Scandal in Spring
Page 13“Well, you did!”
“But I never considered it seriously. I could never marry you.”
“Because I’m a wallflower,” she said sullenly.
“No. That’s not—”
“I’m undesirable.”
“Daisy, would you stop—”
“Not even worth a single kiss.”
“All right,” Matthew snapped, finally losing the grip on his sanity. “Damn it, you win. I’ll kiss you.”
“Why?”
“Because if I don’t you’ll never stop complaining about it.”
“It’s too late now! You should have kissed me back there in the parlor but you didn’t, and now that you’ve doomed any chance I’ll ever have of being kissed by anyone else, I’m not going to settle for some half-rate consolation prize.”
“Half-rate?”
That had been a mistake. Matthew could see that Daisy realized it the instant she had said it.
She had just sealed her fate.
“I-I meant to say half-hearted,” she said breathlessly, trying to wriggle away from him. “It’s obvious you don’t want to kiss me and therefore—”
“You said half-rate.” He jerked her hard against him. “Which means now I have something to prove.”
“No you don’t,” she said quickly. “Really. You don’t—” She gave a little cry as he clamped one hand behind her neck, and all sound was muffled as he tugged her head to his.
CHAPTER 7
Matthew knew it was wrong the instant their lips met. Because nothing would ever equal the perfection of Daisy in his arms. He was ruined for life. God help him, he didn’t care.
Her mouth was soft and hot, like sunshine, like the white blaze of a heartwood fire. She gasped as he touched her lower lip with the tip of his tongue. Slowly her hands came to his shoulders, and then he felt her fingers at the back of his head, sliding into his hair to keep him from pulling away. There wasn’t a chance in hell of that happening. Nothing could have made him stop.
He let her feel how much stronger he was, how much heavier, one muscular arm clamped along her back, his feet spread to hold her between the powerful length of his thighs. Her upper half was bound in a laced and padded corset. He was almost overcome by a savage desire to tear away the stays and quilting and find the tender flesh beneath.
Instead he sank his fingers into her pinned-up hair and tugged it backward until the weight of her head was cradled in his hand, and her pale throat was exposed. He searched for the pulse he had seen earlier, his lips dragging softly along the secret pathway of nerves beneath her skin. When he reached a senstive spot, he felt the vibration of her suppressed moan against his mouth.
This was what it would be like to make love to her, he thought dazedly…the sweet shivering of her flesh as he entered her, the delicate chaos of her breath, the helpless sounds that rustled in her throat. Her skin, warm and female, scented like tea and talcum and a trace of salt. He found her mouth again, opened it, delving into wet silk, heat, and an intimate flavor that drove him mad.
She should have struggled, but there was only yielding and more softness, driving him past all limits. He began to ravish her mouth with deep, twisting kisses, bringing her body rhythmically against his. He felt her legs part beneath her gown, his thigh fitting neatly between them. She squirmed with innocent desire, her face blooming with the color of late summer poppies. Had she understood exactly what he wanted from her, she would have done more than blush. She would have fainted on the spot.
Lifting his mouth from hers, Matthew pressed his jaw against the side of her head. “I think,” he said raggedly, “this puts to rest any question of whether I find you desirable or not.”
Daisy gathered the strength to twist around in his grasp until she faced away from him, staring blindly at the rows of leather-bound books before her. Her small hands braced on the mahogany shelf as she fought to control the turbulent pace of her breathing.
Matthew stood behind her, reaching around to cover her hands with his. The narrow framework of her shoulders went rigid against his chest as he searched for the tender ridge of her ear.
“Don’t,” she said thickly, straining away from him.
Matthew couldn’t stop. Following the movement of her head, he nuzzled the downy curve of her neck. He released one of her hands to settle his palm on the exposed skin over her bodice, just above the rise of her breasts. Daisy’s free hand came up to press his fingers harder against her chest, as if their combined efforts were necessary to restrain the pounding of her reckless heart.
Matthew tightened all his muscles against the overpowering urge to snatch her up and carry her to the nearby settee. He wanted to make love to her, to bury himself inside her until bitter memories had dissolved in her sweetness. But that chance had been stolen from him long before they had ever met.
