He shook his head, while an answering smile broke out on his face. Daisy noticed that his smiles never lasted for long, they vanished as quickly as they appeared. It was like catching sight of some rare natural phenomenon, like a shooting star, brief and striking.
“If you tell anyone about this, you little imp…you’ll pay.” The words were threatening, but something in his tone…an erotic softness…sent a hot-and-cold chill down her spine.
“I’m not going to tell anyone,” Daisy said breathlessly. “The situation would reflect as badly on me as it would on you.”
Swift reached into his discarded coat, extracted a small penknife and handed it to her. Was it her imagination, or had his fingers lingered an extra second on the surface of her palm?
“What’s this for?” she asked uneasily.
“To cut the string from the bird’s leg. Be careful—it’s very sharp. I’d hate for you to accidentally slice open an artery.”
“Don’t worry, I won’t hurt him.”
“I was referring to myself, not the goose.” He slid an assessing glance over the impatient fowl. “If you make this difficult,” he said to the goose, “you’ll be pate by suppertime.”
The bird raised its wings threateningly to make itself appear as large as possible.
Moving forward in a deliberate step, Swift placed one foot on the line, shortening the goose’s range of movement. The creature flapped and hissed, pausing for a moment before making the decision to hurl itself forward. Swift seized the goose, cursing as he tried to avoid the driving beak. A flurry of feathers rose around the pair.
“Don’t choke him,” Daisy cried, seeing that Swift had gotten hold of the goose’s neck.
It was perhaps fortunate that Swift’s reply was lost in the explosion of movement and honking and goose-battling. Somehow Swift managed to restrain the bird until it was a writhing, spitting mass in his arms. Disheveled and blanketed with feathers and down, he glared at Daisy, “Get over here and cut the line,” he snapped.
Hastily she obeyed, dropping to her knees beside the grappling pair. Gingerly she reached for the goose’s muddy webbed foot, and it squawked and jerked its leg away.
“For God’s sake, don’t be timid,” she heard Swift say impatiently. “Just grab hold of the thing and get to work.”
Had there not been thirty pounds of furious goose caught between them, Daisy would have glared at Matthew Swift. Instead she seized the goose’s tethered foot in a firm grip and carefully slid the tip of the knife beneath the line. Swift had been right—the blade was wickedly sharp. With one nick it cut the line cleanly in two.
“It’s done,” she said triumphantly, closing the knife. “You may release our feathered friend, Mr. Swift.”
“Thank you,” came his sardonic reply.
But as Swift opened his arms and freed the bird, it reacted unexpectedly. Bent on vengeance, blaming its captor for all its woes, the creature twisted to aim a jab at his face.
“Ow!” Swift fell back to a half-sitting position, clutching a hand to his eye while the goose sped away with a triumphant honk.
“Mr. Swift!” Daisy crawled over him in concern, straddling his lap. She tugged at his hand. “Let me see.”
“I’m all right,” he said, rubbing his eye.
“Let me see,” she repeated, grasping his head in her hands.
“I’m going to demand goose hash for dinner,” he muttered, letting her turn his face to the side.
“You will do no such thing.” Daisy gently inspected the tiny wound at the edge of his dark eyebrow and used her sleeve to blot a drop of blood. “It’s bad form to eat someone after you’ve saved them.” A tremor of laughter ran through her voice. “Fortunately the goose had bad aim. I don’t think your eye will turn black.”
“I’m glad you find this amusing,” he muttered. “You’re covered with feathers, you know.”
“So are you.” Tiny bits of fluff and spars of gray and white were caught in his shiny brown hair. More laughter escaped her, like bubbles rising to the surface of a pond. She began to pick feathers and down from his hair, the thick locks tickling-soft against her fingers.
Levering himself upward, Swift reached for her hair, which had begun to fall from its pins. His fingers were gentle as he pulled feathers from the glinting black strands.
For a silent minute or two they worked on each other. Daisy was so intent on the task that the impropriety of her position didn’t occur to her at first. For the first time she was close enough to notice the variegated blue of his eyes, ringed with cobalt at the outer edge of the irises. And the texture of his skin, satiny and sun-hued, with the shadow of close-shaven stubble on his jaw.
