“I’m glad you find this amusing,” he muttered. “You’re covered with feathers, you know.”
“So are you.” Tiny bits of fluff and spars of gray and white were caught in his shiny brown hair. More laughter escaped her, like bubbles rising to the surface of a pond. She began to pick feathers and down from his hair, the thick locks tickling-soft against her fingers.
Levering himself upward, Swift reached for her hair, which had begun to fall from its pins. His fingers were gentle as he pulled feathers from the glinting black strands.
For a silent minute or two they worked on each other. Daisy was so intent on the task that the impropriety of her position didn’t occur to her at first. For the first time she was close enough to notice the variegated blue of his eyes, ringed with cobalt at the outer edge of the irises. And the texture of his skin, satiny and sun-hued, with the shadow of close-shaven stubble on his jaw.
She realized that Swift was deliberately avoiding her gaze, concentrating on finding every tiny piece of down in her hair. Suddenly she became aware of a simmering communication between their bodies, the solid strength of him beneath her, the incendiary drift of his breath against her cheek. His clothes were damp, the heat of his skin burning through wherever it pressed against hers.
They both went still at the same moment, caught together in a half-embrace while every cell of Daisy’s skin seemed to fill with liquid fire. Fascinated, disoriented, she let herself relax into it, feeling the throb of her pulse in every extremity. There were no more feathers, but Daisy found herself gently lacing her fingers through the dark waves of his hair.
It would be so easy for him to roll her beneath him, his weight pressing her into the damp earth. The hardness of their knees pressed together through layers of fabric, triggering a primitive instinct for her to open to him, to let him move her limbs as he would.
She heard Swift’s breath catch. He clamped his hands around her upper arms and unceremoniously removed her from his lap.
Landing on the grass beside him with a decisive thump, Daisy tried to gather her wits. Silently she found the pen-knife on the ground and handed it back to him.
After slipping the knife back into his pocket, he made a project of brushing feathers and dirt from his calves.
Wondering why he was sitting in such an oddly cramped posture, Daisy struggled to her feet. “Well,” she said uncertainly, “I suppose I’ll have to sneak back into the manor through the servants’ entrance. If Mother sees me, she’ll have conniptions.”
“I’m going back to the river,” Swift said, his voice hoarse. “To find out how Westcliff is faring with the reel. And maybe I’ll fish some more.”
Daisy frowned as she realized he was deliberately avoiding her.
“I should think you’d had enough of standing up to your waist in cold water today,” she said.
“Apparently not,” Swift muttered, keeping his back to her as he reached for his vest and coat.
Chapter 5
Perplexed and annoyed, Daisy strode away from the artificial lake.
She wasn’t going to tell anyone about what had just happened, even though she would have loved to amuse Lillian with the story of the goose encounter. But she did not want to reveal that she had seen a different side of Matthew Swift, and that she had briefly allowed herself to flirt with a dangerous attraction to him. It had meant nothing, really.
Although Daisy was still an innocent, she understood enough of sexual matters to be aware that one’s body could respond to a man without any involvement of the heart. As she had once responded to Cam Rohan. It disconcerted her to realize she was drawn to Matthew Swift in that same way. Such different men, one romantic, one reserved. One a handsome young gypsy who had stirred her imagination with exotic possibilities…one a man of business, hard-eyed and ambitious and pragmatic.
Daisy had seen an endless parade of power-seeking men during the Fifth Avenue years. They wanted perfection, a wife who could be the best hostess and give the best suppers and soirees, and wear the best gowns, and produce the best children who would play quietly upstairs in the nursery while their fathers were negotiating business deals downstairs in the study.
And Matthew Swift, with his enormous drive, the one her father had singled out for his talent and brilliant mind, would be the most exacting husband imaginable. He would want a wife who formed her entire life around his goals, and he would judge her severely when she failed to please him. There could be no future with a man like that.
But there was one thing in Matthew Swift’s favor: He had helped the goose.
