“What a magnificent job Elias Daring did on these rooms!”
Daisy smiled at Lady Gantry as the woman approached, clutching a glass of champagne in one hand and her full, old-fashioned skirt in the other. “Thank you, my lady.” She bobbed a shallow curtsy. “It was a great deal of work but worth every minute.”
The baroness didn’t mean the compliment to be for her, yet Daisy glanced around the room with pride. The newly built garden room shined in the lamplight, every inch of it freshly bright and decorated with the finest décor—every inch deserving of the appreciative murmurs and compliments of the guests.
Baron and Baroness Hansen had opened their Belmont Square house tonight to all their friends and acquaintances—and seemingly another two hundred or so more people beyond that. All of them were curious to see the new renovations.
Daisy knew they wouldn’t be disappointed.
What they were seeing tonight was simply nothing that had been used in any of those rapidly built, identical boxes comprising the rest of the terraces in London’s West End. Everyone who stepped into this house knew it, too. Their necks craned to take a better look at the fireplace in the drawing room whose mantel of plasterwork grapevines and climbing roses seemed to grow right out of the half-circle end wall. Their mouths fell open when they stepped into the oval-shaped stair hall whose marble and ironwork stairs circled seemingly unsupported toward a stained glass doom above, now lit at night by a blaze of hidden lamps behind it.
But it was the dining room that took everyone’s breath away when they saw its amber window. A design of twining honeysuckle had been cut through the curving overlay that hid the long horizontal window gracing the top of the wall. During the day, warm sunlight filtered through the design and made the flowers come alive with an amber glow, while at night, hidden lamps and mirrors directed the light downward onto the built-in marble topped sideboard. Its single mahogany leg was deeply carved to look like the twisting wooden stems of a honeysuckle vine flowering in the window cover above.
“It is certainly a beautiful house. Doesn’t look like the same home at all.” Lady Gantry’s gaze searched the crowd around them. “And where is Mr. Daring? I wanted to personally congratulate him on his achievement.”
“I’m sorry to say that my father couldn’t be here this evening.” As the guest of honor, his absence was conspicuous, yet he hadn’t been feeling well enough to attend the party with its crush of people and all its heat and noise. So she’d come in his place, only to disappoint the guests when they asked for her father and were directed to her instead. “But if you have any questions, I could answer them for you.”
Lady Gantry patronizingly clucked her tongue. “Oh, but you know nothing about architecture, my dear!”
“Actually, I know a great deal.” But now wasn’t the time nor the place to argue. So she waved a gloved hand at the beautiful new garden room around them and explained instead, “I did all the interior decorations.”
“Ah, yes. Hmm.” She glanced dismissingly around the room and sniffed. “Lovely pillows and upholstery. But what your father’s done here with the walls and stairs—”
Daisy pulled in a deep breath but kept her smile firmly in place as Lady Gantry gushed praise upon her father’s work. On her work, rather. But neither the baroness nor anyone present—including Lord and Lady Hansen—had any idea of the truth.
Elias Daring had had no input at all in this house.
“Congratulations to your father,” another woman cooed when she approached Daisy and unceremoniously nudged Baroness Gantry away. “What beautiful work he’s done!”
Daisy was engulfed by guests as if she were part of a receiving line instead of what she was truly doing—hiding from the crowd in the corner. The compliments came in a well-meaning barrage, with the guests having no idea how much their words grated on her heart.
“Pure genius with the walls and windows!”
Daisy could only smile uncomfortably, assure the guests that she’d pass along their appreciation to her father, and regret that she couldn’t claim the credit herself. The most she could do was let everyone believe that her father had done the structural plans and that she’d done the decorations. He was the walls, she was the wallpaper. Yet every time she tried to focus their attention on the designs—
“What wonderful work Mr. Daring has done with the layout of these rooms!”
Her shoulders sagged. They wanted to see the man whom they believed had ingeniously restructured the public rooms of the piano nobile and magically found space for the addition of the new garden room on the property by painstakingly moving the service yard area into a newly extended basement. They weren’t interested in the woman who’d overseen the crafting of sconces made to look like tulips, who had spent hours designing the fireplace plasterwork and struggling over the unique dining room window.
