The Summer Bride (A Chance Sisters Romance) (16 page)

A large pot of thick, sweet chocolate had been sitting in the grate, keeping hot. Using a cloth pad to hold the handle, Damaris carefully poured it into cups while Jane and Abby buttered toast and crumpets and handed them around.

“Oooh, this is lovely,” Daisy said, crunching into a slice of toast oozing with melted butter and tangy orange marmalade. Damaris was eating toast and strawberry jam topped with thick whipped cream and Jane was eating crumpets dripping with honey. “I can’t think of anything nicer for supper. Who invented toast, do you reckon? They must have been a genius.”

She glanced at the others, all busily tucking in, and her eyes widened. “Abby, what the
’ell
are you eating? Is that
anchovy paste
? With
cream
? Washed down with hot
chocolate
?”

Abby gave a rueful glance at her slice of toast, slathered with anchovy paste and topped with cream. She glanced at Jane and gave a little shrug. “I suppose there’s no use trying to keep it a secret any longer. Jane knows, and Max, of course, and I was going to tell you both when Lady Bea was with us but”—she gave a tremulous little smile—“I’m going to have a baby.”

Damaris jumped up and hugged Abby. “Oh, Abby, I’m so thrilled for you!” And for the next few minutes it was all hugs and congratulations and “When is the baby due?” and “What did Max say?”

Of course Daisy hugged and smiled and congratulated Abby too. She knew how much Abby wanted children. Abby would make a wonderful mother and Max a good father.

But it was a little strange, all the same. For the first time in Daisy’s life she’d seen someone who was thrilled—really, truly, honestly
thrilled
at the prospect of having a baby.

Her experience was the opposite. Everyone she’d ever
known had treated pregnancy as a disaster, a fate to be avoided at all costs. Some girls who fell pregnant—and wasn’t that a telling phrase?—even risked their lives going to the old women in the back alleys.

A baby was a problem to be solved—not celebrated.

Some of the girls had loved their babies, it was true, but they still gave them away. Even some of the married ones.

And if the baby died—as quite a few did—there was grief in some of the girls, to be sure, but also a measure of relief. God’s will and all that. And the babe was soon forgotten, or at least never spoken of again.

Even Daisy’s own mother had given her away. Or sold her. She wasn’t sure. But she hadn’t wanted her.

Daisy looked at Abby, so glowing and happy and proud and excited. She couldn’t imagine what it would be like to feel that way.

As for the baby, what would it be like to come into the world being wanted and loved and cared for? Part of a ready-made, loving, protective family.

Daisy couldn’t imagine it.

I have not the pleasure of understanding you.

—JANE AUSTEN,
PRIDE AND PREJUDICE

F
lowers continued to be delivered, each posy with a daisy in the center of the arrangement. And for the following three afternoons, Flynn made a very correct morning call. Daisy was summoned to the drawing room each time.

By the second visit, she was bristling with suspicion. It couldn’t possibly be what it looked like. He wouldn’t do that to her.

By the end of the third visit she was simmering with impotent fury.

He was pretending to court her. And everyone except Daisy was fooled by his act.

It had reached the stage where Featherby and William had had to bring in more chairs, as more of Lady Beatrice’s cronies kept coming, all twittering with excitement because Something Was Going On.

They watched Flynn and Daisy’s interactions with the avidity of spectators at the court, or a play—why, Daisy had no idea, because with that audience, she and Flynn could only speak of the most commonplace things.

Her frustration grew. She had no opportunity to speak to
Flynn alone, to ask him what the hell he was playing at. He, however, seemed perfectly comfortable with the attention, and entertained the room with charming anecdotes and tales of his adventures. The old ladies adored him.

Daisy wanted to smack him.

It was probably some scheme to get himself out of Featherby’s black books, and it had worked too. Featherby had unbent to such an extent that he was regarding Flynn with a benevolent expression, and Lady Beatrice was positively beaming at Flynn when he rose to take his leave. But why did he have to involve Daisy?

There was a hushed intake of breath from the gathered ladies as he took Daisy’s hand to bow over it, and a long sigh when he released it.

Daisy could have boxed his ears.

The moment he left she stomped upstairs in a temper. She didn’t for one moment believe he was courting her. And the next time she saw him alone, she’d tell him.

She knew what he wanted—a nice, tame, sweet-spoken little wife, a perfect lady who’d be an ornament to his home, popping out babies and playing Lady Bountiful to the poor, attending balls and dancing ’til dawn in his arms.

Well, that wasn’t her, and Flynn blooming well knew it. He was playing some deep game and she didn’t like it one little bit, so he could just stop sending her flowers and looking at her like she was a . . . a cream-filled cake that he was waiting to have for his tea.

Whatever it was, she wouldn’t go along with it.

She had other plans for her life.

It was some kind of game. He couldn’t possibly be serious.

*   *   *

F
inally, finally after days of the dreariest good behavior, gallons of weak tea and hours of insipid conversation with a gaggle of old ladies hanging off his every word and glance, Featherby allowed Flynn upstairs to talk to Daisy on her own.

