Daisy wasn’t certain why the notion that Matthew Swift could be in love with her should set her entire world upside-down. But it did.
“If he is,” she asked Evie unsteadily, “then why is he so determined to pawn me off on Lord Llandrindon? It would be so easy for him to fall in with my father’s plans. And he would be richly rewarded. If on top of that he actually cares for me in the bargain, what could be holding him back?”
“Maybe he wants to find out if you love him in return?”
“No, Mr. Swift’s mind doesn’t work that way, any more than my father’s does. They’re men of business. Predators. If Mr. Swift wanted me, he wouldn’t stop to ask for my permission any more than a lion would stop and politely ask an antelope if he would mind being eaten for lunch.”
“I think the two of you should have a forthright conversation,” Evie declared.
“Oh, Mr. Swift would only evade and prevaricate, exactly as he has done so far. Unless…”
“Unless?”
“…I could find some way to make him let his guard down. And force him to be honest about whether he feels anything for me or not.”
“How will you do that?”
“I don’t know. Hang it, Evie, you know a hundred times more about men than I do. You’re married to one. You’re surrounded by them at the club. In your informed opinion, what is the quickest way to drive a man to the limits of his sanity and make him admit something he doesn’t want to?”
Seeming pleased by the image of herself as a worldly woman, Evie contemplated the question. “Make him jealous, I suppose. I’ve seen civilized men fight like dogs in the alley behind the club over the f-favors of a particular lady.”
“Hmm. I wonder if Mr. Swift could be provoked to jealousy.”
“I should think so,” Evie said. “He’s a man, after all.”
In the afternoon Daisy cornered Lord Llandrindon as he went into the library to replace a book on one of the lower gallery shelves.
“Good afternoon, my lord,” Daisy said brightly, pretending not to notice the glaze of apprehension in his eyes. She smothered a grin, thinking that after Matthew Swift’s campaign on her behalf, poor Llandrindon probably felt like a fox run to ground.
Recovering quickly, Llandrindon summoned a pleasant smile. “Good afternoon, Miss Bowman. May I ask after your sister and the baby?”
“Both are quite well, thank you.” Daisy drew closer and inspected the book in his hands. “History Of Military Cartography. Well. That sounds quite, er…intriguing.”
“Oh, it is,” Llandrindon assured her. “And wonderfully instructive. Though I fear something was lost in the translation. One must read it in the original German to appreciate the full significance of the work.”
“Do you ever read novels, my lord?”
He looked sincerely appalled by the question. “Oh, I never read novels. I was taught from childhood that one should only read books that instruct the mind or improve the character.”
Daisy was annoyed by his superior tone. “What a pity,” she said beneath her breath.
“Hmm?”
“That’s pretty,” she amended quickly, pretending to examine the volume’s engraved leather binding. She gave him what she hoped was a poised smile. “Are you an avid reader, my lord?”
“I try never to be avid about anything. ‘Moderation in all things’ is one of my most valued mottoes.”
“I don’t have any mottoes. If I did I would forever be contradicting them.”
Llandrindon chuckled. “Are you admitting to a mercurial nature?”
“I prefer to think of it as being open-minded,” Daisy said. “I can see wisdom in a great variety of beliefs.”
“Ah.”
Daisy could practically read his thoughts, that her so-called openmindedness cast her in a less-than-favorable light. “I should like to hear more of your mottoes, my lord. Perhaps during a stroll through the gardens?”
“I…er…” It was unpardonably bold for a girl to invite a gentleman on a walk instead of the other way around. However, Llandrindon’s gentlemanly nature would not allow him to refuse. “Of course, Miss Bowman. Perhaps tomorrow—”
“Now would be fine,” she said brightly.
“Now,” came his weak reply. “Yes. Lovely.”
Taking his arm before he had a chance to offer it, Daisy tugged him toward the doorway. “Let’s go.”