She realized that Swift was deliberately avoiding her gaze, concentrating on finding every tiny piece of down in her hair. Suddenly she became aware of a simmering communication between their bodies, the solid strength of him beneath her, the incendiary drift of his breath against her cheek. His clothes were damp, the heat of his skin burning through wherever it pressed against hers.
They both went still at the same moment, caught together in a half-embrace while every cell of Daisy’s skin seemed to fill with liquid fire. Fascinated, disoriented, she let herself relax into it, feeling the throb of her pulse in every extremity. There were no more feathers, but Daisy found herself gently lacing her fingers through the dark waves of his hair.
It would be so easy for him to roll her beneath him, his weight pressing her into the damp earth. The hardness of their knees pressed together through layers of fabric, triggering a primitive instinct for her to open to him, to let him move her limbs as he would.
She heard Swift’s breath catch. He clamped his hands around her upper arms and unceremoniously removed her from his lap.
Landing on the grass beside him with a decisive thump, Daisy tried to gather her wits. Silently she found the pen-knife on the ground and handed it back to him.
After slipping the knife back into his pocket, he made a project of brushing feathers and dirt from his calves.
Wondering why he was sitting in such an oddly cramped posture, Daisy struggled to her feet. “Well,” she said uncertainly, “I suppose I’ll have to sneak back into the manor through the servants’ entrance. If Mother sees me, she’ll have conniptions.”
“I’m going back to the river,” Swift said, his voice hoarse. “To find out how Westcliff is faring with the reel. And maybe I’ll fish some more.”
Daisy frowned as she realized he was deliberately avoiding her.
“I should think you’d had enough of standing up to your waist in cold water today,” she said.
“Apparently not,” Swift muttered, keeping his back to her as he reached for his vest and coat.
CHAPTER 5
Perplexed and annoyed, Daisy strode away from the artificial lake.
She wasn’t going to tell anyone about what had just happened, even though she would have loved to amuse Lillian with the story of the goose encounter. But she did not want to reveal that she had seen a different side of Matthew Swift, and that she had briefly allowed herself to flirt with a dangerous attraction to him. It had meant nothing, really.
Although Daisy was still an innocent, she understood enough of sexual matters to be aware that one’s body could respond to a man without any involvement of the heart. As she had once responded to Cam Rohan. It disconcerted her to realize she was drawn to Matthew Swift in that same way. Such different men, one romantic, one reserved. One a handsome young gypsy who had stirred her imagination with exotic possibilities…one a man of business, hard-eyed and ambitious and pragmatic.
Daisy had seen an endless parade of power-seeking men during the Fifth Avenue years. They wanted perfection, a wife who could be the best hostess and give the best suppers and soirees, and wear the best gowns, and produce the best children who would play quietly upstairs in the nursery while their fathers were negotiating business deals downstairs in the study.
And Matthew Swift, with his enormous drive, the one her father had singled out for his talent and brilliant mind, would be the most exacting husband imaginable. He would want a wife who formed her entire life around his goals, and he would judge her severely when she failed to please him. There could be no future with a man like that.
But there was one thing in Matthew Swift’s favor: He had helped the goose.
By the time Daisy had stolen into the manor, washed and dressed in a fresh day-gown, her friends and sister had gathered in the morning room for tea and toast. They sat at one of the round tables by a window, looking up as Daisy entered the room.
Annabelle held Isabelle against her shoulder, rubbing her tiny back in soothing circles. A few of the other tables were occupied, mostly by women, although there were about a half-dozen men present, including Lord St. Vincent.
“Good morning,” Daisy said brightly, going to her sister. “How was your sleep, dear?”
“Splendid.” Lillian looked lovely, her eyes clear, her black hair pulled back from her face and caught in a pink silk net at the nape of her neck. “I slept with the windows open, and the breeze coming from the lake was so refreshing. Did you go fishing this morning?”
“No.” Daisy tried to sound offhand. “I just walked.”
Evie leaned toward Annabelle to take the baby. “Let me hold her,” she said. The baby was chewing frantically on a small fist and drooling copiously. Taking the restless child, Evie explained to Daisy, “She’s teething, poor thing.”
“She’s been fretful all morning,” Annabelle said. Daisy saw that her luminous blue eyes looked a little tired, the eyes of a young mother. The touch of weariness only enhanced Annabelle’s beauty, softening the goddess-like perfection of her features.
“Isn’t it rather soon for the baby to be teething?” Daisy asked.