But Whitby would have been.
Her chest squeezed. She missed him, more than she wanted to admit.
A month had passed since they’d fought. His house was almost finished now, with only a few last touches to complete before he and the boys could move in. But he’d stopped coming to visit at the Daring townhouse, not even to see her father and spend afternoons together as they used to. Not that Daisy would have agreed to see him anyway. She was still too hurt by what he’d done, still too embarrassed to forgive.
He’d violated her trust, and she wanted nothing more to do with him. Yet she couldn’t abandon the house project this far along, not when professionally she needed to see it through. And not when her family still desperately needed the money. Worse, they were indebted to Whitby because he’d paid her brothers’ tuition. It was no longer a simple matter of handing back what was left of the retainer and allowing another architect to finish it.
So she now drove the builders and craftsmen at breakneck speed to have it finished—and Hugh Whitby completely out of her life—as quickly as possible. All information about the house was sent via messenger to the Gatewell School rather than directly to Whitby, and she carefully planned each site visit to make certain she wouldn’t accidentally see him there, although when she’d casually asked after him, her lead builder had told her that Whitby hadn’t been to see the house since their visit.
Her only concession in her resolve to have nothing to do with him again had been a second visit she’d taken to the Gatewell School. She’d gone herself, even knowing full well that she might run into him there, to deliver a special gift. A doll bed she’d had specially made for little Martha—a miniature poster bed with a pink canopy edged in white lace. Daisy had wanted her to know that she hadn’t forgotten about her and what kind of bed she should have in the girls’ house, even if Daisy wouldn’t be the one who built it.
Whitby hadn’t been there.
Perhaps, though, that had been for the best. She had no idea how she’d react when she saw him again, or what she’d say. What he’d done still felt like an act of betrayal.
Baroness Hansen beamed her a bright smile as she weaved her way toward Daisy through the sea of guests, took her arm, and led her away to circle the room. “Congratulations, my dear. Your work is a grand success.”
“Thank you.” Daisy smiled tightly. “I’ll pass along your compliments to my father.”
“No.” She gracefully snatched two flutes of champagne from the tray of a passing footman and handed one to Daisy. “Not your father.” She gently tapped her glass against Daisy’s in an appreciative toast. “You.”
Her heart skipped with a painful jolt as panic shot through her. Did the baroness know that Daisy had been impersonating her father? Had she somehow learned from the contest judges what Daisy had been up to? “I—I don’t know what you mean…”
“Don’t play modest with me.” A knowing sparkle gleamed in the baroness’s eyes. “I know what you’ve done here.”
“Pardon?” she squeaked.
Lady Hansen leaned closer and lowered her voice so she wouldn’t be overheard by the guests lingering nearby. “My husband and I know how ill your father has been lately.”
“I see.” Daisy dropped her gaze to the rug—one she had specially chosen for this new room—and quickly gulped down half her champagne.
“And we know how difficult it must have been for you, not only to care for him and your two brothers but also to convey all the information to him from our townhouse so that he could continue with our renovations from your home.”
So the baroness didn’t know—thank God. Daisy fought not to let out a deep sigh of relief.
So far, she and Papa had managed to escape ruin. If any of the judges had spread word of her name being on the contest entry, she hadn’t heard rumors. None of their former clients had demanded any kind of explanations or assurances that Elias Daring had truly created their house or led their renovations.
No, business was exactly the same as before. Practically nonexistent.
Most likely, the judges had had a good laugh when they saw her name on the entry, then simply tossed it away, not giving her or her plans another thought. But then she’d also acted quickly to put a stop to any trouble before it could start by immediately writing to the committee to tell them that there had been a mistake. A friend with a very bad sense of humor had removed Elias’s name from the entry and put hers on it, thinking he was making a grand lark of it all. She assured them that her father had created the plans and that she had only assisted with the interior details whenever he’d needed a woman’s input. She’d assured them that she was nothing more than a secretary and a convenient female opinion, swallowing her pride to assure them that she would never dare to presume that she could be an architect equal to a man.
