The Summer Bride (A Chance Sisters Romance) (10 page)

She shrugged. “Yeah, well, it happens.”

“Not to me, it doesn’t.”

“Maybe.” She didn’t want to hear about Flynn kissing another girl, she really didn’t. And his insistence on sharing every blooming detail with her was starting to irritate her.

He stopped in front of her, looming over her like a great grumpy bear. “What? What aren’t you implyin’?”

She rolled her eyes. “Most men think they’re God’s gift to kissin’.”

His eyes narrowed. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

She smoothed the seam, checking it was all even, then tied off the thread and carefully snipped off the end. “
She
might not be the problem.”

“What?”

He stood there, blue gaze burning into her, waiting for further explanation. Her temper flared, so she told him.
“Coulda been the way you kissed her. I mean, Jane’s bloomin’ mutt licks me fingers and toes all the time, and I hate it.”

He stared at her, outraged. “It’s hardly the same.”

“No, but still . . .” She shook out the finished bed jacket. Perfect. Old Lady Gelbart would be delighted. She hopped off her seat and crossed the room. Two more orders completed.

“Are you sayin’ I don’t know how to kiss a girl?” he demanded in a silky tone that didn’t deceive Daisy for a minute. His eyes were blue chips of anger.

She held up her hands in a peaceable gesture. “I’m not sayin’ nuffin’. It’s Lady Liz who gets to judge, not me.” But she couldn’t help adding, “And it sounds like she did.”

He followed her across the room. “I damn well do know how to kiss.”

“Sure you do.” She folded the finished garments and placed them in the basket on the dresser, ready to be ironed, then packaged up for William to deliver.

“I’m good—bloody good if you want to know. I’ve never had any complaints before.”

“I’m sure you haven’t.”

Flynn glared at her in frustration. Her tone made it clear that she thought the women in his past were simply too polite to complain. Which was so damn far from the truth it was a joke!

As he watched, she picked up another half-finished garment and headed back to take her seat in the window. It was a red rag to a bull. Her complacency, the attitude that her damned sewing was so much more important to her than anything he might have to say, drove him wild.

She was so blasted certain the fault lay with him. He clenched his fists, itching to shake the smugness out of her. She stepped around him, giving him a little half smile, obviously meant to soothe his injured masculine feelings. It was the last straw.

He grabbed her, swung her around and planted one on her.

“Oy! What the—mmmph!” She stiffened, resisting him
for a few seconds, then . . . with a small sigh, her mouth softened beneath his.

She parted her lips for him and heat, like embers from a fire, glowing and alive, rushed through him.

He pulled back, shocked, but didn’t let go. Couldn’t let go.

The instant explosion of . . . hunger . . . need . . .
arousal
stunned him, sent his head spinning. What had started in anger and frustration—a simple need to prove himself as a man—had spiraled instantly into something else.

He stared down at the woman in his arms.
Daisy?

She blinked back up at him, her big hazel eyes wide and a little dazed, apparently as surprised as he was. Her mouth was damp, rosy, enticing.

He released her shoulders, sliding his hands up the slender column of her throat, his blunt fingers spearing through the softness of her hair as he cupped her head in his hands. She stood motionless, staring up at him, and he was drowning, drowning in her eyes.

His thumbs framed her delicate pixie face, and he heard the trembling intake of her breath as he stroked the silken skin of her jawline, and felt her pulse leap under his touch. A shudder ran through her and her eyes darkened.

His blood surged with possessive need, and he lowered his mouth to kiss her again, deeply, passionately, tasting her, exploring.

Her hands came up to grip his shoulders, and she pulled him closer, angling her head to deepen the kiss, to accept him, her small slender body pressed against his, twining against his as she returned kiss for kiss, making muffled little sounds that drove him wild with wanting.

When he pulled back a second time, his heart was hammering in his chest. He released her and stepped away, shakily, his body braced for action, fighting the arousal pounding through him.

They stared at each other, speechless. Shocked.

