The Summer Bride (A Chance Sisters Romance) (12 page)

A few moments into the reading, there was a small stir at the door and an immediate buzz of surreptitious conversation. A late arrival. Heads turned toward the door with critical expressions. People in London would talk right through opera and plays, but woe betide anyone who interrupted when Abby was reading.

Flynn stood in the doorway like a bold buccaneer, quite indifferent to the indignant looks he was getting. As if he blooming-well owned the place. Arrogant, but in a way that made her toes curl deliciously.

He made a fine sight, with tight buckskin breeches molded to his long, powerful thighs. Boots and buckskins suited some men and not others: Flynn was made for them. And he
certainly knew how to fill a coat—those lovely big shoulders and strong arms owed nothing to padding, she knew.

Her body remembered the feel of them only too well.

He made no move to find a seat. He surveyed the crowd in a leisurely manner, looking for someone and Daisy was pretty sure she knew who. Her whole body tightened, alert to his presence.

Hidden behind the large ladies with even larger hats, she looked her fill. She wasn’t the only woman secretly ogling him either. Half the people in the audience were murmuring and whispering: a few were crossly shushing the talkers and waiting for Abby to resume reading, the remainder—the majority of females there—were gazing at Flynn with barely disguised lust.

She couldn’t blame them. There was something irresistible about a man who was ever-so-slightly untamed, the promise of all that simmering uninhibited masculinity unleashed in bed . . . Confident and capable and unashamed. Masculine to the tips of his big calloused hands, and not shy about showing it.

Those hands would know their way around a woman’s body too. As for how he could kiss . . . She gave a little shiver, just thinking about it.

The buzz continued, low and furtive, rippling through the room. Daisy frowned. Flynn always drew people’s attention, but this was different.

A murmured exchange between two ladies behind her caught her ear. “The cheek of him, showing his face here today.”

“Shameless! Quite shameless!”

What was shameless about it? Daisy wondered. Flynn often attended the literary society. She tried to remember who was sitting behind her, but the gossips were severely hushed and Abby continued reading: “She particularly led Harriet to talk more of Mr. Martin, and there was evidently no dislike to it. Harriet was very ready to speak of the share he had had in their moonlight walks and merry evening games; and dwelt a good deal upon his being so very good-humoured and obliging. He
had gone three miles round one day in order to bring her some walnuts, because she had said how fond she was of them, and in everything else he was so very obliging.”

A romance. Daisy tried to forget about the odd reaction to Flynn’s entrance and concentrate on the story. She did love a good romance. She hoped this one would end happily, but that Emma, she was trouble . . .

Her mind wandered. What did those women know about Flynn that was so bad?

Apparently undisturbed by the attention his arrival had received, Flynn found himself a seat and settled back to listen. Daisy knew the moment he’d spotted her; she felt his gaze like a touch on her face, warm and unmistakable.

Her cheeks warmed but she bent over her embroidery and didn’t look up.

In the first break, tea and wine and little cakes were handed around. People were free to talk and the two ladies behind her resumed their exchange.

“Lord Compton is said to be furious . . .”

Lord Compton?
Daisy pricked up her ears and leaned back to listen.

“. . . Lizzie Compton . . . eloping in the dead of night . . . Nobody knows, my dear. Some nobody . . . the Scottish border . . .”

Lady Liz had
eloped
? Which meant that Flynn was . . . Daisy almost tipped her chair back to hear the last part.

“Publicly jilted,” the lady behind her said, a trace of malicious glee in her voice. “Or as good as. The whole world knew he was on the verge of a declaration.”

“Lord Compton blames the Irishman . . . crude fellow . . . no idea how to handle a lady . . .”

“More suited to the stable than the drawing room, although . . .” They tittered, knowingly.

Daisy couldn’t believe her ears. Flynn, publicly jilted? Lady Liz had eloped? If so she was furious on Flynn’s behalf. If Lady Liz had done a bunk, she was the one in the wrong, not Flynn. He had every right to show his face wherever he wanted.

Daisy was on the verge of turning around to defend him when one of the ladies exclaimed, “Oh, don’t look now, Letty, he’s approaching! Such a deliciously untamed brute.”

Daisy looked up to see Flynn prowling towards her, apparently unfazed by the gossip that surrounded him. He had to know about it, surely.

