Daisy was not in love. What she felt was not how her sisters had described love. There was no exhilaration, no intoxication, nor was she excited. All she felt was miserable. But then, she had done something so foolish, something no rational, intelligent woman would ever do. She had become desperately in something—not love, but something—with the wrong man, a man she didn’t love, couldn’t love, and whom she knew didn’t love her.
She’d found herself in a foolish situation, but it was something she had to accept. The question now was, what did she do about it? As she moped around the house, picking up books then putting them down, wandering from room to room, leaving the house then forgetting where she planned to go, she continued to ponder that question. But she could come up with no satisfactory answers.
The most obvious solution to her plight was to get on with her life and just put him and all that had happened between them well and truly behind her. She tried that. She failed at that. Nothing seemed to distract her mind from going over and over what had happened between them. Nothing could drive the memory of him holding her, kissing her, caressing her, from her mind. Nothing could stop her thinking about his captivating face, the way his eyes crinkled at the edges when he smiled, the way he laughed, and most of all the way he had looked at her before he had kissed her.
She was such a fool. While she was pining, he would be off in pursuit of a wife who would give him exactly what he wanted, and would not have given her another thought.
Occasionally, she wondered if she should become the sort of woman he wanted. Perhaps it would be worth it if it meant having him in her life. He wanted heirs. She knew from what she had experienced that making love to Guy, even if it was just for the purpose of producing those heirs, would be heavenly. In exchange for such pleasure, she would give him his freedom and expect nothing more from him. It was tempting, but ultimately it would never be enough. Not for her. She might not love him, but she could never share him with any other woman.
Many women of her class accepted their role as wife and provider of heirs while never expecting fidelity from their husbands. As long as the man was discreet, he could do as he chose. But Daisy could never agree to that. It wasn’t in her nature to be a compliant wife, and even the thought of him with someone else caused every muscle in her body to tense, her stomach to churn and rage to surge up inside her.
Nor could she be his mistress, although that too was sometimes a tempting prospect. Many a night she lay awake thinking about what such a life would be like. He would provide her with a place to live and she would be available to him whenever he wanted her. Those thoughts would send delicious thrills coursing through her body. She would imagine him arriving, her waiting for him, perhaps already in bed, dressed in a manner that would please him. He would join her in the bed and kiss her as he had when they’d been alone on the balcony, caress every inch of her body and introduce her to the act of love-making.
While that was a delicious fantasy, she knew she could not do it. She could never play the role of an available woman. Nor would she agree to be part of such an arrangement, where the convenient wife was left behind in the country while he enjoyed himself in London with his mistress.
What she wanted she could never have. She wanted all of Guy Parnell. She wanted him to commit to her and her alone, and he had already said that was something he would never do. Instead, he wanted it all—a wife and as many mistresses as he chose. She should despise him for that. She tried hard to despise him, and sometimes she succeeded.
Sometimes her anger would consume her. She would rant and rave inside her head, claiming that if she ever saw him again it would be too soon. Then her anger would wear her out, and the thought of never seeing him again would send a great wave of loss and despair crashing over her, leaving her gasping, as if she were drowning.
But whatever she wanted, whatever she felt, it was of no account. He had disappeared. At least, he had disappeared from Daisy’s life, and had returned to his estate.
She had no idea whether he had taken Ruby Lovelace with him, or some other woman, and she told herself she did not wish to know. Nor did she know whether he had made a promise to any of the young ladies he had danced with at the ball.
Fortunately, her mother was busy with the wedding preparations and had all but given up on her deluded attempts to marry her off to Guy. The closest she’d come to referring to it was when she had suggested that Daisy get over her melancholic state by going for a nice bicycle ride in the Kent countryside. Was her mother hoping that she would fall into another ditch, or even suggesting she contrive another accident so she could spend time at the Mandivale estate?
Such a suggestion was shocking enough, but even more shocking was Daisy’s reaction. For a brief moment she had actually thought the idea held some merit, before catching herself, and telling her mother in no uncertain terms that she would be doing no such thing.
But her mother was right about one thing. If she was to get over Guy, she needed to throw herself, not into a ditch, but back into the activities she enjoyed.
The members of the High-Wheeling Ladies’ Cycling Association had welcomed her back with much excitement and many questions about her ankle and her recovery. A few of the young women asked her about Guy Parnell, but she managed to flick off their questions with as much nonchalance as she could muster.