It had worked. Last week, she’d received another letter from King George, John Nash, and the committee. This time her entry was a finalist.
The news was bittersweet. She knew she deserved to be a finalist, that her plans deserved a chance to be seen. That the public recognition wasn’t what mattered and that she knew how worthy her talents were.
But lying to herself didn’t ease the pain.
“Please don’t misunderstand me.” Baroness Hansen patted Daisy’s arm as they continued their turn about the room. “While your father’s plans for the structural elements are wonderful, it’s your decorative touches that have transformed our home. The plasterwork, the fabrics, the patterns of flowers and vines—beautiful yet still comfortable and welcoming. And all because of your talents, Miss Daring.”
Daisy blushed at that true compliment. This was the first time all evening that she’d been recognized for her hard work, and she couldn’t have asked for better praise.
“I hear that you’re working on a catalogue for your interior designs and decorations.”
“Yes, my lady. I took some of the ideas from it for your renovations.” With all the work she’d been putting in lately on Whitby’s house, she hadn’t been able to finish the catalogue as she’d hoped. But she would, and soon. After all, if she couldn’t be a true architect, then she’d be the next best thing—London’s most celebrated decorator.
Another lie to herself. She winced and took a sip of champagne.
“Then I’m honored to be able to spread word of your work, although everyone here seems to recognize your talents themselves and will undoubtedly help me in that regard.” She released Daisy’s arm. “Best be prepared, Miss Daring,” she warned as she walked away to rejoin her guests. “I foresee endless project requests in your future!”
Daisy sent up a prayer that the baroness was right.
She swept her gaze around the new garden room. It had been added to the rear of the townhouse to create a comfortable space where Lord Hansen could relax from his duties in Parliament and where Lady Hansen could recuperate from the many hours of charitable work she spent helping the poor. On the ground floor and separate from the more public spaces, this room was purposefully planned by Daisy to be a sanctuary where all tensions and stresses could melt away.
Oh, how Daisy loved this space! She lifted the champagne flute to her lips as she swept her eyes over the room. Overstuffed chairs and deep cushioned settees, a small pianoforte, delicate floral plasterwork perfectly matching the more—
Whitby.
She froze for a beat as her gaze landed on him. Then she tossed back the rest of her champagne with a single, gasping swallow.
He stood on the other side of the room near the open set of French doors that looked out into the new garden, most likely having just arrived and looking for the baroness to give his respects. Daisy couldn’t have missed him, not in that bright cornflower blue kerseymere jacket, apple red waistcoat, and dark blue cravat with its ruby pin that sparkled in the lamplight. Leave it to Whitby to stand out like a beacon among the crowd, tonight even more than usual.
But it was the woman he was with who snagged Daisy’s attention.
She was tall and beautiful with raven black hair, bright eyes, and full red lips that curled into an easy smile. Daisy had never seen her before, but the way she leaned in to speak into Whitby’s ear indicated a deep familiarity between them. So did the way he laughed at whatever she’d said, tossing his head back in that boisterous way he had which always left Daisy grinning. Apparently, he had the same effect on this other woman…whomever she was.
The prickling flash that sliced through Daisy couldn’t have been jealousy. Not at all. Not of the man who’d hurt her so badly. No, it was anger. That was it—anger that he was here on what should have been her night to celebrate the end of the house renovations and receive the baron and baroness’s gratitude. How dare he come here! Had he even been invited? Did he even know Baron and Baroness Hansen?
She groaned. Of course he knew them. He was the son of a baron himself, she kept forgetting. But who the devil was that woman, and why did she think she had the right to place her hand on his arm like that, as if they were bosom friends?
Daisy’s own hand tightened around her champagne flute. All right…perhaps she was just a tiny bit jealous. But blast it, she had a right to be after the way he’d kissed her and caressed her, after the way he’d told her how wonderful and special she was…and that he loved her.
She’d wanted to believe him, so very much! But how could she believe a man she couldn’t trust?
He looked up then and caught her staring. Surprise flashed across his face before he could hide his emotions, and for one painfully long moment, they held each other’s gaze across the room.