Before he could reach her, Lady Gelbart swept up, saying, “Daisy, my dear, I want you to meet Mrs. Foster, whose late husband was a distant relative of my late husband’s. She has an ardent desire to meet you.”

Daisy blinked and scrambled politely to her feet. “
Me?
You wanted to meet me? Whatever for?” And then remembered to make her how-de-dos.

Lady Gelbart’s companion was youngish—about thirty-five, Daisy guessed—and very elegant, dressed in what looked like the latest French fashions, simply but superbly cut, in shades of lilac edged smartly in black. In mourning? Or did she just know that lilac suited her pale skin and dark hair perfectly?

Lady Gelbart laughed. “My fault, I’m afraid, my dear. She was visiting me when your beautiful”—she glanced around and lowered her voice discreetly—“
garments
were delivered, and I could not
wait
to open the parcel. So now she’s mad for some for herself.”

Flynn arrived at the point and the conversation abruptly came to a halt.

“Daisy,” he began.

“Ah, Mr. Flynn.” The old lady turned. “I am so sorry to hear of your troubles.”

Daisy swallowed. She wanted to say something too but she didn’t trust her tongue. It was nice that Lady Gelbart was so open and straightforward. Daisy hoped that the nasty gossips behind her were getting a lesson in manners.

He inclined his head. “Please don’t be concerned on my account, Lady Gelbart. Lady Elizabeth made the right choice for her, and I wish her all the happiness in the world.”

The old lady patted his arm. “So gracious, dear boy, such generosity of spirit. I can quite see why Bea is so fond of you.”

She glanced across the room and added, “I would talk more, but I think Bea is trying to catch your attention.”

He followed her gaze to where Lady Beatrice was indeed waving imperiously, a silent command for him to join her. He gave Daisy a rueful glance. “Ladies.” His bow took in all three of them, then he left.

Old Lady Gelbart watched him go and sighed. “Lizzie Compton is a fool. Such a charming young man, and he wears those buckskins so well. Most men don’t look quite so fine, especially from the rear.”

He did have a lovely bum, Daisy acknowledged. Firm and masculine and well-shaped. Not that she was interested, she reminded herself firmly.

She turned back to Mrs. Foster, who, interestingly, hadn’t eyed Flynn at all. “So, Mrs. Foster, you liked what I made for Lady Gelbart?”

Mrs. Foster nodded and said in a low, musical voice, “Indeed I do. They’re quite exquisite and delightfully . . . naughty. I would like to order a set for myself, if that’s possible. Lady Gelbart told me you didn’t have a business premises, and I’m not yet on calling terms with Lady Beatrice. I did leave a card the other day, but—”

“So I brought her with me to the literary society instead,” Lady Gelbart said. “Knew you’d be here.”

“I’m finding it quite delightful,” Mrs. Foster said. “What fun to have books read aloud to you, and how clever to turn the occasion into a party.”

Lady Gelbart spotted another crony, and patted Mrs. Foster’s arm, saying, “I’ll leave you to work things out with Daisy, my dear.”

Which left Daisy in a position to quote Mrs. Foster an even higher price than Lady Gelbart had paid. She really shouldn’t take on any more work, but if it was a cash payment . . .

It was. Mrs. Foster agreed to her price without a blink and they made an appointment for her to come and be measured and discuss the design and fabric the following day. And she would bring cash. She preferred to pay up front, she said, and Daisy wasn’t going to argue.

Daisy was thrilled with her new customer. She was happy to be making things for the old ladies, of course—a sale was a sale—but it wouldn’t do her business any good if she got a reputation for catering only to old ladies and young girls—married women were the ones with money. Mrs. Foster might be a widow, but she was still quite young, good-looking, very fashionable and best of all, she was quite obviously rich.

The arrangements made, Mrs. Foster then confessed she was new to London, that she’d lived abroad for the last ten years with her husband, who had died just over a year ago. She was now emerging from the seclusion of her widowhood, and knew almost nobody, so she ended up spending the rest of the literary society meeting sitting with Daisy.

In the breaks they talked fashion—for all her widowhood, Mrs. Foster was very up-to-date. Daisy was dying to know all about Lady Liz’s elopement, but she’d find out eventually, and in the meantime she enjoyed their discussion enormously.