Daisy
could make him feel like this
?
He’d always liked the girl, always enjoyed a light bit of flirtation with her . . . but . . .
this?

Daisy seemed to be breathing just as hard. “Gawd, Flynn,” she said at last. She staggered to the window seat and collapsed into it as if her knees were about to give way.

“I know.” It had taken him just as much by surprise. Never in his life . . . He struggled to take in the enormity of what had just happened.
Daisy?

Her sewing lay in a crumpled heap on the floor, forgotten. He should have felt triumphant—his point proved—but he was still too stunned.

“Well, that settles one thing,” she said eventually.

“What?” He was still trying to come to terms with it.

“If you kissed Lady Liz like that—”

“I didn’t.” He’d never kissed
anyone
like that. In his
life
.

“Well, if you kissed her half as—”

“Not even half.”

They stared at each other for a long moment, then she gave a shiver and made a visible effort to pull herself together. She collected her sewing and folded it neatly. She set it down on the window seat, smoothing it with hands he noted were trembling slightly, and said, not looking at him, “It’s definitely not you, then. It’s her.”

Flynn didn’t say a thing. He just stood there, looking down at her.
Daisy!
He could hardly come to terms with it.

“She’s probably one of them Ladies of Llangollen.” She pronounced the last word as if she was clearing her throat.

“Ladies of
what
?” What the hell were they talking about?

“Llangollen.” More clearing of the throat. She looked at his face and laughed. “That’s how the Welshies say it, anyway. I knew a Welsh girl once. The English say it as Lan-gollen.”

“If you say so. And who or what are Ladies of Lan-whatsit?” He could hardly believe they were having some conversation about some blasted place in Wales. He just wanted to haul Daisy back into his arms and kiss her senseless.

“Llangollen. They’re a couple of posh ladies who didn’t want to get married—not to men, anyway—and so they run off and set up house together in Wales—in Llangollen. They’re famous—haven’t you heard of them? They’re Irish.”

“No.” What did he care about—oh. Finally Flynn saw what she was getting at.

She shrugged. “Some women are that way inclined.”

There was a short silence. “You mean, Lady Elizabeth is . . .”

She nodded. “Like them Ladies of Llangollen, maybe. Has to be, if you kissed her like that and she didn’t like it.”

“I told you, I didn’t kiss her like that.” He didn’t want to talk about Lady Elizabeth, dammit. His mind was reeling. His body was thrumming with newfound awareness.

Daisy was his
friend
. He was supposed to feel
comfortable
with her—the only woman in London he could talk business with, the only lady he knew who didn’t object to his occasional bad language. He
liked
her.

That kiss was supposed to demonstrate his expertise, not knock him sideways.

“I don’t know that I’ve ever kissed anyone quite like that, Daisy.” His voice sounded oddly hoarse. “Certainly I’ve never felt—”

She jumped up briskly. “Look, sorry to interrupt, Flynn, but one of me ladies is comin’ in a few minutes and I got to get ready.” She bustled around the room, tidying up like a small, efficient whirlwind, avoiding his gaze. “It’s been nice chattin’ with you, Flynn. Dunno what you can do about Lady Liz, but you’ll sort it out. I got to get these things pressed and tidy the room. See yourself out, will ya?”

Flynn, watching her flit around the room, frowned. She was babbling. Trying to ignore what had just happened. Daisy—who confronted everything and everyone head-on.

So he wasn’t the only one who’d been affected. Hah!

He’d leave now—he had his own doubts about this so-called appointment of hers, but he needed to sort out his feelings. And sort things out with Lady Elizabeth.

Daisy could pretend all she wanted—he’d be back. That kiss had stunned him, and he wasn’t going to ignore it. He didn’t know what it meant, didn’t have any idea what he was going to do about it, but he was damned if he’d pretend it hadn’t happened.

*   *   *

H
e let himself out of Daisy’s workroom and met Lady Beatrice on the landing. “Flynn, dear boy, delightful to see you again so soon. Did you enjoy the masquerade ball last night?” She took his arm. “Visiting Daisy again, eh? Been seeing quite a bit of her lately, haven’t you? I thought now the Season had started, and with your courtship of Lady Elizabeth, you wouldn’t pop in quite so much.” She cocked her head and added with a mischievous expression, “Not trying to seduce my Daisy, are you, Flynn, dear boy?”

