“Wait.” His tone had softened in what might have been the beginnings of conciliation. “Daisy…”

“Don’t speak my name!”

“You’re right. That was improper. I beg your pardon. What I meant to say, Miss Bowman, is that there is no need for hostility. We’re facing an issue that has great consequence for both of us. I expect we can manage to be civil long enough to find an acceptable solution.”

“There is only one solution,” Daisy said grimly, “and that is for you to tell my father you categorically refuse to marry me under any circumstances. Promise me that and I’ll try to be civil to you.”

Swift stopped on the path, which forced Daisy to stop as well. Turning to face him, she raised her brows expectantly. God knew it would not be a difficult promise for him to make in light of his earlier statements. But he was giving her a long, unfathomable glance, his hands still buried in his pockets, his body tensed in stillness. It seemed as if he were listening for something.

His gaze slid over her in open evaluation, and there was a strange gleam in his eyes that drew a shiver from the marrow of her bones. He was staring at her, she thought, like a tiger in wait. She stared back at him, trying desperately to discern the clever workings of his mind, managing to decipher shadows of amusement and bewildering hunger. But hunger for what? Not for her, certainly.

“No,” he said softly, as if to himself.

Daisy shook her head in bewilderment. Her lips were dry, and she had to dampen them with the tip of her tongue before she could speak. It unnerved her that his gaze followed the tiny movement. “Was that a ‘no’ as in…‘No, I won’t marry you?’” she asked.

“That was a ‘no,’” he replied, “as in…‘No, I won’t promise not to.’”

And with that, Swift passed by her and continued toward the manor, leaving her to stumble after him.

“He’s trying to torture you,” Lillian said in disgust as Daisy related the entire story later in the day. They sat in the private upstairs parlor of the country manor with their two closest friends, Annabelle Hunt and Evie, Lady St. Vincent. They had all met two years earlier, a quartet of wallflowers who for various reasons had not been able to bring any eligible gentlemen up to scratch.

It was a popular belief in Victorian society that women, with their mercurial natures and lesser brains, could not have the same quality of friendship that men did. Only men could be loyal to each other, and only men could have truly honest and high-minded relationships.

Daisy thought that was rubbish. She and the other wallflowers…well, former wallflowers…shared a bond of deep, caring trust. They helped each other, encouraged each other with no hint of competition or jealousy. Daisy loved Annabelle and Evie nearly as much as she did Lillian. She could easily envision them all in their later years, prattling about their grandchildren over tea and biscuits, traveling together as a silver-haired horde of tart-tongued old ladies.

“I don’t believe for one second that Mr. Swift knew nothing about it,” Lillian continued. “He’s a liar and he’s in league with Father. Of course he wants to inherit the company.”

Lillian and Evie sat in brocade-upholstered chairs by the windows, while Daisy and Annabelle lounged on the floor amid the colorful heaped masses of their skirts. A plump baby girl with a mass of dark ringlets crawled back and forth between them, occasionally pausing with frowning concentration to tweeze something from the carpet with her miniature fingers.

The infant, Isabelle, had been born to Annabelle and Simon Hunt approximately ten months earlier. Surely no baby had ever been doted on more, by every one in the household including her father.

Contrary to all expectations the virile and masculine Mr. Hunt had not been at all disappointed that his firstborn was a girl. He adored the child, showing no compunction about holding her in public, cooing to her in a way that fathers seldom dared. Hunt had even instructed Annabelle to produce more daughters in the future, claiming roguishly that it had always been his ambition to be loved by many women.

As might have been expected, the baby was exceptionally beautiful—it would be a physical impossibility for Annabelle to produce a less than spectacular offspring.

Picking up Isabelle’s sturdy, wriggling body, Daisy nuzzled into her silky neck before setting her on the carpet again. “You should have heard him,” Daisy said. “The arrogance was incredible. Swift has decided that it is my own fault that I am still unmarried. He said I must have set my standards too high. And he lectured me on the cost of my books and said that someone has to pay for my expensive lifestyle.”

“He didn’t dare,” Lillian exclaimed, her face turning scarlet with sudden rage.

Daisy immediately regretted telling her. The family physician had advised that Lillian must not be upset as she approached the last month of her pregnancy. She had become pregnant the previous year and had miscarried early on. The loss had been difficult for Lillian, not to mention surprising given her hardy constitution.

