Daisy took deep, controlled breaths and fought to keep from pinching herself to prove that tonight was truly happening.
The state rooms of St James’s Palace glowed. What seemed like hundreds of beeswax candles beamed from the crystal chandeliers and competed with the shine from the jewels and satins decorating the crowd of attendees who filled the red carpeted reception hall, with white ostrich plumes donned by all the women and stark white stockings by the men. An army of footmen in immaculate palace livery and old-fashioned powdered wigs carried an endless supply of drinks through the crowd on large silver trays, and a quartet of musicians played quietly in the corner. The entire spectacle shimmered and mesmerized with its uncompromising grandeur.
Daisy couldn’t help but stare in awe, not knowing where to look first. She’d never been to the palace before, never been to any kind of royal function. If anyone had told her six months ago that she would be here because of her architectural designs, she would have laughed right in his face. But then, six months ago, she never would have attended even if she’d been invited. She would have been too ashamed of not being able to measure up to the fine gowns worn by the other ladies who had spent a small fortune on their satins, jewels, and decorations. But that was before she’d stopped caring about what people wore or how plain her gown looked with only her mother’s string of pearls to decorate it and a single ostrich plume for her hair. Being with Whitby had taught her that.
Tonight, she simply delighted in being here.
What delighted her most of all, though, was that the house plans from all six finalists had been mounted on boards and placed on easels throughout the reception room. All the guests could see how grand the plans were and judge for themselves which architect had presented the best plans.
As if reading her mind, her father leaned over to speak quietly into her ear, “Your drawings are the best of all.”
She lifted her glass of champagne to her lips to hide her pleased blush. Elias Daring was never generous with compliments. Not even for his children.
“Our drawings.” Her smile didn’t fade as she reached over to squeeze his hand. Our…exactly as it should have been. After all, she might have created the plans, but he had laid the foundations. Everything she knew about architecture and design had been learned at his knee, then broadened as her experience and skills grew. He deserved to share in this evening.
And what an evening! The night felt like a fairy tale, right down to the royal coach that had been sent to their townhouse to bring them to the palace. From the moment they’d arrived, they’d been waited upon by kind palace staff who had shepherded them into the rooms and whose only purpose in life seemed to be making certain that the champagne in their glasses never dropped below half full.
A buzz of electricity hung over the room because the king himself was due to arrive this evening and give his congratulations to all the finalists and the winner. But the man Daisy most looked forward to meeting was the great John Nash, the brilliant architectural mind behind the king’s most ambitious building projects. The men who had once studied with him and gone on to have celebrated careers of their own lingered tonight among the crowd. She’d glimpsed Anthony Salvin, John Repton and his brother George, James Morgan, and the great Robert Smirke, who had managed to shine nearly as brightly as his mentor John Soane, although Daisy thought his Greco-Roman inspired designs were old-fashioned. Her father knew all of them and had given her introductions. Embarrassingly, she didn’t think she’d been successful in tamping down her obvious admiration for them. Or her jealousy.
She wanted to be just like them, with the opportunity to create grand buildings that would stand for generations and make a lasting mark on the world.
But while they’d all been polite to her when Papa introduced her, none of them wanted to discuss architecture with her. They’d only smiled patronizingly and directed the conversation back to her father.
They all might as well have patted her on the head and given her a biscuit.
But she didn’t blame them. After all, she was culpable. She’d let everyone believe that the contest plans had been created by the great Elias Daring while she’d done little more than help with ideas for the decorations.
“I just hope the attention generates new commissions for us,” she mumbled against the rim of her champagne glass.
After all, they could certainly use the income. Especially now that Whitby’s house was all finished except for the final interior finishes, now that they wouldn’t have the chance to build the second house for him. Once the money for her brothers’ tuition was repaid, along with the most pressing household accounts, they would be back where they’d started with no money in the bank for rainy days. Whitby’s commission had merely brought them a reprieve.
“Humph.” Papa’s dismissive grunt registered his displeasure. “You shouldn’t be hiding behind my name.”
“Daring is a perfectly good name, if I do say so myself.”