And for whatever reason—because he thought she was having a private female conversation? Or because he didn’t want to talk about being jilted?—Flynn didn’t come near Daisy at all for the rest of the afternoon.

Which was good, she told herself. Perhaps they could get back to normal now. Although whenever she’d glanced at Flynn, he’d been watching her. With a look in his eyes she didn’t trust.

He didn’t look at all like a recently jilted man. He didn’t act the least bit humiliated. It was a big disappointment for the gossips.

Surprises are foolish things. The pleasure is not enhanced, and the inconvenience is often considerable.

—JANE AUSTEN,
EMMA

T
he literary society meeting was over. The last good-byes drifted up from the front hall. Daisy sat in the deserted drawing room finishing off the last little bit of the second sleeve.

Flynn had left earlier; Lady Beatrice had commandeered his help with the stairs. Daisy hadn’t spoken to him at all. He hadn’t come near her since that first brief exchange. She wasn’t sure whether she was pleased or annoyed.

Pleased, she told herself. Though she would have liked to know more about Lady Liz eloping. Oh, she’d had an earful about it this afternoon, but she didn’t trust the gossips. She wanted it from the horse’s mouth.

Although he might have been the last to know.

She finished embroidering the last tiny cluster of forget-me-nots on the sleeve—the final one would be done after the sleeve was attached to the dress—tucked the needle into the fabric and wound the remaining silk thread around the needle to hold it in place.

A sound from the doorway distracted her. She looked up. Flynn stood leaning against the doorjamb, watching her.

Her heart started thumping. How long had he been there?

He smiled at her, warm and knowing and shamelessly wicked, and it was as if the large spacious room had suddenly been drained of air.

She tried to look uninterested, to nod calmly and return to her embroidery, all cool and dignified, but her mouth was fighting that idea, wanting to smile back at him.

Get a hold of yourself, girl
, she told herself.
This one ain’t for you
.

She’d thought about it all through the readings, had hardly taken the story in for thinking about him and what she’d learned. He might not be going to marry Lady Liz, but he’d soon be chasing after some other fine lady to marry—one who wasn’t such a cold fish.

Daisy would still be his bit on the side, and she wasn’t interested in that. Besides, she couldn’t risk it. Building her business was her number one priority, and if she was going to deal with the ton, she had to live by their rules. They might turn a blind eye to a discreet liaison between a lady and a lord, but a shopkeeper didn’t have the same freedom.

Nobody would allow his wife and daughters to buy clothes from a dressmaker who wasn’t respectable beyond reproach. So whatever that glint in Flynn’s eye meant, as far as Daisy was concerned, it wasn’t going to happen.

Feigning indifference she picked up her basket and rose as if to leave. “Thought you’d left already.”

He prowled towards her. “Forgot something.”

“What?” She looked around, but could see nothing left behind.

“This.” He took two long steps and hauled her into his arms. One brawny arm wrapped around her waist, lifting her right off her feet in a possessive manner that thrilled her to her toes.

She tried to resist. “Oy, what—”

But his mouth possessed hers—no hesitation, no careful seeking of approval, no attempt to seduce or entice—he just took from her what he wanted. And he wanted everything. He devoured, he plundered, he took greedily, hungrily, with an intense concentrated energy that simply shattered her.

Because he gave back as much as he took. More.

Daisy thrilled to it. Her body thrummed with pleasure, mind-numbing, bone-dissolving, toe-curling hot waves of pleasure that collected and gathered in the pit of her stomach, creating an ache there, an empty hollowness that was almost painful in its need to be filled.

Finally he let her body slide slowly back to earth, letting her feel the hard thrust of his arousal, bold and unashamed against her belly. He stood holding her against him—truth to tell she was leaning against him, she could barely stand without his support.

His big hand cradled the nape of her neck, his thumb stroking the soft skin there, all tender and careful, as if she was a baby bird—and didn’t that turn her into an even bigger puddle of mush, dammit.

He gave a big sigh. “Ah, Daisy, me girl . . .” He cupped her chin and gave her another quick kiss—a hard, possessive branding that rocked her to her bones—then released her and stepped back.

Daisy staggered back, panting. She was barely able to stand, her knees like soft noodles, her senses in a daze. His eyes were stormy dark like she imagined the sea would look, though she’d never seen the sea. They skimmed lightly over her body, taking in her flushed face—going by how hot she felt, she must be bright red—the hard points of her aching nipples, and the heaving of her chest.

