On the surface, the pairing of Matthew Swift with Daisy Bowman was wildly incongruous. But Marcus did not entirely agree with Lillian’s belief that Daisy should marry a man who possessed the same romantic and sensitive nature. There would be no equilibrium in such a union. After all, every swift-sailing ship needed an anchor.
“We must send Daisy to London as soon as possible,” Lillian fretted. “It’s the height of the season, and she’s buried in Hampshire away from all the balls and soirees—”
“It was her choice to come here,” Marcus reminded her, reaching for her other foot. “She would never forgive herself if she missed the baby’s birth.”
“Oh, bother that. I would rather Daisy miss the birth and meet eligible men instead of having to wait here with me until her time runs out and she has to marry Matthew Swift and move with him to New York and then I’ll never see her again—”
“I’ve already thought of that,” Marcus said. “Which is why I undertook to invite a number of eligible men to StonyCrossPark for the stag-and-hind hunt.”
“You did?” Her head lifted from the pillow.
“St. Vincent and I came up with a list and debated the merits of each candidate at length. We settled on an even dozen. Any one of them would do for your sister.”
“Oh, Marcus, you are the most clever, most wonderful—”
He waved away the praise and shook his head with a grin, remembering the lively arguments. “St. Vincent is damned finicky, let me tell you. If he were a woman, no man would be good enough for him.”
“They never are,” Lillian told him impudently. “Which is why we women have a saying…‘Aim high, then settle.’”
He snorted. “Is that what you did?”
A smile curved her lips. “No, my lord. I aimed high and got far more than I’d bargained for.” And she giggled as he crawled over her prone body and kissed her soundly.
The sun had not yet risen by the time a group of guests bent on trout fishing had partaken of a hasty breakfast on the back terrace and had gone out dressed in tweed and rough twill and waxed linen. Sleepy-eyed servants followed the gentlemen to the trout stream, carrying rods, creels, and wooden cases containing flies and tools. The men would be gone for a good part of the morning while the ladies slept.
All the ladies except Daisy. She loved fishing, but she knew without asking that she would not be welcome in the all-male group. And while she and Lillian had often gone by themselves in the past, her older sister was certainly in no condition to do so now.
Daisy had done her best to persuade Evie or Annabelle to come with her to the artificial lake that Westcliff kept generously stocked with trout, but neither of them had seemed enthusiastic about the prospect.
“You’ll have a smashing time,” Daisy had wheedled. “I’ll teach you how to cast—it’s quite easy, really. Don’t say you’re going to stay inside on a beautiful spring morning!”
As it turned out, Annabelle thought that sleeping late was a fine idea. And since Evie’s husband St. Vincent had decided not to go fishing, Evie said she would rather remain in bed with him.
“You would have much more fun fishing with me,” Daisy had told her.
“No,” Evie had said decisively, “I wouldn’t.”
Feeling cross and just a little bit lonely, Daisy breakfasted by herself and set out to the lake, carrying her favorite lancewood rod with the whalebone top and the clamp-foot reel.
It was a glorious morning, the air soft and alive. Overwintering salvia sprang in bright blue and purple spikes alongside the blackthorn hedgerows. Daisy crossed a mown green field toward ground that was blanketed with buttercups, yarrow, and the bright pink petals of ragged robin.
As she rounded a mulberry tree Daisy saw a disturbance at the water’s edge…two young boys, with something between them, some kind of animal or bird…a goose? The creature was protesting with angry honks, flapping its wings violently at the giggling lads.
“Here, now,” Daisy called out. “What is this? What’s going on?”
Seeing the intruder, the boys yelped and broke into a full bore run, their legs a blur as they headed away from the lake.
Daisy quickened her pace and approached the indignant goose. It was a huge domestic Greylag, a breed known for its gray plumage, muscular neck and sharp orange beak.
“Poor fellow,” Daisy said as she saw that its leg was tied with something. As she drew closer, the hostile goose darted forward as if to attack her. It was abruptly caught up on whatever it was that tethered his leg. Pausing, Daisy set down her fishing gear. “I’m going to try to help you,” she informed the aggressive bird. “But an attitude like that is rather off-putting. If you could manage to control your temper…” Inching toward the goose, Daisy investigated the source of the problem. “Oh, dear,” she said. “Those little scamps…they were making you fish for them, weren’t they?”
