The Summer Bride (A Chance Sisters Romance) (6 page)

The sun had come out and he felt very fine as he negotiated the streets of Mayfair. Preferring quality was not the same as being a snob. He had a plan, and he intended to stick with it. He’d always been a man of his word: he’d announced to the world that he wanted a highborn wife, and what he wanted, he went after, and got.

Invariably.

In a few weeks’ time, if all went as planned—and why
would it not?—he’d be a betrothed man, and to the daughter of a blue-blooded English earl: Lady Elizabeth Compton, who was related to half the aristocracy of Great Britain. And he would be too, once he married her.

Not bad for a man who was once a barefoot wharf rat working the Dublin docks.

He caught that thought, pulled it out and examined it.

Dammit! He
was
a snob.

But just because Lady Elizabeth Compton was a highborn titled lady didn’t mean she wasn’t the right girl for Flynn. Daisy was right—he didn’t know the girl well enough. Yet.

There was plenty of time to get to know her better, starting with this drive. He was glad now he’d chosen this earlier-than-fashionable time, because he’d seen how the toffs drove at the fashionable hour in Hyde Park—at a crawl, stopping to chat to people in other carriages, and to take friends up for five minutes and put them down again five minutes later.

This way he’d have Lady Elizabeth all to himself.

Besides which, at the hour for fashionable promenading he had an engagement for a lesson with Lady Beatrice—God help him.

*   *   *

S
o much for having Lady Elizabeth all to himself. She’d brought her maid with her, a grim-faced damsel of uncertain years who eyed Flynn with barely disguised contempt: It was clear she thought him not near good enough for her precious wean.

Flynn gave the woman a grin as he helped her into the little seat at the back of the phaeton. He quite enjoyed being disapproved of. It gave him something to work with.

There was no conversation of any significance on the way to Hyde Park: Flynn needed to concentrate on the traffic. Luckily the horses were well used to the chaos of London traffic because they didn’t turn a hair, and trotted elegantly and smoothly along.

Lady Elizabeth sat beside him, her back straight as a little soldier’s, and with about as much expression on her face.
She was shy, he told himself. It was the first time she’d been alone—or almost alone with him. And she might be a nervous passenger.

He set himself to relax her.

They discussed the weather—it was warming up, Lady Elizabeth observed. Flynn responded that, having lived a good part of the last ten years in tropical climes, he didn’t yet find it warm.

Lady Elizabeth found nothing to add to that topic, not even a question about where he’d been, or what it had been like living in foreign climes.

Talk turned to the Season. “Are you planning to attend the masquerade ball next week, Mr. Flynn?”

“I am indeed. Lookin’ forward to it. And I’ll be wearin’ a proper costume, not just a domino that some fellows—me friend Lord Davenham, for one—consider proper wear to a masquerade.”

She didn’t respond—was it shyness, nerves or lack of interest?—so he said, “What costume are you plannin’ to wear, Lady Elizabeth?”

“Oh, that would be telling.” But it was the closest he’d seen to a smile on her face, so he pursued that line of conversation.

They were still talking about costumes she had seen—or worn, he wasn’t sure—at other masquerades as they swept through the wrought iron gates of the park.

“The spring flowers are starting to bloom,” Lady Elizabeth observed. “Spring is such a happy season, is it not. And after the cold of the last year . . . “

At least the girl was trying. Flynn tried to think of something to say, so he asked her to tell him the names of all the flowers they could see, claiming he only knew about tropical blooms, which was a lie.

He knew nothing about flowers at all. Could name a rose. And a daisy. And a daffodil. He spotted one about to bloom and they admired it for a few minutes. Daffodils were, apparently, happy flowers.

They moved on. This kind of talk was getting him nowhere. What would he be able to tell Daisy—or anyone
else—if she—or they—asked him what Lady Elizabeth was like? That she thought flowers and seasons were happy? And that she liked dressing up.

Time to be blunt.

“Has your father spoken to you about me, Lady Elizabeth?”

In the rear, the maid sniffed.

He felt rather than saw Lady Elizabeth’s cautious sidelong glance. “Yes.”

“So, you’re clear about me intentions?”

She made a small sound in her throat and nodded.

“And you’re happy to be courted—I’m not asking for an answer to the bigger question, mind—just that you’re willin’ to get to know me a bit better. With a view to—” He paused, considering the possibility of a breach-of-promise case, and demurred. “A view to seein’ what might come of it.”

There was a short silence. And a sniff from the back seat.

“Lady Elizabeth?” he prompted. “If you’re not keen to go forward with this, now is the time to say so, before we’ve got in any deeper, and while there is nobody here to witness what you tell me.”