But he wasn’t deterred by her attempted humor. “Your name should be on those plans. These people should all be congratulating you, not me.”
She stared into her champagne and watched as the tiny bubbles rose through the pale gold liquid. She couldn’t disagree.
“It’s one thing to collaborate on plans and designs, as we’ve been doing, to make our clients happy and ensure their projects finish on time. I couldn’t have gotten through the past few years without you.”
She silently squeezed his arm. She couldn’t disagree with that, either.
“But tonight… This is different. You deserve all the credit for those plans. People should know about the work you’ve been doing and how talented you are.”
Her chest panged. He sounded exactly like Whitby. “We’ve been through this before, Papa. England isn’t ready for a woman architect, you know that.”
“Well then, they’d best become ready. The world is changing, and soon what will matter is sheer ability, not if the architect wears pantaloons.”
The world wasn’t changing that quickly. Not nearly fast enough to make her dream come true. Yet she appeased him with a hopeful smile.
Excited voices rose from the other end of the long reception room as the imposing, gold-gilded double doors swung open. An elderly man with bright white and gray hair walked slowly yet imperially into the room.
The master of ceremonies stamped his staff against the floor and called out, “Ladies and gentlemen, Mr. John Nash!”
Admiring applause welcomed him, and the crowd parted to let him advance. Excitement buzzed through the room.
Nash circled through the guests and greeted everyone, including her father, while Daisy was too awestruck to do anything more than remember to curtsy and gush out how much she admired his work. Oh, she was a perfect goose!
Papa’s eyes gleamed with amusement, and he chuckled at her after Nash had continued on to greet the rest of the special guests.
“I know,” she admitted to her own embarrassing behavior with a long, chagrined sigh. “He’s only a man who puts on his trousers one leg at a time.”
“Oh no, not Nash!” Papa’s lips twitched. “Why, a contingent of angels arrives every morning at sunrise to miraculously dress him both legs at once, and all his architectural plans spring fully formed from his head, like Athena from Zeus.”
She rolled her eyes with a self-effacing grimace.
“Haven’t you ever wondered why he never incorporates water closets into his building designs? Because he never thinks of them. He’s so divine that he never has to—”
“Papa!” She choked on her champagne.
“Let that be a reminder to you, Daisy.” He wagged a finger at her. “Architects aren’t divine creatures. We’re just men. We’ve become famous only because we’ve studied long hours to cultivate our talents and worked hard at utilizing them. No less so than you.” He softened that chastisement by placing an affectionate kiss to her temple. “Remember that when the winner is announced.”
She grimaced. “Because I’ll need to be gracious in defeat.”
“Because you’ll need to be gracious in victory!”
Finished with his circle of the room, Nash stepped onto the small dais at the front of the hall as footmen collected the easels with their plans and brought them forward. Hushed excitement fell over the attendees as more introductions were made. Nash acknowledged the aristocracy and members of the king’s household who were in attendance by naming each one individually, then the men who sat on the contest committee, and lastly, the finalists themselves.
When he nodded at her father, Papa squeezed her arm to encourage her to speak up and claim recognition for herself.
But she simply couldn’t. Instead, she perpetuated their ruse by applauding for her father.
“Unfortunately, His Majesty has been detained,” Nash announced.
Disappointment fell heavily over the room.
“He plans to arrive later, and so has asked that the ceremony proceed in his absence.”
Despite hushed whispers, no one in the reception room was surprised. Most likely, the king had either fallen down drunk in the state apartments or into his current mistress’s bed. In either case, he was likely so caught up in a fit of depression or rage or rampant gout as to be unpresentable for the rest of the evening. The ceremony—like Parliament and the British empire—would go blithely on without him.
Nash accepted the gold foil and red ribbon-wrapped letter handed to him by one of His Majesty’s secretaries, opened it, and smiled in satisfaction. “The winner of the Regent Park Villa Competition is…Elias Daring!”