Having no choice but to allow the militantly cheerful young woman to drag him this way and that, Llandrindon soon found himself proceeding down one of the great stone staircases that led from the back terrace to the grounds below. “My lord,” Daisy said, “I have something to confess. I am hatching a little plot and I was hoping to enlist your help.”
“A little plot,” he repeated skittishly. “My help. Quite. That is, er—”
“It’s harmless, of course,” Daisy continued. “My objective is to encourage a certain gentleman’s attentions, as he seems to be somewhat reticent when it comes to courtship.”
“Reticent?” Llandrindon’s voice was a bare scratch of sound.
Daisy’s estimation of his mental capacity sank several degrees as it became apparent that all he could do was repeat her words in a parrotlike fashion. “Yes, reticent. But I have the impression that underneath the reluctant surface a different feeling may exist.”
Llandrindon, usually so graceful, tripped on an uneven patch of gravel. “What—what gives you that impression, Miss Bowman?”
“It’s just a woman’s intuition.”
“Miss Bowman,” he burst out, “if I have said or done anything to give you the misapprehension that I…that I…”
“I’m not talking about you,” Daisy said bluntly.
“You’re not? Then who—”
“I’m referring to Mr. Swift.”
His sudden joy was nearly palpable. “Mr. Swift. Yes. Yes. Miss Bowman, he has sung your praises for endless hours—not that it has been disagreeable to hear about your charms, of course.”
Daisy smiled. “I fear Mr. Swift will continue being reticent until something happens to flush him out like a pheasant from a wheat field. But if you wouldn’t mind giving the impression that you have indeed taken an interest in me—an outing in the carriage, a stroll, a dance or two—it may give him just the impetus he needs to declare himself.”
“It would be my pleasure,” Llandrindon said, apparently finding the role of co-conspirator far more appealing than that of matrimonial target. “I assure you, Miss Bowman, I can give a most convincing appearance of courtship.”
“I want you to delay your trip for a week.”
Matthew, who had been fastening five sheets of paper together with a straight pin, accidently shoved the point of one into his finger. Withdrawing the pin, he ignored the tiny dot of blood on his skin and stared at Westcliff without comprehension. The man had been closeted away with his wife and newborn daughter for at least thirty-six hours, and all of a sudden he had decided to appear the night before Matthew was to leave for Bristol and issue a command that made no sense at all.
Matthew kept his voice under tight control. “May I ask why, my lord?”
“Because I have decided to accompany you. And my schedule will not accommodate a departure on the morrow.”
As far as Matthew knew, the earl’s current schedule revolved solely around Lillian and the baby. “There is no need for you to go,” he said, offended by the implication that he couldn’t manage things on his own. “I know more than anyone about the various aspects of this business, and what it will require—”
“You are a foreigner, nonetheless,” Westcliff said, his face inscrutable. “And the mention of my name will open doors you won’t otherwise have access to.”
“If you doubt my negotiating skills—”
“Those aren’t at issue. I have complete faith in your skills, which in America would be more than sufficient. But here, in an undertaking of this magnitude, you will need the patronage of someone highly placed in society. Someone like me.”
“This isn’t the medieval era, my lord. I’ll be damned if I need to put on a dog-and-pony show with a peer as part of a business deal.”
“Speaking as the other half of the dog-and-pony show,” Westcliff said sardonically, “I’m not fond of the idea either. Especially when I have a newborn infant and a wife who hasn’t yet recovered from labor.”
“I can’t wait a week,” Matthew exploded. “I’ve already made appointments. I’ve arranged to meet with everyone from the dockmaster to the owners of the local waterworks company—”
“Those meetings will be rescheduled, then.”
“If you think there won’t be complaints—”
“The news that I will be accompanying you next week will be enough to quell most complaints.”
From any other man such a pronouncement would have been arrogance. From Westcliff it was a simple statement of fact.
“Does Mr. Bowman know about this?” Matthew demanded.
“Yes. And after hearing my opinion on the matter, he has agreed.”
“What am I supposed to do here for a week?”