Then he turned back toward the beautiful woman at his side and smiled at her. But the woman’s cat-like green gaze landed curiously on Daisy before sliding sideways to Whitby to silently ask why he was staring at Daisy like that.
He leaned down to speak into her ear.
A startled expression gripped the woman’s face, and her gaze darted back to Daisy, then swept over her from head to toe. Her red lips formed a round O of recognition, but not at all the kind of appreciative recognition that the other guests had lavished on Daisy tonight.
No. This woman knew what had happened between them.
Daisy couldn’t bear to know that he’d talked about her, couldn’t tolerate the expression of grief that darkened his face as he continued to stare at her across the room. Or the way her broken heart pounded a painful reminder against her ribs of how he’d broken her trust.
“Excuse me,” she mumbled breathlessly as she fled the room, weaving around the guests as she rushed toward the hall. “Excuse me!”
She pushed her way through the house and hurried upstairs to the retiring room. There, she would be safe. She would have space and quiet to tamp down the fierce headache that throbbed behind her stinging eyes, to catch her breath and calm her heart. To find a place where she could gather her resolve and plaster on a smile to somehow take her through the rest of the evening. And when it was over, when she was safely home in her own room, then she could finally weep.
She paused outside the door and pulled in a deep breath to gain the appearance of calm. Then she put a smile on her face and stepped inside.
The first bedroom on the second floor had been transformed into a retiring room. The bed had been removed, along with the dresser and armoire, and in their places, half a dozen vanity tables with large oval mirrors hugged the side walls. Their tops were cluttered with pots of rouge and powders, puffs, brushes, hair pins…anything a female guest would need to freshen up during the evening, right down to a small sewing kit conveniently placed on a side table for torn hems. For privacy, four screens blocked off the corners and the chamber pots behind, while thickly padded benches filled the center of the room and gave the ladies a comfortable place to rest.
Three young ladies sat there now, lounging casually across the benches and gossiping with delight. They looked up when she entered, blinked at her without recognition, and ignored her to continue their self-titillating conversation.
Daisy slid onto a seat at one of the vanities. Heavens, she was shaking! The pale woman who stared back at her in the mirror was clearly just as miserable. It took her a long moment to recognize that the woman was her.
With resolve to endure the evening, she reached for a small rouge pot, although there wasn’t enough rouge in all of England to bring color back to her cheeks now.
“Can you believe what he’s wearing?” one of the women gushed in a voice meant to be secretive yet was loud enough for Daisy to overhear.
“His tailor must be blind,” piped up another.
The third lady interjected, “What tailor shop? A theatre, more likely.”
“A circus!”
They all laughed and waved their fans rapidly for air, as if that had been the funniest thing they’d heard all night.
Daisy’s eyes slid to the women’s reflection in the lower corner of her mirror as she removed her glove, laid it across the vanity top, and dabbed the color onto her bottom lip with her ring finger. They were exactly like the mean girls she remembered from school who’d teased her for excelling at math and mechanical drawings rather than music and watercolors. She’d never been happier than when she finished school and returned to London, when she began her real education in her father’s studio. Just like any other apprentice, except that she wore skirts.
“And that jacket!”
“That poor sheep was shorn for no good reason if that’s what became of its wool.”
“Who wears something like that—sky blue in the evening?”
Daisy froze, her fingertip resting against her bottom lip. They were talking about Whitby.
“Oh, but that red waistcoat beneath and dark blue cravat! That’s all that anyone can see when they look at him.”
“Because it makes his hair so much more garish—”
“And his face so white—
“He looks like a powdered French courtesan!”
Giggles bubbled out of them as they practically fell backward onto each other from laughter. One of them rudely imitated Whitby’s laugh until she sounded like a braying donkey.
Daisy straightened her back. “I think it’s wonderful for a man to want to brighten up the world instead of leaving it to those boring blacks and dark blues that the rest of the unimaginative dandies wear.” She slid a gaze over their dresses and sniffed disdainfully. “Or those weak pastels favored by misses who are just as bland and colorless as their clothes.”