The floor fell out from beneath her, and Daisy stared, stunned and blinking and numb with wonderful shock. She’d won… Her house had won! It was all a wonderful dream that swirled around her with the rousing thunder of applause, shouted kudos, and nods of congratulations that the judges gave each other for selecting the winner, convincing themselves and all who were watching that they’d made the correct decision.
But the swirling dream faded into a nightmare as her heart tore. She didn’t know whether to cry in happiness or succumb to desolate sobs.
She’d won. She’d proven that she was just as good as the other architects, and her dream home would finally be built, just as it deserved. But none of the appreciation and admiration were for her, and never would be.
“Go on,” she choked out and touched Papa’s arm, forcing a smile for him through tears that no one would suspect were gathering in pain.
But he didn’t move. Instead, he stared down at her with a challenging gleam in his eyes. She knew what he was thinking—he was daring her to admit the truth even now in front of everyone, to step forward to the dais and claim her prize.
But she didn’t dare.
“Go on,” she repeated and feared that her face might break from the strength it took to keep her smile bright and in place. “They’re waiting for you.”
“They’re waiting for you.” He took her hand and led her forward with him. When they reached the dais, she stopped and refused to take another step. “Daisy, come with me.”
“No,” she rasped out and pulled her hand out of his.
Reluctantly, he moved away from her to collect the prize and the committee’s congratulations. As he stepped onto the dais, the other entries had been removed by footmen back to the sides of the room, leaving hers standing by itself at the front of the room.
She watched with tear-blurred eyes as he accepted the gold-foil letter with His Majesty’s seal on it. He shook all the judges’ hands and accepted a second envelope containing the prize money and the commission to secure the plans for building. More applause echoed through the grand room, more cheers for her father.
But he held up his hand to gain their attention and silence them. He fixed his gaze on Daisy as she stood in front of him. “I cannot take credit for this.”
The applause died away, replaced by bewildered whispers.
No, she mouthed. Suddenly, she wanted to give this night to her father. She wanted him to be recognized for a lifetime of hard work and brilliance. He deserved this moment for all the houses and buildings he’d created during his career. You deserve this, she silently told him, even though she knew he might not be able to read her lips to discern what she was telling him. You—the great Elias Daring, for all you’ve done, for all you’ve taught me…
But his heart understood every silent word.
He shook his head. “Your kindness is appreciated,” he told the guests in a rough voice grated by emotion, although his eyes never left Daisy. “Greatly so. But I cannot claim all of it.”
Her heart jumped into her throat.
“My daughter Daisy deserves more credit than I do.” He smiled at her with love and pride. “For taking over when I was ill and seeing all our projects through to completion, for thinking of the ideas for these plans. She was instrumental in creating a large part of my most recent work—”
“A lie!”
The shout echoed through the large chamber, and everyone turned toward the rear of the room where it came from. Whispers went up as the guests craned their necks to witness the commotion.
“He’s lying to you!”
This time she recognized the voice, and her heart sank to the floor—
Whitby.
He pushed his way forward, stumbling over legs and feet as he staggered around the guests like a drunken sailor on a pitching deck. But his eyes gleamed brightly with determination, and his gaze never left her father. The guests in the room parted to let him through as he continued to shout for the judges to stop the ceremony. Awkward laughter and whispers sounded from the confusion swirling through the room.
“Those plans don’t belong to Elias Daring but to another brilliant and yet undiscovered architect.” He stopped in front of the dais and gasped for breath. When he turned around, his eyes landed on Daisy, and a faint grin teased at his lips. “His brilliant and beautiful daughter Daisy.”
The room erupted around them in a flurry of confusion and bewilderment. The whispers from the guests grew into full out demands to know what was happening and whether Whitby’s allegations were true, and the judges began to argue with each other in an attempt to sort through what was happening.
But of course, the judges and Nash remembered the disqualified first entry and her subsequent letter in which she claimed Elias Daring had created the plans, in which she begged for reconsideration. Now they snatched dark looks at her as they squabbled among themselves on the dais. None of it was helped by Whitby, who refused to look away from her.
Nash stepped back from the huddle with the other red-faced judges and gave a decisive nod. Then he held up his hands to reclaim the room’s attention.
