Westcliff looked amused. “Does Swift possess any redeeming feature?”
Both sisters considered the question. “He has nice teeth,” Daisy finally said grudgingly.
“How would you know?” Lillian asked. “He never smiles!”
“Your assessment of him is severe,” Westcliff remarked. “But Mr. Swift may have changed since you last saw him.”
“Not so much that I would ever consent to marry him,” Daisy said.
“You won’t have to marry Swift if you don’t wish it,” Lillian said vehemently, stirring in her husband’s grasp. “Isn’t that right, Westcliff?”
“Yes, love,” he murmured, smoothing her hair back from her face.
“And you won’t let Father take Daisy away from me,” Lillian insisted.
“Of course not. Something can always be negotiated.”
Lillian subsided against him, having absolute faith in her husband’s abilities. “There,” she mumbled to Daisy. “No need to worry…see? Westcliff has everything…” She paused to yawn widely. “…well in hand…”
Seeing the way her sister’s eyelids drooped, Daisy smiled sympathetically. She met Westcliff’s gaze over Lillian’s head, and motioned that she would leave. He responded with a courteous nod, his attention returning compulsively to Lillian’s drowsy face. And Daisy couldn’t help but wonder if any man would ever stare at her in such a way, as if the weight of her was precious in his arms.
Daisy was certain that Westcliff would try to help her in any way he could, if only for Lillian’s sake. But her faith in the earl’s influence was tempered by the knowledge of her own father’s inflexible will.
Although she would defy him with every means at her disposal, Daisy had a bad feeling the odds were not in her favor.
She paused at the threshold of the room and looked back at the pair on the settee with a troubled frown. Lillian had fallen fast asleep, her head centered heavily on Westcliff’s chest. As the earl met Daisy’s unhappy gaze, one of his brows raised in silent inquiry.
“My father…” Daisy began, then bit her lip. This man was her father’s business partner. It was not appropriate to run to Westcliff with complaints. But the patience in his expression encouraged her to continue. “He called me a parasite,” she said, keeping her voice soft to avoid disturbing Lillian. “He asked me to tell him how the world has benefitted from my existence, or what I had ever done for anyone.”
“And your reply?” Westcliff asked.
“I…couldn’t think of anything to say.”
Westcliff’s coffee-colored eyes were unfathomable. He made a gesture for her to approach the settee, and she obeyed. To her astonishment, he took her hand in his and gripped it warmly. The usually circumspect earl had never done such a thing before.
“Daisy,” Westcliff said gently, “most lives are not distinguished by great achievements. They are measured by an infinite number of small ones. Each time you do a kindness for someone or bring a smile to his face, it gives your life meaning. Never doubt your value, little friend. The world would be a dismal place without Daisy Bowman in it.”
Few people would argue that StonyCrossPark was one of the most beautiful places in England. The Hampshire estate sustained an infinite variety of terrain from near-impenetrable forests to brilliantly flowered wet meadows and bogs to the stalwart honey-colored stone manor on a bluff over looking the Itchen river.
Life flourished everywhere, pale shoots springing from the carpet of decayed leaves at the foot of fissured oaks and cedar, stands of bluebells glowing in a darker part of the forest.
Red grasshoppers vaulted through meadows filled with wild primrose and lady’s-smock, while translucent blue damselflies hovered over the intricately cut white petals of bog bean flowers. It smelled like spring, the air saturated with the scent of sweet box hedge and tender green lawn.
After a twelve-hour carriage ride that Lillian described as a journey through hell, the Westcliffs, Bowmans, and assorted guests were gratified to reach StonyCrossPark at last.
The sky was a different color in Hampshire, a softer blue, and the air was filled with blissful quiet. There were no clangs of wheels and hooves on paved streets, or vendors or beggars, or factory whistles, or any of the commotion that constantly assaulted the ears in town. Here there was only the chirping of robins in the hedgerows, the rattle of green woodpeckers among the trees, and the occasional dart of kingfishers from the sheltering river reeds.
Lillian, who had once considered the country deadly dull, was overjoyed to be back at the estate. She thrived in the atmosphere of StonyCrossPark, and after her first night at the manor she looked and felt much better than she had in weeks. Now that Lillian’s pregnancy could no longer easily be concealed by high-waisted gowns, she was entering confinement, which meant she could no longer go out in public. On her own estate, however, Lillian would have relative freedom, though she would restrict her interactions with the guests to small groups.
