Her nerves, sated as they were, stirred beneath the caress of his fingertips. “Matthew…what will happen next? Will you speak to my father?”

“Not yet. In the interest of preserving at least a semblance of decorum, I’m going to wait until I return from Bristol. By that time most of the guests will have left, and the family will be able to deal with the situation in relative privacy.”

“My father will be overjoyed. But Mother will have conniptions. And Lillian…”

“Will explode.”

Daisy sighed. “My brothers aren’t too fond of you, either.”

“Really,” he said in mock surprise.

Daisy stared worriedly into his shadowed face. “What if you change your mind about me? What if you come back and tell me that you were wrong, you don’t want to marry me, and—”

“No,” Matthew said, stroking the rampant black waves of her hair. “There’s no turning back. I’ve taken your innocence. I’m not going to avoid my responsibility.”

Disgruntled by the choice of words, Daisy frowned.

“What’s the matter?” he asked.

“The way you put it…your responsibility…as if you have to atone for some terrible mistake. It’s not the most romantic thing to say, especially in present circumstances.”

“Oh.” Matthew grinned suddenly. “I’m not a romantic man, sweetheart. You knew that already.” He bent his head and kissed the side of her neck, and nipped at her ear. “But I am responsible for you now.” He worked his way down to her shoulder. “For your safety…your welfare…your pleasure…and I take my responsibilities very seriously…”

He kissed her breasts, drawing the taut peaks into the melting heat of his mouth. His hand parted her thighs and played gently between them.

A moan of pleasure slipped from her throat, and he smiled. “You make the sweetest sounds,” he murmured. “When I touch you like this…and this…and the way you cry out when you come for me…”

Her face burned. She tried to be quiet, but in another moment he had coaxed another helpless moan from her.

“Matthew…?” Her toes curled as she felt him slip lower, his tongue tickling the hollow of her navel.

His voice was muffled by the covers that tented over his head. “Yes, chatterbox?”

“Are you going to do—” she paused with a gasp as she felt him push her knees apart, “—what you did before?”

“It would seem so.”

“But we’ve already…” The puzzle of why he would want to make love to her twice in a row was suddenly abandoned. She felt him investigating the tender juncture of her thigh and groin, the insides of her legs, and she went weak. Soft, artful nibbling…lazy strokes of his tongue…toying with the sore opening of her body…easing upward until he found a place that made her sob and groan, yes, there, yes…

He teased her with maddening delicacy, slowly moving away, then returning with warm, rapid flicks…she groped for his head between her thighs and held him there, arching and shivering and pulsing with pleasure.

He brought her steadily upward to a height of impossible rapture, above the storm, above the sky itself…and when she regained awareness, she was in his arms, her pounding heartbeat soothed by the gentle sound of spring rain.

CHAPTER 12

Since most of the estate guests were leaving on the morrow, dinner that night was a long and elaborate affair. Two long tables set with crystal and Sèvres china glittered in the light shed by chandeliers and candelabrum. An army of footmen dressed in full livery of blue, mustard and black with gold braiding moved deftly around the guests, refilling water and wine glasses, serving each remove with quiet precision.

It was a magnificent affair. Unfortunately Daisy had never been less interested in eating. It was a pity she couldn’t do justice to the meal, which featured Scottish salmon, steaming roast joints, venison haunch accompanied by sausages and sweet breads, and elaborate vegetable casseroles dressed with cream and butter and truffles. For dessert there were platters of luxury fruits; raspberries, nectarines, cherries, peaches and pineapples, as well as a surfeit of cakes, tarts, and syllabubs.

Daisy forced herself to eat, laugh, and converse in as natural a manner as possible. But it was not easy. Matthew was seated a few places away on the other side of the table, and whenever their gazes caught, she nearly choked on whatever she happened to be chewing.

Conversation flowed around her, and she responded to it vaguely while her mind remained fixed on the memory of what had happened a few hours earlier. Those who knew her well, her sister and friends, seemed to notice that she was not quite herself. Even Westcliff had given her a few speculative glances.