By the time Daisy had stolen into the manor, washed and dressed in a fresh day-gown, her friends and sister had gathered in the morning room for tea and toast. They sat at one of the round tables by a window, looking up as Daisy entered the room.
Annabelle held Isabelle against her shoulder, rubbing her tiny back in soothing circles. A few of the other tables were occupied, mostly by women, although there were about a half-dozen men present, including Lord St. Vincent.
“Good morning,” Daisy said brightly, going to her sister. “How was your sleep, dear?”
“Splendid.” Lillian looked lovely, her eyes clear, her black hair pulled back from her face and caught in a pink silk net at the nape of her neck. “I slept with the windows open, and the breeze coming from the lake was so refreshing. Did you go fishing this morning?”
“No.” Daisy tried to sound offhand. “I just walked.”
Evie leaned toward Annabelle to take the baby. “Let me hold her,” she said. The baby was chewing frantically on a small fist and drooling copiously. Taking the restless child, Evie explained to Daisy, “She’s teething, poor thing.”
“She’s been fretful all morning,” Annabelle said. Daisy saw that her luminous blue eyes looked a little tired, the eyes of a young mother. The touch of weariness only enhanced Annabelle’s beauty, softening the goddess-like perfection of her features.
“Isn’t it rather soon for the baby to be teething?” Daisy asked.
“She’s a Hunt,” Annabelle said dryly. “And Hunts are an unusually hardy lot. According to my husband, everyone in his family is practically born with teeth.” She regarded the baby with concern. “I think I should take her from the room.”
A score of disapproving glances were cast in their direction. It was not the done thing for children, especially infants, to be brought into adult company. Unless it was strictly for show, with the child dressed in white ruffles and ribbons and briefly exhibited for general approval, and then carted quickly back up to the nursery.
“Nonsense,” Lillian said at once, not bothering to lower her voice. “Isabelle is hardly screaming or carrying on. She’s just a bit agitated. I think everyone can manage to have a little tolerance.”
“Let’s try the spoon again,” Annabelle murmured, her cultured voice touched with anxiety. She pulled a chilled silver spoon from a little bowl of crushed ice, and told Daisy, “My mother suggested giving her this—she said it always worked with my brother Jeremy.”
Daisy sat beside Evie, watching as the baby bit down on the bowl of the spoon. Isabelle’s round little face was flushed and a few tears had tracked from her eyes. As she whimpered, the tender, inflamed part of her gums was visible, and Daisy winced in sympathy.
“She needs a nap,” Annabelle said. “But she’s in too much pain to sleep.”
“Poor darling.”
As Evie tried to soothe the baby there was a minor stir at the other side of the room. Someone’s entrance had caused a ripple of interest. Turning in her chair, Daisy saw the tall, striking form of Matthew Swift.
So he hadn’t gone back to the river. He must have waited until Daisy had gone sufficiently far ahead, then walked to the manor without having to escort her.
Like her father, Swift found little in her that was worthy of interest. Daisy told herself that she shouldn’t care, but the knowledge stung.
He had changed into a perfectly pressed suit of clothes, dark
gray with a dove-colored vest, his black necktie crisp and conservatively knotted. Although it had become fashionable in Europe for men to grow their side whiskers longer and wear their hair in loose waves, it appeared the style had not yet reached America. Matthew Swift was completely clean-shaven, and his gleaming brown hair had been shaped close to the sides of his head and neck, giving him an appealing touch of boyishness.
Daisy watched covertly as introductions were made. She saw the pleasure on the faces of the older gentlemen as they spoke to him, and the jealousy of the younger gentlemen. And the flirtatious interest of the women.
“Good heavens,” Annabelle murmured, “who is that?”
Lillian replied grumpily. “That is Mr. Swift.”
Both Annabelle’s and Evie’s eyes widened.
“The same Mr. Swift you described as a bag of b-bones?” Evie asked.
“The one you said was about as exciting as a dish of wilted spinach?” Annabelle added.
