Scandal in Spring (7 page)

Bowman's heavy mustache twitched with amusement. "You're still young enough to afford scruples."

"The old can't afford them?" Matthew asked with a touch of affectionate mockery.

"Some scruples have a way of becoming overpriced. You'll discover that someday."

"God, I hope not." Matthew sank into a chair and buried his head in his hands, his fingers tunneling through the heavy locks of his hair.

After a long moment Bowman ventured, "Would it really be so terrible having Daisy for a wife? You'll have to marry sometime. And she comes with benefits. The company, for example. You will be given controlling interest in it upon my death."

"You'll outlive us all," Matthew muttered.

Bowman let out a pleased laugh. "I want you to have the company," he insisted. It was the first time he had ever spoken this frankly on the subject. "You're more like me than any of my sons. The company will be far better off in your hands than anyone else's. You have a gift…an ability to enter a room and take it over…you fear no one, and they all know it, and they esteem you for it. Marry my daughter, Swift, and build my factory. By the time you come home, I'll give you New York."

"Could you throw in Rhode Island? It's not very large."

Bowman ignored the sardonic question. "I have ambitions for you beyond the company. I am connected with powerful men, and you have not escaped their notice. I will help you achieve anything your mind can conceive…and the price is a small one. Take Daisy and sire my grandchildren. That's all I ask."

"That's all," Matthew repeated dazedly.

When Matthew had begun to work for Bowman ten years ago, he had never expected the man would come to be a surrogate father to him. Bowman was like a barrel of explosives, short, round and so quick-tempered you could predict one of his infamous tirades by watching the top of his bald head turn fiery red. But Bowman was clever with numbers, and when it came to managing people he was incredibly shrewd and calculating. He was also generous to those who pleased him, and he was a man who kept his promises and fulfilled his obligations.

Matthew had learned a great deal from Thomas Bowman, how to sniff out an opponent's weakness and turn it to his advantage, when to push and when to hold back…and he had learned, too, that it was all right to unleash his aggressiveness in business as long as he never crossed the line into outright rudeness. New York businessmen— the real ones, not the upper-class dilettantes— did not respect you unless you displayed a certain amount of contentiousness.

At the same time Matthew had learned to temper his vigor with diplomacy after learning that winning an argument didn't necessarily mean he would get his way. Charm had not come easily to him, with his guarded nature. But he had painstakingly acquired it as a necessary instrument to do his job well.

Thomas Bowman had backed Matthew every step of the way and had steered him through a couple of precarious deals. Matthew had been grateful for his guidance. And he couldn't help but like his prickly employer despite his faults— because there was some truth in Bowman's claim that they were alike.

How a man like Bowman had produced a daughter like Daisy was one of life's great mysteries.

"I need some time to consider this," Matthew said.

"What is there to consider?" Bowman protested. "I've already said— " He stopped as he saw Matthew's expression. "All right. All right. I suppose there is no need for an immediate answer. We'll discuss it later."

* * *

"Did you speak to Mr. Swift?" Lillian demanded as Marcus entered their bedroom. She had dozed off while trying to wait up for him, and was struggling to a sitting position in the bed.

"Oh, I spoke to him," Marcus replied ruefully, shrugging out of his coat. He laid the well-tailored garment across the arms of a Louis XIV chair.

"I was right, wasn't I? He's abominable. Detestable. Tell me what he said."

Marcus stared at his pregnant wife, who was so beautiful with her long hair unbound and her eyes still heavy-lidded from sleep that it made his heart skip a beat. "Not yet," he murmured, half-sitting on the bed. "First I want to stare at you for a while."

Lillian smiled and scrubbed her hands through her wild dark mane. "I look a fright."

"No." He moved closer, his voice lowering. "Every part of you is lovely." His hands slid gently over the abundant curves of her body, soothing rather than arousing. "What can I do for you?" he whispered.

She continued to smile. "One glance at me will reveal that you've done quite enough already, my lord." Encircling him with her slender arms, she let him rest his head against her breasts. "Westcliff," she said against his hair, "I could never have anyone's child but yours."

"That is reassuring."

"I feel so overtaken…and bloody uncomfortable. Is it wrong to say I don't like being pregnant?"

