Scandal in Spring (Wallflowers 4)

Matthew had imagined being in bed with her far more often than he should have. If such a thing could ever have occurred, he would have been so gentle…he would have worshipped her. Anything and everything to please her. He longed for the intimacy of her hair in his hands, the soft jut of her hipbones beneath his palms, the smoothness of her shoulders against his lips. The sleeping weight of her in his arms. He wanted all of that, and so much more.

It amazed Matthew that no one had ever guessed at his feelings. Daisy should have been able to see it every time she looked at him. Fortunately for Matthew she never had. She had always dismissed him as another cog in the machine of her father’s company, and Matthew had been grateful for that.

Something had changed, however. He thought of the way Daisy had stared at him earlier in the day, the startled wonder in her expression. Was his appearance that different from before?

Absently Matthew shoved his hands deep in his pockets and walked through the interior of Stony Cross Manor. He had never given a thought to his looks other than to make certain his hair was cut and his face was clean. A stern New England upbringing had extinguished any flicker of vanity, as Bostonians abhorred conceit and did everything possible to avoid the new and fashionable.

However, in the past couple of years Thomas Bowman had insisted that Matthew go to his Park Avenue tailor, and visit a hair-dresser instead of a barber, and have his nails manicured once in a while as befitted a gentleman of his position. Also at Bowman’s insistence, Matthew had hired a cookmaid and a housekeeper, which meant he had been eating better of late. That, along with losing the last vestiges of young adulthood, had given him a new look of maturity. He wondered if that appealed to Daisy, and immediately cursed himself for caring.

But the way she had looked at him today…as if she were seeing him, really noticing him, for the first time…

She had never given him such a glance on any of the occasions he had visited her family’s Fifth Avenue house. His mind ventured back to the first time he had met Daisy, at a private supper with just the family attending.

The grandly appointed dining-room had glittered in the effusively scattered light from a crystal chandelier, the walls covered in thick gilded paper and gold-painted molding. One entire wall was lined with a succession of four massive looking glasses, larger than any others he’d ever seen.

Two of the sons had been present, both of them sturdy young men who were easily twice Matthew’s weight. Mercedes and Thomas had been seated at opposite ends of the table. The two daughters, Lillian and Daisy, had sat on one side, surreptitiously nudging their plates and chairs closer together.

Thomas Bowman had a contentious relationship with both his daughters, alternately ignoring them and subjecting them to harsh criticisms. The older daughter Lillian responded to Bowman with surly impudence.

But Daisy, the fifteen year-old, regarded her father in a speculative, rather cheerful way that seemed to annoy him beyond his ability to bear. She had made Matthew want to smile. With her luminous skin, her exotic cinnamon-colored eyes and quicksilver expressions, Daisy Bowman seemed to have come from an enchanted forest populated with mythical creatures.

It had immediately become apparent to Matthew that any conversation Daisy took part in was apt to veer into unexpected and charming directions. He had been secretly amused when Thomas Bowman had chastised Daisy in front of everyone for her latest mischief. It seemed that the Bowman household had lately become overrun with mice because all the traps they set had failed.

One of the servants had reported that Daisy had been sneaking around the house at night, deliberately tripping all the traps to keep the mice from being killed.

“Is this true, daughter?” Thomas Bowman had rumbled, his gaze filled with ire as he stared at Daisy.

“It could be,” she had allowed. “But there is another explanation.”

“And what is that?” Bowman had asked sourly.

Her tone turned congratulatory. “I think we are hosting the most intelligent mice in New York!”

From that moment on Matthew had never refused an invitation to the Bowman mansion, not just because it pleased the old man but because it gave him the chance to see Daisy. He had collected as many stolen glances as possible, knowing it was all he would ever have of her. And the moments he had spent in her company, regardless of her cool politeness, had been the only times in his life he had come close to happiness.

Hiding his troubled thoughts, Matthew wandered farther into the manor. He had never been abroad before but this was exactly what he had imagined England would look like, the manicured gardens and the green hills beyond, and the rustic village at the feet of the grand estate.

The house and its furniture were ancient and comfortably worn at the edges, but it seemed that in every corner there was some priceless vase or statue or painting he had seen featured in art history books. Perhaps a bit drafty in the winter, but with the plenitude of hearths and thick carpets and velvet curtains, one could hardly say that living here would be suffering.