The goose screeched in agreement.
A length of fishing line had been knotted around the goose’s leg, leading to a tin spoon with a hole punched through the bowl. A fishhook had been attached to the hole. Were it not for her sympathy for the ill-used goose, Daisy would have laughed.
It was ingenious. As the goose was tossed out into the water and had to swim its way back, the tin spoon would flash like a minnow. If a trout was attracted by the lure it would be caught on the hook, and the goose would tow it in. But the hook had caught on some bramble, effectively imprisoning the goose.
Daisy kept her voice soft and her movements slow as she crept toward the bramble. The bird froze and peered at her with one bright black eye.
“There’s a nice fellow,” Daisy soothed, carefully reaching for the line. “My goodness, you’re large. If you’ll just be patient a moment longer, I’ll—ouch!” Suddenly the goose had rushed forward and struck her forearm with a hammer-blow of its beak.
Scampering back, Daisy glanced down at the little dent on her skin, which was beginning to bruise. She scowled at the belligerent goose. “You ungrateful creature! Just for that I ought to leave you here like this.”
Rubbing the sore spot on her arm, Daisy wondered if she might be able to use her fishing rod to unhook the line from the bramble…but that still didn’t solve the problem of removing the spoon from the goose’s leg. She would have to walk back to the manor and find someone to help.
As she bent to pick up her fishing gear, she heard an unexpected noise. Someone whistling an oddly familiar tune. Daisy listened intently, remembering the melody. It was a song that had been popular in New York just before she had left, called “The End Of A Perfect Day.”
Someone was walking toward her from the direction of the river. A man dressed in sodden clothes, carrying a fishing creel and wearing an ancient low-brimmed hat. He was wearing a sportsman’s tweed coat and rough trousers, and it was impossible not to notice the way the layers of his clothing clung wetly to the lean contours of his body. Her senses leaped with recognition, galvanizing her pulse to a new pace.
The man stopped in mid-whistle as he saw her. His eyes were bluer than the water or the sky, startling in his tanned face. As he removed his hat in deference, the sun brought out rich mahogany glints in the heavy dark locks of his hair.
“Blast,” Daisy said to herself. Not just because he was the last person she wanted to see at the moment, but also because she had to admit that Matthew Swift was extraordinarily good-looking. She didn’t want to find him so physically appealing. Nor did she want to feel such curiosity about him, the desire to steal inside his privacy and discover his secrets and pleasures and fears. Why had she never taken an interest in him before? Perhaps she had been too immature. Perhaps it wasn’t he who had changed, but she.
Swift approached her cautiously. “Miss Bowman.”
“Good morning, Mr. Swift. Why aren’t you fishing with the others?”
“My creel is full. And I was outfishing them to the extent that it was going to embarrass them all if I continued.”
“How modest you are,” Daisy said wryly. “Where’s your rod?”
“Westcliff took it.”
“Why?”
Setting down his creel, Swift replaced his hat. “I brought it with me from America. It’s a jointed hickory rod with a flexible ash tip and a Kentucky multiplying reel with a balanced crank handle.”
“Multiplying reels don’t work,” Daisy said.
“British multipliers don’t,” Swift corrected. “But in the states we’ve made a few improvements. As soon as Westcliff realized I was able to cast directly from the spool, he practically ripped the thing from my hands. He’s fishing with it as we speak.”
Knowing her brother-in-law’s love of technological devices, Daisy smiled ruefully. She felt Swift’s gaze on her, and she didn’t want to look back at him, but she found herself staring anyway.
It was jarring to reconcile her memories of the odious young man she had known with this robust specimen of manhood. He was like a new-minted copper penny, bright and shiny and perfect. The morning light slid over his skin and caught in the glittering length of his lashes and the tiny fans of lines radiating from the outward corners of his eyes. She wanted to touch his face, to make him smile and feel the curve of his lips beneath her fingers.
The silence lengthened, becoming strained and awkward until it was broken by the goose’s imperious honk.
Swift glanced at the massive bird. “You have a companion, I see.” When Daisy explained what the two boys had been doing with the goose, Swift grinned. “Clever lads.”
