Marcus could see the influence of Thomas Bowman in Swift’s tenacity and his willingness to stand by his opinions. But unlike Bowman, Swift had a natural presence and confidence that people intuitively responded to. Swift would do well in Bristol, Marcus thought. It was a good place for an ambitious young man, offering as many, if not more, opportunities than London.
As for how Matthew Swift would suit Daisy…well, that was more ambiguous. Marcus was loath to make judgments in such matters, having learned from experience that he was not infallible. His initial opposition to Annabelle and Simon Hunt’s marriage was a case in point. But a judgment would have to be made. Daisy deserved a husband who would be kind to her.
After a meeting with the railway representatives, Marcus and Swift walked along Corn Street through a covered market filled with fruit and vegetable stalls. Recently the pavement had been raised to protect pedestrians from mud splashes and street refuse. The street was lined with shops featuring goods such as books, toiletries, and glass objects made from local sandstone.
Stopping at a tavern, the two went inside for a simple meal. The tavern was filled with all manner of men from wealthy merchants to common shipyard laborers.
Relaxing in the raucous atmosphere, Marcus lifted a tankard of dark Bristol ale to his lips. It was cold and bitter, sliding down his throat in a pungent rush and leaving a mellow aftertaste.
As Marcus considered various ways to open the subject of Daisy, Swift surprised him with a blunt statement. “My lord, there is something I would like to discuss with you.”
Marcus adopted a pleasantly encouraging expression. “Very well.”
“It turns out that Miss Bowman and I have reached an…understanding. After considering the logical advantages on both sides, I have made a sensible and pragmatic decision that we should—”
“How long have you been in love with her?” Marcus interrupted, inwardly amused.
Swift let out a tense sigh. “Years,” he admitted. He dragged his hand through his short, thick hair, leaving it in ruffled disarray. “But I didn’t know what it was until recently.”
“Does my sister-in-law reciprocate?”
“I think—” Breaking off, Swift took a deep draw of his ale. He looked young and troubled as he admitted, “I don’t know. I hope in time…oh, hell.”
“In my opinion, it would not be difficult for you to win Daisy’s affections,” Marcus said in a kinder tone than he had planned. “From what I have observed, it is a good match on both sides.”
Swift looked up with a self-derisive smile. “You don’t think she would be better off with a poetry-spouting country gentleman?”
“I think that would be disastrous. Daisy doesn’t need a husband as unworldly as she.” Reaching for the wooden platter of food between them, Marcus cut a portion of pale Wensleydale cheese and sandwiched it between two thick slices of bread. He regarded Swift speculatively, wondering why the young man seemed to take so little pleasure in the situation. Most men displayed considerably more enthusiasm at the prospect of marrying the women they loved.
“Bowman will be pleased,” Marcus remarked, watching closely for Swift’s reaction.
“Pleasing him has never been any part of this. Any implication to the contrary is a serious underestimation of all Miss Bowman has to offer.”
“There’s no need to leap to her defense,” Marcus replied. “Daisy is a charming little scamp, not to mention lovely. Had she a bit more confidence, and far less sensitivity, she would have learned by now to attract the opposite sex with ease. But to her credit, she doesn’t have the temperament to treat love as a game. And few men have the wits to appreciate sincerity in a woman.”
“I do,” Swift said curtly.
“So it would seem.” Marcus felt a stab of sympathy as he considered the younger man’s dilemma. As a sensible man with a laudable aversion to melodrama, it was more than a little embarrassing for Swift to find himself wounded by one of Cupid’s arrows. “Although you haven’t asked for my support of the match,” Marcus continued, “you may rely on it.”
“Even if Lady Westcliff takes exception?”
The mention of Lillian caused a little ache of longing in Marcus’s chest. He missed her even more than he had expected. “Lady Westcliff,” he replied dryly, “will reconcile herself to the fact that every once in a great while something may not happen as she wishes. And if you prove to be a good husband to Daisy over time, my wife will change her opinion. She is a fair-minded woman.”