His gaze returned to her mouth. She felt it almost like a touch. She ran her tongue over her lips—they felt swollen and tender—and he tensed, then shook his head, muttering, “No, not yet.”

Yet?
As if it was just a matter of time. His choice, whenever it suited him.

It brought her to her senses. She scrambled for some level of composure, managed to find her voice. “What do you mean ‘not yet’?”

She wiped her mouth with her sleeve, deliberately, as if she could somehow wipe away the last few minutes, wipe
away the imprint of his kisses, doing her best to look unaffected. “There ain’t going to
be
anything else—I don’t care if you’ve been jilted—there’ll be no more of this, this kissin’ and . . . and whatever—you hear me?”

One dark silky brow rose, a lazy, confident,
knowing
challenge. “Tryin’ to tell me you don’t want it?”

She lifted her chin. “That’s right, I
don’t
want it.”

He gave a soft, deep huff of laughter. “Liar.”

“I don’t tell lies.” Daisy picked up the basket she’d dropped when he’d grabbed her.

“Liar. You like it—don’t try to deny it.”

Stung, she retorted—because she didn’t tell lies—“I never said I didn’t
like
it. I said I didn’t
want
it. And I don’t.”

He gave a slow, masculine smile, one that completely discounted what she’d told him. “Darlin’, you can’t tell me you like it, and expect me to walk away. You do want it, you’re just in a flutter. “

“I’m not! I’m—”

“And I don’t blame you. I feel it too. But if you want to play hard-to-get, that’s fine by me. I enjoy a good chase.”

Daisy clenched her fists. “You’re not listening to me, you big—”

“That’s right, I’m not.” He grinned and ran a lazy finger down her cheek. She wanted to smack it away, but somehow she couldn’t make herself move. He added, “That first time we kissed took us both by surprise, I know. So I wanted to check.”

“You wanted to—?”

“Check, yes.” He seemed oblivious of her growing indignation. Seemed, in fact, pretty damned pleased with himself. “Test the waters. See if it was an accident, a . . . a collision of anger and surprise and . . . sensation. So I decided to kiss you again—it’s the only reason I came to the literary society—and see how it compared to that first time. Find out if it was the same.”

She couldn’t help herself. “And was it?” She silently cursed herself for encouraging him, but her mouth dried as she waited for his answer.

“No.” His blue eyes burned into her. He paused—deliberately, the swine, knowing she was hanging on his words—then said, “It was even better.”

She fought against the wash of pleasure his words had caused, knowing he’d felt the same. But it had to stop. She told him so.

Again he ignored her. “No need to be nervous about it, lass. It’s perfectly natural for a man and a woman to feel this way.”

“I’m not bloody
nervous
, you great—”

“Of course you’re not.” It was clear he didn’t believe her. “But you’ll get used to it. Now, I can’t stay around and chat. I’ve got an appointment.”

She watched him leave, anger, frustration and the lingering remnants of intense arousal warring in her brain and body. An appointment? Who with? She’d watched him at the literary society, talking to this lady and that.

Charming them.

Watching them flirt and blush and simper.

As if it didn’t bother him in the least that he’d just been jilted. It didn’t seem to bother the ladies either.

If he thought he was going to dangle after her at the same time as he was pursuing some other fine lady . . . pick her up and put her down at whim, whenever he felt like it . . . scramble her brains whenever he felt like it . . .

She hurried after him and caught him at the top of the stairs.

“Oy! Listen, you great Irish lummox—I mean it when I say that it’s not going to happen again, all right? From now on, you don’t touch me. You don’t kiss me, you don’t pick me up or, or stroke my cheek—I said stop it!” she snapped, dodging back and swatting at his hand as he stroked her cheek with a thick Irish finger. “None of that lovey-dovey stuff—you know what I mean.”

He grinned, a flash of white teeth. “What ‘lovey-dovey stuff’—you’ll have to be more specific. Give me an example, a demonstration perhaps.” The big rat was enjoying this.

“You know exactly what I mean.” She poked him in the chest. “Just behave yourself, all right.”

He quirked a brow at her. “Or?”

“Or . . .” She cast around for inspiration. “Or I’ll push you down the stairs.”

He spread his arms wide in invitation. “You can do whatever you want with me, Daisy darlin’. I’m all yours.”