"Of course not," Marcus returned, his voice muffled in her cleavage. "I wouldn't like it either."

That drew a grin from her. Releasing him, she settled back against the pillows. "I want to hear about Mr. Swift. Tell me what was said between you and that odious walking scarecrow."

"I wouldn't describe him as a scarecrow, precisely. It appears he has changed since you saw him last."

"Hmm." Lillian was obviously displeased by the revelation. "He is ill-favored, nonetheless."

"Since I rarely dwell on thoughts of male attractiveness," Marcus said dryly, "I do not qualify as a competent judge. But I think hardly anyone would describe Mr. Swift as being ill-favored."

"Are you saying he's attractive?"

"I believe many would claim so, yes."

Lillian thrust a hand in front of his face. "How many fingers am I holding up?"

"Three," Marcus said, amused. "My love, what are you doing?"

"Checking your eyesight. I think your vision is failing. Here, follow the movement of my finger— "

"Why don't you follow the movement of mine?" he suggested, reaching for her bodice.

She grabbed his hand and stared into his sparkling eyes. "Marcus, do be serious. Daisy's future is at stake!"

Marcus settled back obligingly. "Very well."

"Tell me what was said," she prompted.

"I informed Mr. Swift quite sternly that I will not allow anyone to make Daisy unhappy. And I demanded that he give me his word not to marry her."

"Oh, thank God," Lillian said with a sigh of relief.

"He refused."

"He what?" Her mouth fell open in astonishment. "But no one refuses you."

"Apparently Mr. Swift wasn't told about that," he said.

"Marcus, you're going to do something, aren't you? You won't let Daisy be browbeaten and harassed into marrying Swift— "

"Hush, love. I promise, Daisy will not be forced to marry anyone against her will. However…" Marcus hesitated, wondering exactly how much of the truth he should admit. "My opinion of Matthew Swift is somewhat different than yours."

Her brows lowered. "My opinion is more accurate. I've known him longer."

"You knew him years ago," Marcus said evenly. "People change, Lillian. And I think much of what your father has claimed about Swift is true."

"
Et tu,
Marcus?"

He grinned at Lillian's theatrical grimace and reached beneath the covers. Fishing out one of her bare feet, he pulled it into his lap and began to knead her aching arch with deep strokes of his thumbs. She sighed and relaxed against the pillows.

Marcus considered what he had learned about Swift so far. He was an intelligent young man, deft and well-mannered. The kind who thought before he spoke. Marcus had always felt comfortable around such men.

On the surface, the pairing of Matthew Swift with Daisy Bowman was wildly incongruous. But Marcus did not entirely agree with Lillian's belief that Daisy should marry a man who possessed the same romantic and sensitive nature. There would be no equilibrium in such a union. After all, every swift-sailing ship needed an anchor.

"We must send Daisy to London as soon as possible," Lillian fretted. "It's the height of the season, and she's buried in Hampshire away from all the balls and soirées— "

"It was her choice to come here," Marcus reminded her, reaching for her other foot. "She would never forgive herself if she missed the baby's birth."

"Oh, bother that. I would rather Daisy miss the birth and meet eligible men instead of having to wait here with me until her time runs out and she has to marry Matthew Swift and move with him to New York and then I'll never see her again— "

"I've already thought of that," Marcus said. "Which is why I undertook to invite a number of eligible men to Stony Cross Park for the stag-and-hind hunt."

"You did?" Her head lifted from the pillow.

"St. Vincent and I came up with a list and debated the merits of each candidate at length. We settled on an even dozen. Any one of them would do for your sister."

"Oh, Marcus, you are the most clever, most wonderful— "

He waved away the praise and shook his head with a grin, remembering the lively arguments. "St. Vincent is damned finicky, let me tell you. If he were a woman, no man would be good enough for him."

"They never are," Lillian told him impudently. "Which is why we women have a saying…'Aim high, then settle.'"

He snorted. "Is that what you did?"

A smile curved her lips. "No, my lord. I aimed high and got far more than I'd bargained for." And she giggled as he crawled over her prone body and kissed her soundly.

