The Summer Bride (A Chance Sisters Romance) (8 page)

“Nothing wrong with the ambition, no—it’s the way
you’re goin’ about it that’s too small. You need proper premises to work in—not your old bedroom—and you need to hire proper seamstresses to do the bulk of the work.”

She snorted with bitter laughter. “Oh, yes, fine—proper premises and proper seamstresses. And what do I use for money, eh? Oh, of course”—she hit her forehead in a mocking gesture—“why don’t I use all them bags of gold I keep lyin’ around under my bed? They’re only gatherin’ dust.”

“You need a partner.”

“I bloody don’t,” she flashed. “Nobody’s gettin’ their mitts on my business.” She’d lost everything twice in her life and she wasn’t about to make it three times. Besides, she’d had enough of other people telling her what to do.

“Don’t dismiss the idea before you know what I’m talking about. I’m talkin’ about a silent partner.”

“I could do wiv a bit of silence right now.”

He ignored her. “Did I ever tell you about how Max and I got started with our trading company?” He didn’t wait for her to respond, but continued. “We met on board ship. I’d been at sea for a few years by then an’ had worked me way up to third mate. He was a gentleman passenger, just startin’ out, aiming to become a trader. I had a few quid saved, he had barely a bean. But we had plans, both of us, or maybe I should call them dreams—big dreams.” He looked at her. “Like you have.”

Daisy waited, caught, despite herself.

“We decided to form a partnership—Max would use my savin’s to acquire goods to trade, and then I’d sell them when me shop docked in England.”

“Gawd, you were a trustin’ soul, weren’t you? Or maybe it was Max who was the trustin’ one.”

“There was trust on both sides. I trusted him with me savin’s, he trusted me with the profit. Slowly we built up our profits—but they were slow. It wasn’t until Hyphen-Hyphen’s aunt died—”

“Damaris’s Freddy—his aunt?”

Flynn nodded. “It might have been his great-aunt, I don’t recall—but whoever she was, she left him a good-sized lump
of cash. And instead of blowin’ it all on high living, like most young gents would, he decided to invest in our dream—Max had written to him, you see—and he used the money to become our silent partner.”

Daisy folded her arms, feigning disinterest. She was still cross with Flynn, but she wanted to know more. Why hadn’t she heard about this from Damaris? Probably because Freddy never talked about such stuff as business to ladies. Nor did Max. Toffs didn’t. “Go on,” she said. “I’m listenin’.”

“We used Hyphen-Hyphen’s nest egg to launch ourselves in a big way—we amassed as much cargo as we could afford—choosing the kind of goods that we knew would make a good profit, and hired a ship. I captained it and sailed it to London. We risked everything on that first cargo, but the risk paid off.

“It was the start of our trading empire—and in case you don’t know, ’cause I’m told it’s vulgar to talk about this kind of thing in polite company, Flynn and Co. is one of the biggest private trading companies in the British Empire.”

He paused a moment to let that sink in. “And it all started because Max and I took on a silent partner, who trusted us with his money.” She didn’t say anything, so he added, “And we all benefited—Max, me, Hyphen-Hyphen and Blake Ashton, the fourth partner. You haven’t met him yet. He’s still out east somewhere.”

Daisy nibbled on a curd cake, turning over his story in her mind. “So what’s the story of your success got to do with me and my dressmakin’?” She thought she understood, but she wasn’t sure.

“If you took on a silent partner, you’d have enough money to rent a premises and hire some seamstresses. If you had enough people to do all the work, you could spend your time using your talent for designing, instead of sewing seams into the night. You could be meeting ladies of the ton and increasing orders that way, instead of living like a hermit. And you’d be producing more clothing. In other words, you could turn it into a proper business, instead of a backyard operation.”

He painted an enticing picture all right: her own premises,
a team of seamstresses working under her direction. Herself, swannin’ around the ton, minglin’ with duchesses and takin’ orders. Not that she wanted to mingle with duchesses. It was their money she wanted, not their company.

But Daisy knew a fairy tale when she heard it—they always sounded too good to be true. And there was always a hidden cost. “Did Freddy tell you what to do with his money?”

“No, though he did insist on being able to inspect the books. It’s how he got interested in business, as a matter of fact. Turns out he had a talent for it.”

“So if I took on a silent partner, he wouldn’t be tellin’ me what to do all the time? He’d stay out of me way?”