Lillian’s frown deepened into an outright scowl. Ripping her attention from Swift, she dropped a lump of sugar in her tea. “I suppose he may not be quite as hideous as I described,” she allowed. “But don’t let his appearance deceive you. Once you are acquainted with the inner man, it will change your impression of the outer one.”
“I th-think there are quite a few ladies who would like to become acquainted with any part of him,” Evie observed, causing Annabelle to snicker into her teacup.
Daisy threw a quick glance over her shoulder and saw it was true. Ladies were fluttering, giggling, extending soft white hands to be taken and pressed.
“All this fuss just because he’s American and therefore a novelty,” Lillian muttered. “If any of my brothers were here, those ladies would forget all about Mr. Swift.”
Although Daisy would have liked to agree, she was fairly certain that their brothers would not have the same effect as Mr. Swift. For all that they were heirs to a great fortune, the Bowman brothers did not have Swift’s carefully cultivated social finesse.
“He’s looking over here,” Annabelle reported. Anxiety lent subtle tension to her posture. “He’s frowning, along with everyone else. The baby is making too much of a fuss. I’ll take her outside and—”
“Do not take her anywhere,” Lillian commanded. “This is my home, and you’re my friend, and anyone who doesn’t care for the baby’s noise is welcome to leave at once.”
“He’s coming this way,” Evie whispered. “Hush.”
Daisy stared steadily into her tea, tension coiling in her muscles.
Swift came to the table and bowed politely. “My lady,” he said to Lillian, “what a pleasure it is to see you again. May I offer my renewed congratulations on your marriage to Lord Westcliff, and…” He hesitated, for although Lillian was obviously pregnant, it would be impolite to refer to her condition. “…you are looking quite well,” he finished.
“I’m the size of a barn,” Lillian said flatly, puncturing his attempt at diplomacy.
Swift’s mouth firmed as if he was fighting to suppress a grin. “Not at all,” he said mildly, and glanced at Annabelle and Evie. They all waited for Lillian to make the introductions.
Lillian complied grudgingly. “This is Mr. Swift,” she muttered, waving her hand in his direction. “Mrs. Simon Hunt and Lady St. Vincent.”
Swift bent deftly over Annabelle’s hand. He would have done the same for Evie except she was holding the baby. Isabelle’s grunts and whimpers were escalating and would soon become a full-out wail unless something was done about it.
“That is my daughter Isabelle,” Annabelle said apologetically. “She’s teething.”
That should get rid of him quickly, Daisy thought. Men were terrified of crying babies.
“Ah.” Swift reached into his coat and rummaged through a rattling collection of articles. What on earth did he have in there? She watched as he pulled out his pen-knife, a bit of fishing line and a clean white handkerchief.
“Mr. Swift, what are you doing?” Evie asked with a quizzical smile.
“Improvising something.” He spooned some crushed ice into the center of the handkerchief, gathered the fabric tightly around it, and tied it off with fishing line. After replacing the knife in his pocket, he reached for the baby without one trace of self-consciusness.
Wide-eyed, Evie surrendered the infant. The four women watched in astonishment as Swift took Isabelle against his shoulder with practiced ease. He gave the baby the ice-filled handkerchief, which she proceeded to gnaw madly even as she continued to cry.
Seeming oblivious to the fascinated stares of everyone in the room, Swift wandered to the window and murmured softly to the baby. It appeared he was telling her a story of some kind. After a minute or two the child quieted.
When Swift returned to the table Isabelle was half-drowsing and sighing, her mouth clamped firmly on the makeshift ice pouch.
“Oh, Mr. Swift,” Annabelle said gratefully, taking the baby back in her arms, “how clever of you! Thank you.”
“What were you saying to her?” Lillian demanded.
He glanced at her and replied blandly, “I thought I would distract her long enough for the ice to numb her gums. So I gave her a detailed explanation of the Buttonwood agreement of 1792.”
Daisy spoke to him for the first time. “What was that?”
