Scandal in Spring

  Daisy, who was sitting by the window with a book, looked up with a sudden grin. “His charm doesn’t extend to poultry,” she said. “He has a problem with geese.” Her smile turned quizzical. “Thank you for being so accommodating, Lillian. I expected you to make a fuss about the betrothal.”

  Her older sister let out a rueful sigh. “I’ve reconciled myself to the fact that it would be easier to push a pea with my nose from here to London than to try and stand in the way of this marriage. Besides, you will be far more accessible in Bristol than you would have been with Lord Llandrindon in Thurso.”

  The mention of Llandrindon nearly caused Mercedes to weep. “He said there were lovely walks in Thurso,” she said mournfully. “And Viking history. I would have so loved to learn about the Vikings.”

  Lillian snorted. “Since when have you been interested in warlike pagans with silly-looking headgear?”

  Daisy looked up from her book again. “Are we talking about Grandmother again?”

  Mercedes leveled a glare at them both. “It seems I have no choice but to accept this match gracefully. I will endeavor to find some small consolation in the fact that at least this time I will be able to plan a proper wedding.” She had never quite forgiven Lillian and Marcus for having eloped to Gretna Green, thereby depriving her of the grand festivities she had always dreamed of planning.

  Lillian smiled smugly at Daisy. “I don’t envy you, dear.”

  “It won’t be pleasant,” Daisy warned Matthew later that day, as they sat at the grassy edge of a millpond located far on the western outskirts of the village. “The ceremony will be designed to make the world take notice of the Bowmans.”

  “Just the Bowmans?” he asked. “Aren’t I supposed to be featured in the ceremony?”

  “Oh, the groom is the most insignificant part of it,” she said cheerfully.

  She had meant to amuse Matthew, but his smile didn’t reach his eyes. He stared across the millpond with a distant expression.

  The stone water mill with its twelve-foot wheel had long been abandoned in favor of a more productive mill closer to the heart of Stony Cross. With its charming stepped gable roof and half-timbered facade, the millhouse possessed a roughcast charm that was enhanced by the rustic scenery.

  While Matthew cast a baited hook into the pond with an expert flick of his wrist, Daisy dangled her bare feet into the water. Every now and then the wriggle of her toes would invite adventurous minnows to dart forward.

  She studied Matthew while he appeared to brood on some troublesome matter. His profile was strong and distinctive, with a straight, sturdy nose, sharply defined lips, a severely perfect jaw. She took pleasure in the sight of his dishevelment, the shirt dampened in patches, the trousers scattered with dry leaves, the thick hair rumpled and hanging over his forehead.

  There was a fascinating duality about Matthew that Daisy had never encountered in another man. At some moments he was the aggressive, sharp-eyed, buttoned-up businessman who rattled off facts and figures with ease.

  At other times he was a gentle, understanding lover who shed his cynicism like an old coat and engaged her in playful debates about which ancient culture had the best mythology, or what Thomas Jefferson’s favorite vegetable had been. (Although Daisy was convinced it was green peas, Matthew had made an excellent case for tomatoes.)

  They had long conversations about subjects like history and progressive politics. For a man from a conservative Brahmin background, he had a surprising awareness of reform issues. Usually in their relentless climb up the social ladder, enterprising men forgot about those who had been left on the bottom rungs. Daisy thought it spoke well of Matthew’s character that he had a genuine concern for those less fortunate than himself.

  In their discussions they had begun to lay out tentative plans for the future…they would have to find a house in Bristol that was large enough for entertaining. Matthew insisted it would have a view of the sea, and a library room for Daisy’s books, and—he added gravely—a high wall around the house so he could ravish her in the garden without being seen.

  Mistress of her own house…Daisy had never been able to envision it before. But the idea of arranging things exactly as she wanted, establishing a home that suited her own preferences, was starting to sound very inviting.

  Their communication often left something to be desired, however. For all the thoughts Matthew was willing to share with Daisy, there were many more that remained inaccessible. Sometimes talking with him was like ambling along a lovely winding path through all kinds of interesting scenery, only to run directly into a stone wall.