He blinked. “What? No, I—” He swallowed.

She chuckled at his discomfiture. “No need to look so appalled—I’m not accusing you of anything. I have no idea where these notions come from. They just . . . pop into my head. But you wouldn’t dream of compromising my dear gel, would you?” She smiled at him with a guileless expression.

“No, of course not, Lady Beatrice.” Flynn felt like a boy caught with his hand in the cookie jar.

She patted his hand. “Of course not. You’re a man of honor, I know, and I’m a foolish old lady. Walk me down the stairs, will you, dear boy? I am shattered, positively shattered—I’m too old to attend balls.” She bore him along, chattering animatedly about the ball, sharing all the latest
on-dit
s.

Flynn was the one who felt shattered. First the kiss, now the old lady seeming to read his mind—before he even knew it himself.
Not trying to seduce my Daisy, are you, dear boy?

It was just a kiss for God’s sake.

“Are you all right, my boy? You seem a trifle
distrait
.” The old lady’s question jolted him back to the present.

“My apologies, m’lady, I was woolgathering.”

“Things not going too well with Lady Elizabeth, eh?”

Flynn stared at her. How did she do that? She was a witch, she must be. “Not exactly,” he admitted. “But speaking of Lady Elizabeth, I have a question for you. What do you know about Lord Flensbury?”

*   *   *

T
he minute Flynn left, Daisy stopped fussing around. She dumped the armful of clothing she’d gathered, and collapsed into a chair. Her knees still felt all weak and wobbly. That kiss . . .

So she fancied him rotten—so what? She wouldn’t dream of acting on it.

Gawd, if a woman acted on every fancy she had, she’d be ruined in a flash, and Daisy was too smart to let herself be ruined by a man.

He was flirting, that’s all. The man was born to flirt. Those blue eyes of his were an invitation to sin—and enjoy it. And she had to admit, she enjoyed flirting back.

But they were just friends. She enjoyed talking to him, she liked making special waistcoats for him—and charging the earth for it—and talking with him about business and other things. He was good company, Flynn.

It had only ever been a bit of fun, nothing to take seriously. And it still was.

A kiss. She’d had dozens of kisses. Hundreds, maybe.

Nothing like that one.

Too bad. It didn’t mean nothing. He’d only kissed her to prove a point about Lady Elizabeth, that’s all. That fact that it had just about knocked her into next Tuesday was . . .

Was her own bloomin’ fault. She shouldn’t have stirred him up about it. Teasing him had been irresistible. But it had turned out to be dangerous.

The way he’d stared at her afterwards . . . as if he’d never seen her before. As if he could eat her up.

She’d have to nip that idea in the bud quick smart. She didn’t want him getting ideas. He ought to know as well as she did that there was no future in it, only danger, especially for her—but men didn’t always think of that. They had an itch, they scratched it. It was women who bore the consequences.

So if Flynn was making plans, if she’d read that gleam in his eye a’right, he was going to be one disappointed
Irishman, because Daisy wasn’t interested in any kind of—what did the toffs call it?
Dalliance
, that was it. She wasn’t having none of it.

She was a respectable woman. Now. She had a business to protect.

It was just a kiss, that’s all.

The world is pretty much divided between the weak of mind & the strong, between those who can act & those who cannot, & it is the bounden duty of the capable to let no opportunity of being useful escape them.

—JANE AUSTEN,
SANDITON AND OTHER STORIES

I
t wasn’t far to Compton House—all the nobs lived fairly close together—but Flynn took his time getting there. He felt no responsibility to Lady Elizabeth and he was eager to get back to Daisy and explore his reaction to the kiss—their mutual reaction, if he was any judge.