When Thomas Bowman, or rather his secretary, had written with the news that Matthew would be required to oversee the establishment of a division of the soap company in England, Matthew’s initial impulse had been to refuse. He would have relished the challenge and the responsibility. But being in the proximity of Daisy Bowman—even in the same country—would have been too much for Matthew to withstand. Her presence pierced him like arrows, promising a future of endless unsatisfied wanting.

It was the secretary’s last few lines, reporting on the Bowman family’s welfare, that had seized Matthew’s attention.

There is private doubt, the secretary had written, that the younger Miss Bowman will have any success at finding a suitable gentleman to wed. Therefore Mr. Bowman has decided to bring her back to New York if she is still not betrothed by the end of spring…

This had left Matthew in a quandary. If Daisy was returning to New York, Matthew was damned well going to England. He would hedge his bets by accepting the position in Bristol, and waiting to see if Daisy managed to catch a husband. If she did, Matthew would find a replacement for himself and head back to New York.

As long as there was an ocean between them, everything would be fine.

As Matthew crossed through the main entrance hall he caught sight of Lord Westcliff. The earl was in the company of a big, black-haired man who possessed a somewhat piratical appearance despite his elegant attire. Matthew guessed that he was Simon Hunt, Westcliff’s business partner and reportedly his closest friend. For all Hunt’s financial success—which by all reports was remarkable—he had been born a butcher’s son, with no blood ties to the aristocracy.

“Mr. Swift,” Westcliff said easily, as they met near the bottom of the grand staircase. “It seems you’ve returned early from your walk. I hope the views were pleasing?”

“The views were magnificent, my lord,” Matthew replied. “I look forward to many such walks around the estate. I came back early because I happened to meet with Miss Bowman along the way.”

“Ah.” Westcliff’s face was impassive. “No doubt that was a surprise for Miss Bowman.”

And not a welcome one was the unspoken subtext. Matthew met the earl’s gaze without blinking. One of his more useful skills was that of being able to read the minute alterations in expression and posture that gave people’s thoughts away. But Westcliff was an unusually self-controlled man. Matthew admired that.

“I think it’s safe to say it was one of many surprises Miss Bowman has received recently,” Matthew replied. It was a deliberate attempt to find out if Westcliff knew anything about the possible arranged marriage with Daisy.

The earl responded only with an infinitesimal lift of his brows, as if he found the remark interesting but not worthy of a response. Damn, Matthew thought with increasing admiration.

Westcliff turned to the black-haired man beside him. “Hunt, I would like to introduce Matthew Swift—the American I mentioned to you earlier. Swift, this is Mr. Simon Hunt.”

They shook hands firmly. Hunt was five to ten years older than Matthew and looked as if he could be mean as hell in a fight. A bold, confident man who reputedly loved to skewer pretensions and upper-class affectations.

“I’ve heard of your accomplishments with Consolidated Locomotive Works,” Matthew told Hunt. “There is a great deal of interest in New York regarding your merging of British craftsmanship with American manufacturing methods.”

Hunt smiled sardonically. “Much as I would like to take all the credit, modesty compels me to reveal that Westcliff had something to do with it. He and his brother-in-law are my business partners.”

“Obviously the combination is highly successful,” Matthew replied.

Hunt turned to Westcliff. “He has a talent for flattery,” he remarked. “Can we hire him?”

Westcliff’s mouth twitched with amusement. “I’m afraid my father-in-law would object. Mr. Swift’s talents are needed to built a factory and start a company office in Bristol.”

Matthew decided to nudge the conversation in a different direction. “I’ve read of the recent movement in Parliament for nationalization of the British railroad industry,” he said to Westcliff. “I would be interested in hearing your thoughts on the matter, my lord.”

“Good God, don’t get him started on that,” Hunt said.

The subject caused a scowl to appear on Westcliff’s brow. “The last thing the public needs is for government to take control of the industry. God save us from yet more interference from politicians. The government would run the railroads as inefficiently as they do everything else. And the monopoly would stifle the industry’s ability to compete, resulting in higher taxes, not to mention—”

“Not to mention,” Hunt interrupted slyly, “the fact that Westcliff and I don’t want the government cutting into our future profits.”