  When Daisy pressed Matthew to discuss his past, he made only vague references to Massachusetts and growing up near the Charles River. Information about his family was stubbornly withheld. So far he had been unwilling to discuss which members of the Swift clan would be attending the wedding ceremony. And yet surely he wasn’t going to be completely unrepresented.

  One would think Matthew hadn’t existed before he started to work for her father at the age of twenty. Daisy longed to break through the stubborn barrier of secrets. It was maddening to feel herself forever on the verge of an elusive discovery. Their relationship seemed the embodiment of some Hegelian theory…something always in the process of becoming something else, never attaining completion.

  Bringing her thoughts back to the present, Daisy decided to regain Matthew’s attention. “Of course,” she said casually, “we don’t have to have a wedding ceremony at all. We can simply adhere to the classic marriage-by-purchase. Give my father a cow, and we’ll be done with it. Or perhaps we’ll do a handfasting ritual. Of course, there’s always the ancient Greek practice in which I would cut off all my hair as a sacrifice and dedicate it to Artemis, followed by a ritual bath in a sacred spring—”

  Suddenly Daisy found herself flat on her back, the sky partially blocked by Matthew’s dark form. She let out a gasp of laughter at the suddenness with which he had thrown aside his fishing rod and pounced on her. His blue eyes gleamed with mischief. “I would consider the cow exchange or the handfasting,” he said. “But I draw the line at marrying a hairless bride.”

  Daisy relished the weight of him pressing her back against the spongy grass, the scents of earth and herbs all around them. “What about the ritual bath?” she asked.

  “That you can do. In fact…” His long fingers reached for the buttons at the front of her dress. “…I think you should practice. I’ll help you.”

  Daisy squirmed and shrieked as he began to tug her gown open. “This is not a sacred spring, this is a slimy old millpond!”

  But Matthew persisted, chuckling at her efforts to evade him as he pulled her gown to her waist. In defiance of propriety, and as a concession to the unseasonable warmth outside, Daisy had gone without a corset. She pushed hard at Matthew’s rock-solid chest, and he rolled easily, taking her with him. The world spun crazily, the blue and white sky blurring. She found herself sprawled on his chest while her chemise was pulled inexorably over her head.

  “Matthew—” she protested, her voice muffled in the linen garment.

  Removing the chemise completely, Matthew tossed it aside. His hands hooked beneath her arms, lifting until she dangled as helplessly as a kitten. His breath quickened as he stared at her pale, rosy-tipped breasts.

  “Put me down,” Daisy insisted, blushing as she was displayed before his avid gaze. Although she had lain with him twice, she was still too innocent to be cavalier about making love in the open.

  Matthew obeyed, hoisting her further over him until his mouth had closed over a taut nipple.

  “No,” she managed to say, “that’s not what I…oh…”

  He suckled her breasts in turn, using his teeth and tongue, playing, soothing. After pausing long enough to remove the rest of her clothes, he kissed her deeply. She yanked at his shirt, her fingers clumsy with agitation.

  Matthew reached down to help her, pulling his shirt off and gently bringing her naked chest against his.
The warm friction of his skin sent all coherent thoughts tumbling out of reach. Wrapping her arms around his neck, Daisy crushed her mouth over his, hard and eager and passionate.

  Her eyes flew open in surprise as she felt his smothered laugh against her lips.

  “Have a little patience, sweetheart,” he whispered. “I’m trying to go slowly.”

  “Why?” Daisy asked, her mouth feeling hot and sensitive. She touched her tongue experimentally to the center of her bottom lip, and his lashes lowered as he followed the tiny movement.

  His voice had become raspy. “Because it will give you more pleasure.”

  “I don’t need more pleasure,” Daisy said. “This is all I can possibly stand.”

  He laughed quietly. Cradling the side of her face in his strong hand, he coaxed her closer. The tip of his tongue found the subtle indentation of her lower lip and lingered for a burning moment, causing her to inhale unsteadily. His mouth sealed over hers in a lush kiss, his tongue searching and stroking.