All three of their mouths fell open, insulted but speechless.
Daisy fought to keep the trembling from her voice, both from anger and the confrontation she was delivering. She pinned their reflections beneath her gaze in the mirror. “You’re laughing at Mr. Hugh Whitby, correct? Baron Whitby’s son?”
The leader snapped her mouth closed and glared back. “That peacock, yes.”
“Hmm.” Now ignoring their reflections, she turned her attention back to coloring her lips. “Well, that peacock is one of the most charitable, kind-hearted, and fun-loving gentlemen I’ve ever had the pleasure to meet.” To make the prick sting more, she added, “Well-respected, from an aristocratic family, and with a new fortune to match—you know, the kind of man unmarried ladies are desperate to throw themselves at.” Her gaze flicked back to them and gave them a look that said she found them lacking. “Simply desperate.”
Two of the women glared at her, while the third was too dense to realize the insult behind Daisy’s words. Yet all three sat up straight, like cats brandishing their tails in readiness for a fight.
“A miss would truly have to be desperate to let herself be pursued by a man like that,” the leader countered, “regardless of who his father is or how much money he has. For goodness’s sake! That laugh alone is embarrassing, so is that toothy grin that stretches across his silly face. I would be utterly mortified to be married to a man like that!”
Another one piped up, “And the way he dresses—”
“Those colors are frightening!” The third woman forced a mocking shudder.
“Those colors brighten the world,” Daisy defended casually, paying them as little attention as possible as she reached for a puff and bowl of loose powder. “I’d rather have for a husband a loving and kind man who wants to spend his days spreading happiness and color than some aristocratic sheep in his boring clothes. I’d rather have for a husband a man who smiles and laughs than some formal, staid one. Even if he smiles a bit too brightly and laughs a bit too loudly, I’d rather spend my days smiling and laughing right along with him than being in a painfully proper but joyless marriage.”
The three women didn’t know what to say to that. Perhaps they were simply shocked that she’d dared to interfere in their little hate session. Or that she’d come to Whitby’s defense.
But of course she did. After all, even now, he would have come to hers.
She fluffed a light dusting of powder to the tip of her nose and continued, “I shudder to think how horrible marriage would be to a man who pretends to take no joy in the world—or worse, who truly doesn’t. After all, if a man can’t openly show his delight for the world around him, how would he ever be able to show his delight in his wife?”
The three were stunned silent for a moment. Then their leader stood and shot an angry glare at her. Daisy could see it from the corner of her eye but didn’t give the woman the satisfaction of looking at her directly. She would dismiss them just as they’d dismissed the goodness in Whitby.
“If I had to suffer that buffoon and all the public humiliation he would bring to my marriage,” the woman declared, “then I’d rather be miserable!”
Daisy’s gaze shot to the woman and pinned her reflection in the mirror. “Don’t worry,” she warned in a low voice. “You will be.”
The young lady froze, then narrowed her eyes and seethed, “How dare you—”
“I agree,” a voice interjected from behind her. “So would every other married woman I’ve ever met.”
Daisy turned around on the little stool and lost her breath—
It was the woman who had been with Whitby. She’d slipped unnoticed into the room during their conversation and now leaned casually against the wall by the door.
“I’d much rather have a husband with a warm heart and bad taste in clothes than one with good taste and a cold heart,” the raven-haired woman continued. “Any smart woman would.”
Her bright gaze flicked across the room to meet Daisy’s, then returned to the three women as the other two scrambled to their feet, their faces flushing. The woman swept an assessing look over them from head to slippers, then sniffed and looked down to examine her fingernails. It was a gesture of such disdain that it couldn’t have been anything but a cut-direct.
The three young ladies realized it, too, and shifted awkwardly in their pastel pink slippers.
“Mr. Hugh Whitby is a good and kind-hearted man,” Daisy said, fully aware now that the woman who had been with Whitby was listening. “He’s considerate, charitable, generous to a fault—” She choked off. How hard it was to admit all that in front of the woman who had replaced her! But it was true, which made what he’d done to her so unbearable. She added quietly, “A woman would be fortunate to have his affections.”