To Daisy’s delight she was installed in her favorite bedroom in the manor. The lovely, quaint room had once belonged to Lord Westcliff’s sister Lady Aline, who now resided in America with her husband and son. The most charming feature of the bedroom was the tiny attached cabinet room that had been brought over from France and reassembled. It had originally come from a seventeenth-century chateau and had been fitted with a chaise that was perfect for napping or reading.
Curled with one of her books in a corner of the chaise, Daisy felt as if she were hidden from the rest of the world. Oh, if only she could stay here at Stony Cross and live with her sister forever! But even as the thought occurred to her she knew she would never be completely happy that way. She wanted her own life…her own husband, her own children.
For the first time in Daisy’s memory she and her mother had become allies. They were united in their desire to prevent a marriage with the odious Matthew Swift.
“That wretched young man,” Mercedes had exclaimed. “I’ve no doubt he put the entire blasted notion in your father’s head…I’ve always suspected he…”
“Suspected what?” Daisy asked, but her mother only clamped her lips together until they formed a bitter hyphen.
As Mercedes pored over the guest list, she informed Daisy that a great number of eligible gentlemen were staying at the manor. “Even if they aren’t all directly in line for titles, they are from noble families,” Mercedes said. “And one never knows…Sometimes disaster occurs…fatal illness or large accidents. Several members of the family could be wiped out at once and then your husband could become a peer by default!” Looking hopeful at the thought of a calamity befalling Daisy’s future in-laws, Mercedes pored more closely over her list.
Daisy was impatient for Evie and St. Vincent to appear later in the week. She missed Evie dreadfully, especially since Annabelle was occupied with her baby and Lillian was too slow-moving to accompany her on the brisk walks she enjoyed.
On the third day after her arrival in Hampshire, Daisy set out by herself for an afternoon tromp. She took a well-worn path she had traversed on many previous visits. Wearing a pale blue muslin dress printed with flowers, and a pair of sturdy walking boots, she swung a straw bonnet by its ribbons.
Striding along a sunken road past wet meadows brilliant with yellow celandine and red sundew, Daisy considered her problem.
Why was it so hard for her to find a man?
It wasn’t as if she didn’t want to fall in love with someone. In fact, she was so open to the idea that it seemed monstrously unfair not to have found someone by now. She had tried! But there always was something wrong.
If a gentleman was the right age, he was passive or pompous. If he was kind and interesting, he was either old enough to be her grandfather or he had some off-putting problem such as being perpetually malodorous or spitting in her face when he talked.
Daisy knew she was not a great beauty. She was too small and slight, and although she had been praised for her dark eyes and brown-black hair set against her fair complexion, she had also heard the words “elfin” and “impish” applied to herself far too many times. Elfin women did not attract suitors in anything close to the quantities that statuesque beauties or pocket Venuses did.
It had also been remarked that Daisy spent far too much time with her books, which was probably true. Had she been allowed, Daisy would have spent most of every day reading and dreaming. Any sensible peer would doubtless conclude that she would not be a useful wife in the matters of household management, including those duties that hinged on close attention to detail. And the peer would be correct in this assumption.
Daisy couldn’t have cared less about the contents of the larder or how much soap to order for laundry day. She was far more interested in novels and poetry and history, all of which inspired long flights of fancy during which she would stare through a window at nothing…while in her imagination she went on exotic adventures, traveled on magic carpets, sailed across foreign oceans, searched for treasure on tropical islands.
And there were thrilling gentlemen in Daisy’s dreams, inspired by tales of dashing heroics and noble pursuits. These imaginary men were so much more exciting and interesting than ordinary ones…they spoke in beautiful prose, they excelled at sword fights and duels, and they forced swoon-inducing kisses on the women they fancied.
Of course Daisy was not so naive as to think that such men really existed, but she had to admit that with all these romantic images in her head, real-life men did seem terribly…well, dull in comparison.
Lifting her face to the mild sunshine that shot in bright filaments through the canopy of trees overhead, Daisy sang a lively folk tune called “Old Maid In The Garret”:
Come rich man, come poor man,Come fool or come witty,Come any man at all!Won’t you marry out of pity?
