“Dear,” Annabelle interrupted gently, “are you certain you gave her the opportunity to tell you everything?”
“What do you mean? I was sitting right in front of her. I was conscious and I had two ears. What more opportunity did she need?”
Restless and unable to sleep, Lillian had discovered Annabelle was also awake after having been up with the baby. They had seen each other from the respective balconies of their rooms, and had motioned to meet downstairs. It was midnight. At Annabelle’s suggestion they went for a walk in the Marsden gallery, a long rectangular room lined with dour family portraits and priceless works of art. Clad in their dressing gowns, they meandered through the gallery with their arms linked, their pace limited by Lillian’s slow shuffle.
Lillian had found herself turning to Annabelle with increasing frequency during the course of the pregnancy. Annabelle understood what she was going through, having experienced it herself quite recently. And Annabelle’s calm presence was invariably soothing.
“What I mean,” Annabelle said, “is that you may have been so intent on telling Daisy how you felt that you forgot to ask how she felt.”
Lillian spluttered indignantly, “But she—but I—” She stopped and considered the point. “You’re right,” she admitted gruffly. “I didn’t. I was so appalled by the idea of Daisy being attracted to Matthew Swift that I suppose I didn’t really want to discuss it. I wanted to tell her what to do and then be finished with it.”
They turned at the end of the gallery and proceeded past a row of landscapes. “Do you think there has been any intimacy between them?” Annabelle asked. Seeing Lillian’s alarm, she clarified, “Such as a kiss…an embrace…”
“Oh God.” Lillian shook her head. “I don’t know. Daisy’s so innocent. It would be so easy for that snake to seduce her.”
“He is genuinely enchanted by her, in my opinion. What young man wouldn’t be? She’s a darling, and lovely and clever—”
“And wealthy,” Lillian said darkly.
Annabelle smiled. “Wealth never hurts,” she allowed. “But in this case, I think there is more to it than that.”
“How can you be so sure?”
“Dear, it’s obvious. You’ve seen the way they look at each other. It’s just…in the air.”
Lillian frowned. “May we stop for a moment? My back hurts.”
Annabelle complied immediately, helping her ease to one of the cushioned benches that ran down the center of the gallery. “I don’t think it will be long until the baby comes,” Annabelle murmured. “I would even venture to guess he will arrive a bit sooner than the doctor predicted.”
“Thank God. I’ve never wanted anything so much as to be unpregnant.” Lillian made a project of trying to see the tips of her slippers over the curve of her stomach. Her mind circled back to the subject of Daisy. “I’m going to be honest with her about my opinions,” she said abruptly. “I see Matthew Swift for what he is, even if she doesn’t.”
“I think she knows your opinions already,” Annabelle said dryly. “But ultimately it’s her decision to make. I’ll hazard a guess that when you were trying to decide your feelings for Lord Westcliff, Daisy didn’t try to influence you one way or the other.”
“This situation is entirely different,” Lillian protested. “Matthew Swift is a reptile! And furthermore, if Daisy married him, he would eventually take her away to America and I would hardly ever see her again.”
“And you’d like her to stay under your wing forever,” Annabelle murmured.
Lillian turned to give her a baleful stare. “Are you suggesting I’m selfish enough to keep her from leading her own life just so I can keep her near me?”
Unruffled by her ire, Annabelle smiled sympathetically. “It’s always been the two of you, hasn’t it? You’ve always been each other’s sole source of love and companionship. But it’s all changing, dear. You have your own family now, a husband and a child—and you should want nothing less for Daisy.”
Lillian’s nose began to sting. She looked away from Annabelle, and to her mortification, her eyes turned hot and blurry. “I promise I will like the next man she’s interested in. No matter who he is. Just as long as he’s not Mr. Swift.”
“You wouldn’t like any man she was interested in.” Annabelle’s arm slipped around her shoulders as she added affectionately, “You are somewhat possessive, dear.”
“And you are incredibly annoying,” Lillian said, laying her head on Annabelle’s soft shoulder. She continued to sniffle while Annabelle held her in the kind of firm, comforting embrace that Lillian’s own mother had never been capable of. It was a relief to cry, but a bit embarrassing as well. “I hate being a watering pot,” she mumbled.