“Leave the door open,” he called after Flynn as he took the stairs two at a time.

He was anxious to see her. Desperate, in fact.

She didn’t even greet him. “What are you playin’ at, Flynn?”

No polite society hypocrisy here—straight out with the question. Ah, but she was a breath of fresh air, his Daisy. “Playin’ at? What do you mean? I’ve come to vis—”

“Stop jokin’ around. You know what I mean. Sendin’ me flowers—I know it’s you so don’t bother to deny it. And all those bloomin’ morning visits—what are they about?”

He hid a smile. She was spoiling for a fight. Not that he minded. “Something botherin’ you, sweetheart? I thought you liked flowers.”

“Don’t call me that! I’m not your sweetheart!”

“Something botherin’ you, my little hedgehog?”

She tried to glare at him some more, but her lips gave her away and a laugh escaped her. She put her work down and gave a sigh. “Gawd, Flynn, you’re enough to drive a girl to drink. What am I goin’ to do with you?”

He grinned. “I can think of a few things.”

She shook her head. “No.” She held up her palms as if to hold him off, though he wasn’t anywhere close enough to touch her. Yet. “None of that nonsense. I told you before, it’s got to stop.”

“What’s got to stop?”

“This . . .” She groped for a word. “This charade.”

He frowned. “It’s not a charade.”

“I’m talking about the impression you’ve been givin’ Lady Bea and her friends. And Featherby. They think you’re
courting
me, Flynn.”

“I am.”

She blinked, then shook her head. “Stop jokin’ around. I’m serious.”

“So am I. I want you, Daisy.”

She paled. Her eyes were liquid, luminous as she searched his face to read the truth in it. Her mouth opened, then shut. Flynn just waited.

There was a long silence. She bit her lip, and slowly the color flushed back into her cheeks as she mastered herself. Again, she shook her head. “Flattered as I am—”

“
Flattered?
” He could hear the
but
coming already. Dammit!

She narrowed her eyes at him. “Yes, flattered—now are you going to let me finish?”

That was his girl—knock her down and she came up swinging. “Go ahead.”

“Right, as I was sayin’, I’m flattered you want me—and I’ll admit that I’m attracted to you too—”

“Then if—”

“Oy! Will you bloody listen?”

“Go on.” Not flirting, then. She was serious.

“I admit, I do fancy you, and in different circumstances, I might . . .” He leaned forward, but she continued, “But I ain’t. I ain’t going to let it go any further.”

“Why not?”

“I can’t afford it.”

“Afford?” He frowned.

“With me business only just gettin’ started I can’t afford even the slightest hint of scandal or improper behavior. I’m not like those ton ladies, where everyone is prepared to turn a blind eye to their goin’s-on, as long as they’re discreet. If it got out that I had a fancy man, it would be the ruination of—”

“‘Fancy man’?” Flynn said indignantly. “I’m no fancy man! Do you think I’m tryin’ to give you a slip on the shoulder or somethin’? Dammit, Daisy—you ought to know me better than that! I’m not the kind of man to trifle with the affections of an innocent girl!”

She gave him a sharp look. Her mouth opened, as if she was about to say something, but she shut it again.

He continued, “I’m talking marriage, girl.”

“
Marriage?
” Her jaw dropped.

He nodded. “You, me and a preacher. Marriage.” He waited.

She stared at him for a long moment, then sighed. “I thought that’s what you were goin’ to say the other day—when Jane and Featherby caught us at it. Don’t worry, I’m not going to hold you to it.”

“Hold me to i—”

“It was my fault—all my fault—so you don’t need to go being all honorable and—”

“I’m not being honorable! Dammit, Daisy, I mean it! I want to marry you.”

“No, you don’t.”

“Don’t tell me what I want or don’t want,” he snapped, annoyed at her calm contradiction. “You don’t like it when I argue with you like that—”

“Yeah, but with me it’s true. You’re just feeling . . .”

“Feeling what?” He prompted after a moment. “Go on, tell me what you think I’m feeling.”

“Guilty about gettin’ under me skirts that way.”

He shook his head. “I don’t feel the slightest bit guilty about it. All I feel is regret that Jane came home when she did and that we didn’t get to finish.”

“And we never will.”

He smiled. “I don’t give up so easy, Daisy love. And when I want something enough, I usually get it. And I want you, be assured of that.” He took a few steps towards her, planning to kiss her into compliance, to reassure her.

She skittered back out of reach, tripped on a cat and almost fell. Flynn dived forward and caught her arm, steadying her.

“Are you all r—”

She shook off his hold and scooped up the cat. “The one room in the house where she’s not allowed so she tries to sneak in all the time.” She held it against her breast, stroking it. But it was a defense.

“I don’t blame her.”

She put the cat out, closed the door and leaned against it, eyeing him with a troubled expression.

“I don’t know why you’ve suddenly got this daft notion to marry me, Flynn, but it’s crazy. You came to London tellin’ the world you wanted to marry a fine fancy highborn lady—and now you’re offering for me? It doesn’t make sense. Is it because Lady Liz jilted you?”

“She didn’t jilt me.”