He had nothing to offer her. His life, his name, his identity…it was all an illusion. He was not the man she thought he was. And it was only a matter of time until she found out.
To his chagrin he realized he had unconsciously clenched a hand in her skirts as if in preparation to hike them up. The satin spilled in gleaming drifts between his fingers. He thought of her body wrapped up in all these garments and lacing, and the ungodly pleasure it would be to strip her naked. To map her body with his mouth and fingertips, learning every curve and hollow, every hidden place.
Watching his hand as if it belonged to someone else, Matthew uncurled his fingers one by one until the yellow satin dropped. He turned her to face him, staring into the rich brown depths of her eyes.
“Matthew,” she said thickly.
It was the first time she had ever used his first name. He struggled to conceal the strength of his response. “Yes?”
“The way you phrased yourself earlier…you didn’t say you won’t marry me under any circumstances…you said you can’t. Why?”
“Since it’s not going to happen,” he said, “the reasons are irrelevant.”
Daisy frowned, her lips pursing in a way that made him long to kiss them.
He moved aside to let her go.
But as Daisy’s arm bumped against his, Matthew caught her wrist in his fingers, and suddenly she was in his arms again. He couldn’t stop himself from taking her mouth with his, kissing her as if she belonged to him, as if he were inside her.
This is what I feel for you, he told her with fierce, consuming kisses. This is what I want. He felt the new tension in her limbs, tasted her arousal, and realized he could bring her to cl**ax here and now, if he reached beneath her dress and—
No, he told himself savagely. This had already gone too far. Realizing how close he was to losing all self-control, Matthew ripped his mouth from hers with a quiet groan and thrust Daisy away from him.
She fled the library immediately. The hem of the yellow gown trailed after her, curling around the edge of the doorjamb before disappearing like the last ray of the sun slipping over the horizon.
And Matthew wondered bleakly how he was going to interact with her in a normal manner ever again.
It was a time-honored tradition for the mistress of a country estate to act as Lady Bountiful to the tenants and local villagers. This meant giving assistance and advice, and donating necessary items such as food and clothing to those who needed it most. Lillian had performed the duties willingly until now, but her condition had made it impossible.
There was no question of asking Mercedes to substitute for her—Mercedes was too abrasive and impatient for such an undertaking. She did not like to be around sick people. She made the elderly uneasy, and something in her tone inevitably caused babies to cry.
Therefore Daisy was the logical choice. Daisy didn’t mind visiting day at all. She liked taking the pony cart out by herself, to deliver parcels and jars, read to those with bad vision, and collect news from the villagers. Even better, the informal nature of the errands meant she didn’t have to dress fashionably or worry about etiquette.
There was yet another reason Daisy was glad to go to the village…it kept her busy and away from the manor, so she could focus her thoughts on something other than Matthew Swift.
It had been three days since that dreadful parlor game and its consequences—namely, being kissed out of her wits by Matthew. Now he was behaving toward her as he always had, cool and courteous.
Daisy could almost believe it had been a dream except that whenever she was near Swift, her nerves began throwing off sparks, and her stomach swooped up and down like a drunken sparrow.
She wanted to discuss it with someone but that would have been too mortifying, and somehow it would have felt like a betrayal, though of whom she wasn’t certain. All she knew was that nothing felt right. She wasn’t sleeping well, and as a result she was clumsy and distracted in the daytime.
Thinking she might be ill, Daisy had gone to the housekeeper with a description of her condition and had been dosed with a nasty spoonful of castor oil. It hadn’t helped in the least. Worst of all, she couldn’t keep her mind on her books. She had read the same pages over and over again, and they had no power to interest her.
Daisy had no idea how to put herself to rights again. But she thought it would be a good thing to stop thinking about herself and do something for someone else.
She set out mid-morning in the big open pony-cart drawn by a sturdy brown pony named Hubert. The cart was laden with china jars filled with food, bolts of flannel, wheels of cheese, parcels of turnip-fed mutton, bacon and tea, and bottles of port.