“It’s because of your condition,” Annabelle soothed. “It’s perfectly natural. You’ll be back to rights after the baby is born.”
“It’s going to be a he,” Lillian told her, wiping her eyes with her fingers. “And then we’ll arrange a marriage between our children so Isabelle can be a viscountess.”
“I thought you didn’t believe in arranged marriages.”
“I didn’t until now. Our children can’t possibly be trusted with a decision as important as whom to marry.”
“You’re right. We’ll have to do it for them.”
They chuckled together, and Lillian felt her mood lightening just a little.
“I have an idea,” Annabelle said. “Let’s go to the kitchen and peek in the larder. I’ll bet there’s still some gooseberry cake left from dessert. Not to mention the strawberry jam trifle.”
Lillian lifted her head and blotted her wet nose on her sleeve. “Do you really think a plate of sweets will make me feel better?”
Annabelle smiled. “It can’t hurt, can it?”
Lillian considered the point. “Let’s go,” she said, and allowed her friend to pull her up from the bench.
The morning sun snapped through the windows as housemaids tugged back the main entrance hall drapes and secured them with tasseled silk ropes. Daisy walked toward the breakfast room, knowing there was little chance any of the guests were awake. She had tried to sleep as long as possible while restless energy coursed through her, demanding an outlet until finally she had jumped up and dressed herself.
Servants were busy polishing brass and woodwork, sweeping carpets, carrying pails and baskets of linens. Farther away were the clangs of metal pots and the clinks of dishes as food was prepared in the kitchen for the morning repast.
The door to Lord Westcliff’s private study was open, and Daisy glanced inside the wood-paneled room as she passed. It was a beautiful room, simple and spare with a row of stained-glass windows that shed a rainbow of light across the carpeted floor. Daisy paused with a smile as she saw someone sitting at the massive desk. The outline of his dark head and broad shoulders identified him as Mr. Hunt, who often made use of Westcliff’s study when he was at Stony Cross.
“Good morning…” she began, pausing as he turned to look at her.
She felt a pang of excitement as she realized it was not Mr. Hunt but Matthew Swift.
He rose from his chair, and Daisy said bashfully, “No, please, I’m sorry to have interrupted…”
Her voice trailed away as she noticed there was something different about him. He was wearing a pair of thin, steel-framed spectacles.
Spectacles, on that strong-featured face…and his hair mussed as if he had been tugging absently on the front locks. All that combined with a plenitude of muscles and masculine virility was astonishingly…erotic.
“When did you start wearing those?” Daisy managed to ask.
“About a year ago.” He smiled ruefully and removed the spectacles with one hand. “I need them to read. Too many late nights poring over contracts and reports.”
“They…they are very becoming.”
“Are they?” Continuing to smile, Swift shook his head, as if it had not occurred to him to wonder about his appearance. He tucked the spectacles into the pocket of his waistcoat. “How do you feel?” he asked softly. It took a moment for Daisy to realize he was referring to her tumble from the pony cart.
“Oh, I’m quite well, thank you.” He was staring at her in that way he always had, concentrated, unwavering. It had always made her uneasy. But just now, his gaze didn’t seem critical. In fact, he was staring at her if she were the only thing in the world worth looking at. She fidgeted with the skirts of her muslin gown, pink with printed flowers.
“You’re up early,” Swift said.
“I usually am. I can’t imagine why some people stay abed so late in the morning. There’s only so much sleeping one can do.” As Daisy finished speaking it occurred to her there was something else people did in bed besides sleeping, and she turned scarlet.
Mercifully Swift didn’t mock her, though she saw a subtle smile lurking in the corners of his mouth. Discarding the risky subject of sleeping habits, he gestured to the sheaf of papers behind him. “I’m preparing to go to Bristol soon. Some issues have to be settled before we decide to locate the manufactory there.”
“Lord Westcliff has agreed that you will manage the project?”
“Yes. Though it seems I’ll have to maneuver around an advisory committee.”
“My brother-in-law can be a bit controlling,” Daisy admitted. “But once he sees how dependable you are, I predict he will loosen the reins considerably.”