But his conversation with Lady Bea on the subject of Lord Flensbury had disturbed him. The old lady had twigged to the significance of his question straight away. “So Flensbury is Compton’s alternative choice, is he? Poor little Lizzie.”

“Why? What’s wrong with the man?”

“On the surface, perhaps nothing. Flensbury’s is an old family, aristocratic and very well connected. And he’s wealthy.” She paused. “But he’s also ancient—eighty if he’s a day—and has gone through three wives that I know of without getting a son on any of them. Rumor has it he’s looking for a fourth, a gel young enough to breed with. Determined to cut out his cousin—his heir—who he hates.”

Eighty?
And Lady Elizabeth was just two and twenty. Not to mention being a . . . Lady of Llangollen. Dammit, it was no better than a rape.

He must have made some kind of sound, for the old lady nodded and said, “Quite so. And Flensbury isn’t the kind of man I’d want any of my gels to even meet, let alone marry, even if he were fifty years younger.”

She curled her lip and added, “Unsavory practices. Nobody knows what the first three wives died of, but nobody doubts they’re happier now.”

She cocked her head and eyed Flynn shrewdly. “You’re definitely not marrying Lizzie Compton, then?”

“Yes. We don’t suit.”

“And so her father will press her to take Flensbury. Poor little gel.”

It hadn’t been at all what Flynn wanted to hear. It was one thing for the girl not to wish to marry at all, but to be forced to wed an eighty-year-old . . . with unsavory practices.

Flynn swore and kicked a pebble along the street. He wished now he’d never heard of Flensbury, never asked Lady Bea about him. He didn’t want to know. It had nothing to do with him.

The man sounded thoroughly unpleasant—appalling even—but he wasn’t Flynn’s problem. Any arrangement concerning Lord Flensbury was between Lady Elizabeth and her father. Lady Elizabeth was of age; nobody could force her to marry.

Except that she had no money of her own, and her father had made no provision for her future, so unless she married . . .

Flynn kicked another stone, hard. It
wasn’t
his responsibility.
She
wasn’t his responsibility. He had, perhaps, raised a few expectations, but she didn’t want him, either—that kiss last night had proved it. And besides, he’d made no promises.

Her future was nothing to do with him.
Nothing.

He reached the Compton house and rang the doorbell. He’d speak to Lady Elizabeth privately, tell her his decision, clear things with her father, then get the hell out of there.

The butler ushered him into Lady Elizabeth’s drawing room just as she was pouring tea for a small handful of guests. As Flynn paused in the doorway, watching her graceful handling of the large teapot, something clicked.

That feeling he’d had the first time he’d seen her in her home, it wasn’t some mysterious instinct telling him Lady Elizabeth was the girl for him. It was the teapot—an echo of memory of Mam and the tea table, a reminder of home and family and childhood security, before the cholera had shattered everything.

The symbol of family that he’d harbored in his mind—all unknowing—since he was a small boy.

If he hadn’t walked past that shop this morning he might never have realized it. The last little thread tying him to Lady Elizabeth dissolved.

He took a seat and accepted a cup of tea. He’d wait out the other visitors and speak to her in private. Given her reaction to his kiss last night, she ought to be relieved.

He thought of Flensbury and swore silently.

It
wasn’t
his problem.

*   *   *

“P
lease, I’m so sorry I was so silly last night. Can we try again?” They were seated in the garden, on a low bench next to some neglected roses. Lady Elizabeth’s eyes were liquid with incipient tears. Her mouth wobbled. “I promise you, I’ll do better. If you’ll just give me another chance . . .”

Flynn sighed. It would make no difference. He had no desire to marry her now—less than no desire—but the sight of her trying to force an expression of eager willingness onto her face . . . He felt like a brute.

He shouldn’t have come at all, should have just stayed away, let Lady Elizabeth and her father draw their own conclusions. But that would be the coward’s way out. He had raised expectations—and not just in the girl and her father—he was well aware there had been talk and speculation among the ton. So he needed to face her like a man.

“Please, if we could just try kissing again, I promise I will not—”

“No, lass.” He placed a comforting hand on her arm and before she could stop herself she recoiled, just a little.