But Swift still looked troubled. “My lord—” His hand clenched around the handle of his tankard, and he stared at it fixedly.
Seeing the shadow that passed across the young man’s face, Marcus stopped chewing. His instincts told him something was very wrong. Damn it all, he thought, can nothing involving the Bowmans ever be simple?
“What would you say about a man who builds his life on a lie…and yet that life has become more worthwhile than his original one ever could have been?”
Marcus resumed chewing, swallowed hard, and took his time about drinking a large quantity of ale. “But it all hinges upon a falsehood?” he finally asked.
“Yes.”
“Did this man rob someone of his rightful due? Cause physical or emotional harm to someone?”
“No,” Swift said, looking at him directly. “But it did involve some legal trouble.”
That made Marcus feel marginally better. In his experience even the best of men could not avoid occasional legal problems of one kind or another. Perhaps Swift had once been misled into some questionable business deal or indulged in some youthful indiscretions that would prove embarrassing if brought to light all these years later.
Of course, Marcus did not weigh questions of honor lightly, and news of past legal trouble was hardly what one would want to hear from a prospective brother-in-law. On the other hand, Swift appeared to be a man of good bearing and character. And Marcus had found much about him to like.
“I’m afraid I will have to withhold my support of the match,” Marcus said with care, “until I have an understanding of the particulars. Is there anything more you can tell me?”
Swift shook his head. “I’m sorry. God, I wish I could.”
“If I give you my word that I will not betray your confidence?”
“No,” Swift whispered. “Again, I’m sorry.”
Marcus sighed heavily and leaned back in his chair. “Unfortunately I can’t solve or even mitigate a problem when I have no idea what the bloody problem is. On the other hand, I believe people deserve second chances. And I would be willing to judge a man for who he has become instead of what he was. That being said…I will have your word on something.”
Swift looked up, his blue eyes wary. “Yes, my lord?”
“You will tell Daisy everything before you marry her. You will lay out the issues in full, and let her decide whether she wants to proceed. You will not take her as your wife without giving her the complete and unvarnished truth.”
Swift didn’t blink. “You have my word.”
“Good.” Marcus signaled the tavern maid to come to the table.
After this, he needed something much stronger than ale.
Chapter 14
With Westcliff and Matthew Swift away in Bristol, the estate seemed abnormally quiet. To Lillian and Daisy’s relief, Westcliff had arranged for their parents to accompany a neighboring family on a jaunt to Stratford-on-Avon. They would attend a week of banquets, plays, lectures, and musical events, all part of Shakespeare’s two hundred and eightieth birthday festival. Just how Westcliff had managed to prod the Bowmans into going was a mystery to Daisy.
“Mother and Father couldn’t be less interested in the Bard,” Daisy marveled to Lillian, soon after the carriage conveying her parents had departed. “And I can’t believe Father would have opted to go to a festival instead of Bristol.”
“Westcliff had no intention of letting Father go with them,” Lillian said with a rueful grin.
“Why not
? It’s Father’s business, after all.”
“Yes, but when it comes to negotiations, Father is too crass for British tastes—he makes it quite difficult for everyone to come to an agreement. So Westcliff arranged the trip to Stratford with such expediency that Father didn’t have a chance to object. And after Westcliff oh-so-casually informed Mother about all the noble families she would be rubbing elbows with at the festival, Father didn’t have a prayer.”
“I imagine Westcliff and Mr. Swift will do well in Bristol,” Daisy said.
Lillian’s expression immediately became guarded. “No doubt they will.”
Daisy noticed that without their friends as a buffer, she and Lillian had fallen into an excessively careful manner of speaking. She didn’t like it. They had always been so free and open with each other. But suddenly it seemed they were obliged to avoid certain subjects as if they were trying to ignore an elephant in the room. An entire herd of elephants, actually.