She also threw herself back into attending meetings of the Rational Dress Society and made a point of pushing all her gowns to the back of the wardrobe and returning to wearing her riding bloomers, divided skirts and other practical fashions. If men like Guy Parnell liked their women dressed in frippery, well, so what? She dressed to please herself and certainly did not care what any man thought of her.
As much as she enjoyed spending time with the cycling club, going on excursions, and generally shocking the populace with her outlandish costumes and reckless independence, it was no longer enough. She found it impossible to return to that happy, carefree state in which she had lived before she developed foolish notions about Guy Parnell. Was she going to spend the rest of her life like this? Surely this annoying pall that constantly hung over her would eventually leave.
Her sisters had told her what it was like to have a broken heart, and now she knew exactly what they meant. But she knew it would eventually mend. It had to. It would be ridiculous to carry on feeling like this, especially as she just knew that Guy wouldn’t be the slightest bit sad.
In fact, she doubted he had ever given her a second thought since that kiss. Unlike her, he would be living a life full of pleasure, the life he would continue to live even after he married and became a father. It was so irrational, silly and pointless to waste time even thinking about him, and yet, irrational as it was, thinking about him was all she seemed capable of doing.
Guy was unsure what was wrong with him. He had lost interest in everything, did not want to attend his club, had no desire to visit the theatre, had turned down numerous invitations to parties, and certainly put aside his plans to find the next Duchess. In fact, he was starting to agree with Daisy that searching for a woman prepared to marry for nothing more than a title was morally repugnant.
Instead, he had retreated to his estate and buried himself away in the country, alone with his thoughts. And those thoughts were of one thing and one thing only. Daisy Springfeld.
All day and throughout the night memories of her blue eyes, her smile and lips tormented him. The image of her partially naked in the moonlight never left him. His lips could almost taste hers. He could almost feel the soft skin of her cheeks, her neck, her shoulders and her breasts. It was torture, pure torture.
It should never have happened, but it had, and he should not constantly relive it in every exquisite, unforgivable detail. All he had done was kiss and caress her, for goodness’ sake. How many other women had he kissed, caressed or made love to? He had absolutely no idea. There had been so many, and yet all those women had quickly faded from his memory. As pleasurable as his time with them had been, as much as they’d laughed together and sated each other’s bodies with their love-making, once they’d departed his bed they’d also departed his mind. But not Daisy Springfeld. She was there in his head day and night. He had to free himself of her.
Fleeing to the country so he would not see her again had been the most sensible thing to do. Florence no longer needed his services as a chaperon. As a respectable, engaged young woman, she could spend time in public with Nathaniel without tongues wagging. The Springfelds, as expected, had embraced her into the family, so she was never short of alternative chaperons, and was now spending so much time at their home she was all but living there.
He’d been certain that with time he would drive Daisy out of his mind but, damn it all, if anything he was becoming more obsessed with thoughts of her. Every time he drove past the ditch where she had fallen from her bicycle, he remembered how sweet she’d looked, wearing those funny bloomers that displayed her lovely calves and slim ankles. With dirt on her face, grass in her hair and her clothing dishevelled, she had looked simply delightful.
As he walked round the house and gardens images kept coming back to him of her sitting in her wheelchair, holding court and making her pronouncements on the way the world was—or, rather, on the way she believed the world should be—and making judgements about his and other people’s behaviour. Every time he thought of her little lectures, he couldn’t help but smile with affection and admiration.
Every look on her expressive face was imprinted on his memory—her anger, her disapproval and her stubbornness. But most of all he remembered how she had looked when he had kissed her, how her eyes had shone in the moonlight, how her lips had parted as she’d gasped under his caresses, how she had shuddered when his tongue had brought her to the peak of ecstasy.
That was one memory he suspected he would never be free of.
As the weeks and months passed, it got no better. But it had to, eventually. He just hoped he was no longer mooning over her like a love-sick schoolboy when the family arrived for Florence and Nathaniel’s wedding.
But, as the time approached, he realised that that was wishful thinking. If anything, he was getting worse.
Perhaps he had made a mistake leaving London. Perhaps, in his mind, he had come to idealise Daisy Springfeld. Maybe seeing her again would be the solution. Maybe then he would realise she was just a woman, no different from the many other women who had warmed his bed over the years.
With mixed feelings he realised that when he saw her again on the day of the wedding he would be able to put this theory to the test...and he could only hope he was right.