The earl arched a dark brow in the manner of a man whose hospitality had never been questioned. People of all ages, nationalities and social classes begged for invitations to Stony Cross Park. Matthew was probably the only man in England who didn’t want to be there.
He didn’t care. He had gone too long without any real work—he was tired of idle amusements, tired of small talk, tired of beautiful scenery and fresh country air and peace and quiet. He wanted some activity, damn it all. Not to mention some coal-scented city air and the clamor of traffic-filled streets.
Most of all he wanted to be away from Daisy Bowman. It was constant torture to have her so near and yet never be able to touch her. It was impossible to treat her with calm courtesy when his head was filled with lurid images of holding her, seducing her, his mouth finding the sweetest, most vulnerable places of her body. And that was only the beginning. Matthew wanted hours, days, weeks alone with her…he wanted all her thoughts and smiles and secrets. The freedom to lay his soul bare before her.
Things he could never have.
“There are many entertainments available at the estate and its environs,” Westcliff said in answer to his question. “If you desire a particular kind of female companionship, I suggest you go to the village tavern.”
Matthew had already heard some of the male guests at the estate boasting of a spring evening’s revelry with a pair of buxom tavern maids. If only he could be satisfied with something that simple. A solid village wench, instead of a tantalizing will-o’-the-wisp who had wrought some kind of spell over his mind and heart.
Love was supposed to be a happy, giddy emotion. Like the silly verses written on Valentine cards and decorated with feathers and paint and lace. This wasn’t at all like that. This was a gnawing, feverish, bleak feeling…an addiction that could not be quenched.
This was pure reckless need. And he was not a reckless man.
But Matthew knew if he stayed at Stony Cross much longer, he was going to do something disastrous.
“I’m going to Bristol,” Matthew said desperately. “I’ll reschedule the meetings. I won’t do anything without your leave. But at least I can gather information—interview the local transport firm, have a look at their horses—”
“Swift,” the earl interrupted. Something in his quiet tone, a note of…kindness?…sympathy?…caused Matthew to stiffen defensively. “I understand the reason for your urgency—”
“No, you don’t.”
“I understand more than you might think. And in my experience, these problems can’t be solved by avoidance. You can never run far or fast enough.”
Matthew froze, staring at Westcliff. The earl could have been referring either to Daisy, or to Matthew’s tarnished past. In either case he was probably right.
Not that it changed anything.
“Sometimes running is the only choice,” Matthew replied gruffly, and left the room without looking back.
As it turned out, Matthew did not go to Bristol. He knew he would regret his decision…but he had no idea how much.
The days that followed were what Matthew would remember for the rest of his life as a week of unholy torture.
He had been to hell and back at a much earlier time in his life, having known physical pain, deprivation, near-starvation, and bone-chilling fear. But none of those discomforts came close to the agony of standing by and watching Daisy Bowman being courted by Lord Llandrindon.
It seemed the seeds he had sown in Llandrindon’s mind about Daisy’s charms had successfully taken root. Llandrindon was at Daisy’s side constantly, chatting, flirting, letting his gaze travel over her with offensive familiarity. And Daisy was similarly absorbed, hanging on his every word, dropping whatever she happened to be doing as soon as Llandrindon appeared.
On Monday they went out for a private picnic.
On Tuesday they went for a carriage drive.
On Wednesday they went to pick bluebells.
On Thursday they fished at the lake, returning with damp clothes and sun-glazed complexions, laughing together at a joke they didn’t share with anyone else.
On Friday they danced together at an impromptu musical evening, looking so well matched that one of the guests remarked it was a pleasure to watch them.
On Saturday Matthew woke up wanting to murder someone.
His mood was not improved by Thomas Bowman’s dyspeptic pronouncement after breakfast.
“He’s winning,” Bowman grumbled, pulling Matthew into the study for a private conversation. “That Scottish bastard Llandrindon has spent hours on end with Daisy, oozing charm and spouting all the nonsense women like to hear. If you had any intention of marrying my daughter, the opportunity has dwindled to almost nothing. You’ve gone out of your way to avoid her, you’ve been taciturn and distant, and all week you’ve worn an expression that would frighten small children and animals. Your notion of wooing a woman confirms everything I’ve ever heard about Bostonians.”