She eyed him, fuming. For two pins she
would
shove him down the stairs. But she wasn’t the violent type. She was more ladylike these days. Lady Beatrice’s lessons had rubbed off on her.

His grin was triumphant. “See, you couldn’t hurt me if you tried.”

She punched him in the stomach. Hard.

“Oof!” He doubled over, then swore softly under his breath.

“That’ll teach you to take me serious!” She picked up her basket and stormed off.

A low chuckle followed her. She clenched her fists. And winced.

*   *   *

“A
nd you make all these marvelous garments from this one small room, Miss Chance?” Mrs. Foster wandered around Daisy’s workroom, examining everything with apparent fascination.

Daisy wasn’t too sure about her calling the room
small
—it was bigger than any room Daisy had ever had—but she accepted the compliment as it was intended.

Mrs. Foster bent to examine the beading on the bodice of a dress. “Superb! And you do it all by yourself? I can’t believe it.”

“A couple of Lady Beatrice’s maids help out from time to time, and me sisters do as much as they can to help too.”

“But two of them are married, aren’t they? And the third one has just commenced her first Season, so they must be quite busy.” It was an astute observation. She cocked her head and eyed a half-finished dress pinned to a dummy form. “The drapery on this is simply wonderful.”

Daisy glowed at the praise. She’d worked hard to get that effect.

She’d taken Mrs. Foster’s measurements, and they’d decided on the fabric—red silk with black lace—and the cut—low and exceedingly naughty. “I’ve been a widow for a year,” Mrs. Foster said with a twinkle, “but my husband was ill for a long time before that. I’m not sure that I’ll actually
do
anything, but I want to feel like a desirable woman again, and these deliciously wicked garments will do the trick, I just know it.”

*   *   *

U
sually after measuring up a customer and taking the order, Daisy called for tea and cakes, and then that was that—she didn’t have either the time or the inclination to sit chatting. But it was different with Mrs. Foster and long after the tea had been served and the little iced cakes eaten, the two women stayed talking.

Mrs. Foster seemed genuinely fascinated by the whole process, and particularly with Daisy’s plan to one day open a shop of her own.

“How wonderful to have such a clear direction for your life,” she commented. “After my husband died, I realized that I’d built my entire life around him, and around the expectation that we’d have children. But we never were blessed that way, and so . . .” She spread her hands in a helpless gesture. “Here I am, with neither a husband or children, and no idea what to do with myself.”

Daisy hesitated. It wasn’t really polite to ask personal questions, but Mrs. Foster had already shared so much. “You don’t aim to marry again, then?” She’d assumed that was the lady’s reason for coming to London.

“I don’t know. Perhaps. If I meet the right man. But he would have to be exceptional—I’ve found I like being an independent and wealthy widow, with only myself to please. Marriage would change all that.” She made a rueful gesture. “In any case most men aren’t interested in a woman my age—not for marriage, at any rate. Besides, I’m not sure I want to devote the rest of my life to a man—exceptional or not. “

She rose. “Now, I must leave. I’ve taken up far too much of your time, I’m sure, but it’s been so delightful chatting with you, Miss Chance.”

“I’ve enjoyed it too, Mrs. Foster,” Daisy assured her—and it was true. “I’ll have your things ready next week, I hope. Where shall I send them?”

“I’m staying at the Clarendon.” Of course. The smartest hotel in London.

Daisy usually let Featherby show customers out, but today she personally escorted Mrs. Foster to the front door and bid her a warm good-bye. It wasn’t because she was a wealthy customer either; she had the oddest feeling that despite their obvious differences, Mrs. Foster could become a friend.

*   *   *

F
lynn called the next day and was shown straight up to her workroom. That would have to stop, Daisy decided. She couldn’t have him popping in whenever he felt like it. He was too distracting. Too big. Too charming.

And too damned arrogant.

That thump she’d given him didn’t seem to make a ha’porth of difference. He still marched in here, bold as brass with that smile of his, and the gleam in his eye that she didn’t trust an inch.

And had to fight to resist.

“So, you never did tell me about Lady Liz running off with someone—” she began.

“I brought you a present.” He held out a parcel to her.

“A present?” She stared at the lumpy, clumsily man-wrapped, brown paper parcel. “You got me a present?” Her teacup started rattling on its saucer. She put it down.