“As Mr. Daring just explained,” he announced in an attempt to keep control of the evening and downplay their embarrassment, “his daughter lent her insights and opinions to the designs, but we can all recognize his genius in the plans themselves. We were made aware of Miss Daring’s assistance to her father when the entry was submitted.”
All eyes in the room fell onto Daisy, followed by a new round of surprised whispered and curious gawking.
“All great architects bring on apprentices to assist them with their work,” he continued. “Ask Mr. Decimus Burton what it was like to study with me.”
Laughter at the young architect’s expense sounded throughout the room. But Daisy’s heart fluttered to be compared to such a man.
“Many more architects take the opinions of their wives and female relatives into consideration…whether they want to or not.” A ripple of new laughter sped through the room, mostly from the judges themselves. “We consider Miss Daring’s assistance as nothing more than that of a wife or an apprentice. There is nothing wrong with lending ideas to plans.”
“Mr. Elias is lying to you,” Whitby insisted, wheeling once more toward the judges. Intensity glowed in him like a white-hot flame. “Miss Daring didn’t help with those plans, didn’t give a woman’s opinion—she created them.” He sent her a look over his shoulder of pride, admiration…love. “It’s her dream house. And it’s deucedly brilliant. Just like her.”
A sob rose in her throat as all kinds of emotions roiled together to overwhelm her. God help her, she would have fallen to the floor if Whitby hadn’t taken her hand to give her the support she needed.
He looked into her eyes as if they were alone yet explained loudly to the roomful of people around them, to the judges and her father behind them, “The truth is that Miss Daisy Daring did those plans. All of them.”
“Whitby,” she whispered, unable to find her voice, yet she no longer had the strength or resolve to continue with the fraud.
His eyes softened, as if he knew how much he was wounding her, yet they both knew he had to continue. “When they were submitted under her own name, the committee disqualified them. Not because of any flaw in the design, not because they weren’t innovative—but because she was a woman.” He took both of her hands in his and squeezed them. “And shame on them. Because they should have been evaluating the quality of her plans and the brilliance of her designs.” He slid the judges a scolding glance. “Not whether she rides a horse sidesaddle.”
Despite outbursts of quiet laughter at that, the attention of the guests turned from the spectacle in front of them to the plans on the easel. But they kept their distance from the drawings because they didn’t yet trust what Whitby was telling them.
“So she submitted those exact same plans again under her father’s name,” he continued. “This time, the plans were not only accepted for the contest, but now they’ve been heralded as exceptional and worthy of winning. But they don’t belong to Elias Daring. They belong to his wonderful daughter. She deserves your praise and admiration. She deserves recognition by the committee and the Crown.”
The guests all pushed forward for a fresh look, as if the drawings had magically appeared from stardust because they were created by a woman. Their gaping was a new judgement that excluded the gray-haired men on the dais. They wanted to assess for themselves if they could spot any difference in plans made by a man versus a woman architect. Based upon their whispers and shaking heads, they’d found none.
“Miss Daring,” John Nash called out to her, “are this man’s accusations true?”
Her lips parted to answer, but she hesitated. The old habit of secrets and denials rose up inside her—
“Yes,” she forced out in a low and rasping admission. “It’s all true.” As her courage grew, so did her voice. “Papa looked over them only after I had created all the plans, after I had sketched out the floor plans, drawings, and decorative elements…He gave assistance and input to me, not the other way around.”
Whitby lifted her hands to his lips and rewarded her courage with a kiss. She choked back tears as a relieved smile spread across her face. The weight on her shoulders lifted, and the heaviness in her heart vanished like rising smoke into the shimmering chandeliers overhead.
She tore her eyes away from Whitby to glance at the judges who huddled together on the dais to discuss this strange turn of events. The anger that darkened their faces only underscored their embarrassment at being tricked. At the hands of a woman, no less.
“They won’t give me the prize,” she whispered to Whitby, barely louder than a breath. “Their pride’s been hurt. They’ll disqualify me again.”
“That doesn’t matter. What matters is that everyone knows now how talented you are.”