“Perhaps Llandrindon is the best match for her,” Matthew said woodenly. “They seem to be developing a mutual affection.”
“This isn’t about affection, it’s about marriage!” The top of Bowman’s head began to turn red. “Do you understand the stakes involved?”
“Other than the financial ones?”
“What other kind of stakes could there be?”
Matthew sent him a sardonic glance. “Your daughter’s heart. Her future happiness. Her—”
“Bah! People don’t marry to be happy. Or if they do, they soon discover it’s hog-swill.”
Despite his black mood, Matthew smiled slightly. “If you’re hoping to inspire me in the direction of wedlock,” he said, “it’s not working.”
“Is this inspiration enough?” Reaching into the pocket of his waistcoat, Bowman extracted a gleaming silver dollar and flipped it upward with his thumb. The coin spun toward Matthew in a bright silver arc. He caught it reflexively, closing it in his palm. “Marry Daisy,” Bowman said, “and you’ll get more of that. More than one man could spend in a lifetime.”
A new voice came from the doorway, and they both glanced toward the speaker.
“Lovely.”
It was Lillian, dressed in a pink day-gown and a shawl. She stared at her father with something approaching hatred, her eyes as dark as volcanic glass. “Is anyone in your life more than a mere pawn to you, Father?” she asked acidly.
“This is a discussion between men,” Bowman retorted, flushing from guilt, anger, or some combination of the two. “It’s none of your concern.”
“Daisy is my concern,” Lillian said, her voice soft but chilling. “And I’d kill you both before letting you make her unhappy.” Before her father could reply, she turned and proceeded down the hall.
Swearing, Bowman left the room and headed in the opposite direction.
Left alone in the study, Matthew slammed the coin onto the desk.
“All this effort for a man who doesn’t even care,” Daisy muttered to herself, thinking dire thoughts about Matthew Swift.
Llandrindon sat a few yards away on the rim of a garden fountain, obediently holding still as she sketched his portrait. She had never been particularly talented at sketching, but she was running out of things to do with him.
“What was that?” the Scottish lord called out.
“I said you have a fine head of hair!”
Llandrindon was a perfectly nice fellow, pleasant and unexceptional and utterly conventional. Glumly Daisy admitted to herself that in the effort to drive Matthew Swift half-mad with jealousy, she had succeeded only in driving herself half-mad with boredom.
Daisy paused to raise the back of her hand to her lips, stifling a yawn as she tried to appear as if she were immersed in her sketching.
This had been one of the most miserable weeks of her entire life. Day after day of deadly tedium, pretending to enjoy herself in the company of a man who couldn’t have interested her less. It wasn’t Llandrindon’s fault—he had made every effort to be entertaining—but it was clear to Daisy they had nothing in common and never would.
This didn’t seem to bother Llandrindon nearly as much as it did her. He could talk about practically nothing for hours. He could have filled entire newspapers with society gossip about people Daisy had never met. And he launched on long discourses about things like his search for the perfect color scheme for the hunting room at his Thurso estate, or the detailed course of studies he had followed at school. There never seemed to be a point to any of these stories.
Llandrindon seemed similarly disinterested in what Daisy had to say. He didn’t laugh at the tales of her childhood pranks with Lillian, and if she said something like “Look at that cloud—it’s shaped just like a rooster,” he stared at her as if she were mad.
He also hadn’t liked it when they discussed the poor laws and Daisy questioned his distinctions between the “deserving poor” and the “unworthy poor.” “It seems, my lord,” she had said, “that the law is designed to punish the people who need help the most.”
“Some people are poor because of choices they make through their own moral weaknesses, and therefore one can’t help them.”
“Such as fallen women, you mean? But what if these women had no other—”
“We will not discuss fallen women,” he had said, looking horrified.
