Scandal in Spring
Page 3
Now even Westcliff was beginning to look interested. “It is someone with whom I am acquainted?”
“You will be soon,” Daisy said. “Father sent for him. He’ll be arriving at the Hampshire estate next week for the stag-and-hind hunt.”
Westcliff riffled through his memory for the names Thomas Bowman had asked him to include on the guest list for the spring hunt. “The American?” he asked. “Mr. Swift?”
“Yes.”
Lillian stared at Daisy blankly. Then she turned her face into Westcliff’s shoulder with a squeaky gasp. At first Daisy feared she might be crying, but it quickly became apparent that Lillian was giggling helplessly. “No…not really…how absurd…you could never…”
“You wouldn’t find it so amusing if you were supposed to marry him,” Daisy said with a scowl.
Westcliff glanced from one sister to the other. “What is wrong with Mr. Swift? From what your father has indicated he seems a respectable enough fellow.”
“Everything is wrong with him,” Lillian said, giving a last snort of laughter.
“But your father esteems him,” Westcliff said.
“Oh,” Lillian scoffed, “Father’s vanity is flattered by the way Mr. Swift strives to emulate him and hangs onto his every word.”
The earl considered her words while he spooned up more lemon ice and pressed it to Lillian’s lips. She made a sound of pleasure as the frosty liquid trickled down her throat.
“Is your father incorrect in his claim that Mr. Swift is intelligent?” Westcliff asked Daisy.
“He is intelligent,” she admitted. “But one can’t have a conversation with him—he asks thousands of questions, and he absorbs everything one says but gives nothing back.”
“Perhaps Swift is shy,” Westcliff said.
Now Daisy couldn’t help laughing. “I assure you, my lord, Mr. Swift is not shy. He’s—” She paused, finding it difficult to put her thoughts into words.
Matthew Swift’s bred-in-the-bone coldness was accompanied by an insufferable air of superiority. One could never tell him anything—he knew it all. Since Daisy had grown up in a family populated with uncompromising natures, she’d had little use for yet one more rigid and argumentative person in her life.
In her opinion it didn’t speak well for Swift that he blended in so well with the Bowmans.
Perhaps Swift would have been more tolerable had there been anything charming or attractive about him. But he had been blessed with no softening grace of character or form. No sense of humor, no visible displays of kindness. He was awkwardly formed to boot: tall and disproportionate, and so wiry that his arms and legs seemed to have all the substance of stringbeans. She remembered the way his coat had seemed to hang from his wide shoulders as there was nothing inside it.
“Rather than list all the things I don’t like about him,” Daisy said finally, “it’s far easier to say there is no reason why I should like him.”
“He’s not even attractive,” Lillian added. “He’s a bag of bones.” She patted Westcliff’s muscular chest in silent praise of his powerful physique.
Westcliff looked amused. “Does Swift possess any redeeming feature?”
Both sisters considered the question. “He has nice teeth,” Daisy finally said grudgingly.
“How would you know?” Lillian asked. “He never smiles!”
“Your assessment of him is severe,” Westcliff remarked. “But Mr. Swift may have changed since you last saw him.”
“Not so much that I would ever consent to marry him,” Daisy said.
“You won’t have to marry Swift if you don’t wish it,” Lillian said vehemently, stirring in her husband’s grasp. “Isn’t that right, Westcliff?”
“Yes, love,” he murmured, smoothing her hair back from her face.
“And you won’t let Father take Daisy away from me,” Lillian insisted.
“Of course not. Something can always be negotiated.”
Lillian subsided against him, having absolute faith in her husband’s abilities. “There,” she mumbled to Daisy. “No need to worry…see? Westcliff has everything…” She paused to yawn widely. “…well in hand…”
Seeing the way her sister’s eyelids drooped, Daisy smiled sympathetically. She met Westcliff’s gaze over Lillian’s head, and motioned that she would leave. He responded with a courteous nod, his attention returning compulsively to Lillian’s drowsy face. And Daisy couldn’t help but wonder if any man would ever stare at her in such a way, as if the weight of her was precious in his arms.
Daisy was certain that Westcliff would try to help her in any way he could, if only for Lillian’s sake. But her faith in the earl’s influence was tempered by the knowledge of her own father’s inflexible will.
Although she would defy him with every means at her disposal, Daisy had a bad feeling the odds were not in her favor.
She paused at the threshold of the room and looked back at the pair on the settee with a troubled frown. Lillian had fallen fast asleep, her head centered heavily on Westcliff’s chest. As the earl met Daisy’s unhappy gaze, one of his brows raised in silent inquiry.
“My father…” Daisy began, then bit her lip. This man was her father’s business partner. It was not appropriate to run to Westcliff with complaints. But the patience in his expression encouraged her to continue. “He called me a parasite,” she said, keeping her voice soft to avoid disturbing Lillian. “He asked me to tell him how the world has benefitted from my existence, or what I had ever done for anyone.”