“But it does!” She swallowed down a sob. “How will I provide for my family now?”
“The way you’ve always done.” He nodded toward the drawing on the easel and at the excited crowd gathering around it. Their interest in the plans was obvious, and far beyond the curiosity of gawking at designs made by a woman. “Look at them, Daisy. They see what you’ve done, how you’ve turned housing on its ear. They’ll all want to hire you now, if only to say that their house was created by England’s first woman architect.”
Her shoulders deflated. “That’s not the right reason.”
“No, the right reason is that you’ll give them homes filled with space and light and the latest innovations, right down to new boiler stoves in the basement and water closets in the attic. And all of their homes so beautifully decorated that they’ll be the talk of the town and the envy of their friends.”
He grinned at her with that same bright and delightful smile that always made her bubble with happiness, that always made her feel special. Now it only pierced her with thoughts of all she’d lost when she lost him.
Nash stepped to the front of the dais and once more gestured to gain the party’s attention, although only half successfully this time. The guests still pressed forward to take greedy turns examining Daisy’s drawings, oohhhing and aaahhhing as fresh details emerged from the sketches.
“While the Darings’ designs have much merit—”
Daisy rolled her tear-blurred eyes. Even now Nash and the judges couldn’t give complete credit to a woman for being an architect. As if reading her mind, Whitby squeezed her hands.
“—the committee has determined that the entry itself violates the rules of the contest that required each entry to be the work of a single architect—”
“She is a single architect!” Whitby corrected angrily. “She hasn’t sprouted a second head, for God’s sake!”
Nash narrowed his eyes at Whitby as the crowd laughed. “—and so must be disqualified!”
A gasp of disbelief echoed through the chamber. Her father grimly gave back the envelope. But when he turned to step to the floor, a cheer of appreciation for him went up from the crowd that lasted several minutes, and long enough that his face flushed with embarrassment and the judges’ with vexation. When he finally stepped down, men lined up to shake his hand and congratulate him on his career and on his daughter’s accomplishments. No one cared that the judges announced the new winner and called the man up to the dais; the room’s attention was focused on Elias Daring and his daughter, especially those of the wives and widows who pressed toward Daisy with requests to renovate their London homes. A few even asked if she could build them entirely new country boxes on the outskirts of London.
Flushed and surprised by the goodwill and attention, she greeted each one in turn and assured them that she’d be thrilled to work with them, that she had all kinds of new ideas for plans and decorations that hadn’t been seen before in London, that she had an entire book of designs, in fact…She was simply overwhelmed by it all!
As the women and their husbands pushed in around her, Whitby slipped his hands from hers and stepped back to join her father at the edge of the room, to let her have this moment that she deserved. From the corner of her eye, she saw her father reach up to pat Whitby affectionately on the back.
The footmen opened two towering, gold-gilded doors at the side of the reception hall, and the attention of the guests instantly snapped to them. Voices fell to hushed and excited whispers, and electricity once more buzzed through the room.
“His Most Gracious Majesty,” the master of ceremonies called out from the doorway and stamped his staff twice against the floor to announce the arrival of the monarch, “King of the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Ireland, Defender of the Faith!”
He swept back with a deep bow to allow the guests to pass through for their royal audience with the king.
Each snatched up a glass of fresh champagne from the trays of a dozen footmen lining both sides of the doorway as they glided out of the room. As they went, they were still chattering among themselves about the evening’s turn of events and Daisy’s innovative yet beautiful plans. The judges followed behind bitterly and utterly ignored. Her father winked at her and sauntered after them. He—and everyone else at the ceremony—knew who the true winner was.
But Whitby stayed.
He approached her slowly. Heedless of the servants who lingered in the room after the guests had left, he once more took both of her hands in his, once more lifted them to his lips to kiss them.
“I’m so sorry,” she rushed out tearfully, her voice raw. “I ruined everything.” With a shake of her head, she pulled in a ragged breath. “I was too cowardly to put myself out into the world before, and I…I hurt you because of it.” She tightened her fingers in his as she begged for forgiveness. “I know now that you were only trying to help me—that’s all you’ve ever done for my family and me. I am so sorry, Hugh. So very sorry.”