Conversation with him was limited at best. Especially as Llandrindon found it difficult to follow Daisy’s quicksilver transitions between subjects. Long after she had finished talking about one thing, he would keep asking about it. “I thought we were still on the subject of your aunt’s poodle?” he had asked in confusion that very morning, and Daisy had replied impatiently, “No, I finished with that five minutes ago—just now I was telling you about the opera visit.”
“But how did we go from the poodle to the opera?”
Daisy was sorry that she had enlisted Llandrindon in her scheme, especially as it had proven so ineffective. Matthew Swift had not displayed one second’s worth of jealousy—he had been his usual granite-faced self, barely sparing a glance in her direction for days.
“Why are you frowning, sweeting?” Llandrindon asked, watching her face.
Sweeting? He had never used an endearment with her before. Daisy glanced at him over the edge of the sketchbook. He was staring at her in a way that made her uneasy. “Be quiet, please,” she said primly. “I’m sketching your chin.”
Concentrating on her drawing, Daisy thought it was not half-bad, but…was his head really that egg-shaped? Were his eyes that close-set? How strange that a person could be quite attractive, but when one examined them feature by feature, much of their charm faded. She decided sketching people was not her forte. From now on she would stick to plants and fruit.
“This week has had a strange effect on me,” Llandrindon ruminated aloud. “I feel…different.”
“Are you ill?” Daisy asked in concern, closing the sketchbook. “I’m sorry, I’ve made you sit out in the sun too long.”
“No, not that kind of different. What I meant to say is that I feel…wonderful.” Llandrindon was staring at her in that odd way again. “Better than I ever have before.”
“It’s the country air, I expect.” Daisy stood and brushed her skirts off, and went to him. “It’s quite invigorating.”
“It’s not the country air I find invigorating,” Llandrindon said in a low voice. “It’s you, Miss Bowman.”
Daisy’s mouth fell open. “Me?”
“You.” He stood and took her shoulders in his hands.
Daisy could only stutter in surprise. “I—I—my lord—”
“These past few days in your company have given me cause for deep reflection.”
Daisy twisted to glance at their surroundings, taking in the neatly trimmed hedges covered with bursts of pink climbing roses. “Is Mr. Swift nearby?” she whispered. “Is that why you’re talking this way?”
“No, I’m speaking for myself.” Ardently Llandrindon pulled her closer, until the sketchbook was nearly crushed between them. “You’ve opened my eyes, Miss Bowman. You’ve made me see everything a different way. I want to find shapes in clouds, and do something worth writing a poem about. I want to read novels. I want to make life an adventure—”
“How nice,” Daisy said, wriggling in his tightening grasp.
“—with you.”
Oh no.
“You’re joking,” she said weakly.
“I’m besotted,” he declared.
“I’m unavailable.”
“I’m determined.”
“I’m…surprised.”
“You dear little thing,” he exclaimed. “You’re everything he said you were. Magic. Thunderstorms wrapped up with rainbows. Clever and lovely and desirable—”
“Wait.” Daisy stared at him in astonishment. “Matth—that is, Mr. Swift said that?”
“Yes, yes, yes…” And before she could move, speak or breathe, Llandrindon lowered his head and kissed her.
The sketchbook dropped from Daisy’s hands. She remained passive in his embrace, wondering if she was going to feel something.
Objectively speaking, there was nothing wrong with his kiss. It wasn’t too dry or slobbery, not too hard or soft. It was…
Boring.
Drat. Daisy pulled back with a frown. She felt guilty that she had enjoyed the kiss so little. And it made her feel even worse when it appeared Llandrindon had enjoyed it quite a lot.
“My dear Miss Bowman,” Llandrindon murmured flirtatiously. “You didn’t tell me you tasted so sweet.”
He reached for her again, and Daisy danced backward with a little yelp. “My lord, control yourself!”