“She’s a Hunt,” Annabelle said dryly. “And Hunts are an unusually hardy lot. According to my husband, everyone in his family is practically born with teeth.” She regarded the baby with concern. “I think I should take her from the room.”
A score of disapproving glances were cast in their direction. It was not the done thing for children, especially infants, to be brought into adult company. Unless it was strictly for show, with the child dressed in white ruffles and ribbons and briefly exhibited for general approval, and then carted quickly back up to the nursery.
“Nonsense,” Lillian said at once, not bothering to lower her voice. “Isabelle is hardly screaming or carrying on. She’s just a bit agitated. I think everyone can manage to have a little tolerance.”
“Let’s try the spoon again,” Annabelle murmured, her cultured voice touched with anxiety. She pulled a chilled silver spoon from a little bowl of crushed ice, and told Daisy, “My mother suggested giving her this—she said it always worked with my brother Jeremy.”
Daisy sat beside Evie, watching as the baby bit down on the bowl of the spoon. Isabelle’s round little face was flushed and a few tears had tracked from her eyes. As she whimpered, the tender, inflamed part of her gums was visible, and Daisy winced in sympathy.
“She needs a nap,” Annabelle said. “But she’s in too much pain to sleep.”
“Poor darling.”
As Evie tried to soothe the baby there was a minor stir at the other side of the room. Someone’s entrance had caused a ripple of interest. Turning in her chair, Daisy saw the tall, striking form of Matthew Swift.
So he hadn’t gone back to the river. He must have waited until Daisy had gone sufficiently far ahead, then walked to the manor without having to escort her.
Like her father, Swift found little in her that was worthy of interest. Daisy told herself that she shouldn’t care, but the knowledge stung.
He had changed into a perfectly pressed suit of clothes, dark gray with a dove-colored vest, his black necktie crisp and conservatively knotted. Although it had become fashionable in Europe for men to grow their side whiskers longer and wear their hair in loose waves, it appeared the style had not yet reached America. Matthew Swift was completely clean-shaven, and his gleaming brown hair had been shaped close to the sides of his head and neck, giving him an appealing touch of boyishness.
Daisy watched covertly as introductions were made. She saw the pleasure on the faces of the older gentlemen as they spoke to him, and the jealousy of the younger gentlemen. And the flirtatious interest of the women.
“Good heavens,” Annabelle murmured, “who is that?”
Lillian replied grumpily. “That is Mr. Swift.”
Both Annabelle’s and Evie’s eyes widened.
“The same Mr. Swift you described as a bag of b-bones?” Evie asked.
“The one you said was about as exciting as a dish of wilted spinach?” Annabelle added.
Lillian’s frown deepened into an outright scowl. Ripping her attention from Swift, she dropped a lump of sugar in her tea. “I suppose he may not be quite as hideous as I described,” she allowed. “But don’t let his appearance deceive you. Once you are acquainted with the inner man, it will change your impression of the outer one.”
“I th-think there are quite a few ladies who would like to become acquainted with any part of him,” Evie observed, causing Annabelle to snicker into her teacup.
Daisy threw a quick glance over her shoulder and saw it was true. Ladies were fluttering, giggling, extending soft white hands to be taken and pressed.
“All this fuss just because he’s American and therefore a novelty,” Lillian muttered. “If any of my brothers were here, those ladies would forget all about Mr. Swift.”
Although Daisy would have liked to agree, she was fairly certain that their brothers would not have the same effect as Mr. Swift. For all that they were heirs to a great fortune, the Bowman brothers did not have Swift’s carefully cultivated social finesse.
“He’s looking over here,” Annabelle reported. Anxiety lent subtle tension to her posture. “He’s frowning, along with everyone else. The baby is making too much of a fuss. I’ll take her outside and—”
“Do not take her anywhere,” Lillian commanded. “This is my home, and you’re my friend, and anyone who doesn’t care for the baby’s noise is welcome to leave at once.”
“He’s coming this way,” Evie whispered. “Hush.”
Daisy stared steadily into her tea, tension coiling in her muscles.
Swift came to the table and bowed politely. “My lady,” he said to Lillian, “what a pleasure it is to see you again. May I offer my renewed congratulations on your marriage to Lord Westcliff, and…” He hesitated, for although Lillian was obviously pregnant, it would be impolite to refer to her condition. “…you are looking quite well,” he finished.