He said nothing, but his face darkened grimly, the light vanishing with his fading smile.
“But I’m not like you. I don’t have the courage to be bold or so uncaring about what people think.”
“That’s where you’re wrong. You do have boldness and brightness inside you—you just need to learn to let it out.” He reassuringly rubbed his thumbs in circles over her palms. “And I do care about what people think. Some people anyway.” He brushed away a single tear that broke free and slid down her cheek. “I care a great deal about what the people I love think about me.” He looked down into her eyes. “I care about what you think, Daisy.”
He placed his lips to her forehead in a kiss so soft that she had to squeeze her eyes closed against the tender torture of it.
“Please forgive me,” she whispered, unable to open her eyes and face any recrimination on his face. “For all those horrible things I said, I—I need your forgiveness.”
“I know why you said those things, why you didn’t want to see me. It no longer matters.”
She opened her eyes and stared up into his tear-blurred face. “But it does matter…because I’ve lost you.” Anguish twisted her insides, and it took all her strength to whisper, “You’re with that other woman now.”
“Other… Who?” Confusion gripped his face as he glanced over his shoulder, as if expecting to find another woman standing right there.
“The raven-haired woman you escorted to Baron Hansen’s party. I saw you with her.” Her shoulders dropped. “She loves you.”
“I hope so! I’m her best friend.” He grinned sheepishly at her. “Well, second to her husband and family, that is.” When her mouth fell open, he reached up to gently close it. “That was Lady Robert Carlisle.” He brushed his thumb over her bottom lip with a chuckle. “Mariah Winslow Carlisle. The woman who helps me run Gatewell School. I escorted her to the Hansen party because Lord Robert was in Dover on business. We’re only friends.”
“Only friends?”
“Goodness, yes!” His face scrunched with distaste. “I would never consider Mariah in that way. Besides,” he added seriously, “Robert Carlisle would kill me.”
“Then you…you haven’t replaced me?”
He gave her a smile of such love that her heart somersaulted. “I could never replace you. You have my heart, Daisy Daring. You’ve had it from the moment I first saw you, with your sketch book and drafting pencil, and you always will.” He cupped her face against his palm. “I could never stop loving you.”
She held her breath, waiting for him to lean in and kiss her, an act that would surely have them barred from the palace for the rest of their lives. And she simply didn’t care if they were. She wanted his kiss, wanted his love— She wanted him.
Instead, he dropped to one knee.
The remaining guests and footmen stopped what they were doing and turned to watch. The master of ceremonies paused and blinked as he lingered by the door, as did the small army of footmen with their trays as they worked quickly to remove the hundreds of empty glasses scattered around the grand room. Even the musicians stopped as they were putting their instruments away to watch.
Whitby stared up at her with such solemnity and love that she trembled. Never had she seen him as serious as this. “I love you, Daisy Daring, and I want to be with you for the rest of my life. Please say that you’ll marry me. Oh, do say that you will!”
The rest of the world faded away until there was only Hugh Whitby. “Yes…yes, I will.”
She didn’t care that they were making a spectacle of themselves right there in the palace, didn’t care that the footmen had broken into cheers and applause or that the musicians had struck up a boisterous wedding march. She’d learned her lesson. It didn’t matter what other people thought.
All that mattered was love.
Still on one knee and grinning as if he might burst with happiness, Whitby reached into the watch pocket of his bright orange and yellow striped waistcoat and carefully took out a ring. A thin, gold band with a single pearl framed by tiny diamonds. Small, delicate…simple.
“It belonged to my mother,” he explained as he slid it onto her hand. Then added apologetically, “If it’s too small and plain, I can buy you a bigger, more elaborate one, with all kinds of rubies, diamonds, and gold knots.”
“No,” she breathed and lovingly traced a fingertip over it. “It’s perfect.” She stepped forward into his embrace and wrapped her arms around his neck to hug him tightly to her. She nuzzled her lips against his ear. “You’re perfect.”
She loved him and always would. Just as he was.