“I cannot.” He pursued her slowly around the fountain until they resembled a pair of circling cats. Suddenly he made a dash for her, catching at the sleeve of her gown. Daisy pushed hard at him and twisted away, feeling the soft white muslin rip an inch or two at the shoulder seam.
There was a loud splash and a splatter of water drops.
Daisy stood blinking at the empty spot where Llandrindon had been, and then covered her eyes with her hands as if that would somehow make the entire situation go away.
“My lord?” she asked gingerly. “Did you…did you just fall into the fountain?”
“No,” came his sour reply. “You pushed me into the fountain.”
“It was entirely unintentional, I assure you.” Daisy forced herself to look at him.
Llandrindon rose to his feet, water streaming from his hair and clothes, his coat pockets filled to the brim. It appeared the dip in the fountain had cooled his passions considerably.
He glowered at her in affronted silence. Suddenly his eyes widened, and he reached into one of his water-laden coat pockets. A tiny frog leaped from the pocket and returned to the fountain with a quiet plunk.
Daisy tried to choke back her amusement, but the harder she tried the worse it became, until she finally burst out laughing. “I’m sorry,” she gasped, clapping her hands over her mouth, while irrepressible giggles slipped out. “I’m so—oh dear—” And she bent over laughing until tears came to her eyes.
The tension between them disappeared as Llandrin don began to smile reluctantly. He stepped from the fountain, dripping from every surface. “I believe when you kiss the toad,” he said dryly, “he is supposed to turn into a prince. Unfortunately in my case it doesn’t seem to have worked.”
Daisy felt a rush of sympathy and kindness, even as she snorted with a few last giggles. Approaching him carefully, she placed her small hands on either side of his wet face and pressed a friendly, fleeting kiss on his lips.
His eyes widened at the gesture.
“You are someone’s handsome prince,” Daisy said, smiling at him apologetically. “Just not mine. But when the right woman finds you…how lucky she’ll be.”
And she bent to pick up her sketchbook and went back to the manor.
It was a small and peculiar twist of fate that the path Daisy chose should take her beside the bachelor’s house. The small residence was set apart from the main house, close enough to the riverside bluff that it provided magnificent views of the water. A few of the male guests had elected to take advantage of the privacy of the bachelor’s house. Now it was empty since the hunting party had ended yesterday and most of the guests had taken their leave.
Except for Matthew Swift, of course.
Preoccupied with her thoughts, Daisy trudged along the path beside an ironstone wall that edged the bluff. Her amusement melted into moroseness as she thought of her father, who was determined to marry her to Matthew Swift…and Lillian, who wanted her to marry anyone but Swift…and her mother, who would be satisfied with nothing less than a peer. Mercedes was not going to be happy once she learned that Daisy had rebuffed Llandrindon.
Thinking over the past week, Daisy realized that her attempt to capture Matthew’s attention had not been a game to her. It mattered desperately. She had never wanted anything in her life as much as the chance to speak to him sincerely, honestly, holding nothing back. But instead of forcing his feelings to the surface, she had only managed to uncover her own.
When she was with him, she felt the promise of something more wonderful, more exciting than anything she had read or dreamed about.
Something real.
It was incredible that a man she had always thought of as cold and passionless had turned out to be someone with so much gentleness and sensuality and tenderness. Someone who had secretly carried a lock of her hair in his pocket.
Becoming aware of someone’s approach, Daisy glanced upward and felt her entire body quake.
Matthew was coming from the manor, looking dark and surly as he walked in ground-eating strides.
A man in a hurry with no place to go.
His momentum stopped abruptly as he saw her, his face turning blank.
They stared at each other in the charged silence.
Daisy’s brows rushed downward in a scowl. It was either that or fling herself at him and start weeping. The depth of her yearning shocked her.
“Mr. Swift,” she said unsteadily.
“Miss Bowman.” He looked as though he would rather be anywhere but there with her.
Her nerves crackled with expectant heat as he reached for the sketchbook in her hand.
Without thinking, she let him take it.
His eyes narrowed as he looked down at the book, which was open to her sketch of Llandrindon. “Why did you draw him with a beard?” he asked.