* * *

The sun had not yet risen by the time a group of guests bent on trout fishing had partaken of a hasty breakfast on the back terrace and had gone out dressed in tweed and rough twill and waxed linen. Sleepy-eyed servants followed the gentlemen to the trout stream, carrying rods, creels, and wooden cases containing flies and tools. The men would be gone for a good part of the morning while the ladies slept.

All the ladies except Daisy. She loved fishing, but she knew without asking that she would not be welcome in the all-male group. And while she and Lillian had often gone by themselves in the past, her older sister was certainly in no condition to do so now.

Daisy had done her best to persuade Evie or Annabelle to come with her to the artificial lake that Westcliff kept generously stocked with trout, but neither of them had seemed enthusiastic about the prospect.

"You'll have a smashing time," Daisy had wheedled. "I'll teach you how to cast— it's quite easy, really. Don't say you're going to stay inside on a beautiful spring morning!"

As it turned out, Annabelle thought that sleeping late was a fine idea. And since Evie's husband St. Vincent had decided not to go fishing, Evie said she would rather remain in bed with him.

"You would have much more fun fishing with me," Daisy had told her.

"No," Evie had said decisively, "I wouldn't."

Feeling cross and just a little bit lonely, Daisy breakfasted by herself and set out to the lake, carrying her favorite lancewood rod with the whalebone top and the clamp-foot reel.

It was a glorious morning, the air soft and alive. Overwintering salvia sprang in bright blue and purple spikes alongside the blackthorn hedgerows. Daisy crossed a mown green field toward ground that was blanketed with buttercups, yarrow, and the bright pink petals of ragged robin.

As she rounded a mulberry tree Daisy saw a disturbance at the water's edge…two young boys, with something between them, some kind of animal or bird…a goose? The creature was protesting with angry honks, flapping its wings violently at the giggling lads.

"Here, now," Daisy called out. "What is this? What's going on?"

Seeing the intruder, the boys yelped and broke into a full bore run, their legs a blur as they headed away from the lake.

Daisy quickened her pace and approached the indignant goose. It was a huge domestic Greylag, a breed known for its gray plumage, muscular neck and sharp orange beak.

"Poor fellow," Daisy said as she saw that its leg was tied with something. As she drew closer, the hostile goose darted forward as if to attack her. It was abruptly caught up on whatever it was that tethered his leg. Pausing, Daisy set down her fishing gear. "I'm going to try to help you," she informed the aggressive bird. "But an attitude like that is rather off-putting. If you could manage to control your temper…" Inching toward the goose, Daisy investigated the source of the problem. "Oh, dear," she said. "Those little scamps…they were making you fish for them, weren't they?"

The goose screeched in agreement.

A length of fishing line had been knotted around the goose's leg, leading to a tin spoon with a hole punched through the bowl. A fishhook had been attached to the hole. Were it not for her sympathy for the ill-used goose, Daisy would have laughed.

It was ingenious. As the goose was tossed out into the water and had to swim its way back, the tin spoon would flash like a minnow. If a trout was attracted by the lure it would be caught on the hook, and the goose would tow it in. But the hook had caught on some bramble, effectively imprisoning the goose.

Daisy kept her voice soft and her movements slow as she crept toward the bramble. The bird froze and peered at her with one bright black eye.

"There's a nice fellow," Daisy soothed, carefully reaching for the line. "My goodness, you're large. If you'll just be patient a moment longer, I'll— ouch!" Suddenly the goose had rushed forward and struck her forearm with a hammer-blow of its beak.

Scampering back, Daisy glanced down at the little dent on her skin, which was beginning to bruise. She scowled at the belligerent goose. "You ungrateful creature! Just for that I ought to leave you here like this."

Rubbing the sore spot on her arm, Daisy wondered if she might be able to use her fishing rod to unhook the line from the bramble…but that still didn't solve the problem of removing the spoon from the goose's leg. She would have to walk back to the manor and find someone to help.

As she bent to pick up her fishing gear, she heard an unexpected noise. Someone whistling an oddly familiar tune. Daisy listened intently, remembering the melody. It was a song that had been popular in New York just before she had left, called "The End Of A Perfect Day."