He gave her a curious glance. “That almost sounds like a compliment, Miss Bowman.”
She shrugged with elaborate casualness. “Whatever faults you may have, your dependability is legendary. My father has always said that one may set a clock by your comings and goings.”
Sardonic amusement edged his voice. “Dependable. That is the description of an exciting fellow.”
Once Daisy would have agreed with the sarcastic statement. When one said a man was “dependable” or “nice,” one was damning him with faint praise. But she had spent three seasons observing the caprices of gentlemen who were rakish, absent-minded or irresponsible. Dependability was a wonderful quality in a man. She wondered why she had never appreciated that before.
“Mr. Swift…” Daisy tried to sound light, with only marginal success. “I have been wondering about something…”
“Yes?” He took a half-step backward as she moved closer, as if it were imperative to maintain a certain distance between them.
Daisy watched him intently. “Since there is no possibility that you and I…that marriage is out of the…I was wondering, when do you plan to marry?”
He looked bemused, then blank. “I don’t think marriage would suit me.”
“Ever?”
“Ever.”
“Why not?” she demanded. “Is it that you value your freedom too much? Or are you planning on becoming a skirt-chaser?”
Swift laughed, the sound so warm that Daisy felt it like a stroke of velvet down her spine. “No. I’ve always thought it would be a waste of time to pursue hordes of women when one good one would suffice.”
“How do you define a good one?”
“Are you asking what kind of woman I would want to marry?” His smile lingered much longer than usual, causing the fine hairs to prickle on the nape of Daisy’s neck. “I suppose I would know when I met her.”
Striving to seem unconcerned, Daisy wandered to the stained-glass windows. She held a hand up, watching the mosaic of colored light on the paleness of her skin. “I can predict what she would be like.” She kept her back to Swift. “Taller than me, for one thing.”
“Most women are,” he pointed out.
“And accomplished and useful,” Daisy continued. “Not a dreamer. She would keep her mind on practical matters, and manage the servants perfectly, and she would never be tricked by the fishmonger into buying scrod after it’s turned.”
“If I did have any thoughts about marriage,” Swift said, “you’ve just driven them completely out of my mind.”
“You’ll have no difficulty finding her,” Daisy continued, sounding more glum than she would have wished. “There are hundreds of them in Manhattanville. Maybe thousands.”
“What makes you certain I would want a conventional wife?”
Her nerves tingled as she felt him approaching her from behind.
“Because you’re like my father,” she said.
“Not entirely.”
“And if you married someone different from the woman I just described, you would eventually come to think of her as a…parasite.”
The light pressure of Swift’s hands closed over her shoulders. He turned Daisy to face him. His blue eyes were warm as he searched hers, and she had the discomforting suspicion that he was reading her thoughts far too accurately. “I prefer to think,” he said slowly, “that I would never be that cruel. Or idiotic.” His gaze felt to the exposed skin of her chest. With utter gentleness, he traced his thumbs across the winged shape of her collarbones, until gooseflesh rose on her arms beneath her puffed sleeves. “All I would ever ask of a wife,” he murmured, “is that she would bear me some affection. That she might be happy to see me at the end of the day.”
Her breath quickened beneath the touch of his fingers. “That’s not very much to ask.”
“Isn’t it?”
His fingertips had reached the base of her throat, which rippled from her hard swallow. He blinked and removed his hands promptly, seeming not to know what to do with them until he buried them in his coat pockets.
And yet he didn’t move away. Daisy wondered if he felt the same irresistible pull that she did, a perplexing need that could only be appeased by more closeness.
Clearing her throat in a businesslike manner, Daisy straightened her spine and drew up to her full height of five feet and one debatable inch.
“Mr. Swift?”
“Yes, Miss Bowman?”
“I have a favor to ask.”
His gaze sharpened. “What is it?”
“As soon as you tell my father definitively that you’re not going to marry me, he will be…disappointed. You know how he is.”
“Yes, I know,” Swift said dryly. Anyone acquainted with Thomas Bowman was well aware that for him, disappointment was but a quick stop on the way to high dudgeon.