From behind there came another meaningful sniff. Flynn recognized the Language of Sniffs, beloved of his valet. He added, “Unless your maid is a spy for your father, that is.”

He heard an indignant gasp from behind. “Muir is my own maid,” Lady Elizabeth said hastily. “She was my nurse and has been with me since I was a babe.”

“And she don’t tell tales on her lady, neither,” came a grim voice from behind. Sniff.

Flynn smiled. “That’s grand, then, so, what’s your answer, Lady Elizabeth? Are you happy for me to continue with this court—with us visiting and going for drives and such until we both know our minds. Because if you don’t want it, say so now. I won’t hold it against you and I won’t tell a soul. I prefer straight dealing.”

She took her time answering. Considering how to say it, no doubt.

“Papa has made my duty clear to me, and I am willing
to . . . to go forward with this acquaintanceship,” she said at last.

That told him. She was
willing
. Flynn was her
duty
. Flynn, with the moneybags to drag her father out of the debt he’d mired his family in.

Gambling, horses and women—that’s what Flynn’s investigations had shown Lord Compton had frittered a fortune away on. Flynn had no time for the man.

A man ought to ensure his family was protected from debt, not gamble his money—and their security—away on his own pleasures.

Compton was cold-bloodedly sacrificing his daughter in exchange for Flynn’s fortune. And she would
do her duty
.

Still, he couldn’t blame the girl for not responding any more warmly. In fact, given that they hardly knew each other—yet—he found her honesty quite appealing. She was mighty cold for a girl who’d just agreed to be courted, but he had no doubt he’d be able to warm her up.

He hadn’t even kissed her yet.

Lord, but these English had it all arse about—marry the girl,
then
kiss her. And of course the bedding to follow.

He contemplated that prospect. Would she be
doing her duty
then?

Faith, but that would take the fun out of things.

They completed their circuit of the park, noting daffodils and snowdrops and other charming—and probably happy—flowers, and then Flynn turned the horses for home.

He hadn’t made a lot of progress, but the air had been cleared between them, and he fancied she was easier in her manner with him than she had been when they started out.

Certainly her maid glared at him with slightly less severity as he helped her down. It was progress, of a sort.

“I wonder, Miss Muir, would you know my manservant, Tibbins? Ernest Tibbins?” he asked her.

The maid looked at him as if he was mad. “No, why would I?”

“It’s just that you both seem to speak the same language,”
Flynn said. “Afternoon, ladies.” He drove away with a faint smile on his face, leaving both females staring after him.

The drive hadn’t gone quite as he expected, but he wasn’t unhappy with the result.

He wasn’t entirely happy, either.

The girl might be willing, but she could hardly be called eager.

Daisy’s questions itched at him. Until she’d flung those questions at him, he’d never really questioned his desire to marry a highborn, titled lady. It had seemed perfectly reasonable.

But putting Daisy’s questions together with Lady Elizabeth’s response to him . . . well, it made a man think.

On the one hand, he’d always prided himself on not giving the snap of his fingers for what anyone thought of him. On the other, class was important. In every country he’d ever visited, society was arranged in layers, and it was always better to be on the top than on the bottom.

By marrying Lady Elizabeth, he’d be getting a wife with a fistful of aristocratic connections—and hopefully children. More than anything, Flynn wanted children.

He knew how he and Lord Compton would benefit, but what about Lady Elizabeth? What was she getting?

A husband, certainly, and a wealthy one at that. But she didn’t know Flynn well enough to judge if he’d be a good husband to her or not. For all she knew he might be a wife-beater or a gambler and whoremonger, like her father.

No, marriage to Flynn was her
duty
. But what was her alternative?

Her home was entailed. Once her father died she’d be homeless, dependent on her cousin’s charity. And she’d been on the marriage mart a couple of years already, so it was clear none of the other nobs wanted a dowerless girl, no matter how pretty-behaved and well-born.

There was no doubt in Flynn’s mind that she’d accept his proposal, when he made it. The match was everything he’d claimed he wanted. Why then had this drive left a sour taste in his mouth?

His thoughts were far into the future as he guided the phaeton into the narrow mews that led to the stables. Marriage was for children, and he wanted his children to have every advantage. He didn’t want them to suffer the way he had as a boy.

On the other hand, he didn’t want to be raising a pack of little snobs who imagined the world owed them a living—and considered themselves superior to ordinary folk—simply because of who they were and who they were related to.

His fists knotted hard around the reins. No daughter of his would ever—ever!—be forced into marriage with a stranger for the sake of her father’s debts.

