Scandal in Spring (3 page)

If a gentleman was the right age, he was passive or pompous. If he was kind and interesting, he was either old enough to be her grandfather or he had some off-putting problem such as being perpetually malodorous or spitting in her face when he talked.

Daisy knew she was not a great beauty. She was too small and slight, and although she had been praised for her dark eyes and brown-black hair set against her fair complexion, she had also heard the words "elfin" and "impish" applied to herself far too many times. Elfin women did not attract suitors in anything close to the quantities that statuesque beauties or pocket Venuses did.

It had also been remarked that Daisy spent far too much time with her books, which was probably true. Had she been allowed, Daisy would have spent most of every day reading and dreaming. Any sensible peer would doubtless conclude that she would not be a useful wife in the matters of household management, including those duties that hinged on close attention to detail. And the peer would be correct in this assumption.

Daisy couldn't have cared less about the contents of the larder or how much soap to order for laundry day. She was far more interested in novels and poetry and history, all of which inspired long flights of fancy during which she would stare through a window at nothing…while in her imagination she went on exotic adventures, traveled on magic carpets, sailed across foreign oceans, searched for treasure on tropical islands.

And there were thrilling gentlemen in Daisy's dreams, inspired by tales of dashing heroics and noble pursuits. These imaginary men were so much more exciting and interesting than ordinary ones…they spoke in beautiful prose, they excelled at sword fights and duels, and they forced swoon-inducing kisses on the women they fancied.

Of course Daisy was not so naive as to think that such men really existed, but she had to admit that with all these romantic images in her head, real-life men did seem terribly…well,
dull
in comparison.

Lifting her face to the mild sunshine that shot in bright filaments through the canopy of trees overhead, Daisy sang a lively folk tune called "Old Maid In The Garret":

Come rich man, come poor man,

Come fool or come witty,

Come any man at all!

Won't you marry out of pity?

Soon she reached the object of her mission— a spring-fed well she and the other wallflowers had visited a few times before. A wishing well. According to local tradition, it was inhabited by a spirit who would grant your wish if you threw a pin into it. The only danger was in standing too close, for the well spirit might pull you down with him to live forever as his consort.

On previous occasions Daisy had made wishes on behalf of her friends— and they had always come true. Now she needed some magic for herself.

Setting her bonnet gently on the ground, Daisy approached the sloshing hole and looked into the muddy-looking water. She slipped her hand in the pocket of her walking dress and pulled out a paper rack of pins.

"Well-Spirit," she said conversationally, "since I've had such bad luck in finding the kind of husband I always thought I wanted, I'm leaving it up to you. No requirements, no conditions. What I wish for is…the right man for me. I'm prepared to be open-minded."

She pulled the pins from the paper in twos and threes, tossing them into the well. The slivers of metal sparkled brilliantly in the air before hitting the agitated surface of the water and sliding beneath its murky surface.

"I would like all of these pins to be credited toward the same wish," she told the well. She stood for a long moment with her eyes closed, concentrating. The sound of the water was lightly overlaid by the
hueet
of an olive chiffchaff swooping to catch an insect in midair, and the buzz of a dragonfly.

There was a sudden
snap
behind her, like the crunch of a foot on a twig.

Turning, Daisy saw the dark form of a man coming toward her. He was only a few yards away. The shock of discovering someone so close when she had thought she was alone caused her heart to lurch in a few uncomfortable extra beats.

He was as tall and brawny as her friend Annabelle's husband, though he appeared somewhat younger, perhaps not yet thirty. "Forgive me," he said in a low voice as he saw her expression. "I didn't mean to frighten you."

"Oh, you didn't frighten me," she lied cheerfully, her pulse still off-kilter. "I was just a bit…surprised."

He approached her in a relaxed amble, his hands in his pockets. "I arrived at the estate a couple of hours ago," he said. "They said you were out here walking."