  Gradually he lowered her to the ground onto his discarded shirt. The thin cloth retained the alluring fragrance of his skin, and Daisy luxuriated in the familiar masculine incense. Her eyes closed against the white glow of the sun as his body covered hers. He had unfastened the top of his trousers, the fabric brushing all along her tingling legs. Aroused by the sensation of being naked against his half-clothed body, Daisy parted her thighs as he settled between them.

  “I want to be part of you,” he whispered. “I want forever with you.”

  “Yes, yes…” She tried to hold him with her arms and legs, wrapping him in her supple strength.

  He entered her slowly, and where there had been soreness before, there was now only pleasure at the exquisite inner pressure of his body filling hers. Easing deeper in patient degrees, he resisted her efforts to hurry him. Daisy writhed and fought to take him in, panting in excitement and exertion, moaning as he caught her hips in her hands and forced her to be still.

  “Easy…” His voice was wickedly soft. “Just a little patience.”

  She needed all of him, now. Her body was throbbing, her nerves brimming with sensation. “Please…” Her mouth ached for the pressure of his, until she could barely form words. “I c-can’t just lie here while you—”

  “Yes you can.”

  He held torturously still inside her while his hands coasted over her body in artful investigation. Daisy twisted restlessly beneath him, her desire rising with each persuasive caress, her moans absorbed in the sensuous play of his lips. With every shift of his hardness inside her the heat danced higher, brighter, and she arched into him tightly, lifting against his weight.

  Matthew relented with a muffled laugh, taking control of the rhythm as he courted her with long strokes. His body scalded hers, invading and pleasuring relentlessly. “There’s no hurry, Daisy.” His voice became husky and thick. “No reason to…yes, just like that…sweet love, yes…” His head dropped over her shoulder, his breath striking her skin. The muscles in his arms bulged as he sank his fingers into the ground on either side of her, as if he could secure them both to the earth.

  Daisy felt like a wild creature, pinned against the grass by the primal rhythm of his hips. Her body caught and retained a tense arch, all her flesh seeking his, her senses focused on the shuddering satisfaction that began where their bodies were joined, spreading outward to the tips of her fingers and toes.

  Matthew reached his own pinnacle, his body trembling in the slender circle of her arms. And as he laid his head on her chest, his breath fanning rapidly over her breast, the current of delight hummed through the place where she still clasped him.

  Daisy knew he loved her…she could feel it in every thump of his heartbeat as it pressed against her. He had admitted it to Westcliff, and to Lillian, but for some reason he had not told Daisy herself.

  To Daisy, love was not an emotion that should be approached in careful degrees. She wanted to throw herself into it wholeheartedly, with trust and pure honesty…things Matthew was apparently not ready for.

  But someday, she promised herself, there would be no barriers between them. Someday…

  Chapter 16

  The Stony Cross May Day festival had been celebrated for centuries, beginning as a pagan celebration of the end of winter and the return of the soil’s fertility. It had evolved into a three-day event that included games, feasting, dancing, and every imaginable revelry.

  Local gentry, farmers and townspeople all mingled freely during the festival, despite the protests from clergy and other conservative-minded people who said that the May Day festival was nothing but an excuse to indulge in fornication and public drunkenness. As Lillian remarked slyly to Daisy, it seemed the louder the complaints about the sins that occurred on May Day, the higher the attendance rate.

  The oval village green was lit with torches. Farther off a massive bonfire sent gigantic plumes of smoke up to the cloud-weighted sky. It had been overcast all day, the air thick with humidity and charged with the promise of a storm to come. Luckily, however, the storm seemed to be kept in restraint by the pagan deities, and the festivities were taking place as planned.

  With Matthew at her side, Daisy browsed the row of wooden stalls that had been erected along High Street, filled with fabrics, toys, millinery, silver jewelry, and glassware. She was determined to see and do as much as possible in a short time, for Westcliff had strongly advised them to return to the manor well before midnight.