In spite of the doctor’s assurances that she was not to blame for the miscarriage, Lillian had been melancholy for weeks afterward. But with Westcliff’s steadfast comfort and the loving support of her friends, Lillian had gradually returned to her usual high-spirited self.

Now that Lillian had conceived again she was far less cavalier about the pregnancy, mindful of the possibility of another miscarriage. Unfortunately she was not one of those women who bloomed during confinement. She was splotchy, nauseous, and often ill-tempered, chafing at the restrictions her condition imposed.

“I won’t stand for this,” Lillian exclaimed. “You’re not going to marry Matthew Swift, and I’ll send Father to the devil if he tries to take you away from England!”

Still seated on the floor, Daisy reached up and settled a calming hand on her older sister’s knee. She forced her lips into a reassuring smile as she stared into Lillian’s distraught face.

“Everything will be fine,” she said. “We’ll think of something. We’ll have to.” They had been too close for too many years. In the absence of their parents’ affection Lillian and Daisy had been each other’s sole source of love and support for as long as they could remember.

Evie, the least talkative of the four friends, spoke with a slight stammer that appeared whenever she was nervous or moved by strong emotion. When they had all met two years earlier, Evie’s stammer had been so severe as to make conversation an exercise in frustration. But since leaving her abusive family and marrying Lord St. Vincent, Evie had gained far greater confidence.

“W-would Mr. Swift really agree to take a bride not of his own choosing?” Evie pushed back a gleaming red curl that had slipped over her forehead. “If what he said was true—that his financial situation is already s-secure—there is no reason for him to marry Daisy.”

“There is more to it than money,” Lillian replied, squirming in her chair to find a more comfortable position. Her hands rested on the ample curve of her belly. “Father has made Swift into a substitute son, since none of our brothers turned out the way he wanted.”

“The way he wanted?” Annabelle asked in puzzlement. She flopped over to kiss the baby’s tiny wiggling toes, eliciting a gurgling chuckle from the infant.

“Devoted to the company,” Lillian clarified. “Efficient and callous and unscrupulous. A man who will put business interests ahead of everything else in his life. It’s a language they speak together, Father and Mr. Swift. Our brother Ransom has tried to make a place for himself in the company, but Father always pits him against Mr. Swift.”

“And Mr. Swift always wins,” Daisy said. “Poor Ransom.”

“Our other two brothers don’t even bother trying,” Lillian said.

“But wh-what of Mr. Swift’s own father?” Evie asked. “Does he have no objection to his son becoming someone else’s de facto son?”

“Well, that’s always been the odd part,” Daisy replied. “Mr. Swift comes from a well-known New England family. They settled in Plymouth and some of them ended up in Boston by the early seventeen hundreds. Swifts are known for their distinguished ancestry, but only a few of them have managed to retain their money. As Father always says, it takes one generation to make it, the second to spend it, and the third is left with only the name. Of course, when it’s Old Boston one is talking about, the process takes ten generations instead of three—they’re so much slower about everything—”

“You’re drifting, dear,” Lillian interrupted. “Back to the point.”

“Sorry.” Daisy grinned briefly before resuming. “Well, we suspect there was some kind of falling-out between Mr. Swift and his relations because he hardly ever speaks of them. And he rarely travels to Massachusetts to visit. So even if Mr. Swift’s father does object to his son inserting himself into someone else’s family, we would never know about it.”

The four women were quiet for a moment as they considered the situation.

“We’ll find someone for Daisy,” Evie said. “Now that we are able to look beyond the peerage, it will be much easier. There are many acceptable gentlemen of good blood who do not h-happen to possess titles.”

“Mr. Hunt has many unmarried acquaintances,” Annabelle said. “He could make any number of introductions.”

“I appreciate that,” Daisy said, “but I don’t like the idea of marrying a professional man. I could never be happy with a soulless industrialist.” Pausing, she said apologetically, “No offense to Mr. Hunt, of course.”

Annabelle laughed. “I wouldn’t characterize all professional men as soulless industrialists. Mr. Hunt can be quite sensitive and emotional at times.”

The others regarded her dubiously, none of them able to picture Annabelle’s big, bold-featured husband as being sensitive in any way. Mr. Hunt was clever and charming, but he seemed as impervious to emotion as an elephant would be to the buzzing of a gnat.