“That’s not a beard,” Daisy said shortly. “It’s shadowing.”
“It looks as if he hasn’t shaved in three months.”
“I didn’t ask for your opinion on my artwork,” she snapped. She grabbed the sketchbook, but he refused to release it. “Let go,” she demanded, tugging with all her might, “or I’ll…”
“You’ll what? Draw a portrait of me?” He released the book with a suddenness that caused her to stumble back a few steps. He held up his hands defensively. “No. Anything but that.”
Daisy rushed at him and whacked his chest with the book. She hated it that she felt so alive with him. She hated the way her senses drank in his presence like dry earth absorbing rain. She hated his handsome face and virile body, and the mouth that was more tempting than any man’s mouth had a right to be.
Matthew’s smile vanished as his gaze slid over her and lingered on the torn seam at her shoulder. “What happened to your dress?”
“It was nothing. I had a sort of…well, a scuffle, you might call it, with Lord Llandrindon.”
It was the most innocent way Daisy could think of to describe the encounter, which of course had been harmless. She was certain no lurid connotations could be attached to “scuffle.”
However, it appeared that Swift’s definition of the word was far more expansive than hers. Suddenly his expression turned dark and frightening, and his blue eyes blazed.
“I’m going to kill him,” he said in a guttural voice. “He dared to—where is he?”
“No, no,” Daisy said hastily, “you misunderstood—it wasn’t like that—” Dropping the sketchbook, she threw her arms around him, using all her weight to restrain him as he headed toward the garden. She might as well have tried to hold back a charging bull. With the first few steps she was carried bodily with him. “Wait! What gives you the right to do anything where I’m concerned?”
Breathing heavily, Matthew stopped and glared down into her flushed face. “Did he touch you? Did he force you to—”
“You’re nothing but a dog in the manger,” Daisy cried hotly. “You don’t want me—why should you care if someone else does? Leave me alone and go back to your plans for building your big sodding factory and making mountains of money! I hope you become the richest man in the world. I hope you get everything you want, and then someday you’ll look around and wonder why no one loves you and why you’re so unh—”
Her words were crushed into silence as he kissed her, his mouth hard and punishing. A wild thrill shot through her, and she turned her face away with a gasp. “—happy,” she managed to finish, just before he clasped her head in his hands and kissed her again.
This time his mouth was gentler, shifting with sensuous urgency to find the most perfect fit. Daisy’s hammering heart sent a rush of pleasure-heated blood through her dilating veins. She fumbled to grip his muscled wrists, her fingertips pressed against the throb of a pulse that was no less frenzied than her own.
Every time she thought Matthew would end the kiss he searched her more deeply. She responded feverishly, her knees weakening until she feared she might collapse to the ground like a rag doll.
Breaking the contact between their lips, she managed an anguished whisper. “Matthew…take me somewhere.”
“No.”
“Yes. I need…I need to be alone with you.”
Panting raggedly, Matthew folded his arms around her, bringing her against his hard chest. She felt the desperate crush of his lips against her scalp.
“I can’t trust myself that far,” he finally said.
“Just to talk. Please. We can’t stay out in the open like this. And if you leave me now I’ll die.”
Even aroused and in turmoil, Matthew couldn’t prevent a smothered laugh at the dramatic statement. “You won’t die.”
“Just to talk,” Daisy repeated, clinging to him. “I won’t…I won’t tempt you.”
“Sweetheart.” He let out a serrated breath. “You tempt me just by being in the same room with me.”
Her throat turned hot, as if she had just swallowed sunlight. Sensing that any more coaxing would push him in the opposite direction, Daisy stayed silent. She pressed against him, letting the silent communication of their bodies melt his resolve.
With a quiet groan, Matthew took her hand and tugged her toward the bachelor’s house. “God help us both if anyone sees.”
Daisy was tempted to quip that in that case he would be forced to marry her, but she held her tongue and hurried up the steps with him.