“You will be soon,” Daisy said. “Father sent for him. He’ll be arriving at the Hampshire estate next week for the stag-and-hind hunt.”
Westcliff riffled through his memory for the names Thomas Bowman had asked him to include on the guest list for the spring hunt. “The American?” he asked. “Mr. Swift?”
“Yes.”
Lillian stared at Daisy blankly. Then she turned her face into Westcliff’s shoulder with a squeaky gasp. At first Daisy feared she might be crying, but it quickly became apparent that Lillian was giggling helplessly. “No…not really…how absurd…you could never…”
“You wouldn’t find it so amusing if you were supposed to marry him,” Daisy said with a scowl.
Westcliff glanced from one sister to the other. “What is wrong with Mr. Swift? From what your father has indicated he seems a respectable enough fellow.”
“Everything is wrong with him,” Lillian said, giving a last snort of laughter.
“But your father esteems him,” Westcliff said.
“Oh,” Lillian scoffed, “Father’s vanity is flattered by the way Mr. Swift strives to emulate him and hangs onto his every word.”
The earl considered her words while he spooned up more lemon ice and pressed it to Lillian’s lips. She made a sound of pleasure as the frosty liquid trickled down her throat.
“Is your father incorrect in his claim that Mr. Swift is intelligent?” Westcliff asked Daisy.
“He is intelligent,” she admitted. “But one can’t have a conversation with him—he asks thousands of questions, and he absorbs everything one says but gives nothing back.”
“Perhaps Swift is shy,” Westcliff said.
Now Daisy couldn’t help laughing. “I assure you, my lord, Mr. Swift is not shy. He’s—” She paused, finding it difficult to put her thoughts into words.
Matthew Swift’s bred-in-the-bone coldness was accompanied by an insufferable air of superiority. One could never tell him anything—he knew it all. Since Daisy had grown up in a family populated with uncompromising natures, she’d had little use for yet one more rigid and argumentative person in her life.
In her opinion it didn’t speak well for Swift that he blended in so well with the Bowmans.
Perhaps Swift would have been more tolerable had there been anything charming or attractive about him. But he had been blessed with no softening grace of character or form. No sense of humor, no visible displays of kindness. He was awkwardly formed to boot: tall and disproportionate, and so wiry that his arms and legs seemed to have all the substance of stringbeans. She remembered the way his coat had seemed to hang from his wide shoulders as there was nothing inside it.
“Rather than list all the things I don’t like about him,” Daisy said finally, “it’s far easier to say there is no reason why I should like him.”
“He’s not even attractive,” Lillian added. “He’s a bag of bones.” She patted Westcliff’s muscular chest in silent praise of his powerful physique.
Westcliff looked amused. “Does Swift possess any redeeming feature?”
Both sisters considered the question. “He has nice teeth,” Daisy finally said grudgingly.
“How would you know?” Lillian asked. “He never smiles!”
“Your assessment of him is severe,” Westcliff remarked. “But Mr. Swift may have changed since you last saw him.”
“Not so much that I would ever consent to marry him,” Daisy said.
“You won’t have to marry Swift if you don’t wish it,” Lillian said vehemently, stirring in her husband’s grasp. “Isn’t that right, Westcliff?”
“Yes, love,” he murmured, smoothing her hair back from her face.
“And you won’t let Father take Daisy away from me,” Lillian insisted.
“Of course not. Something can always be negotiated.”
Lillian subsided against him, having absolute faith in her husband’s abilities. “There,” she mumbled to Daisy. “No need to worry…see? Westcliff has everything…” She paused to yawn widely. “…well in hand…”
Seeing the way her sister’s eyelids drooped, Daisy smiled sympathetically. She met Westcliff’s gaze over Lillian’s head, and motioned that she would leave. He responded with a courteous nod, his attention returning compulsively to Lillian’s drowsy face. And Daisy couldn’t help but wonder if any man would ever stare at her in such a way, as if the weight of her was precious in his arms.
Daisy was certain that Westcliff would try to help her in any way he could, if only for Lillian’s sake. But her faith in the earl’s influence was tempered by the knowledge of her own father’s inflexible will.
Although she would defy him with every means at her disposal, Daisy had a bad feeling the odds were not in her favor.
She paused at the threshold of the room and looked back at the pair on the settee with a troubled frown. Lillian had fallen fast asleep, her head centered heavily on Westcliff’s chest. As the earl met Daisy’s unhappy gaze, one of his brows raised in silent inquiry.
“My father…” Daisy began, then bit her lip. This man was her father’s business partner. It was not appropriate to run to Westcliff with complaints. But the patience in his expression encouraged her to continue. “He called me a parasite,” she said, keeping her voice soft to avoid disturbing Lillian. “He asked me to tell him how the world has benefitted from my existence, or what I had ever done for anyone.”