The remark did not strike Daisy as being especially compassionate. “I want to help him,” she said. “But when I tried to get near, he pecked me. I expected a domestic breed would have been a bit more receptive to my approach.”
“Greylags are not known for their mild temperaments,” Swift informed her. “Particularly males. He was probably trying to show you who was boss.”
“He proved his point,” Daisy said, rubbing her arm.
Swift frowned as he saw the growing bruise on her arm. “Is that where he pecked you? Let me see.”
“No, it’s all right—” she began, but he had already come forward. His long fingers encircled her wrist, the thumb of his other hand passing gently near the dark purple mark.
“You bruise easily,” he murmured, his dark head bent over her arm.
Daisy’s heart dispensed a series of hard thumps before settling into a fast rhythm. He smelled like the outdoors—sun, water, grassy-sweet. And deeper in the fragrance lingered the tantalizing incense of warm, sweaty male. She fought the instinct to move into his arms, against his body…to pull his hand to her breast. The mute craving shocked her.
Glancing up at his downturned face, Daisy found his blue eyes staring right into hers. “I…” Nervously she pulled away from him. “What are we to do?”
“About the goose?” His broad shoulders hitched in a shrug. “We could wring his neck and take him home for dinner.”
The suggestion caused Daisy and the Greylag to stare at him in shared outrage.
“That was a very poor joke, Mr. Swift.”
“I wasn’t joking.”
Daisy placed herself squarely between Swift and the goose. “I will deal with the situation on my own. You may leave now.”
“I wouldn’t advise making a pet of him. You’ll eventually find him on your plate if you stay at StonyCrossPark long enough.”
“I don’t care if it makes me a hypocrite,” she said. “I would rather not eat a goose I’m acquainted with.”
Though Swift did not crack a smile, Daisy sensed he was amused by her remark.
“Philosophical questions aside,” he said, “there’s the practical matter of how you intend to free his leg. You’ll get beaten black and blue for your pains.”
“If you would hold him still, I could reach for the spoon and—”
“Not,” Swift said firmly, “for all the tea in China.”
“That expression has never made sense to me,” she told him. “In terms of total world production, India grows far more tea than China.”
Swift’s lips twitched as he considered the point. “Since China is the leading international producer of hemp,” he said, “I suppose one could say ‘Not for all the hemp in China’…but it doesn’t have the same ring. However you care to phrase it, I’m not going to help the goose.” He bent to pick up his creel.
“Please,” Daisy said.
Swift gave her a long-suffering look.
“Please,” she repeated.
No gentleman could refuse a lady who had used the word twice.
Muttering something indecipherable beneath his breath, Swift set the creel back down.
A self-satisfied smile curved Daisy’s lips. “Thank you.”
Her smile faded, however, when he warned, “You’ll owe me for this.”
“Naturally,” Daisy replied. “I would never expect you to do something for nothing.”
“And when I call in the favor, you’re not even going to think of refusing, no matter what it is.”
“Within reason. I’m not going to agree to marry you just because you rescued a poor trapped goose.”
“Believe me,” Swift said darkly, “marriage won’t be any part of it.” He began to remove his coat, having difficulty stripping the damp olive-colored tweed from his broad shoulders.
“Wh-what are you doing?” Daisy’s eyes widened.
His mouth held an exasperated slant. “I’m not going to let that blasted bird ruin my coat.”
“There’s no need to make a fuss over getting a few feathers on your coat.”
“It’s not feathers I’m worried about,” he said curtly.
“Oh.” Daisy fought to hold back a sudden smile.
She watched him take off his coat and his vest. His creased white shirt adhered to his broad chest, becoming wetter and almost transparent as it stuck to the muscle-banded surface of his abdomen and disappeared beneath the sodden band of his trousers. A pair of white braces stretched over his shoulders and crossed the powerful surface of his back. He laid his discarded garments carefully over his creel to keep them from becoming muddy. A breeze played with the clipped layers of his hair, briefly lifting a lock on his forehead.
The strangeness of the situation…the baleful goose, Matthew Swift waterlogged and dressed in his shirtsleeves…caused an irrepressible giggle to rise to Daisy’s lips. Hastily she clapped her hand over her mouth, but it came out anyway.