Scandal in Spring (12 page)

But as Matthew was speaking he caught sight of Daisy and her friends standing with Lillian, and half his brain promptly shut down.

Daisy was wearing a butter-yellow gown that wrapped tightly around her slender waist and pushed the small, pretty shapes of her breasts upward into a low-cut bodice of gleaming, ruched satin. Yellow satin ribbons had been braided into artful ropes that held the bodice in place. Her black hair had been pulled to the top of her head with a few spiraling curls falling to her neck and shoulders. She looked delicate and perfect, like one of the artful sugared garnishes on the dessert tray that one was never supposed to eat.

Matthew wanted to tug her bodice down until her arms were confined by those satin ropes. He wanted to drag his mouth across her tender pale skin, finding the tips of her breasts, making her writhe—

"But do you really think," came Mr. Mardling's voice, "there is any room for the market to expand? After all, we are discussing the lower classes. No matter what their nationality, it is a known fact that they do not prefer to bathe often."

Matthew dragged his attention to the tall, well-groomed gentleman, whose blond hair shone brightly beneath the light of the chandeliers. Before he replied, he reminded himself that there was probably no malice intended behind the question. Those of the privileged classes often had genuine misconceptions about the poor, if they bothered to consider them at all.

"Actually," Matthew said mildly, "the available figures indicate that as soon as soap is mass-produced at an affordable price, the market will increase approximately ten percent a year. People of all classes want to be clean, Mr. Mardling. The problem is that good quality soap has always been a luxury item and therefore difficult to obtain."

"Mass production," Mardling mulled aloud, his lean face furrowed with thought. "There is something objectionable about the phrase…it seems to be a way of enabling the lower classes to imitate their betters."

Matthew glanced at the circle of men, noting that the top of Bowman's head was turning red— never a good sign— and that Westcliff was holding his silence, his black eyes unreadable.

"That's exactly what it is, Mr. Mardling," Matthew said gravely. "Mass production of items such as clothing and soap will give the poor a chance to live with the same standards of health and dignity as the rest of us."

"But how will one sort out who is who?" Mardling protested.

Matthew shot him a questioning glance. "I'm afraid I don't follow."

Llandrindon joined in the discussion. "I believe what Mardling is asking," he said, "is how one will be able to tell the difference between a shopgirl and a well-to-do woman if they are both clean and similarly dressed. And if a gentleman is not able to tell what they are by their appearance, how is he to know how to treat them?"

Stunned by the snobbery of the question, Matthew considered his reply carefully. "I've always thought all women should be treated with respect no matter what their station."

"Well said," Westcliff said gruffly, as Llandrindon opened his mouth to argue.

No one wished to contradict the earl, but Mardling pressed, "Westcliff, do you see nothing harmful in encouraging the poor to rise above their stations? In allowing them to pretend there is no difference between them and ourselves?"

"The only harm I see," Westcliff said quietly, "is in discouraging people who want to better themselves, out of fear that we will lose our perceived superiority."

The statement caused Matthew to like the earl even more than he had previously.

Preoccupied with the question of the hypothetical shopgirl, Llandrindon spoke to Mr. Mardling. "Never fear, Mardling— no matter how a woman is attired, a gentleman can always detect the clues that betray her true status. A lady always has a soft, well-modulated voice, whereas a shopgirl speaks with a strident tone and a vulgar accent."

"Of course," Mardling said with relief. He affected a slight shiver as he added, "A shopgirl dressed in finery, speaking in cockney…it's like fingernails on slate."

"Yes," Llandrindon said with a laugh. "Or like seeing a common daisy stuck in a bouquet of roses."

The comment was unthinking, of course. There was a sudden silence as Llandrindon realized he had just inadvertently insulted Bowman's daughter, or rather the name of his daughter.

"A versatile flower, the daisy," Matthew commented, breaking the silence. "Lovely in its freshness and simplicity. I've always thought it went well in any kind of arrangment."

The entire group rumbled in immediate agreement— "Indeed," and "Quite so".

Lord Westcliff gave Matthew an approving glance.