“We’ll take your word for that,” Lillian said. “Back to the matter at hand—Evie, will you ask Lord St. Vincent if he knows of any suitable gentlemen for Daisy? Now that we’ve expanded our definition of ‘suitable,’ he ought to be able to find a decent specimen. Heaven knows he possesses information about every man in England who has two shillings to rub together.”

“I will ask him,” Evie said decisively. “I am certain we can come up with some presentable candidates.”

As the owner of Jenner’s, the exclusive gaming club that Evie’s father had established long ago, Lord St. Vincent was rapidly bringing the business to a height of success it had never reached before. St. Vincent ran the club in an exacting manner, keeping meticulous files on the personal lives and financial balances of every one of its members.

“Thank you,” Daisy replied sincerely. Her mind lingered on thoughts of the club. “I wonder…do you think Lord St. Vincent could find out more about Mr. Rohan’s mysterious past? Perhaps he’s a long-lost Irish lord or something of the sort.”

A brief silence sifted through the room like a flurry of tiny snowflakes. Daisy was aware of significant glances being exchanged between her sister and friends. She was abruptly annoyed with them, and even more with herself for mentioning the man who helped manage the gaming club.

Rohan was a young half-gypsy with dark hair and bright hazel eyes. They had only met once, when Rohan had stolen a kiss from her. Three kisses, if one wished to be factual, and it had been by far the most erotic experience of her entire life. Also the only erotic experience of her entire life.

Rohan had kissed her as if she were a grown woman instead of someone’s younger sister, with a coaxing sensuality that had hinted of all the forbidden things kisses led to. Daisy should have slapped his face. Instead she had dreamed about those kisses at least a hundred thousand times.

“I don’t think so, dear,” Evie said very gently, and Daisy smiled too brightly, as if she had made a joke.

“Oh, of course he isn’t! But you know how my imagination is…it wants to plunge into every little mystery.”

“We must remain focused on what is important, Daisy,” Lillian said sternly. “No fantasies or stories…and no more thoughts of Rohan. He’s only a distraction.”

Daisy’s initial impulse was to utter some biting reply as she always had when Lillian became bossy. However, as she stared into her sister’s brown eyes, the same spiced-gingerbread color of her own, she saw the flicker of panic in them and she felt a rush of protective love.

“You’re right,” she said, forcing a smile. “You needn’t worry, you know. I’m going to do whatever it takes to stay here with you. Even marry a man I don’t love.”

Another silence, and then Evie spoke. “We’ll find a man whom you could love, Daisy. And hope that mutual affection will grow in time.” A wry little smile quirked her full lips. “Sometimes it happens that way.”

CHAPTER 3

“The bargain you made with my father…”

The echo of Daisy’s voice lingered in Matthew’s mind long after they had parted company. He was going to take Thomas Bowman aside at the first opportunity and ask him what the hell was going on. But in the bustle of arriving guests that moment would not likely come until this evening.

Matthew wondered if old Bowman had really taken it into his head to pair him off with Daisy. Jesus. Through the years Matthew had entertained many thoughts concerning Daisy Bowman, but none of them had involved marriage. That had always been so far out of the realm of possibility it was not even worth considering. So Matthew had never kissed her, had never danced with her or even walked with her, knowing full well the results would be disastrous.

The secrets of his past haunted his present and endangered his future. Matthew was never without the awareness that the identity he had created for himself could be blown to bits at any moment. All it would take was for one person to put two and two together…one person to recognize him for what and who he really was. Daisy deserved a husband who was honest and whole, not one who had built his life on lies.

But that didn’t stop Matthew from wanting her. He had always wanted Daisy, with an intensity that seemed to radiate from the pores of his skin. She was sweet, kind, inventive, excessively reasonable yet absurdly romantic, her dark sparkling eyes filled with dreams. She had occasional moments of clumsiness when her mind was too occupied with her thoughts to focus on what she was doing. She was often late to supper because she had gotten too involved in her reading. She frequently lost thimbles and slippers and pencil stubs. And she loved to stargaze. The never-forgotten sight of Daisy leaning wistfully on a balcony railing one night, her pert profile lifted to the night sky, had charged Matthew with the most blistering desire to stride over to her and kiss her senseless.