.”
Matthew froze, staring at Westcliff. The earl could have been referring either to Daisy, or to Matthew’s tarnished past. In either case he was probably right.
Not that it changed anything.
“Sometimes running is the only choice,” Matthew replied gruffly, and left the room without looking back.
As it turned out, Matthew did not go to Bristol. He knew he would regret his decision…but he had no idea how much.
The days that followed were what Matthew would remember for the rest of his life as a week of unholy torture.
He had been to hell and back at a much earlier time in his life, having known physical pain, deprivation, near-starvation, and bone-chilling fear. But none of those discomforts came close to the agony of standing by and watching Daisy Bowman being courted by Lord Llandrindon.
It seemed the seeds he had sown in Llandrindon’s mind about Daisy’s charms had successfully taken root. Llandrindon was at Daisy’s side constantly, chatting, flirting, letting his gaze travel over her with offensive familiarity. And Daisy was similarly absorbed, hanging on his every word, dropping whatever she happened to be doing as soon as Llandrindon appeared.
On Monday they went out for a private picnic.
On Tuesday they went for a carriage drive.
On Wednesday they went to pick bluebells.
On Thursday they fished at the lake, returning with damp clothes and sun-glazed complexions, laughing together at a joke they didn’t share with anyone else.
On Friday they danced together at an impromptu musical evening, looking so well matched that one of the guests remarked it was a pleasure to watch them.
On Saturday Matthew woke up wanting to murder someone.
His mood was not improved by Thomas Bowman’s dyspeptic pronouncement after breakfast.
“He’s winning,” Bowman grumbled, pulling Matthew into the study for a private conversation. “That Scottish bastard Llandrindon has spent hours on end with Daisy, oozing charm and spouting all the nonsense women like to hear. If you had any intention of marrying my daughter, the opportunity has dwindled to almost nothing. You’ve gone out of your way to avoid her, you’ve been taciturn and distant, and all week you’ve worn an expression that would frighten small children and animals. Your notion of wooing a woman confirms everything I’ve ever heard about Bostonians.”
“Perhaps Llandrindon is the best match for her,” Matthew said woodenly. “They seem to be developing a mutual affection.”
“This isn’t about affection, it’s about marriage!” The top of Bowman’s head began to turn red. “Do you understand the stakes involved?”
“Other than the financial ones?”
“What other kind of stakes could there be?”
Matthew sent him a sardonic glance. “Your daughter’s heart. Her future happiness. Her—”
“Bah! People don’t marry to be happy. Or if they do, they soon discover it’s hog-swill.”
Despite his black mood, Matthew smiled slightly. “If you’re hoping to inspire me in the direction of wedlock,” he said, “it’s not working.”
“Is this inspiration enough?” Reaching into the pocket of his waistcoat, Bowman extracted a gleaming silver dollar and flipped it upward with his thumb. The coin spun toward Matthew in a bright silver arc. He caught it reflexively, closing it in his palm. “Marry Daisy,” Bowman said, “and you’ll get more of that. More than one man could spend in a lifetime.”
A new voice came from the doorway, and they both glanced toward the speaker.
“Lovely.”
It was Lillian, dressed in a pink day-gown and a shawl. She stared at her father with something approaching hatred, her eyes as dark as volcanic glass. “Is anyone in your life more than a mere pawn to you, Father?” she asked acidly.
“This is a discussion between men,” Bowman retorted, flushing from guilt, anger, or some combination of the two. “It’s none of your concern.”
“Daisy is my concern,” Lillian said, her voice soft but chilling. “And I’d kill you both before letting you make her unhappy.” Before her father could reply, she turned and proceeded down the hall.
Swearing, Bowman left the room and headed in the opposite direction.
Left alone in the study, Matthew slammed the coin onto the desk.
“All this effort for a man who doesn’t even care,” Daisy muttered to herself, thinking dire thoughts about Matthew Swift.
Llandrindon sat a few yards away on the rim of a garden fountain, obediently holding still as she sketched his portrait. She had never been particularly talented at sketching, but she was running out of things to do with him.
“What was that?” the Scottish lord called out.
“I said you have a fine head of hair!”
Llandrindon was a perfectly nice fellow, pleasant and unexceptional and utterly conventional. Glumly Daisy admitted to herself that in the effort to drive Matthew Swift half-mad with jealousy, she had succeeded only in driving herself half-mad with boredom.
Daisy paused to raise the back of her hand to her lips, stifling a yawn as she tried to appear as if she were immersed in her sketching.
This had been one of the most miserable weeks of her entire life. Day after day of deadly tedium, pretending to enjoy herself in the company of a man who couldn’t have interested her less. It wasn’t Llandrindon’s fault—he had made every effort to be entertaining—but it was clear to Daisy they had nothing in common and never would.
This didn’t seem to bother Llandrindon nearly as much as it did her. He could talk about practically nothing for hours. He could have filled entire newspapers with society gossip about people Daisy had never met. And he launched on long discourses about things like his search for the perfect color scheme for the hunting room at his Thurso estate, or the detailed course of studies he had followed at school. There never seemed to be a point to any of these stories.
Llandrindon seemed similarly disinterested in what Daisy had to say. He didn’t laugh at the tales of her childhood pranks with Lillian, and if she said something like “Look at that cloud—it’s shaped just like a rooster,” he stared at her as if she were mad.
He also hadn’t liked it when they discussed the poor laws and Daisy questioned his distinctions between the “deserving poor” and the “unworthy poor.” “It seems, my lord,” she had said, “that the law is designed to punish the people who need help the most.”
“Some people are poor because of choices they make through their own moral weaknesses, and therefore one can’t help them.”
“Such as fallen women, you mean? But what if these women had no other—”
“We will not discuss fallen women,” he had said, looking horrified.
Conversation with him was limited at best. Especially as Llandrindon found it difficult to follow Daisy’s quicksilver transitions between subjects. Long after she had finished talking about one thing, he would keep asking about it. “I thought we were still on the subject of your aunt’s poodle?” he had asked in confusion that very morning, and Daisy had replied impatiently, “No, I finished with that five minutes ago—just now I was telling you about the opera visit.”
“But how did we go from the poodle to the opera?”
Daisy was sorry that she had enlisted Llandrindon in her scheme, especially as it had proven so ineffective. Matthew Swift had not displayed one second’s worth of jealousy—he had been his usual granite-faced self, barely sparing a glance in her direction for days.
“Why are you frowning, sweeting?” Llandrindon asked, watching her face.
Sweeting? He had never used an endearment with her before. Daisy glanced at him over the edge of the sketchbook. He was staring at her in a way that made her uneasy. “Be quiet, please,” she said primly. “I’m sketching your chin.”
Concentrating on her drawing, Daisy thought it was not half-bad, but…was his head really that egg-shaped? Were his eyes that close-set? How strange that a person could be quite attractive, but when one examined them feature by feature, much of their charm faded. She decided sketching people was not her forte. From now on she would stick to plants and fruit.