Lillian had not asked if Daisy had slept with Matthew. In fact, Lillian seemed disinclined to talk about Matthew at all. Nor did she ask why Daisy’s budding relationship with Lord Llandrindon had evaporated, or why Daisy had no apparent interest in going to London to finish the season.
Daisy had no desire to broach any of these subjects either. Despite Matthew’s reassurances before he had left, she felt uneasy and restless, and the last thing she wanted was to have an argument with her sister.
Instead they focused on Merritt, taking turns holding, dressing, and bathing her as if she were a little doll. Although there were two nursery maids available to care for the infant, Lillian had been reluctant to give her over to them. The simple fact was, she enjoyed being with the infant.
Before Mercedes had left, she had warned that the baby would become too accustomed to being held. “You’ll spoil her,” she had told Lillian, “and then no one will ever be able to put her down.”
Lillian had retorted that there was no shortage of arms at Stony Cross Manor, and Merritt would be held as often as she liked.
“I intend for her childhood to be different from ours,” Lillian told Daisy later, while they pushed the baby in a perambulator through the garden. “The few memories I have of our parents are of watching Mother dress for evenings out or going to Father’s study to confess our latest mischief. And getting punished.”
“Do you remember,” Daisy asked with a smile, “how Mother used to scream when we roller-skated on the pavement and knocked people over?”
Lillian chuckled. “Except when it was the Astors, and then it was all right.”
“Or when the twins planted a little garden and we pulled up all the potatoes before they were ripe?”
“Crabbing and fishing on Long Island…”
“Playing rounders…”
The afternoon of “remember when” filled the sisters with a mutual glow. “Who would have ever thought,” Daisy said with a grin, “that you would end up married to a British peer, and that I would be…” She hesitated. “…a spinster.”
“Don’t be silly,” Lillian said quietly. “It’s obvious you’re not going to be a spinster.”
That was the closest they came to discussing Daisy’s relationship with Matthew Swift. However, in pondering Lillian’s unusual restraint, Daisy realized that her sister wanted to avoid a rift with her. And if that meant having to include Matthew Swift in the family, Lillian would do her best to tolerate him. Knowing how difficult it was for her sister to hold back her opinions, Daisy longed to throw her arms around her. Instead, she moved to take the handles of the perambulator.
“My turn to push,” Daisy said.
They continued to walk.
Daisy resumed their reminiscing. “Remember overturning the canoe on the pond?”
“With the governess in it,” Lillian added, and they grinned at each other.
The Bowmans were the first to return on Saturday. As one might have expected, the Shakespeare festival had been unmitigated torture for Thomas.
“Where is Swift?” he demanded the minute he entered the manor. “Where is Westcliff? I want a report on the negotiations.”
“They’re not back yet,” Lillian replied, meeting him in the entrance hall. She sent her father a gently caustic glance. “Aren’t you going to ask how I am, Father? Don’t you want to know how the baby is faring?”
“I can see with my own eyes that you’re well enough,” Bowman retorted. “And I assume the baby is well or you would already have informed me otherwise. When are Swift and Westcliff expected to return?”
Lillian rolled her eyes heavenward. “Momentarily.”
But it became apparent the travelers had encountered a delay, probably as a result of the difficulties of going anywhere in spring. The weather was unpredictable, the country roads were often in need of repair, carriages were easily damaged, and horses were subject to injuries such as bog spavins or capped hocks.
As evening approached and there was still no sign of Westcliff and Matthew, Lillian declared they might as well go in to dinner or the cook would be cross.
It was a relatively small affair attended by the Bowmans and two local families, including the vicar and his wife. Midway through the meal, the butler entered the dining hall and murmured something to Lillian. She smiled and turned pink, her eyes brightening with excitement as she informed the table that Westcliff had arrived and would be joining them soon.