Flynn pursed his lips. “I wouldn’t say that. Speakin’ hypothetically, of course, if, say, the silent partner were a man like meself, he might want to make sure you knew how to keep account books properly, might want to offer an occasional bit of advice—”

“Nope. Not interested.” Daisy stood abruptly, brushing crumbs from her fingers. “Thank you for visitin’, Mr. Flynn. It’s time to go back to Lady Liz now. She’ll be wantin’ her dance. Thank you for the story and the unwanted advice.”

Flynn stood with a rueful expression on his face. “Don’t be too hasty to dismiss the idea, Daisy. Just promise me you’ll think about it.”

“Oh, I will, you can be sure of that.” She’d think about it, but that was all. She’d had enough of people taking over her things. All her life, whenever she’d managed to get something of her own, somebody—usually a man—always managed to grab it for himself.

And the law—damn it to hell and back—always favored the bloody man.

Twice in her life she’d lost everything. Never again.

She wasn’t a trusting soul like Flynn had been. Or maybe it was Freddy who’d been the trusting soul. Whatever, Daisy wasn’t big on trust anymore.

Last year, after working hard all her life, she’d ended up on the streets, homeless and almost broke—again—with only
a small bundle of fabric scraps, leftovers and other people’s discards. And that wasn’t down to any man, but to Daisy’s own . . . foolishness. Trusting the wrong person—again.

If it weren’t for Abby and her sisters—and Lady Bea—she’d never have had the opportunity to try and make her dream come true.

All her life she’d been at somebody else’s beck and call—everybody else’s. She’d been the lowest of the low.

Now she had a chance—a real chance—to make something of herself, and she wasn’t going to risk losing it. Not again.

And more than anything she wanted to be her own boss. She’d had a taste of freedom at Lady Beatrice’s and it was in her blood now. She wasn’t ever going back to being bossed around by other people, being told what to do and how to do it and when to do it.

No, she wanted to do this her way, and if she failed, she’d have only herself to blame.

She didn’t mind the idea of a silent partner, but a male partner—even one like Flynn, who she liked and almost trusted—was a risk she couldn’t afford to take. As far as most people were concerned, property—and a business was property—was a man’s domain. If there was a dispute, well, the law was made by men for men. She had no illusions about that.

In any case, she’d bet her last penny that with the best will in the world, Flynn would never stay silent, never let her decide things for herself. He was a man too used to being in command.

Besides, she fancied him too much, and God help a girl who went into business with a man she fancied. Fruit, ripe for the picking.

*   *   *

“I
’m thinkin’ it might be pleasant for you and me to step out into the garden, and sit this one out,” Flynn said, tucking Lady Elizabeth’s arm into his. “It’s very warm in here and you’re looking a wee bit flushed.”

“Oh, but—” She hung back. “It’s a lovely idea, but I don’t think we should. It’s not quite . . . proper.”

She turned a look of subtle entreaty on her chaperone, but her father, who was standing close by, said in a brusque voice, “Don’t be missish girl—nothing’s going to happen to you. Go on outside with Mr. Flynn.”

“Yes, Papa,” she said, her voice almost . . . defeated. As if her father was flinging her to the wolves.

Flynn gritted his teeth. For two pins he’d drop the whole idea and go home. He wasn’t in the mood for this. He’d had enough female trouble this evening.

First Lady Elizabeth’s tactlessness earlier in the evening, then Daisy, flinging back his offer of a silent partnership in his teeth, as if he’d mortally insulted her—stubborn little wench! And now this, a young lady he was courting acting as if an invitation to walk in the garden was tantamount to an offer of rape!

But once he’d charted a course, he followed it through to the end—unless there were shoals ahead, or some unseen obstacle. He’d planned to kiss Lady Elizabeth tonight and he’d damned well do it.

He led her into the garden. At first they simply strolled together, her arm tucked into his, enjoying the mild evening, and the colored lights that bathed the garden in reds and yellows and pinks and blues—and left the rest in shadows. Flynn had plans for those shadows.

The occasional murmur and giggle from a darkened corner showed he wasn’t the only one making use of the garden for a spot of dalliance, though by comparison, his plans were relatively chaste. A couple of kisses, a bit of a cuddle, and then he’d see where they’d go from there.

It was his experience that women loosened up once the kissing started. He had no plans to seduce her though. No, he’d keep this fairly innocent. Schoolgirl stuff.