Realizing what she’d done, she leaned toward him with a forced smile. “Sorry, you startled me.”

But it wasn’t that. It was his hands.
Gloves, Mr. Flynn.
Or maybe it was just because he was a man.

“Ah, lass, can’t you see? You don’t want me to touch you at all,” he said gently. “If a man and a woman are to be married, there needs to be an attraction between them. You have to
want
to be touched.”

She bit her lip. “I could try . . .”

He shook his head. “There’s no point. It wouldn’t be right for either of us.”

“But if you don’t marry me, it must be . . .” She shuddered. “Lord Flensbury. And that will be even worse—oh, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean—”

“Why must you marry Flensbury?” Flynn asked bluntly. “I don’t understand.”

She stared at him as if he were lacking in wits. “Because of Papa’s debts, of course. He’s facing ruin.”

“I know that. What I don’t understand is why
your
happiness must be sacrificed for the sake of your father’s debts.”

“He’s my father. It’s my duty.”

Flynn snorted. “It’s your father’s duty as a parent to take care of you, to provide for you—not to sell you off to the highest bidder like some kind of prize heifer.”

A fat tear rolled down her cheek. Flynn watched helplessly, regretting his brutal honesty. He hated it when women wept. But it was time she faced the truth.

He tried a different tack. “What is your father doing to solve his debt problem?”

“I . . . I don’t know.”

“Well I do, and the answer is nothing—
nothing
! He hasn’t reduced his expenditure, he hasn’t adjusted his lavish way of life in the least, he’s not even investigating how he could earn money. Worse, he’s continuing to gamble and he’s squandering a fortune on—on other things,” he ended lamely. But he couldn’t speak of Lord Compton’s mistresses to his gently bred virgin daughter.

“I know,” she said in a low voice. “His mistresses.”

So she knew. “Then why on earth would you think you owe it to him to marry someone you find objectionable?”

She said in a resigned voice, “What else can I do? I must marry, and it’s not as if there’s anyone else I want to marry . . .”

“Isn’t there someone, some friend or relative you could live with?”

She produced a handkerchief and dried her eyes carefully. “My aunt would take me in—my mother’s sister. She and Papa have never got on.” She folded up the handkerchief and looked at him hopelessly, as if that was that.

“Then why not go to her?”

“I can’t. She lives in Italy. She eloped with an artist—he was Italian, and was employed to paint her betrothal portrait—but instead she ran off with him and was cast off by the family.” As she explained her hands moved restlessly, pleating and repleating the handkerchief as if was the most important thing in the world to get each fold exact. He was sure she had no awareness she was even doing it. “She and Mama stayed secretly in touch, and after Mama died she wrote to me several times, inviting me to visit. Of course Papa wouldn’t hear of it.”

It was the perfect solution. Out of the country and off his conscience. “Then go to your aunt.”

“How? I have no money.”

“I’ll give you the money.”

“No!” She looked at him, shocked. “I couldn’t possibly accept it.”

“Why the hel—why on earth not?”

She gave him a clear look. “Strange as it may seem, Mr. Flynn, I do have a little pride left. Since I am not to marry you, I could not possibly accept your money.”

“Make it a loan then.”

“No. It’s quite impossible.” She was quite firm in her resolve.

Flynn stared at her in exasperation—and a slender thread of reluctant admiration. Her convoluted reasoning was quite mad, of course, but he could see she was operating from a
position she thought was honorable. And far be it from him to deny the girl her pride. She had little enough left.

She said with dignity, “It is kind of you to be concerned, Mr. Flynn, but it is not your problem.
I
am not your problem.”

It was exactly what he’d been telling himself all along, but it was even less convincing when she said it. She might believe it;
he
might even believe it, but he couldn’t leave her in this mess. It wasn’t of his making, but he’d contributed to it.

“I own a fleet of ships. I could arrange passage—”

“Thank you, but no. The subject is closed. I should not have been so indiscreet as to involve you in my private concerns.” She rose and held out her hand. “Good-bye, Mr. Flynn. Thank you for being so honest with me. It has been a pleasure knowing you.”