Swift glanced at her then, his face smooth and polite, and for a second Daisy half-believed that she had dreamed the events of that morning. But her skin and nerves still retained the sensation of him, the hard imprint of his body.
“The Buttonwood agreement led to the formation of the New York Stock and Exchange Board,” Swift said. “I thought I was quite informative, but it seemed Miss Isabelle lost interest when I started on the fee-structuring compromise.”
“I see,” Daisy said. “You bored the poor baby to sleep.”
“You should hear my account of the imbalance of market forces leading to the crash of ’37,” Swift said. “I’ve been told it’s better than laudanum.”
Staring into his glinting blue eyes, Daisy chuckled reluctantly, and he gave her another one of those brief, dazzling smiles. Her face turned unaccountably warm.
Swift’s attention remained on her for a moment too long, as if he were fascinated by something he saw in her eyes. Abruptly he tore his gaze from hers and bowed to the table again. “I will leave your to enjoy your tea. A pleasure, ladies.” Glancing at Annabelle, he added gravely, “You have a lovely daughter, madam. I will overlook her lack of appreciation for my business lecture.”
“That is very kind of you, sir,” Annabelle replied, her eyes dancing.
Swift returned to the other side of the room while the young women all busied themselves, stirring unnecessary spoonfuls of sugar into their tea, smoothing their napkins on their laps.
Evie was the first to speak. “You were right,” she said to Lillian. “He’s absolutely horrid.”
“Yes,” Annabelle agreed emphatically. “When one looks at him, the first words that come to mind are ‘wilted spinach.’”
“Shut up, the both of you,” Lillian said in response to their sarcasm, and sank her teeth into a piece of toast.
Lillian insisted on dragging Daisy out to the east lawn in the afternoon, where most of the young people were playing bowls. Ordinarily Daisy wouldn’t have minded, but she had just reached a riveting part in a new novel about a governess named Honoria who had just encountered a ghost in the attic. “Who are you?” Honoria had quavered, staring at the ghost who looked remarkably like her old love, Lord Clayworth. The ghost had been about to answer when Lillian had decisively torn the book from Daisy’s hands and pulled her from the library.
“Blast,” Daisy complained. “Blast, blast…Lillian, I had just gotten to the best part!”
“As we speak there are at least a half-dozen eligible men who are lawn-bowling outside,” her sister said crisply. “And playing games with them is far more productive than reading by yourself.”
“I
don’t know anything about bowls.”
“Good. Ask them to teach you. If there’s one thing every man loves to do, it’s telling a woman how to do something.”
They approached the bowling lawn, where chairs and tables had been set out for onlookers. A group of players were busy rolling large round wooden balls along the green, laughing as one player’s ball, or bowl, dropped into the narrow ditch dug at the side of the green.
“Hmm,” Lillian said, observing the gathering. “We have competition.” Daisy recognized the three women her sister was referring to: Miss Cassandra Leighton, Lady Miranda Dowden, and Elspeth Higginson. “I would have preferred not to invite any unmarried women to Hampshire,” Lillian said, “but Westcliff said that would be too obvious. Fortunately you’re prettier than all of them. Even if you are short.”
“I’m not short,” Daisy protested.
“Petite, then.”
“I don’t like that word any better. It makes me sound trivial.”
“It’s better than stunted,” Lillian said, “which is the only other word I can come up with to describe your lack of stature.” She grinned at Daisy’s scowl. “Don’t make faces, dear. I’m taking you to a buffet of bachelors and you can pick any—oh, hell.”
“What? What?”
“He’s playing.”
There was no need to ask who he was…the annoyance in Lillian’s voice made his identity perfectly clear.
Surveying the group, Daisy saw Matthew Swift standing at the end of the lane with a few other young men, watching as the distances between the bowls were being measured. Like the others he was dressed in light-colored trousers, a white shirt, and a sleeveless waistcoat. He was lean and fit, his relaxed posture imbued with physical confidence.
His gaze caught everything. He appeared to be taking the game seriously. Matthew Swift was a man who could never do less than his best, even in a casual lawn game.