He seemed rather familiar. He was looking at Daisy as if he expected her to know him. She felt the rush of pained apology that always attended the circumstance of having forgotten someone she had previously met.

"You're a guest of Lord Westcliff's?" she asked, trying desperately to place him.

He gave her a curious glance and smiled slightly. "Yes, Miss Bowman."

He knew her name. Daisy regarded him with increasing confusion. She couldn't imagine how she could have forgotten a man this attractive. His features were strong and decisively formed, too masculine to be called beautiful, too striking to be ordinary. And his eyes were the rich sky-blue of morning glories, even more intense against the sun-glazed color of his skin. There was something extraordinary about him, a kind of barely leashed vitality that nearly caused her to take a step backward, the force of it was so strong.

As he bent his head to look at her a mahogany glitter slid over the shiny dark brown surface of his hair. The thick locks had been clipped much closer to the shape of his head than Europeans preferred. An American style. Come to think of it, he had spoken in an American accent. And that fresh, clean smell she detected…if she wasn't mistaken, it was the fragrance of…
Bowman's soap?

Suddenly Daisy realized who he was. Her knees nearly gave way beneath her.

"You,"
she whispered, her eyes wide with astonishment as she beheld the face of Matthew Swift.

Chapter 2

She must have swayed a little, for he
reached out and caught her in a light grasp, his fingers encircling her upper arms.

"Mr. Swift," she choked out, straining backward in instinctive retreat.

"You're going to fall into the well. Come with me."

His grip was gentle but relentless as he drew her several yards away from the bubbling water. Annoyed at being herded like a stray goose from a gaggle, Daisy tensed against his grasp. Some things, she thought darkly, had not changed. Matthew Swift was as domineering as ever.

She couldn't stop staring at him. Good Lord, she had never seen such a transformation in her life. The former "bag of bones," as Lillian had described him, had filled out into a large, prosperous-looking man, radiating health and vigor. He was dressed in an elegant suit of clothes, more loosely tailored than the tight-fitting men's styles of the past. Even so, the easy drape of fabric did not obscure the powerful musculature beneath.

The differences in him were more than physical. Maturity had brought with it an air of blatant self-confidence, the look of a man who knew himself and his abilities. Daisy remembered when he had first come to work for her father…he had been a scrawny, cold-eyed opportunist in expensive but ill-fitting garments and dilapidated shoes.

"That's old Boston for you," her father had said indulgently when the ancient shoes had caused comment among the family. "They make a pair of shoes or a coat last forever. Economy is a religion to them no matter how great the family fortune."

Daisy pulled away from Swift's grasp. "You've changed," she said, trying to collect herself.

"You haven't," he replied. It was impossible to tell whether the remark was intended as compliment or criticism. "What were you doing at the well?"

"I was…I thought…" Daisy searched in vain for a sensible explanation, but could think of nothing. "It's a wishing well."

His expression was solemn, but there was a suspicious flicker in his vivid blue eyes as if he were secretly amused. "You have this on good authority, I take it?"

"Everyone in the local village visits it," Daisy replied testily. "It's a
legendary
wishing well."

He was staring at her the way she had always hated, absorbing everything, no detail escaping his notice. Daisy felt her cheeks turn blood-hot beneath his scrutiny. "What did you wish for?" he asked.

"That's private."

"Knowing you," he said, "it could be anything."

"You don't know me," Daisy shot back. The idea that her father would give her over to a man who was so wrong for her in every way…it was madness. Marriage with him would be a businesslike exchange of money and obligations. Of disappointment and mutual contempt. And it was certain that he was no more attracted to her than she was to him. He would never marry a girl like her if not for the lure of her father's company.

"Perhaps not," Swift conceded. But the words rang false. He thought he knew exactly who and what she was. Their gazes met, measuring and challenging.

"In light of the well's legendary status," Swift said, "I'd hate to overlook a good opportunity." He reached into a pocket, rummaged briefly and pulled out a large silver coin. It had been forever since Daisy had seen American money.