Flynn bowed over her hand. “It’s been a pleasure and a privilege knowing you, Lady Elizabeth.” He liked her a great deal better now—giving him this calm and dignified dismissal—than he had during any of their previous acquaintance.

Not that he’d changed his mind in the least. He was delighted to be off the hook.

But
she
wasn’t off it, and that was the trouble.

*   *   *

“D
aisy, Daisy.” Gentle hands shook Daisy’s shoulder.

“Wha—?” Daisy jerked awake with a start, her pulse pounding. It took her a moment to realize where she was—in her own bed. Alone. In the middle of the night. A pale shape bent over her. “Jane?”

“You’re not ill, are you Daisy?”

Daisy blinked into the darkness. “No.” Her nightgown was twisted high above her waist. She felt hot and sweaty—and it was a cold night.

“Oh, it must have been another bad dream then. Your legs were thrashing around and you were moaning and groaning so fearfully I was quite worried.”

Daisy felt her face heating. Thank goodness it was dark
and Jane couldn’t see her. Thrashing around? Moaning and groaning? It wasn’t fear.

She thrust away the sensations—so real she could almost still feel them—of big, calloused hands stroking her, teasing, arousing her to distraction . . . She tried to shove her nightgown back down around her legs.

She was aching, acutely sensitive. Damp.

Jane plonked herself on the side of Daisy’s bed. “Is something worrying you, Daisy dear? It’s usually me who has the bad dreams, not you.”

“No, it’s nothing,” Daisy muttered. “Don’t worry—probably just the onion soup from last night. Go back to bed, Jane.”

Jane hesitated. “Are you sure? Because this is the second night in a row you’ve had one, so it can’t be the onion soup. If you want to talk about—”

“I’m sure. There’s nothing to talk about, really. “

“Is it the business? Because if it is—”

“It’s not. It’s nothing—just a stupid dream. Now, go back to bed or you’ll catch a chill.”

Jane went, reluctantly. Daisy hunched her bedclothes around her and feigned sleep until Jane drifted back to sleep.

Stupid dream
was right. Damn that Flynn.

She was sleeping worse than ever, and now it wasn’t only business worries that kept her tossing and turning.
Thrashing around and moaning.

He’d got her all stirred up with that blooming kiss. Twice now she’d woken up all hot and bothered, with her nightgown hitched up around her waist and her bedclothes in a twist. Hot and damp and . . . lust-ridden.

That one blasted kiss had knocked her endways. Given her a taste of the forbidden. Taken her feelings about Flynn from a harmless, secret fantasy and turned them into . . .

No! She wasn’t goin’ there.

Two days since that kiss and she hadn’t seen hide nor hair of him—apart from in her dreams. If he had been interested, if that kiss had affected him half as much as it had affected her . . .

But from what the others said, he was still seeing Lady
Elizabeth. A woman who kissed like a fish, but who was a
lady.
A pretty, sweet-spoken
dainty
lady who no doubt danced like a thistledown fairy, not a clumping great Cockney clodhopper who swore like a trooper.

Not that she cared. She didn’t want anyone. She had a business to build.

She checked that Jane was sleeping soundly, slipped out of bed and began to dress in the dark. It wasn’t much earlier than she normally got up anyway, so she might as well get busy.

Maybe if she acted as if it didn’t affect her one way or another, the . . .
feelings
would go away. That worked for most things. She was good at not wanting what she couldn’t have, and one thing was clear in her mind, no matter which way she looked at him, she couldn’t—and wouldn’t—have Flynn.

*   *   *

“I
don’t understand why you wanted me to go with you to the park,” Lady Elizabeth said. “Of course, it’s very pleasant, but . . .” She darted him a cautious glance. “You haven’t changed your mind, have you? About . . .”

“No,” Flynn assured her. “But you don’t mind if your father doesn’t know that yet, do you?”

“Oh, no. In fact while Papa thinks we’re still courting . . .”