Scandal in Spring
Page 5
It had also been remarked that Daisy spent far too much time with her books, which was probably true. Had she been allowed, Daisy would have spent most of every day reading and dreaming. Any sensible peer would doubtless conclude that she would not be a useful wife in the matters of household management, including those duties that hinged on close attention to detail. And the peer would be correct in this assumption.
Daisy couldn’t have cared less about the contents of the larder or how much soap to order for laundry day. She was far more interested in novels and poetry and history, all of which inspired long flights of fancy during which she would stare through a window at nothing…while in her imagination she went on exotic adventures, traveled on magic carpets, sailed across foreign oceans, searched for treasure on tropical islands.
And there were thrilling gentlemen in Daisy’s dreams, inspired by tales of dashing heroics and noble pursuits. These imaginary men were so much more exciting and interesting than ordinary ones…they spoke in beautiful prose, they excelled at sword fights and duels, and they forced swoon-inducing kisses on the women they fancied.
Of course Daisy was not so naive as to think that such men really existed, but she had to admit that with all these romantic images in her head, real-life men did seem terribly…well, dull in comparison.
Lifting her face to the mild sunshine that shot in bright filaments through the canopy of trees overhead, Daisy sang a lively folk tune called “Old Maid In The Garret”:
Come rich man, come poor man,Come fool or come witty,Come any man at all!Won’t you marry out of pity?
Soon she reached the object of her mission—a spring-fed well she and the other wallflowers had visited a few times before. A wishing well. According to local tradition, it was inhabited by a spirit who would grant your wish if you threw a pin into it. The only danger was in standing too close, for the well spirit might pull you down with him to live forever as his consort.
On previous occasions Daisy had made wishes on behalf of her friends—and they had always come true. Now she needed some magic for herself.
Setting her bonnet gently on the ground, Daisy approached the sloshing hole and looked into the muddy-looking water. She slipped her hand in the pocket of her walking dress and pulled out a paper rack of pins.
“Well-Spirit,” she said conversationally, “since I’ve had such bad luck in finding the kind of husband I always thought I wanted, I’m leaving it up to you. No requirements, no conditions. What I wish for is…the right man for me. I’m prepared to be open-minded.”
She pulled the pins from the paper in twos and threes, tossing them into the well. The slivers of metal sparkled brilliantly in the air before hitting the agitated surface of the water and sliding beneath its murky surface.
“I would like all of these pins to be credited toward the same wish,” she told the well. She stood for a long moment with her eyes closed, concentrating. The sound of the water was lightly overlaid by the hueet of an olive chiffchaff swooping to catch an insect in midair, and the buzz of a dragonfly.
There was a sudden snap behind her, like the crunch of a foot on a twig.
Turning, Daisy saw the dark form of a man coming toward her. He was only a few yards away. The shock of discovering someone so close when she had thought she was alone caused her heart to lurch in a few uncomfortable extra beats.
He was as tall and brawny as her friend Annabelle’s husband, though he appeared somewhat younger, perhaps not yet thirty. “Forgive me,” he said in a low voice as he saw her expression. “I didn’t mean to frighten you.”
“Oh, you didn’t frighten me,” she lied cheerfully, her pulse still off-kilter. “I was just a bit…surprised.”
He approached her in a relaxed amble, his hands in his pockets. “I arrived at the estate a couple of hours ago,” he said. “They said you were out here walking.”
He seemed rather familiar. He was looking at Daisy as if he expected her to know him. She felt the rush of pained apology that always attended the circumstance of having forgotten someone she had previously met.
“You’re a guest of Lord Westcliff’s?” she asked, trying desperately to place him.
He gave her a curious glance and smiled slightly. “Yes, Miss Bowman.”
He knew her name. Daisy regarded him with increasing confusion. She couldn’t imagine how she could have forgotten a man this attractive. His features were strong and decisively formed, too masculine to be called beautiful, too striking to be ordinary. And his eyes were the rich sky-blue of morning glories, even more intense against the sun-glazed color of his skin. There was something extraordinary about him, a kind of barely leashed vitality that nearly caused her to take a step backward, the force of it was so strong.
As he bent his head to look at her a mahogany glitter slid over the shiny dark brown surface of his hair. The thick locks had been clipped much closer to the shape of his head than Europeans preferred. An American style. Come to think of it, he had spoken in an American accent. And that fresh, clean smell she detected…if she wasn’t mistaken, it was the fragrance of…Bowman’s soap?
Suddenly Daisy realized who he was. Her knees nearly gave way beneath her.
“You,” she whispered, her eyes wide with astonishment as she beheld the face of Matthew Swift.