Westcliff gave him a stern glance. “I happen to have the public’s best interest in mind.”

“How fortunate,” Hunt commented, “that in this case what is best for the public also happens to be best for you.”

Matthew bit back a smile.

Rolling his eyes, Westcliff told Matthew, “As you can see, Mr. Hunt overlooks no opportunity to mock me.”

“I mock everyone,” Hunt said. “You just happen to be the most readily available target.”

Westcliff turned to Matthew and said, “Hunt and I are going out to the back terrace for a cigar. Will you join us?”

Matthew shook his head. “I’m afraid I don’t smoke.”

“Neither do I,” Westcliff said ruefully. “It has always been my habit to enjoy a cigar every now and again, but unfortunately the scent of tobacco is not welcomed by the countess in her condition.”

It took a moment for Matthew to recall that “the countess” was Lillian Bowman. How odd that funny, feisty, furious Lillian was now Lady Westcliff.

“You and I will converse while Hunt has a cigar,” Westcliff informed him. “Come with us.”

The “invitation” didn’t seem to allow the possibility of a refusal, but Matthew tried nonetheless. “Thank you, my lord, but there is a certain matter I wish to discuss with someone, and I—”

“That someone would be Mr. Bowman, I expect.”

Hell, Matthew thought. He knows. Even if it hadn’t been for those words, he could tell by the way Westcliff was looking at him. Westcliff knew about Bowman’s intention of marrying him off to Daisy…and not surprisingly, Westcliff had an opinion about it.

“You will discuss the matter with me first,” the earl continued.

Matthew glanced warily at Simon Hunt, who gave him a bland look in return. “I’m certain,” Matthew said, “that Mr. Hunt doesn’t want to be bored by a discussion of someone else’s personal affairs—”

“Not at all,” Hunt said cheerfully. “I love hearing about other people’s affairs. Particularly when they’re personal.”

The three of them went to the back terrace, which overlooked acres of manicured gardens separated by graveled paths and carefully sculpted hedges. An orchard of ancient pear trees was visible in the lush green distance. The breeze that swept across the gardens was thick with the perfume of flowers. The turgid rush of the nearby river underlaid the rustle of the wind in the trees.

Sitting at an outside table, Matthew forced himself to relax back in his chair. He and Westcliff watched Simon Hunt clip the end off a cigar with a pocket knife. Matthew remained silent, patiently waiting for Westcliff to speak first.

“How long,” Westcliff asked abruptly, “have you known about Bowman’s plan for you and Daisy to marry?”

Matthew replied without hesitation. “Approximately an hour and fifteen minutes.”

“It wasn’t your idea, then?”

“Not at all,” Matthew assured him.

Settling back, the earl laced his fingers over the lean surface of his midriff, and surveyed him through narrowed eyes. “You have a great deal to gain by such an arrangement.”

“My lord,” Matthew said prosaically, “if I have one talent in life, it’s making money. I don’t need to marry into it.”

“I’m glad to hear it,” the earl replied. “I have one more question to ask, but first I will make my position clear. I have great affection for my sister-in-law, and I consider her under my protection. Being well acquainted with the Bowmans, you undoubtedly know about the close relationship between the countess and her sister. If anything were to make Daisy unhappy, my wife would suffer as a result…and I will not allow that.”

“Understood,” Matthew said tersely. There was biting irony in the fact that he was being warned away from Daisy when he had already resolved to do everything in his power to avoid marrying her. He was tempted to tell Westcliff to go to hell. Instead he kept his mouth shut and remained outwardly composed.

“Daisy has a unique spirit,” Westcliff said. “A warm and romantic nature. If she is forced into a loveless marriage, she will be devastated. She deserves a husband who will cherish her for everything she is, and who will protect her from the harsher realities of the world. A husband who will allow her to dream.”

It was surprising to hear such sentiment from Westcliff, who was universally known as a pragmatic and level-headed man. “What is your question, my lord?” Matthew asked.

“Will you give me your word that you will not marry my sister-in-law?”

Matthew held the earl’s cold black gaze. It would not be wise to cross a man like Westcliff, who was not accustomed to being denied. But Matthew had endured years of Thomas Bowman’s thunder and bluster, standing up to him when other men would flee in fear of his wrath.