  “The later the hour, the more unrestrained the merrymaking tends to become,” the earl had said meaningfully. “Under the influence of wine—and behind the concealment of masks—people tend to do things they would never think of doing in the light of day.”

  “Oh, what’s a little fertility ritual here or there?” Daisy had scoffed cheerfully. “I’m not so innocent that I—”

  “We’ll be back early,” Matthew had told the earl.

  Now as they made their way through the exuberantly crowded village, Daisy understood what Westcliff had meant. It was still early evening, and already it appeared that copiously flowing wine had loosened inhibitions. People were embracing, arguing, laughing and playing. Some were laying floral wreaths at the base of the oldest oak trees, or pouring wine at the roots, or…

  “Good Lord,” Daisy said, her attention caught by a perplexing sight in the distance, “what are they doing to that poor tree?”

  Matthew’s hands clasped her head and firmly aimed her face in another direction. “Don’t look.”

  “Was it some form of tree-worship or—”

  “Let’s go watch the rope-dancers,” he said with sudden enthusiasm, guiding her to the other side of the green.

  They walked slowly past fire-swallowers, conjurors and tumblers, pausing to purchase a skin of new wine. Daisy drank carefully from the wineskin, but a drop escaped from the corner of her lips. Matthew smiled and began to reach into his pocket for a handkerchief, then appeared to think better of it. Instead he ducked his head and kissed away the wine droplet.

  “You’re supposed to be protecting me from impropriety,” she said with a grin, “and instead you’re leading me astray.”

  The backs of his knuckles stroked gently against the side of her face. “I’d like to lead you astray,” he murmured. “In fact, I’d like to lead you straight into those woods and…” He seemed to lose his train of thought as he stared into her soft, dark eyes. “Daisy Bowman,” he whispered. “I wish—”

  But she was never to find out what his wish was, because she was abruptly pushed into him as a crowd jostled past. Everyone was bent on obtaining a view of a pair of jugglers who had clubs and hoops spinning in the air between them. In the rush the wineskin was knocked from Daisy’s hands and trampled underfoot. Matthew put his arms around her protectively.

  “I dropped the wine,” Daisy said regretfully.

  “Just as well.” His mouth lowered to her ear, his lips brushing the delicate outer rim. “It might have gone to my head. And then you might
have taken advantage of me.”

  Daisy smiled and snuggled against his hard form, her senses delighting in the reassuring warmth of his embrace. “Are my designs on you that obvious?” she asked in a muffled voice.

  He nuzzled into the soft space beneath her earlobe. “I’m afraid so.”

  Tucking her against his side, Matthew guided her through the crush of bodies until they reached the open space beside the booths. He bought her a paper cone of roasted nuts…a marzipan rabbit…a silver rattle for baby Merritt, and a painted cloth doll for Annabelle’s daughter. As they walked the length of High Street toward the waiting carriage, Daisy was stopped by a gaudily dressed woman wearing scarves shot with metallic thread, and jewelry made of beaten gold.

  The woman’s face reminded Daisy exactly of the apple dolls she and Lillian had made when they were children. They had carved faces in the sides of the peeled fruit and let them dry into brown, charmingly furrowed heads. Black beads for eyes and soft tufts of carded wool for the hair…yes, this woman looked exactly the same.

  “A fortune for the lady, sir?” the woman asked Matthew.

  Glancing at Daisy, Matthew raised a sardonic brow.

  She grinned, knowing full well he had no patience with mysticism, superstitions, or anything to do with the supernatural. He was far too practical to believe in things that couldn’t be proved by empirical evidence.

  “Just because you don’t believe in magic,” Daisy told him playfully, “doesn’t mean it can’t happen. Don’t you want a little peek into the future?”

  “I’d prefer to wait until it gets here,” came his dour reply.

  “Only a shilling, sir,” the fortune-teller pressed.

  Matthew heaved a sigh as he shifted his packages and reached inside his pocket. “This shilling,” he told Daisy, “would be better spent at the booths, on a hair ribbon or a smoked chub.”

  “Coming from someone who threw a five-dollar piece into the wishing well—”