CHAPTER 2
She must have swayed a little, for he reached out and caught her in a light grasp, his fingers encircling her upper arms.
“Mr. Swift,” she choked out, straining backward in instinctive retreat.
Daisy couldn’t have cared less about the contents of the larder or how much soap to order for laundry day. She was far more interested in novels and poetry and history, all of which inspired long flights of fancy during which she would stare through a window at nothing…while in her imagination she went on exotic adventures, traveled on magic carpets, sailed across foreign oceans, searched for treasure on tropical islands.
And there were thrilling gentlemen in Daisy’s dreams, inspired by tales of dashing heroics and noble pursuits. These imaginary men were so much more exciting and interesting than ordinary ones…they spoke in beautiful prose, they excelled at sword fights and duels, and they forced swoon-inducing kisses on the women they fancied.
Of course Daisy was not so naive as to think that such men really existed, but she had to admit that with all these romantic images in her head, real-life men did seem terribly…well, dull in comparison.
Lifting her face to the mild sunshine that shot in bright filaments through the canopy of trees overhead, Daisy sang a lively folk tune called “Old Maid In The Garret”:
Come rich man, come poor man,Come fool or come witty,Come any man at all!Won’t you marry out of pity?
Soon she reached the object of her mission—a spring-fed well she and the other wallflowers had visited a few times before. A wishing well. According to local tradition, it was inhabited by a spirit who would grant your wish if you threw a pin into it. The only danger was in standing too close, for the well spirit might pull you down with him to live forever as his consort.
On previous occasions Daisy had made wishes on behalf of her friends—and they had always come true. Now she needed some magic for herself.
Setting her bonnet gently on the ground, Daisy approached the sloshing hole and looked into the muddy-looking water. She slipped her hand in the pocket of her walking dress and pulled out a paper rack of pins.
“Well-Spirit,” she said conversationally, “since I’ve had such bad luck in finding the kind of husband I always thought I wanted, I’m leaving it up to you. No requirements, no conditions. What I wish for is…the right man for me. I’m prepared to be open-minded.”
She pulled the pins from the paper in twos and threes, tossing them into the well. The slivers of metal sparkled brilliantly in the air before hitting the agitated surface of the water and sliding beneath its murky surface.
“I would like all of these pins to be credited toward the same wish,” she told the well. She stood for a long moment with her eyes closed, concentrating. The sound of the water was lightly overlaid by the hueet of an olive chiffchaff swooping to catch an insect in midair, and the buzz of a dragonfly.
There was a sudden snap behind her, like the crunch of a foot on a twig.
Turning, Daisy saw the dark form of a man coming toward her. He was only a few yards away. The shock of discovering someone so close when she had thought she was alone caused her heart to lurch in a few uncomfortable extra beats.
He was as tall and brawny as her friend Annabelle’s husband, though he appeared somewhat younger, perhaps not yet thirty. “Forgive me,” he said in a low voice as he saw her expression. “I didn’t mean to frighten you.”
“Oh, you didn’t frighten me,” she lied cheerfully, her pulse still off-kilter. “I was just a bit…surprised.”
He approached her in a relaxed amble, his hands in his pockets. “I arrived at the estate a couple of hours ago,” he said. “They said you were out here walking.”
He seemed rather familiar. He was looking at Daisy as if he expected her to know him. She felt the rush of pained apology that always attended the circumstance of having forgotten someone she had previously met.
“You’re a guest of Lord Westcliff’s?” she asked, trying desperately to place him.
He gave her a curious glance and smiled slightly. “Yes, Miss Bowman.”
He knew her name. Daisy regarded him with increasing confusion. She couldn’t imagine how she could have forgotten a man this attractive. His features were strong and decisively formed, too masculine to be called beautiful, too striking to be ordinary. And his eyes were the rich sky-blue of morning glories, even more intense against the sun-glazed color of his skin. There was something extraordinary about him, a kind of barely leashed vitality that nearly caused her to take a step backward, the force of it was so strong.
As he bent his head to look at her a mahogany glitter slid over the shiny dark brown surface of his hair. The thick locks had been clipped much closer to the shape of his head than Europeans preferred. An American style. Come to think of it, he had spoken in an American accent. And that fresh, clean smell she detected…if she wasn’t mistaken, it was the fragrance of…Bowman’s soap?
Suddenly Daisy realized who he was. Her knees nearly gave way beneath her.
“You,” she whispered, her eyes wide with astonishment as she beheld the face of Matthew Swift.
CHAPTER 2
She must have swayed a little, for he reached out and caught her in a light grasp, his fingers encircling her upper arms.
“Mr. Swift,” she choked out, straining backward in instinctive retreat.
