“Still no heir,” Lillian whispered to him, her grin lingering. “I suppose we’ll have to have another one.”
“No, we won’t,” Westcliff replied hoarsely. “I’m never going through this again.”
Amused, Daisy glanced down at little Merritt, who was falling asleep in her arms. “I’ll show her to the others,” she said softly.
Stepping into the hallway, she was surprised to find it was empty.
Matthew Swift was gone.
When Daisy woke up the next morning, she learned to her relief that Mr. Hunt and Lord St. Vincent had returned safely to StonyCrossPark. St. Vincent had found the south road to be impassable, but Mr. Hunt had had more luck. He had found a doctor in a neighboring village, but the man had balked at riding out in a perilous storm. Apparently it had taken a fair amount of bullying from Hunt to convince him to go. Once they had arrived at Stony Cross Manor, the doctor examined Lillian and Merritt and pronounced them both in excellent condition. In his assessment the baby was small but perfectly formed, with a well-developed pair of lungs.
The guests at the manor received the news of the birth with only a few regretful murmurs about the baby’s gender. But seeing Westcliff’s face as he held his newborn daughter, and hearing his whispered promises that he was going to buy ponies and castles and entire kingdoms for her, Daisy knew he could not have been any happier had Merritt been a boy.
As she shared breakfast in the morning room with Evie, Daisy was aware of a most peculiar jumble of emotions. Aside from the joy that her niece had been born and her sister was fine, she felt…nervous. Lightheaded. Eager.
All because of Matthew Swift.
Daisy was grateful that she had not yet seen him today. After the discoveries she had made last night, she was not certain how she would react to him. “Evie,” she entreated privately, “there is something I need to talk to you about. Will you walk in the gardens with me?” Now that the storm was over, weak gray sunlight seeped through the sky.
“Of course. Although it’s rather muddy outside…”
“We’ll stay on the graveled paths. But it must be out there. This is too private to be discussed indoors.”
Evie’s eyes widened, and she drank her tea so fast it must have scalded her tongue.
The garden had been disheveled by the storm, leaves and green buds scattered everywhere, twigs and branches lying across the usually immaculate path. But the air was fragrant with the scents of wet earth and rain-drenched petals. Breathing deeply of the invigorating smell, the two friends strolled along the graveled walkway. They knotted their shawls around their arms and shoulders while the breeze pushed at them with the impatience of a child urging them to quicken their pace.
Daisy had seldom known a relief as great as unburdening herself to Evie. She told her about everything that had transpired between herself and Matthew Swift, including the kiss, finishing with the revelation of the button he carried in his pocket. Evie was a better listener than anyone Daisy knew, perhaps because of her struggles with her stammer.
“I don’t know what to think,” Daisy said miserably. “I don’t know how to feel about any of it. I don’t know why Mr. Swift seems different now than he did before, or why I am so drawn to him. It was so much easier to hate him. But last night when I saw that blasted button…”
“It had never occurred to you until then that he might actually have feelings for you,” Evie murmured.
“Yes.”
“Daisy…is it possible his actions have been calculated? That he is deceiving you, and the button in his pocket was some kind of pl-ploy?”
“No. If you had only seen his face. He was obviously desperate to keep me from realizing what it was. Oh, Evie…” Daisy kicked morosely at a pebble. “I have the most horrible suspicion that Matthew Swift might actually be everything I ever wanted in a man.”
“But if you married him, he would take you back to New York,” Evie said.
“Yes, eventually, and I can’t. I don’t want to live away from my sister and all of you. And I love England—I’m more myself here than I ever was in New York.”
Evie considered the problem thoughtfully. “What if Mr. Swift were willing to consider s-staying here permanently?”
“He wouldn’t. The opportunities are far greater in New York—and if he stayed here he would always have the disadvantage of not being an aristocrat.”
“But if he were willing to try…” Evie pressed.
“I still could never become the kind of wife he would need.”
“The two of you must have a forthright conversation,” Evie said decisively. “Mr. Swift is a mature and intelligent man—surely he wouldn’t expect you to become something you’re not.”
“It’s all moot, anyway,” Daisy said gloomily. “He made it clear that he won’t marry me under any circumstances. That was his exact wording.”