He loosened his grip deliberately. There was no question of Lady Elizabeth being
forced
. He’d make sure of that. She might have limited choices, but there
were
choices.

She was stiff and awkward, but she didn’t know him very well yet. She’d no doubt warm up a bit as she came to know him better. She might be thinking of duty, but Flynn could show her that duty could also be a pleasure.

If she ever gave him the chance.

He handed over the phaeton and horses to the care of the grooms and hurried off to Berkeley Square. Quarter to four. Almost time for his so-called lesson.

To be fond of dancing was a certain step towards falling in love.

—JANE AUSTEN,
PRIDE AND PREJUDICE

A
t five minutes to four, Featherby knocked on the door of Daisy’s workroom. “Miss Daisy, it’s almost time for Lady Beatrice’s lesson.”

Daisy scowled, but put the sleeve she’d been sewing aside. “I’ll go, and I’ll watch, but I ain’t going to bloomin’ well dance.”

Featherby said nothing. He just held the door open for her, his expression bland.

Daisy picked up a dress that had the hem pinned, but wasn’t yet sewn. Featherby eyed it but said nothing. He had a way of making things happen, just by . . . expecting.

She said, as if he’d argued, “I hate dancing. I’m no good at it.”

She stomped her way up to the room that had been cleared for their lessons, entered and stopped dead. The carpet had been rolled back and all excess furniture had been removed, leaving only the piano and a few chairs arranged along one wall, but that wasn’t what startled her.

As well as Lady Beatrice, Jane, Abby and Damaris, the elderly Frenchman Monsieur Lefarge who taught the various
dance steps, and his cousin, Madame Bertrand, who played the piano, there were four gentlemen—a stranger, Max, Freddy and Mr. Flynn. Four.

“What the—?”

“The gels need more practice with actual gentlemen,” Lady Beatrice declared. “So Monsieur Lefarge has brought another of his cousins to dance with Jane, and I invited dear Max and Freddy. And of course, Mr. Flynn is in need of lessons himself, having been at sea all his life.”

“Not exactly,” Flynn began. “And I did say I knew—”

But the old lady took no notice. “Abby and Damaris will dance with their husbands, unfashionable as it is, and Jane will dance with—”

“Flynn,” said Daisy, seating herself and her sewing by the window.

“Nonsense! Jane is attending balls with the eyes of the world upon her. She needs further practice with someone who knows what he’s doing. Monsieur Lefarge’s cousin is an expert, Mr. Flynn is a rank beginner.”

“I’m not, as a matter of—” Flynn began.

Lady Beatrice raised her lorgnette and eyed him with a beady expression. “I’m sure you perform the hornpipe delightfully, Mr. Flynn—and you must show us some day—but not today.”

Max and Freddy stifled chuckles, not very successfully. Lady Beatrice gave them the kind of withering look that reduced grown men to schoolboy status. She continued, “Jane needs an expert to refine her steps, so she will dance with Monsieur Lefarge’s cousin and Daisy, you will dance with Mr. Flynn.”

Daisy looked up from her sewing “Who, me? But—”

“But what?” Lady Beatrice intoned. “Is this not a dance lesson? Did you not come of your own free will?” The old lady leveled her lorgnette at Daisy.

Featherby, who had been hovering, gave Daisy a Meaningful Look.

Daisy glowered. They were all ganging up on her. She looked at Flynn, who was wholly engaged in picking a piece
of fluff off his coat sleeve. An invisible piece of fluff, the cowardly big rat.

“It’ll be fun, Daisy,” Jane said in a coaxing voice.

“You might find you enjoy it,” Damaris added sympathetically.

Betrayed on all sides. Daisy looked at Abby, but Abby said nothing. She knew how Daisy felt about dancing, knew how she felt about her stupid leg. Daisy swallowed.

Flynn strolled across the room and held out his hand to her. “Come on, lass, there’s nothing for it but to give in gracefully.”

Gracefully? That was a laugh. There’d be nothing graceful about Daisy on the dance floor. And dancing with Flynn, of all people to make a fool of herself with. She didn’t move.

“If you refuse me, the old lady will make me dance with the little old Frenchman. He’s wearin’
rouge
!” Flynn said with a comical grimace. “You wouldn’t do that to me, would you, Daisy? Not after I went out of me way to give you first pick of all those gorgeous fabrics.” Laughter gleamed in his blue, blue eyes. He wasn’t going to give up, she could see. He had no idea.

“Oh, all right, but it’s blackmail.” It wasn’t. He was just bloody irresistible, damn the man. Scowling, Daisy dumped her sewing on the chair beside her and stomped grumpily onto the dance floor.