“But everyone says—”

“That’s the story everyone believes. But—and this is for your ears only, Daisy—she didn’t elope with anyone. I think
you’re right about her bein’ a lady of Langwhatsit—she’s gone to live with an aunt in Italy.”

He watched her face, pausing to let it sink in. “The elopement story was to keep her father off her trail so she could make a clean getaway. If I didn’t marry her—and I’d told her that I wasn’t going to—he was plannin’ to marry her off to a ghastly old ruin for the sake of his debts.” He snorted. “Some father, eh?”

Her wide hazel eyes scanned his face earnestly. “So you’re not upset?”

He shook his head. “I helped arrange it.”

“Oh.” She frowned. “But that still doesn’t explain why you’re asking someone like me. There are plenty of fine unmarried highborn girls out there.”

“I know. But I’ve changed me mind. I don’t want to marry a toff’s daughter—I want you. And before you say anything, I’m not askin’ ‘someone like you’—I’m asking
you
. And there’s no one like you. You’re one of a kind, Daisy Chance.”

Which was the message he’d been trying to send her with those flowers. But it seemed his girl didn’t understand the language of flowers. Or maybe she did and just didn’t like it. She still had that troubled, mulish look on her face.

“So I’m asking you to marry me. What do you say?”

He could see before she even opened her mouth that he wasn’t going to like her answer.

She twisted a bit of material between nervous fingers. “Well, those were real nice words, Flynn, and I’m truly flattered. And I’m sorry, but it still ain’t going to happen. I’m the last girl you should marry.”

“Why would you say such a thing? Explain it to me, Daisy, so I can understand.”

For a long moment he thought she wasn’t going to respond. But she gave a sigh and said, “All right, but you’re not going to like it.”

He shrugged. “I haven’t liked anything you’ve said so far, so what have I got to lose?”

Daisy seated herself in her window seat, tucking her feet under her, and gestured him to a chair halfway across the
room. He took the chair and moved it closer, close enough for him to reach out and touch her. Typical Flynn—never did what she asked.

Why couldn’t he simply accept her no and leave her alone? It was hard enough for her to push him away without him fighting it.

She took a deep breath—she wasn’t looking forward to this. “A few moments ago you called me an innocent girl. I’m not. I’m a bastard, a—”

“I know. You told me the first day we met you were born on the wrong side of the blanket.”

“Let me finish, Flynn,” she said quietly. He waited. “I’m a bastard, a foundling—even my own mum didn’t want me. And before I come to live with Lady Bea and the girls, I didn’t live a respectable life.”

“Me neither. Some of the things I did when I was a lad tryin’ to survive on me own.” He shrugged. “You do what you can to stay alive. I won’t judge you, Daisy.”

All right, so she was going to have to lay it on the line here. “I haven’t finished yet. I’m not a virgin.”

There was a short silence, then he shrugged. “Neither am I.”

She gritted her teeth. He wasn’t taking her seriously. “Yeah, well, I doubt you lived in a brothel most of your life.”

That rocked him. “A
brothel
?”

She nodded. She was tempted to leave it there, let him draw his own conclusions, but pride, and something in the way he was looking at her—with compassion rather than judgement or disgust—made her continue. “It’s not what you think—I never did sell me body. I was a maidservant, scrubbin’ and cleanin’ and doin’ whatever needed doin’. At the beck and call of the girls and their customers.” She let that sink in and added, “But I ain’t no innocent. And I ain’t no virgin.”

“But—” He frowned, trying to piece it all together.

“Abby and Damaris and Jane ain’t really me sisters. I met Abby in the street.” She was quite prepared to tell Flynn the worst about her own life, but the other girls’ stories were theirs to tell, and private from everybody except their husbands and Lady Bea.

“And through Abby you met Jane and Damaris, I see. What an incredible coincidence, running into your half sister like that. How did you know? You don’t look alike.”

She looked up and gave him a piercing look. “You’ll keep this private, won’t you?”

“Of course.”

“We’re not half sisters at all. I am a bastard—at least I assume my mum and dad never married, whoever they were—but I’m a foundling. The girls are no relation to me at all.”

“No relation
at all
?”

“Nope.”

“Then how did a chance meeting in the street turn into . . . all this.” He spread his hands, indicating the grand house she was now living in.

“I was homeless. I’d just run away from the brothel. Mrs. B., the owner, had decided to retire and she gave it over to her son Mort. He was a nasty piece of work, Mort, and the place . . . changed. It weren’t safe for me no more.” She shivered recalling how she’d been told by one of the girls that Mort had promised Daisy to a man who liked beating up girls, and who fancied himself a crippled little maidy.

“And Abby?”

“Abby took me in.”

“Took you in? A stranger she’d just met on the street? Didn’t she know about the brothel?”

“She knew. She’s got a heart as big as Hyde Park, has Abby.” She swallowed. There was more to the story, but she wasn’t going to tell him about Jane and Damaris being kidnapped and sold to Mort. She’d helped them escape and because of that Abby had taken her in.

And called her sister, through thick and thin.

“And then when we came here to live with Lady Bea, Abby brought me with her.”