A short time later, whether by previous planning or a last-minute shuffling of places, Matthew discovered he had been seated at Westcliff's left at the main dining table. There was patent surprise on the faces of many guests as they registered that a place of honor had been given to a young man of undistinguished position.

Covering up his own surprise, Matthew saw that Thomas Bowman was beaming at him with fatherly pride…and Lillian was giving her husband a discreet glare that would have struck terror in the hearts of lesser men.

After an uneventful supper the guests dispersed in various groups. Some men desired port and cigars on the back terrace, some women wanted tea, while others headed to the parlor for games and conversation.

As Matthew went toward the terrace, he felt a tap on his shoulder. He looked down into Cassandra Leighton's mischievous eyes. She was a high-spirited creature whose primary skill seemed to be the ability to draw attention to herself.

"Mr. Swift," she said, "I insist that you join us in the parlor. I will not allow you to refuse. Lady Miranda and I have planned some games that I think you will find
quite
entertaining." She lowered one eyelid in a sly wink. "We've been scheming, you see."

"Scheming," Matthew repeated warily.

"Oh yes." She giggled. "We've decided to be a bit wicked this evening."

Matthew had never liked parlor games, which required a personal frivolity he had never been able to muster. Moreover it was generally known that in the permissive atmosphere of British society, the forfeits of these games often consisted of tricks and potentially scandalous behavior. Matthew had an innate and very sensible aversion to scandal. And if he was ever entangled in one, it would have to be for a very good reason.
Not
as the result of some imbecilic parlor game.

Before he replied, however, Matthew noticed something on the periphery of his vision…a flash of yellow. It was Daisy, her hand lightly resting on Lord Llandrindon's arm as they proceeded to the hallway that led to the parlor.

The logical part of Matthew's brain pointed out that if Daisy was going to indulge in scandalous behavior with Llandrindon, it was her own affair. But a deeper, more primitive part of his mind reacted with a possessiveness that caused his feet to start moving.

"Oh, lovely," Cassandra Leighton trilled, tucking her hand in the crook of his arm. "We'll have such fun."

This was a new and unwelcome discovery, that a primal urge could abruptly seize control of the rest of Matthew's body. Frowning, he went along with Miss Leighton, while she spouted a stream of nonsense.

A group of young men and women had assembled in the parlor, laughing and chattering. Anticipation was thick in the air. And there was a sense of roguery, as if a few of the participants had been warned they were about to take part in something naughty.

Matthew stood near the threshold, his gaze instantly finding Daisy. She was seated near the hearth with Llandrindon half-leaning on the arm of her chair.

"The first game," Lady Miranda said with a grin, "will be a round of 'Animals.'" She waited for a ripple of chuckles to die down before continuing. "For those of you unfamiliar with the rules, they are quite simple. Each lady will select a male partner for herself, and each gentleman will be assigned a particular animal to imitate— dog, pig, donkey and so forth. The ladies will be sent from the room and blindfolded, and when they return, they will attempt to locate their partners. The gentlemen will assist the ladies by making the correct animal sound. The last lady to find her partner will have to pay a forfeit."

Matthew groaned inwardly. He
hated
games that served no purpose other than to make fools out of the participants. As a man who did not enjoy being embarrassed, voluntarily or otherwise, this was the kind of situation he would have done anything to avoid.

Glancing at Daisy, he saw that she was not giggling as the other women were. Instead she looked resolute. This was her attempt to be one of the crowd, to behave like the empty-headed women around her. Bloody hell. No wonder she had been a wallflower, if this was what was expected of marriage-minded young women.

"You shall be my partner, Mr. Swift," cried Miss Leighton.

"A privilege," Matthew returned politely, and she giggled as if he had said something vastly amusing. Matthew had never met a woman who giggled so incessantly. He was half-afraid she might cause herself seizures if she didn't stop.

A hat filled with slips of paper was passed around, and Matthew plucked one out and read it.

"Cow," he informed Miss Leighton stonily, and she tittered.

Feeling like an idiot, Matthew stood aside while Miss Leighton and all the other ladies left the room.

Men positioned themselves strategically, chortling as they anticipated the fun of being bumped into and groped by various blindfolded women.