“Is it you he objects to, or the concept of marriage itself?”
“I don’t know. All I know is he must feel something for me if he carries a lock of my hair in his pocket.” Remembering the way his fingers had closed over the button, she felt a quick, not unpleasant shiver chase down her spine. “Evie,” she asked, “how do you know if you love someone?”
Evie considered the question as they passed a low circular boundary hedge containing an explosion of multi-colored primulas. “I’m sure this is when I’m s-supposed to say something wise and helpful,” she said with a self-deprecating shrug. “But my situation was different from yours. St. Vincent and I didn’t expect to fall in love. It caught us both unaware.”
“Yes, but how did you know?”
“It was the moment I realized he was willing to die for me. I don’t think anyone, including St. Vincent, believed he was capable of self-sacrifice. It taught me that you can assume you know a person quite well—but that person can s-surprise you. Everything seemed to change from one moment to the next—suddenly he became the most important thing in the world to me. No, not important…necessary. Oh, I wish I were clever with words—”
“I understand,” Daisy murmured, although she felt more melancholy than enlightened. She wondered if she would ever be able to love a man that way. Perhaps her emotions had been too deeply invested in her sister and friends…perhaps there wasn’t enough left over for anyone else.
They came to a tall juniper hedge beyond which extended a flagstoned walkway that bordered the side of the manor. As they made their way to an opening of the hedge, they heard a pair of masculine voices engaged in conversation. The voices were not loud. In fact, the strictly moderated volume of the conversation betrayed that something secret—and therefore intriguing—was being discussed. Pausing behind the hedge, Daisy motioned for Evie to be still and quiet.
“…doesn’t promise to be much of a breeder…” one of them was saying.
The comment was met with a low but indignant objection. “Timid? Holy hell, the woman has enough spirit to climb Mont-Blanc with a pen-knife and a ball of twine. Her children will be perfect hellions.”
Daisy and Evie stared at each other with mutual astonishment. Both voices were easily recognizable as those belonging to Lord Llandrindon and Matthew Swift.
“Really,” Llandrindon said skeptically. “My impression is that she is a literary-minded girl. Rather a bluestocking.”
“Yes, she loves books. She also happens to love adventure. She has a remarkable imagination accompanied by a passionate enthusiasm for life and an iron constitution. You’re not going to find a girl her equal on your side of the Atlantic or mine.”
“I had no intention of looking on your side,” Llandrindon said dryly. “English girls possess all the traits I would desire in a wife.”
They were talking about her, Daisy realized, her mouth dropping open. She was torn between delight at Matthew Swift’s description of her, and indignation that he was trying to sell her to Llandrindon as if she were a bottle of patent medicine from a street vendor’s cart.
“I require a wife who is poised,” Llandrindon continued, “sheltered, restful…”
“Restful? What about natural and intelligent? What about a girl with the confidence to be herself rather than trying to imitate some pallid ideal of subservient womanhood?”
“I have a question,” Llandrindon said.
“Yes?”
“If she’s so bloody remarkable, why don’t you marry her?”
Daisy held her breath, straining to hear Swift’s reply. To her supreme frustration his voice was muffled by the filter of the hedges. “Drat,” she muttered and made to follow them.
Evie yanked her back behind the hedge. “No,” she whispered sharply. “Don’t test our luck, Daisy. It was a miracle they didn’t realize we were here.”
“But I wanted to hear the rest of it!”
“So did I.” They stared at each other with round eyes. “Daisy…” Evie said in wonder, “…I think Matthew Swift is in love with you.”
CHAPTER 10
Daisy wasn’t certain why the notion that Matthew Swift could be in love with her should set her entire world upside-down. But it did.
“If he is,” she asked Evie unsteadily, “then why is he so determined to pawn me off on Lord Llandrindon? It would be so easy for him to fall in with my father’s plans. And he would be richly rewarded. If on top of that he actually cares for me in the bargain, what could be holding him back?”
“Maybe he wants to find out if you love him in return?”