Daisy felt overheated in the bright, stuffy room, the blood rushing easily to her cheeks. Her body was oversensitive, her undergarments chafing, her corset unbearable, her garters pinching around her thighs. Every time she moved there were reminders of the afternoon with Matthew; the soreness between her legs, the stings and twitches in unexpected places. And yet her body ached for more…more of Matthew’s hands, his restless mouth, his hardness inside her…

Feeling her face flame once again, Daisy devoted herself to buttering a piece of bread. She glanced at Matthew, who was conversing with a lady to his left.

Sensing Daisy’s furtive regard, Matthew looked in her direction. The depths of blue kindled with heat and his chest moved as he inhaled deeply. He dragged his attention back to his companion, focusing on her with a flattering interest that sent the lady into giggling effusiveness.

Daisy lifted a glass of watered wine to her lips and made herself pay attention to a conversation on her right…something about touring the lake districts and the Scottish Highlands. Soon, however, her mind drifted back to her own situation.

She did not regret her decision…but she was not so naive as to believe everything would be easy from now on. Quite the opposite. There was the issue of where they were to live, and when Matthew would take her back to New York, and if she could learn to be happy far away from her sister and friends. There was also the unanswered question about whether she would be an adequate wife for a man who so fully inhabited a world she had never quite found a way to fit in. And last, the not-insignificant question of what kind of secrets Matthew was harboring.

But Daisy remembered the soft, vibrant note in his voice when he had said, “You’ve always been everything I thought a woman should be.”

Matthew was the only man who had ever wanted her just as she was. (One had to discount Llandrindon since his infatuation had flared up just a bit too quickly and would likely subside with equal speed.)

In this regard, Daisy reflected, her marriage to Matthew would not be unlike Lillian’s with Westcliff. As two strong-willed people with very different sensibilities, Lillian and Westcliff often argued and negotiated…and yet this didn’t seem to weaken their marriage. Quite the opposite, in fact—their union seemed all the better for it.

She considered her friends’ marriages…Annabelle and Mr. Hunt as a harmony of similar dispositions…Evie and Lord St. Vincent with their opposite natures, as necessary to each other’s existence as day and night. It was impossible to say that any of these pairings was superior to the others.

Perhaps, in spite of all she had heard about the ideal of a perfect marriage, there was no such thing. Perhaps every marriage was a unique creation.

It was a comforting thought.

And it filled her with hope.

After the interminable dinner Daisy pleaded a headache rather than endure the ritual of tea and gossip. It was half true, actually—the combination of light, noise, and emotional strain had caused her temples to throb painfully. With a pained smile, she made her excuses and headed toward the grand staircase.

But as she reached the main hall, she heard her sister’s voice.

“Daisy? I want to talk with you.”

Daisy knew Lillian well enough to recognize the edge in her tone. Her older sister was suspicious, and worried, and she wanted to thrash out issues and problems until everything had been discussed exhaustively.

Daisy was far too weary. “Not now, please,” she said, giving her sister a placating smile. “Can it wait until later?”

“No.”

“I have a headache.”

“So do I. But we’re still going to talk.”

Daisy struggled with a rush of exasperation. After all her patience with Lillian, the years of unquestioning support and loyalty, it didn’t seem too much to ask that Lillian refrain from badgering her.

“I’m going to bed,” Daisy said, her steady gaze daring her sister to argue. “I don’t want to explain anything, especially when it’s obvious you have no intention of listening. Good night.” Seeing the stricken look on Lillian’s face, she added more gently, “I love you.” She stood on her toes, kissed her sister’s cheek, and went to the staircase.

Lillian fought the temptation to follow Daisy up the stairs. She became aware of someone at her elbow, and she turned to see Annabelle and Evie, both of them looking sympathetic.

“She won’t talk to me,” she told them numbly.

Evie, usually hesitant to touch her, slipped her arm through Lillian’s. “L-let’s go to the orangery,” she suggested.

The orangery was by far Lillian’s favorite room in the manor, the walls constructed of long glass windows, the floor wrought with fancy iron grillwork that let in gently warmed air from stoves down below. Orange and lemon trees filled the room with fresh citrus fragrance, while scaffolding loaded with tropical plants added exotic top notes to the scent. Torchlight from outside sent intricate shadows through the room.