She was nervous. Normally a little on the quiet side, tonight she chattered nonstop about the gardens, the lights, the costumes, what she’d eaten for supper, what Flynn’s plans were for the morrow . . .

Anything, he guessed, to fill the silence. And to prevent him from broaching any more personal topic.

They passed under an arch and came to a tiny, miraculously secluded courtyard.

He stopped. She stopped with a jerk and turned a pale, set face to him. He could feel the tension running through her. He smiled. “Relax, Lady Elizabeth. I’ll not hurt you, lass.”

She stiffened. Flynn drew her closer, put a finger under her chin, because she was trying to look away from him, and kissed her, softly at first, just lips on lips, brushing lightly. Warm, soft, gentle. Gathering her in.

She made no move to move closer, or indeed to move away. She just stood there stiffly in his embrace. As if ready to endure . . . whatever. She was trembling—and not in a good way.

Surely in this, her third Season, it couldn’t be her first kiss.

Maybe it was. He was getting nothing from her. Nothing except resistance and . . . nerves.

He drew her closer, and deepened the kiss, gently parting her lips for the first light touch of his tongue—

“Splt!! Ugh!” She shoved him away and stumbled a few steps backward, wiping her mouth, revulsion in every movement. “What are you—?” She broke off, and eyed him anxiously. There was a short silence, then, “I’m sorry. I wasn’t . . . prepared for . . .”

“Your first kiss?” Flynn asked.

She hesitated, then nodded. But she didn’t meet his eye. A lie then. No matter.

He moved forward again, but she flinched.
Flinched.

He dropped his arms and stepped back. He’d never made a girl flinch in his life. “I’ll take you back inside.”

He turned to leave but she clutched his sleeve. “No, you can’t!”

He turned, frowning down at her. What was going on here?

“Sorry—I’m sorry, Mr. Flynn, it’s just—” She gestured around the shadowy garden, lit by gaily colored lanterns. “Someone might see us . . .”

He shook his head. “Nobody can see us here. I think we both know what’s happening here, Lady Elizabeth. I apologize. My mistake in thinkin’ you were willin’.”

“Oh, but I
am
! I
promise
you I am! I must—It is just—” She swallowed convulsively, her eyes stricken. “Please believe me, Mr. Flynn, I am willing.
Very
willing. When we are married, I will . . . It will be different. I will welcome your . . . attentions then.”

I will do my duty then.

“I don’t think so,” Flynn said gently. “Don’t worry, lass. There’s no blame to you attached. “

“Oh, but there is. Please. Papa will—” She broke off, chewing her lip. On the verge of tears. “Please, you must believe me. Here—I will prove it.” She grabbed him by the arms, stood on tiptoe and mashed her mouth up against his.

Flynn tried to turn it into a kiss, but it was a miserable failure, even worse than before. He tasted desperation and revulsion in equal measure. He’d never experienced anything like it.

He gently eased her away. She stood there, wringing her hands in agitation, waiting desperately for his reaction. Did she really imagine that could convince him?

He glanced around the garden to make sure they could not be overheard. He lowered his voice. “Is there someone else?”

“Someone else?” She started guiltily and scanned his face frantically. “No? Who do you mean. Have you heard something? Did Papa say—? Oh, please no.”

“Hush, lass, there’s no need to take on so. All I want to know is, is there another man you would prefer to marry? Someone your Papa doesn’t approve of?” Someone with no money, in other words.

She shook her head. “No, there’s no one I prefer to marry. No one, I promise you. Truly.”

“Are you sure? Because if you tell me there is, I will help you.”

Again she shook her head. “There is no one,” she said dully. “I only wish there were.” And then she realized what she’d said and her face crumpled. “Oh, I’m sorry, I did not mean—”

Flynn stared down at her. There was something else going on here, something he didn’t understand, and he wanted to get to the bottom of it. “What do you mean?”

“Nothing, nothing at all.” She practically gabbled the words. She clutched at his sleeves again. “Please, Mr. Flynn, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to insult you. I
am
willing,
more
than willing.”

“No, you’re not.” He knew when a woman was interested and she was the very opposite. So why was she so anxious to convince him otherwise? He added in a soothing voice, “I’m not offended, Lady Elizabeth. Don’t worry, I’ll not be asking your father for your hand—”