“Such a gracious acceptance, Miss Chance, I’m deeply flattered,” Flynn murmured, his blue eyes dancing. He was enjoying this, the big rat.

“Stubble it, Flynn. I never asked for this.”

“Me neither,” he said. “I thought I was the only one pressed into this.”

“Pressed?”

He shrugged. “The English navy has two kinds of seamen—volunteers and pressed men. Pressed men can kick forever and be miserable, or try to make the best of it. You can see which choice I’m makin’.” He held out his hand.

Daisy sighed. He was right, blast him. Makin’ a fuss never did nobody any good. Certainly not Daisy. Best to get the rotten
dance over and done with as quick as she could. And hope that Flynn had to concentrate so hard on his own steps that he’d never notice Daisy making a dog’s breakfast out of it.

“We will start wis ze waltz,” Monsieur Lefarge announced. A wizened elderly Frenchman, he wore fashions reminiscent of the previous century, including powder and rouge. “First ze gentlemen bow, like zis,”—he demonstrated—“and ze ladies zey curtsey like zis.” Again he demonstrated and despite his tight satin pantaloons he performed a graceful curtsey. “Ze gentlemen place ze hands like so, and like so.” He demonstrated, then checked they were all positioned correctly. “And now, Clothilde, but slow,
s’il vous plaît.
”

Madame Bertrand played a chord. Daisy took a deep breath and prepared to make a complete fool of herself. The dance began.

“One-two-sree, one-two-sree, one-two-sree,” Monsieur chanted. Daisy could hear her own uneven steps, loud as loud could be on the wooden floor, clump-two-clump, clump-two-clump. Probably everybody else could hear too. It was mortifying.

Flynn’s big hand was warm on her waist. It was completely distracting. He tried to swing her around.

“Oy! Stop pullin’.”

“I’m not pullin’, I’m leading. It’s what men are supposed to do.”

She snorted. She could smell his shaving soap, and the fresh scent of well-laundered shirt. And Flynn. He always smelled nice. Her own palms were sweaty. She wanted to pull her hand out of his and wipe it, but there was no chance.

He moved forward and she stumbled backward. “Now you’re pushin’,” she said.

“No, you’re resisting.” He seemed to find it all so amusing. She got crosser and crosser.

“Mademoiselle Daisy, you must let ze gentleman lead.”

Daisy scowled. “Bugger this. I can’t bloomin’ well dance and I wish—”

“Stop fighting it, will you, girl,” Flynn told her. “Just shut your wee trap and let me lead.”

Daisy wanted to kick him, but Lady Beatrice was watching, eagle-eyed.

Daisy tried to remember her steps. She stared at his waistcoat, scarlet, green and gold Chinese dragons on a black background. She’d made that waistcoat. She remembered every stitch.

“One-two-sree, one-two-sree . . .” the Frenchman chanted. His cousin twirled Jane daintily around. Jane floated like a gossamer fairy. A dainty gossamer fairy.

Daisy was more like an angry troll. “I hate this,” she muttered. Clump-two-clump, clump-two-clump.

“Really? I’m havin’ the most delightful time,” said Flynn as he wrestled her into a turn. “Of course I’ve got the most charmin’ and agreeable partner . . . “

She glanced suspiciously up at him.

His eyes laughed down at her. “And I never realized waltzing and wrestling had so much in common.”

She tried to glower, but somehow a laugh escaped her.

“Good God!” he exclaimed in amazement. “It laughs?”

“I’ll kick you if you’re not careful.” But her mouth kept trying to smile.

He chuckled. “If you’d only relax and let me lead you might even find you enjoyed it.”

She snorted. “Chance would be a fine thing.”

“Chance would be a fine thing, if only she would let me lead.” After a few more tightly wrestled twirls he stopped. Was it over? Thank goodness.

Daisy tried to pull her hand free, but Flynn held onto it tight. “Madame Bertrand,” he called, “
Encore une fois, mais plus vite, s’il vous plaît.”

“What did you say?” Daisy began, but the music began again.

“Now,” Flynn said and taking her in a grip much closer than Monsieur Lefarge had showed them, he began to twirl her rapidly around the room. The music was twice as fast as before.

“What the ’ell—” Daisy tried to keep up. She tripped and almost fell. She clutched him tight. He took no notice, just
kept twirling her around and around. She forgot all about remembering the steps; it was all she could do to stay on her feet. If he let go of her, she’d fall flat on her face, she was certain. Or her arse.

“You bastard! Let me g—oh, bloody ’ell!” as she stumbled again.

He grinned and kept dancing.