A few practice calls from around the parlor—

"Squawk!"

"Meow!"

"Ribbit!"

Rumbles of laughter ensued. As the blindfolded ladies paraded into the room, the place erupted in animal cries. It sounded like a rabid zoo. The ladies set out to find their partners, bumping into braying, cheeping, snorting men.

Matthew hoped to God that Westcliff, Hunt, or God forbid, Bowman, wouldn't chance to come into the room and see him like this. He would never live it down.

His dignity was dealt a mortal blow as he heard Cassandra Leighton's voice— "Where is Mr. Cow?"

Matthew heaved a sigh. "Moo," he said grimly. Miss Leighton's giggle sailed through the air. She gradually came into view, her hands groping every male form in proximity. A few unplanned
squeaks
and
squawks
were emitted as she made her way through the crowd.

"Oh, Mr. Co-ow," Miss Leighton called. "I need more assistance from you!"

Matthew scowled. "Moo."

"Once more," she trilled.

It was lucky for Cassandra Leighton that her blindfold shielded her from Matthew's murderous glare.
"Moo."

Giggle. Giggle. Giggle. Miss Leighton approached, arms outstretched, fingers opening and closing on empty air. She reached him, her hands fumbling at his waist and sliding downward. Matthew seized her wrists and tugged them firmly upward.

"Have I found Mr. Cow?" she asked disingenuously, leaning into him.

He pushed her back with a firm nudge. "Yes."

"Hurrah for me!" she cried, removing her blindfold.

Other couples had also been reunited, the animals quieting one by one as they were claimed. Finally only one sound was left…an awkward attempt at some kind of insect vibration. A katydid? A cricket?

Matthew craned his neck to see who was making the noise, and whom his unfortunate partner turned out to be. There was an exclamation, and ripples of friendly laughter. The crowd parted to reveal Daisy Bowman removing her blindfold, while Lord Llandrindon shrugged apologetically. "That is
not
the noise a cricket makes," Daisy protested, flushed and laughing. "You sound as if you're clearing your throat!"

"It was the best I could do," Llandrindon said helplessly.

Oh, God. Matthew closed his eyes briefly. It
would
be Daisy.

Cassandra Leighton seemed inordinately pleased. "Too bad," she said.

"No quarreling," Lady Miranda said gaily, coming to stand between Daisy and Llandrindon. "It befalls you to pay the forfeit, my dear!"

Daisy's smile faltered. "What is the forfeit?"

"It's called 'play the wallflower,'" Lady Miranda explained. "You must stand against the wall and draw one of the gentlemen's names from a hat. If he refuses to kiss you, you will remain against the wall and continue drawing names until someone consents to your offer."

Daisy's smile held fast, although her face turned white, leaving two red flags of color at the crests of her cheeks.

Damn it,
Matthew thought savagely.

This was a serious dilemma. The incident would start rumors that could easily produce a scandal. He couldn't allow it. For her family's sake, and her own. And his…but that was something he didn't want to think about.

Automatically he started forward, but Miss Leighton grabbed his arm. Her long nails bit into the fabric of his coat sleeve. "No interfering," she warned. "Everyone who plays must be willing to accept the forfeit!" She was smiling, but there was a hardness in her eyes that Matthew didn't like. She intended to relish every second of Daisy's downfall.

Dangerous creatures, women.

Glancing around the room, Matthew saw the anticipation on the gentlemen's faces. Not one man there was going to turn away an opportunity to kiss Daisy Bowman. Matthew longed to crash heads together and yank Daisy out of the room. Instead he could only watch as the hat was brought to her and she reached inside with unsteady fingers.

Withdrawing a slip of paper, Daisy read it silently, her fine dark brows knitting together. A hush fell over the room, a few breaths caught in hope…and then Daisy said the name without looking up.

"Mr. Swift." She thrust the slip back into the hat before it could be confirmed.

Matthew felt his heart catch violently in his chest. He wasn't certain if the situation had just improved drastically or become exponentially worse.

"That's impossible," Miss Leighton hissed. "It couldn't have been you."

Matthew glanced down at her almost absently. "Why not?"