"You're supposed to throw in a pin," she said.

"I don't have a pin."

"That's a five-dollar piece," Daisy said in disbelief. "You're not going to throw that away, are you?"

"I'm not throwing it away. I'm making an investment. You'd better tell me the proper procedure for making wishes— it's a lot of money to waste."

"You're mocking me."

"I'm in deadly earnest. And since I've never done this before, some advice would be welcome." He waited for her reply, and when it became evident that none was forthcoming, a touch of humor lurked in one corner of his mouth. "I'm going to toss the coin in regardless."

Daisy cursed herself. Even though it was obvious he was mocking her, she could not resist. A wish was not something that should be wasted, especially a five-dollar wish. Drat!

She approached the well and said curtly, "First hold the coin in your palm until it's warm from your hand."

Swift came to stand beside her. "And then?"

"Close your eyes and concentrate on the thing you want most." She let a scornful note enter her voice. "And it has to be a personal wish. It can't be about something like mergers or banking trusts."

"I do think about things other than business affairs."

Daisy gave him a skeptical glance, and he astonished her with a brief smile.

Had she ever seen him smile before? Perhaps once or twice. She had a vague past memory of such an occasion, when his face had been so gaunt that all she had received was an impression of white teeth fixed in a grimace that owed little to any feeling of good cheer. But this smile was just a bit off-center, which made it disarming and tantalizing…a flash of warmth that made her wonder exactly what kind of man lurked behind his sober exterior.

Daisy was profoundly relieved when the smile disappeared and he was back to his usual stone-faced self. "Close your eyes," she reminded him. "Put everything out of your mind except the wish."

His heavy lashes fell shut, giving her the chance to stare at him without having him stare back. It was not the sort of face a boy could wear comfortably…the features were too strong-boned, the nose too long, the jaw obstinate.

But Swift had finally grown into his looks. The austere angles of his face had been softened by extravagant sweeps of black lashes and a wide mouth that hinted of sensuality.

"What now?" he murmured, his eyes still closed.

Staring at him, Daisy was horrified by the impulse that surged through her…to step nearer and explore the tanned skin of his cheeks with her fingertips. "When an image is fixed in your mind," she managed to say, "open your eyes and toss the coin into the well."

His lashes lifted to reveal eyes as bright as fire trapped in blue glass.

Without glancing at the well, he threw the coin right into the center of it.

Daisy realized that her heart had begun to thump just as it had when she had read the more lurid passages of
The Plight of Penelope,
in which a maiden was captured by an evil villain who locked her in a tower room until she agreed to surrender her virtue.

Daisy had known the novel was silly even as she had read it, but that had not detracted one bit from her enjoyment. And she had been perversely disappointed when Penelope had been rescued from imminent ruin by the bland golden-haired hero Reginald, who was not nearly as interesting as the villain.

Of course the prospect of being locked in a tower room without any books had not sounded at all appealing to Daisy. But the threatening monologues by the villain about Penelope's beauty, and his desire for her, and the debauchery he would force on her, had been quite intriguing.

It was just plain bad luck that Matthew Swift would turn out to look just like the handsome villain of Daisy's imaginings.

"What did you wish for?" she asked.

One corner of his mouth twitched. "That's private."

Daisy scowled as she recognized the echo of her own earlier set-down. Spying her bonnet on the nearby ground, she went to scoop it up. She needed to escape his unnerving presence. "I'm returning to the manor," she said over her shoulder. "Good day, Mr. Swift. Enjoy the rest of your walk."

To her dismay, he reached her in a few long-legged strides and fell into step beside her. "I'll accompany you."

She refused to look at him. "I'd rather you didn't."

"Why not? We're headed in the same direction."

"Because I prefer to walk in silence."

"I'll be silent, then." His pace did not falter.

Deducing that it was pointless to object when he had obviously made up his mind, Daisy clamped her lips together. The scenery— the meadow, the forest— was just as beautiful as before, but her enjoyment of it had vanished.