“No, Mr. Swift’s mind doesn’t work that way, any more than my father’s does. They’re men of business. Predators. If Mr. Swift wanted me, he wouldn’t stop to ask for my permission any more than a lion would stop and politely ask an antelope if he would mind being eaten for lunch.”
“I think the two of you should have a forthright conversation,” Evie declared.
“Oh, Mr. Swift would only evade and prevaricate, exactly as he has done so far. Unless…”
“Unless?”
“…I could find some way to make him let his guard down. And force him to be honest about whether he feels anything for me or not.”
“How will you do that?”
“I don’t know. Hang it, Evie, you know a hundred times more about men than I do. You’re married to one. You’re surrounded by them at the club. In your informed opinion, what is the quickest way to drive a man to the limits of his sanity and make him admit something he doesn’t want to?”
Seeming pleased by the image of herself as a worldly woman, Evie contemplated the question. “Make him jealous, I suppose. I’ve seen civilized men fight like dogs in the alley behind the club over the f-favors of a particular lady.”
“Hmm. I wonder if Mr. Swift could be provoked to jealousy.”
“I should think so,” Evie said. “He’s a man, after all.”
In the afternoon Daisy cornered Lord Llandrindon as he went into the library to replace a book on one of the lower gallery shelves.
“Good afternoon, my lord,” Daisy said brightly, pretending not to notice the glaze of apprehension in his eyes. She smothered a grin, thinking that after Matthew Swift’s campaign on her behalf, poor Llandrindon probably felt like a fox run to ground.
Recovering quickly, Llandrindon summoned a pleasant smile. “Good afternoon, Miss Bowman. May I ask after your sister and the baby?”
“Both are quite well, thank you.” Daisy drew closer and inspected the book in his hands. “History Of Military Cartography. Well. That sounds quite, er…intriguing.”
“Oh, it is,” Llandrindon assured her. “And wonderfully instructive. Though I fear something was lost in the translation. One must read it in the original German to appreciate the full significance of the work.”
“Do you ever read novels, my lord?”
He looked sincerely appalled by the question. “Oh, I never read novels. I was taught from childhood that one should only read books that instruct the mind or improve the character.”
Daisy was annoyed by his superior tone. “What a pity,” she said beneath her breath.
“Hmm?”
“That’s pretty,” she amended quickly, pretending to examine the volume’s engraved leather binding. She gave him what she hoped was a poised smile. “Are you an avid reader, my lord?”
“I try never to be avid about anything. ‘Moderation in all things’ is one of my most valued mottoes.”
“I don’t have any mottoes. If I did I would forever be contradicting them.”
Llandrindon chuckled. “Are you admitting to a mercurial nature?”
“I prefer to think of it as being open-minded,” Daisy said. “I can see wisdom in a great variety of beliefs.”
“Ah.”
Daisy could practically read his thoughts, that her so-called openmindedness cast her in a less-than-favorable light. “I should like to hear more of your mottoes, my lord. Perhaps during a stroll through the gardens?”
“I…er…” It was unpardonably bold for a girl to invite a gentleman on a walk instead of the other way around. However, Llandrindon’s gentlemanly nature would not allow him to refuse. “Of course, Miss Bowman. Perhaps tomorrow—”
“Now would be fine,” she said brightly.
“Now,” came his weak reply. “Yes. Lovely.”
Taking his arm before he had a chance to offer it, Daisy tugged him toward the doorway. “Let’s go.”
Having no choice but to allow the militantly cheerful young woman to drag him this way and that, Llandrindon soon found himself proceeding down one of the great stone staircases that led from the back terrace to the grounds below. “My lord,” Daisy said, “I have something to confess. I am hatching a little plot and I was hoping to enlist your help.”
“A little plot,” he repeated skittishly. “My help. Quite. That is, er—”
“It’s harmless, of course,” Daisy continued. “My objective is to encourage a certain gentleman’s attentions, as he seems to be somewhat reticent when it comes to courtship.”
“Reticent?” Llandrindon’s voice was a bare scratch of sound.
Daisy’s estimation of his mental capacity sank several degrees as it became apparent that all he could do was repeat her words in a parrotlike fashion. “Yes, reticent. But I have the impression that underneath the reluctant surface a different feeling may exist.”