Finding a small grouping of chairs, the three friends sat together. Lillian’s shoulders slumped as she said glumly, “I think they’ve done it.”

“Who’s done what?” Evie asked.

“Daisy and Mr. Swift,” Annabelle murmured with a touch of amusement. “We’re speculating that they’ve had, er…carnal knowledge of each other.”

Evie looked perplexed. “Why do we think that?”

“Well, you were sitting at the other table, dear, so you couldn’t see, but at dinner there were…” Annabelle raised her brows significantly. “…undercurrents.”

“Oh.” Evie shrugged. “It’s just as well I wasn’t at your table, then. I’m never any good at reading undercurrents.”

“These were obvious undercurrents,” Lillian said darkly. “It couldn’t have been any clearer if Mr. Swift had leapt onto the table and made an announcement.”

“Mr. Swift would never be so vulgar,” Evie said decisively. “Even if he is an American.”

Lillian’s face scrunched in a ferocious scowl. “Whatever happened to ‘I could never be happy with a soulless industrialist’? What happened to ‘I want the four of us to be together always’? Curse it all, I can’t believe Daisy’s done this! Everything was going so well with Lord Llandrindon. What could have possessed her to sleep with Matthew Swift?”

“I doubt there was much sleeping involved,” Annabelle replied, her eyes twinkling.

Lillian gave her a slitted glare. “If you have the bad taste to be amused by this, Annabelle—”

“Daisy was never interested in Lord Llandrindon,” Evie volunteered hastily, trying to prevent a quarrel. “She was only using him to provoke Mr. Swift.”

“How do you know?” the other two asked at the same time.

“Well, I-I…” Evie made a helpless gesture with her hands. “Last week I m-more or less inadvertently suggested that she try to make him jealous. And it worked.”

Lillian’s throat worked violently before she could manage to speak. “Of all the asinine, sheep-headed, moronic—”

“Why, Evie?” Annabelle asked in a considerably kinder tone.

“Daisy and I overheard Mr. Swift t-talking to Lord Llandrindon. He was trying to convince Llandrindon to court her, and it became obvious that Mr. Swift wanted her for himself.”

“I’ll bet he planned it,” Lillian snapped. “He must have known somehow that you would overhear. It was a devious and sinister plot, and you fell for it!”

“I don’t think so,” Evie replied. Staring at Lillian’s crimson face, she asked apprehensively, “Are you going to shout at me?”

Lillian shook her head and dropped her face in her hands. “I’d shriek like a banshee,” she said through the screen of her fingers, “if I thought it would do any good. But since I’m fairly certain Daisy has been intimate with that reptile, there is probably nothing anyone can do to save her now.”

“She may not want to be saved,” Evie pointed out.

“That’s because she’s gone stark raving mad,” came Lillian’s muffled growl.

Annabelle nodded. “Obviously. Daisy has slept with a handsome, young, wealthy, intelligent man who is apparently in love with her. What in God’s name can she be thinking?” She smiled compassionately as she heard Lillian’s profane reply, and settled a gentle hand between her friend’s shoulders. “Dearest,” she murmured, “as you know, there was a time when it didn’t matter to me whether I married a man I loved or not…it seemed enough just to get my family out of the desperate situation we were in. But when I thought about what it would be like to share a bed with my husband…to spend the rest of my life with him…I knew Simon was the only choice.” She paused, and sudden tears glittered her eyes. Beautiful, self-possessed Annabelle, who hardly ever cried. “When I’m ill,” she continued in a husky voice, “when I’m afraid, when I need something, I know he will move heaven and earth to make everything all right. I trust him with every fiber of my being. And when I see the child we created, the two of us mingled forever in her…my God, how grateful I am that I married Simon. We’ve all been able to choose our own husbands, Lillian. You have to allow Daisy the same freedom.”

Lillian shook off her hand irritably. “He’s not the same caliber as any of our husbands. He’s not even the same quality as St. Vincent, who may have been a devious skirt-chasing scoundrel, but at least he has a heart.” She paused and muttered, “No offense intended, Evie.”

“That’s all right,” Evie said, her lips quivering as if she were trying to suppress a laugh.