Daisy kept a calm expression in place as if it were a mask that had been plastered onto her face. Beneath the surface, however, a riot of expectation pumped through her veins. Realizing her dining utensils trembled visibly in her hands, she put them down and rested her hands in her lap. She listened to the conversation with only half a mind, the other half fixed on the doorway.
When the two men finally appeared in the dining hall after having washed and changed from the journey, Daisy’s heart pounded too fast to allow for a full breath.
Matthew’s glance swept the company at large, and he bowed as Westcliff did. Both of them appeared collected and remarkably fresh. One would think they had been absent for seven minutes instead of seven days.
Before going to his place at the head of the table, Westcliff went to Lillian. Since the earl was never given to public demonstrations, it astonished everyone, including Lillian, when he cupped her face in his hands and kissed her full on the mouth. She flushed and said something about the vicar being there, making Westcliff laugh.
Meanwhile, Matthew took the empty place beside Daisy’s. “Miss Bowman,” he said softly.
Daisy couldn’t manage a word. Her gaze lifted to his smiling eyes, and it seemed that emotions sprang from her in a fountain of warmth. She had to look away from him before she did something foolish. But she remained intensely aware of his body next to hers.
Westcliff and Matthew entertained the group with an account of how their carriage had gotten stuck in mire. Luckily they had been helped by a passing farmer with an ox-drawn wagon, but in the process of freeing the vehicle, all participants had been covered with mud from head to toe. And apparently the episode had left the ox in quite an objectionable temper. By the time the story was finished, everyone at the table was chuckling.
The conversation turned to the subject of the Shakespeare festival, and Thomas Bowman launched into an account of the visit to Stratford-on-Avon. Matthew asked a question or two, seeming fully engaged in the conversation.
Suddenly Daisy was startled to feel his hand slide into her lap beneath the table. His fingers closed over hers in a gentle clasp. And all the while he took part in the conversation, talking and smiling easily. Daisy reached for her wine with her free hand and brought it to her lips. She took one sip, and then another, and nearly choked as Matthew played lightly with her fingers beneath the table. Sensations that had lain quiescent for a week kindled into vibrant life.
Still not looking at her, Matthew gently slid something over her ring finger, past the knuckle, until it fit neatly at the base. Her hand was returned to her lap as
a footman came to replenish the wine in their glasses.
Daisy looked down at her hand, blinking at the sight of the glittering yellow sapphire surrounded by small round diamonds. It looked like a white-petaled flower. Her fingers closed tightly, and she averted her face to hide a betraying flush of pleasure.
“Does it please you?” Matthew whispered.
“Oh, yes.”
That was the extent of their communication at dinner. It was just as well. There was too much to be said, all of it highly private. Daisy steeled herself for the usual long rituals of port and tea after dinner, but she was gratified when it seemed that everyone, even her father, was inclined to retire early. As it appeared the elderly vicar and his wife were ready to return home, the group dispersed without much fanfare.
Walking with Daisy from the dining hall, Matthew murmured, “Will I have to scale the outside wall tonight, or are you going to leave your door unlocked?”
“The door,” Daisy replied succinctly.
“Thank God.”
Approximately an hour later Matthew carefully tried the handle of Daisy’s bedroom door and eased his way in. The small room was lit with the glow of a bedside lamp, its flame dancing in the breeze from the balcony.
Daisy sat in bed reading, her hair plaited in a neat braid that trailed over her shoulder. Dressed in a demure white gown with intricate ruching across the front, she looked so clean and innocent that Matthew felt vaguely guilty coming to her with desire coursing in hot thrills through his body. But as she looked up from her book, her dark eyes lured him irresistibly closer.
She set the book aside, the lamplight slipping over her profile. Her skin looked as cool and perfect as polished ivory. He wanted to warm it with his hands.
The corners of Daisy’s mouth curled upward as if she could read his thoughts. As she turned the covers back, the yellow sapphire glittered on her finger. Matthew was momentarily surprised by his own response to the sight, the flash of primal possessiveness. Slowly he obeyed her gesture to come to the bed.