Soon she reached the object of her mission—a spring-fed well she and the other wallflowers had visited a few times before. A wishing well. According to local tradition, it was inhabited by a spirit who would grant your wish if you threw a pin into it. The only danger was in standing too close, for the well spirit might pull you down with him to live forever as his consort.
On previous occasions Daisy had made wishes on behalf of her friends—and they had always come true. Now she needed some magic for herself.
Setting her bonnet gently on the ground, Daisy approached the sloshing hole and looked into the muddy-looking water. She slipped her hand in the pocket of her walking dress and pulled out a paper rack of pins.
“Well-Spirit,” she said conversationally, “since I’ve had such bad luck in finding the kind of husband I always thought I wanted, I’m leaving it up to you. No requirements, no conditions. What I wish for is…the right man for me. I’m prepared to be open-minded.”
She pulled the pins from the paper in twos and threes, tossing them into the well. The slivers of metal sparkled brilliantly in the air before hitting the agitated surface of the water and sliding beneath its murky surface.
“I would like all of these pins to be credited toward the same wish,” she told the well. She stood for a long moment with her eyes closed, concentrating. The sound of the water was lightly overlaid by the hueet of an olive chiffchaff swooping to catch an insect in midair, and the buzz of a dragonfly.
There was a sudden snap behind her, like the crunch of a foot on a twig.
Turning, Daisy saw the dark form of a man coming toward her. He was only a few yards away. The shock of discovering someone so close when she had thought she was alone caused her heart to lurch in a few uncomfortable extra beats.
He was as tall and brawny as her friend Annabelle’s husband, though he appeared somewhat younger, perhaps not yet thirty. “Forgive me,” he said in a low voice as he saw her expression. “I didn’t mean to frighten you.”
“Oh, you didn’t frighten me,” she lied cheerfully, her pulse still off-kilter. “I was just a bit…surprised.”
He approached her in a relaxed amble, his hands in his pockets. “I arrived at the estate a couple of hours ago,” he said. “They said you were out here walking.”
He seemed rather familiar. He was looking at Daisy as if he expected her to know him. She felt the rush of pained apology that always attended the circumstance of having forgotten someone she had previously met.
“You’re a guest of Lord Westcliff’s?” she asked, trying desperately to place him.
He gave her a curious glance and smiled slightly. “Yes, Miss Bowman.”
He knew her name. Daisy regarded him with increasing confusion. She couldn’t imagine how she could have forgotten a man this attractive. His features were strong and decisively formed, too masculine to be called beautiful, too striking to be ordinary. And his eyes were the rich sky-blue of morning glories, even more intense against the sun-glazed color of his skin. There was something extraordinary about him, a kind of barely leashed vitality that nearly caused her to take a step backward, the force of it was so strong.
As he bent his head to look at her a mahogany glitter slid over the shiny dark brown surface of his hair. The thick locks had been clipped much closer to the shape of his head than Europeans preferred. An American style. Come to think of it, he had spoken in an American accent. And that fresh, clean smell she detected…if she wasn’t mistaken, it was the fragrance of…Bowman’s soap?
Suddenly Daisy realized who he was. Her knees nearly gave way beneath her.
“You,” she whispered, her eyes wide with astonishment as she beheld the face of Matthew Swift.
CHAPTER 2
She must have swayed a little, for he reached out and caught her in a light grasp, his fingers encircling her upper arms.
“Mr. Swift,” she choked out, straining backward in instinctive retreat.
“You’re going to fall into the well. Come with me.”
His grip was gentle but relentless as he drew her several yards away from the bubbling water. Annoyed at being herded like a stray goose from a gaggle, Daisy tensed against his grasp. Some things, she thought darkly, had not changed. Matthew Swift was as domineering as ever.
She couldn’t stop staring at him. Good Lord, she had never seen such a transformation in her life. The former “bag of bones,” as Lillian had described him, had filled out into a large, prosperous-looking man, radiating health and vigor. He was dressed in an elegant suit of clothes, more loosely tailored than the tight-fitting men’s styles of the past. Even so, the easy drape of fabric did not obscure the powerful musculature beneath.