“Yes,” the raven-haired woman echoed softly, but Daisy didn’t dare look at her then for fear she’d be able to read Daisy’s emotions on her face and see how much the woman’s comment wounded her. “She very much would be.”
Daisy pulled in a deep breath and leveled a hard gaze on the three. “So if I were you, I would stop talking about such a wonderful man behind his back and instead wonder what I could do to find a man like him to marry.” Dismissing them, she turned back to the mirror and reached for the powder puff, praying that none of them could see her hands shaking. “I think you’re wanted back at the party.”
With a loud humph, the first woman tossed her head indignantly and sashayed from the room. She shot a burning glare at the raven-haired woman who remained right where she was, still casually leaning against the wall and watching with an unimpressed gaze as the three left.
The door clicked shut behind them. Daisy’s shoulders sagged. Goodness, she was relieved to have that over!
Until the woman sat at the vanity next to hers.
“You handled that well,” she murmured to Daisy as she reached up to fuss with one of her hairpins although not a single dark strand was out of place.
“So did you,” Daisy grudgingly admitted and pushed away the unneeded powder.
“Hmm. I’ve never liked mean girls.” She dropped her hands to her lap, no longer bothering with the pretense of fixing her hair. She charged directly to the crux—“Whitby sent me. He was worried about you.”
Her heart panged with a mix of jealousy and betrayal. “So he told you who I was.”
A smile curled at her red lips as she reached for the perfume. “You’re the wonderful Miss Daisy Daring. He’s talked about little else but you for the past five months.” She lifted the glass stopper and sniffed the delicate scent. “He loves you, you know.”
Her breath strangled around the knot in her throat. “Hugh Whitby is in love with the world,” she rasped out, unable to keep the emotion from her voice. “His heart is that big and generous. He loves everything and everyone.”
“No, actually, he doesn’t. There are quite a few things he doesn’t like.”
Daisy’s gaze shot up in surprise to meet the woman’s in the mirror.
She shrugged and touched the stopper to her wrist. “He simply never comments on what he doesn’t like.”
The truth of that soaked through Daisy like a cold rain. How had she not noticed that about him before?
Because she’d been too struck by his eccentricity. Because she’d done exactly what she’d accused those three women of doing—not seeing beyond the surface. Remorse ached down to her bones.
The woman set down the perfume. “Someone might look at you and think you care for him, as well.” She arched a brow as she slowly rubbed her wrists together. “They might even say it’s love.”
Love…Daisy couldn’t deny it. Somehow amid all the picnics and school visits, the hours spent pouring over house plans and sharing their dreams, she’d fallen in love with Hugh Whitby.
But she wasn’t some silly goose who saw the world as a fairy tale waiting to come true.
Whitby had broken her trust once and jeopardized all she’d worked so hard to achieve, putting at risk not just her family but also her dream. How could she trust him not to do it again, this man who always spoke without thinking and acted so impulsively? The fact that he’d entered her drawings into the contest because he cared about her made the act no less perilous for her.
“You don’t need to worry about me,” Daisy assured her as she slipped off the stool and walked toward the door, somehow managing to keep her back straight and her tears at bay. “Whatever Whitby and I shared is over, and I won’t interfere between you.”
The woman gave an awkward, embarrassed laugh, as if Daisy could never compete with her for Whitby’s affections. “You mis—”
“I need to return to the party.” If she didn’t leave now, at this very moment, she would break into tears! Her shaking hand fumbled as she reached for the door. “I wish you—” she choked on the words. “I wish you both the best of luck.”
Daisy fled. Blinking hard, she hurried through the house as fast as she could for the front door, and with every step, her heart pounded brutally. Each thud echoed against her ribs and declared what a fool she was. Desperation threatened to consume her with the need to seek comfort outside in the cool air and darkness where no one could see her pain.
She stopped only when she reached the iron fence that encircled the square fronting the house, when she couldn’t run any farther. Gasping for breath, she sagged against the railing. Her hands gripped the metal, and she pressed her face between the bars as hot tears of grief broke free…for Whitby, for her dream of being an architect…for all that she could never have.