The visits were generally quite pleasant, the villagers seeming to enjoy Daisy’s cheerful presence. Some of them made her laugh as they slyly described how it had been in the old days when Lord Westcliff’s mother had come to call.
The dowager countess had dispensed her gifts grudgingly, expecting a great show of gratitude. If the women hadn’t curtseyed deeply enough, the dowager countess had asked sourly if their knees were stiff. She had also expected to be consulted about what names they should call their children, and she had instructed them on what their views on religion and hygiene should be. More aggravating still, the countess had brought food that had been mixed in an unappetizing jumble, meats and vegetables and sweets all crammed together in the same tin.
“Gracious,” Daisy exclaimed, setting out jars and fabric bolts on the table. “What a wicked old witch she was! Just like the fairy tales…” And she regaled the children with a dramatic recitation of Hansel and Gretel that sent them giggling and screeching beneath the table, peering out at her with delight.
By the end of visiting day, Daisy had filled a little book with notes…would it be possible to locate a specialist to look at old Mr. Hearnsley’s failing eyes and might the Blunts be given another bottle of the housekeeper’s tonic for Mr. Blunt’s digestive complaints?
It was almost twilight, long shadows of oaks and chestnuts crossing the unpaved road leading away from the village. This part of England had not yet been deforested to feed the fleets and factories that had sprung up in the major cities. The woodlands were still pristine and other-worldly, scored with small cartways half-buried by overhanging branches thick with leaves. In the gathering shade the trees were wreathed in vapor and mystery, like sentinels for a world of druids and warlocks and unicorns. A brown owl glided over the lane, mothlike in the darkening sky.
The lane was quiet except for the rattle of cart wheels and the clop-clop of Hubert’s iron-shod hooves. Daisy kept a firm grip on the ribbons as the pony quickened his pace. Hubert seemed nervous, his head tossing from side to side.
“Easy, boy,” Daisy soothed, forcibly slowing his pace as the cart’s axle rattled over a rough patch. “You don’t like the forest, do you? No need to worry—we’ll reach open ground soon.”
The pony’s fidgeting continued until the vegetation had thinned and the overhead foliage had disappeared. They passed into a dry sunken lane that was girdled by a forest on one side and a meadow on the other. “There, nervous Nellie,” Daisy said brightly. “Nothing to worry about, you see?”
As it turned out, her confidence was premature.
She heard a few heavy cracks coming from the forest, twigs and branches snapped underfoot. Hubert nickered apprehensively, swinging his head toward the noise. A loud animal grunt caused the hairs to rise on the back of Daisy’s neck.
Good Lord, what was that?
With startling suddenness a huge, bulky shape charged toward the cart from the forest cover.
Everything happened too fast for Daisy to comprehend. She gripped the ribbons as Hubert jerked forward with a panicked whinny, the cart rattling and bouncing as if it were a child’s toy.
Daisy tried in vain to keep her seat, but as the cart hit a deep rut she was thrown clear of the vehicle. Hubert continued racing pell-mell down the lane while Daisy landed on the hard-packed earth with stunning force.
The breath was knocked from her, and she choked and wheezed. She had the impression of a massive creature, a monster rushing toward her, but the sound of a gunshot rent the air and caused her ears to ring.
A bone-chilling animal squeal…then nothing.
Daisy tried to sit up, then flopped weakly on her stomach as her lungs spasmed. Her chest felt as if it had been caught in a vise. There was a good chance she was going to cast up her crumpets, but the thought of how much that would hurt was enough to keep her gorge down.
In a moment the thundering of hooves—several sets—vibrated the ground beneath Daisy’s cheek. Finally able to draw a shallow breath, she pushed up on her elbows and lifted her chin.
Three riders—no, four—were galloping toward her, hooves thrasing up clouds of dust in the lane. One of the men swung off his horse before it had even stopped and rushed to her in a few ground-eating strides.
Daisy blinked in surprise as he dropped to his knees and gathered her up in the same motion. Her head fell back on his arm, and she found herself staring hazily up into Matthew Swift’s dark face.
“Daisy.” It was a tone she had never heard from him before, rough and urgent. Cradling her in one arm, he ran his free hand over her body in a rapid search for injuries. “Are you hurt?”