The minute this bloomin’ dance finished she was going to kill him. She hung on grimly, certain that any minute she’d trip and sprawl across the floor, making a complete fool of herself.

Somehow, she didn’t.

With one big, warm hand anchored firmly around her waist and the other holding her hand, he kept her steady, despite her uneven steps. He was strong. His big body was the anchor around which she swirled.

There was no chance of her falling, she realized gradually. She might trip, she might stumble, but Flynn wouldn’t let her fall.

With that realization she relaxed a little, and suddenly the rhythm of the music started to make sense. She forgot about her leg, and her uneven steps and the clump-two-clump and whatever she was supposed to be doing; she just let him spin them around and around. And around.

Oh my gawd, so this was what it was like to dance. She was practically flying.

“That’s better,” he murmured. “See, when you stop fighting me, when you forget about your limp—”

She stumbled.

“Sorry, I shouldn’t have—”

“Shut up! Just shut up!” she hissed furiously. But it was back to clump-two-clump.

They finished the dance in silence. Madame Bertrand played the final chord, and finally, finally Flynn let Daisy go. She stepped back, breathing heavily and, in an action she hadn’t made since she was a small child, she wiped her sticky hands on her skirt.

He stared down at her, dismayed. “Daisy . . .”

She refused to meet his gaze.

“Sank your partners,” Monsieur Lefarge instructed.

Flynn bowed and said in a low voice that only she could hear, “I didn’t mean to . . . It was just . . . when you stopped thinkin’ about yourself, and bein’ self-conscious, you danced light as a fairy—”

But Daisy didn’t want to listen to such rubbish. She knew it wasn’t true. She bobbed him a curtsy, muttered her thanks and headed for her seat. The whole room could hear her clumping unevenly across the bare floorboards.

She glanced back at the other occupants of the room. Jane said something to Lady Beatrice and hurried away—no doubt to see to that blooming dog she’d adopted—Damaris and Freddy were laughing about something, Max and Abby were still entwined, murmuring softly to each other.

Only Flynn stood watching her, a slight frown darkening his brow.

She knew her face was red. She didn’t care. She’d made a right bloomin’ fool of herself. She felt like bursting into tears, but she never cried. Never.

She picked up her folded sewing, looked across at Lady Beatrice and raised her voice, saying, “I done the bloomin’ lesson, so I ’ope you’re satisfied. Now, I got work to do.”

She marched from the room—didn’t even slam the door—and hurried upstairs to her workroom, the place where she could be herself again: Daisy, who knew what she was good at, knew where she belonged—in her own little empire.

And not on any bloody dance floor.

*   *   *

A
fter the dancing lesson Max invited Flynn to join him and Freddy for a drink—the girls were planning to take afternoon tea with Lady Beatrice and then there was something about dresses. Or costumes. Flynn gladly accepted.

He left ahead of the other two, and was making his way
down the stairs just as Jane came hurrying up, a furtive expression on her face.

“Miss Jane,” he said politely and made to pass her on the stairs.

She hurriedly thrust something behind her, but not before he caught a glimpse of a small red leather shoe with a red and white rosette on the toe.

“Bringing Miss Daisy her slippers?”

“Oh, hush!” she exclaimed, looking around guiltily to see if anyone noticed. “She’s not following you is she?”

“No, she stormed out ahead of me,” he assured her. “She’ll be in her workroom by now. Why, what’s the problem?”

Jane showed him what she had been concealing, and said in a tragic voice, “My dog.”

Only one shoe still bore a rosette—just. It hung by a thread. The other was chewed and bedraggled and utterly ruined. “Daisy’s going to kill me. Or worse, my dog. But it’s her own fault—she should never have left them out, tempting him with leather slippers! He’s not used to living with people yet.”

Voices sounded in the hallway above and Jane looked around frantically, as if seeking somewhere to hide the ruined slippers.

“Here, give them to me,” Flynn said.

Jane thrust them into his hands and Flynn slipped a slipper into each coat pocket just as Max and Freddy appeared on the landing.

Jane murmured her thanks and hurried upstairs. Flynn hid a smile. Clearly he was expected to get rid of the evidence.

*   *   *

T
he two men joined him and, since it was a clear, cool day, they walked to Max’s home, around the corner. Max took them to his library, where they settled into comfortable overstuffed leather armchairs.

He poured them each a drink. “I didn’t expect you to be attending dance lessons, Flynn.”

“Ah, well, apparently I need them; everyone knows all seamen can only dance the hornpipe.” He leaned forward and added confidingly, “And did you know, they don’t dance the hornpipe at Almack’s? I was never so shocked in all my life.” The others laughed.